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Mo rris, Eric Eugene

ISLAM AND POLITICS IN ACEH: A STUDY OF CENTER-PERIPHERY RELATIONS IN INDONESIA

Cornell University PH.D. 1983

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ISLAM AND POLITICS IN ACEH: A STUDY OF CENTER-PERIPHERY RELATIONS IN INDONESIA

A Thesis

Presented to the Faculty of the Graduate School of Cornell University

in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy

by

Eric Eugene Morris

August 1983

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

Eric Eugene Morris was born in Carbondale, Illinois on February 3, 1946. Prior to undertaking his Ph.D. studies at Cornell University, he had received his B.A. in Political Science and History from Baylor Univer sity in 1968 and his M.A. in Southeast Asia Studies from Yale University in 1970. He conducted the field work for his dissertation in Indonesia from December 1974 to July 1977. Since 1979 he has been working for the Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees, first in Jakarta, Indonesia and then in Geneva, Switzerland.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I have benefitted from the generous assistance of many people in the course of completing this dissertation. Those to whom I am most deeply indebted will remain anonymous, viz., those Acehnese leaders who with immense forbearance consented to be interviewed and who with great patience explained their society and culture. I was first attracted to Aceh because of my interest in the role of groups on the periphery in the context of the nation-state and my interest in the interplay between religious convictions and political ideas. My interviews with Acehnese leaders provided a rich source of insights with regard to both of these interests. Nonetheless, I was troubled by the ethical complications of a privileged outsider prying into the politics of a different society, especially when the stakes of politics are so high. I hope that for those Acehnese who gave so generously of their time that this account of their region will be seen as a token of my deep appreciation. For the wide range of documentary material used in this dissertation I am also indebted to Acehnese generosity, most particularly to Teuku Ibrahim Alfian, Sjammaun Gaharu, A. Hasjmy, Teungku Nur el Ibrahimy, and A. Gani Mutyara.

I wish to thank the Indonesian Institute of Sciences (LIPI) for making the arrangements for me to conduct research in Indonesia. My stay in Aceh would have b^en impossible without the sponsorship of Syiah Kuala University. I owe a great deal to the support of the Rector of Syiah Kuala University, Dr. Ibrahim Hasan, and to the Dean of the Economics

Faculty, Teuku Risyad. Neither Dr. Ibrahim Hasan nor Teuku Risyad would agree with many of the conclusions of this dissertation; however, this should in no way detract from my profound appreciation to both of them. Also helpful at Syiah Kuala University were Ibrahim Makam and Adnan Hanafiah. The staff members of the Aceh Development Board were always obliging in providing data. Lance Castles of the Social Science Research Training Center in Aceh provided valuable support. I am also grateful to the Governor of the Special Region of Aceh, Muzakkar Walad.

I am particularly grateful to members of my special committee at Cornell University for their support and patience. To Professor Sidney Tarrow, chairman of my special committee, go many thanks for showing me that the study of politics should not be only of the powerful few at the center but also of the many on the periphery. I also extend sincere appreciation to Professor George Kahin, a scholar whose own example taught me that political science can be and should be informed by moral concerns. For a searching and provocative analysis of my work, thanks are due to Professor Benedict Anderson. Finally, Professor James Siegel gave generously of his time and materials.

I also wish to thank the Social Science Research Council and the Cornell University Southeast Asia Program for providing fellowships to support my research in Indonesia.

Special thanks go to Roberta Ludgate for typing the dissertation and helping in other ways to bring the exercise to completion.

Finally, my gratitude goes to my wife, Elizabeth C. Morris, who shared the research experience with me through three years in Aceh. I would like to thank her in particular for two things: first, for being a development economist; this allowed me, a political scientist, to ride her coat tails into Indonesia; secondly, for learning to speak Acehnese in addition to Indonesian; this allowed me to get by in Indonesian while gaining second-hand credit for being married to someone who really understood Aceh.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ONE. INTRODUCTION 1 Contending Explanations: The "National Integration" Model and the "Internal Colonialism" Model 2 Towards an Explanation of the Case of Aceh 8 Structure of the Study 17 TWO. PRECOLQNIAL ACEH 19 "The Golden Age" 19 Nineteenth Century Aceh : An Interpretation 24 The Sultans 24 The Uleebalangs 28 The Ulamas 42 THREE. THE COLONIAL PERIOD 54 Resistance 54 Dutch Colonial Policy and the Role of the Uleebalangs ... 61 Islamic Reformism and Acehnese Revivalism 75 FOUR. THE JAPANESE INTERREGNUM 94 FIVE. THE REVOLUTION (I) 115 The Early Days of the Republic in Aceh 116 The Social Revolution 129 An Interpretation of the Social Revolution 145 SIX. THE REVOLUTION (II) .. 151 SEVEN. THE DARUL ISLAM REBELLION: THE BACKGROUND 172 The Postrevolution Center: The View from Aceh 172 Prelude to Rebellion 179 Rebellion 200 EIGHT. THE RESOLUTION OF THE REBELLION 214 NINE. ACEH UNDER THE NEW ORDER (I): TOE ELEMENTS OF RULE AND THE IDEOLOGY OF DEVELOPMENT 244 Transition to the New Order

The Technocratic Vision: Marginality and Development .... 251

TEN. ACEH UNDER TOE NEW ORDER (II): ISLAM AND OPPOSITION 269 The Islamic Vision: Sjari'at and the Community 269 Episodes of Protest: Two Elections and One Separatist Movement 287 ELEVEN. CONCLUSION 303 BIBLIOGRAPHY 311

CHAPTER ONE INTRODUCTION

This dissertation is about the shifting bases for conflict and cooperation between central authority and a culturally distinct region in Indonesia. The case chosen for study is Aceh, a region at the northern tip of the island of Sumatra. The Acehnese ethnic group, accounting for less than two percent of the national population, is one of a number of "Outer Island" groups in a nation where the central group, the Javanese, constitute almost one-half of the population. Sharing many characteristics with other "Outer Island" regions, Aceh nonetheless stands out with the reputation of consistently being one of the most dissidsnt regions of all. Acehnese were one of the last groups to fall to Dutch colonialism, and Acehnese now claim that their region was never completely pacified. At first welcoming the Japanese as their liberator, the Acehnese were also the first to stage an uprising against the occupation army. After supporting the fledgling Republic against the Dutch during the late 1940s, the Acehnese fielded the Darul Islam rebellion against the postcolonial control government only three and one-half years after the Republic had prevailed. The resolution of the Darul Islam rebellion came only after what appeared, at that time, to be significant concessions on the part of the central government allowing some degree of autonomy to Aceh. More recently, in the election of 1977, Aceh was the only province of twentysix, save for the special province containing the capital city of Jakarta, which voted against the government party, and did so by a substantial margin and in the face of great pressures.

There are various explanations for why the Acehnese have so often assumed a dissident, stance in the face of central authority. Some attribute the stance to the Islamic "fanaticism" of the Acehnese, while others see Aceh simply as an extreme case of the broader and endemic problem of regionalist sentiment in Indonesia. Social science theory provides various explanatory models as well, two of which will be examined in this chapter. But any explanation of Aceh must also take into account the region's signal loyalty to the Republic of Indonesia during the national revolution. Similarly, an explanation must take into account the reasons why Aceh's dissidence is projected on to the ongoing national ideological debate instead of retreating into separatism. Consideration must also bo given to those periods when defiance is not in the open in order to understand the mechanisms of accommodation and adjustment in center-periphery relations.

This chapter presents an assessment of the type of explanation needed to answer this question: why do the Acehnese act the way they do in the context of the Indonesian state? It is my hope that such an explanation will have some broader usefulness beyond the concerns of the case at hand.

To deal with the problem of center-periphery relations, two distinct approaches present themselves as contending explanations—the "national integration" model and the "internal colonialism" model.

The most striking feature of the national integration model is that the burden of guilt for the existence of a problem between central authority and an ethnically distinct region lies within the latter. Placed in opposition to the "civil politics" of the modernizing center, are the "primordial sentiments" of the traditional periphery.1 It is to this presumed opposition that national integration theorists attribute the perceived endemic political instability of many postcolcnial states. To achieve national integration, the recalcitrant identities of ethnicity and locality must be replaced by loyalty to the nation-state. Representative of this approach is Huntington, who conceived of political modernization as entailing "The replacement of a large number of traditional, religious, familial, and ethnic political authorities by a single secular, 2 national political authority."

The question is, how are these "primordial sentiments" that stand in the way of national unity to be transformed? National integration theorists see transformation as a concomitant of the modernization process. The assumption is that under the onslaught of industrialization, commercialization and urbanization, the political significance of subnational identities and loyalties will decline. The "traditional" identities and loyalties do not simply disappear, of course, but are "cross-cut" by newer identities and loyalties resulting from structural differentiation. In the long run, the rationality of acting according to one's own interest as determined by the division of labor will overcome the pathology of acting according to identities based on religion, ethnicity and language. A variation on this theme, provided by Karl Deutsch, presents a different imagery, although modernization is also seen to be the mainspring of integration. Deutsch argues that integration results from "social mobilization"--including mass exposure to education and communication—"in which major clusters of old social, economic and psychological commitments are eroded and people become available for new patterns of socialization and 3 behaviour."

Although modernization is seen to be the causal factor in establishing new identities that cut across old cleavages, national integration analysts for the most part predict a dismal future for new nation-states. Deutsch noted that social mobilization "may tend to strain or destroy the unity of states whose population is already divided into several groups 4 with different languages or cultures or basic ways of life." Indeed, pessimism would now appear to be justified in the light of the resurgence of ethnic and regional movements in the nation-states of Western Europe which were taken as the examples of successful national integration.

National integration theorists almost always speak in pejorative terms of ethnic and regional loyalties. These theorists readily label such loyalties as "traditional" and overlook how malleable ethnic and regional sentiments can be. Thus the concept of "periphery" in this model allows for little variation; the periphery remains recalcitrant and s

unchanging, more acted upon than acting. Sidney Tarrow summarizes the shortcomings of this approach in his critique of Shils' seminal statement5 on center-periphery relations:

His model of peripheral traditionalism and isolation is not so much false as partial for it reflects the approach to the periphery of elites who seek to control, regulate, or reform it. . . . What we cannot learn from Shils is perhaps more important. For while he spells out the character of the center in detail, his periphery is a concept that has no content. Politics, values, the techniques of rule—all these are properties of the center. The periphery is pictured simply in terms of its proclivity to resist the propagation of modernizing norms. .. . He also begs the qusstion of the conditions under which the periphery revolts, those under which it is politically demobilized, and those under which its politics reflect the class or group conflicts of the center.0

An appreciation of the malleability of ethnic and regional identities, and the ways these identities respond through interactions within larger institutional systems, will allow for greater complexity in analyzing the politics of movements based on these identities. Where cleavages and conflict are to be found, possibilities also exist for adjustment, interaction and adaptation. Analyses that invoke "tradition" and "primordial sentiments" as constants are unable to explain variations in regional and ethnic reactions. In summary, the national integration model is a statement of the problem, not an explanation of it.

The second contending explanation—the internal colonialism model— reverses the bias of national integration theorists by maintaining that the burden of guilt for problems between center and periphery clearly lies with the former for being unremittingly exploitative of the latter.

Michael Hechter summarizes the internal colonialism argument:

The spatially uneven wave of modernization over state territory creates relatively advanced and less advanced groups. As a consequence of this initial fortuitous advantage, there is crystallization of the unequal distribution of resources and power between the two groups. The superordinate group, or core, seeks to stabilize and monopolize its advantages through policies aiming at the institutionalization of the existing stratification system. It attempts to regulate the allocation of social roles such that those roles commonly defined as having high prestige are reserved for its members. Conversely, individuals from the less advanced group are denied access to these roles. This stratification system, which may be termed a cultural division of labor, contributes to the development of distinctive ethnic identification in the two groups. Actors come to categorize themselves and others according to the range of roles each may be expected to play. They are aided in this categorization by the presence of visible signs, or cultural markers, which are seen to characterize both groups.8

The internal colonialism model thus suggests: that regional economic inequalities are the product of the early stage of industrialization; that there will be an assertion of the peripheral culture in reaction to domination by the "core" group; and that politically significant cleavages will largely reflect cultural differences between advantaged and disadvan9 taged groups.

The internal colonialism model stands the national integration model on its head by granting the legitimacy of the periphery's priorities. Instead of reacting with traditional defensiveness to a modernizing center, the periphery is now to be seen acting rationally, with just cause, against an exploitative center. Even so, the predictive power of the model has limitations. For example, it is assumed that the inequitable distribution of resources between advanced and backward regions will lead to dissidence. It is further stipulated that many dissident movements aimed at rectifying maldistribution of resources are based on ethnicity. But the relationship is indeterminate. The image brought to mind is of so many symbols of ethnicity and region lying about waiting to be picked up, waiting to be mobilized and sent into battle against the exploitative center. What remains unclear is why the symbols are sometimes picked up and sometimes not, to continue the imagery, particularly since internal colonialism is a long term structural problem. Nor is it clear in all cases that ethnic and regional movements are responses to increasing marginality resulting from the uneven wave of economic development. The Basque and Catalonian regions, which have produced strong dissident movements in Spain, were the leaders of industrialization not its impoverished victions.10 Even in those cases where relative marginality is the basis for dissidence, the internal colonialism model leaves unexplained who mobilizes the peripheral reaction and why some leaders are more successful than others in doing so.

These difficulties in analysis are more or less conceded by Hechter. In discussing the differences between "peripheral sectionalism," or regional political differences based on cultural factors, and "functional sectionalism," or regional political differences resulting from variations in social structural composition, Hechter concludes: "The types of conditions leading to the salience of cultural as against structural factors in the political behavior of groups are largely unknown." This means that explanations as to why ethnic and regional movements emerge are necessarily post facto. If indeed ethnic or regional dissidence appears, one can more often than not identify an imbalance in the distribution of resources; this identification is then put forward as the "cause" of the dissidence. That this approach is inadequate becomes clear with a simple comparison: picture two ethnically distinct regions with stagnating economics, deteriorating infrastructure and other symptoms of marginality. Let us then assume that the two regions are comparably disadvantaged in relation to the same center, and that for whatever reasons the center is unwilling to rectify the imbalance. Given this information—which constitutes the essentials of the internal colonialism model—can we predict the political behavior of the two regions or, more specifically, can we predict that the two regions will react in the same way? The answer, unfortunately, is no.

Towards an Explanation of the Case of Aceh

I have argued above that both the national integration model and the internal colonialism model are inadequate, the former because the focus on the center's priorities precludes an understanding of the periphery's response and the latter because the focus on the center's exploitation of

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the periphery inhibits an explanation as to why some regions resist the center and others do not. An alternative approach is needed to explain the bases for conflict and cooperation between central authority and peripheral groups. It is necessary to interpret the concept "center" and "periphery" in such a way that they are not constants but rather variables assuming different values and characteristics. Attention needs to be paid to the changing nature of both the center and the periphery in order to explain different political outcomes over time.

A promising approach is suggested by Young's attempt to explain the emergence or absence of subsystem solidarity in opposition to the policies of the encompassing center. The term "solidarity" is defined "as the degree to which the social symbols maintained by a group are organized to convey a focused definition of the situation."12 Solidarity movements, such as ethnic and regional movements, emerge from the interplay of two antecedent variables: "The first is differentiation, defined as the diversity of meaning areas maintained by a social system, and the second is relative centrality, defined as the degree to which the identity symbols of a subsystem are included in the symbolic structure of the incorporating structure." Increased solidarity is thus seen as an outcome of a structural discrepancy, where the "differentiation" of subsystem symbolic structure is greater than the recognition, or "relative centrality," accorded to it by the incorporating system.

The abstractness of Young's formulation is open to a wide rarige of interpretations and, thus, is conducive to different strategies of operatioiialization. The "differentiation" variable can be interpreted as drawing attention to the range and complexity of the subsystem's identity symbols. This is to ask whether knowledge of how a group conceives itself and represents itself in symbols can tell us anything about how that group will relate to the center. The answer, I maintain, is yes. Let us return to the example of two ethnically distinct and comparably disadvantaged regions in relation to a single center. Let us further assume that the "relative centrality" accorded by the center to the two regions is equally low. This being the case, if one region rebels and the other does not, we should examine the symbolic resources of the two regions in order to explain the varying outcomes.

Whereas the "differentiation" variable draws attention to the characteristics of a subnational group, the "relative centrality" variable points to the importance of relations between the group and the broader institutional context. The manner in which the encompassing system accords recognition to the subsystem is variable. Recognition may come in the form of subsuming an ethnic group's struggle against colonialism as an integral part of the national iconography or it may come in the form of regional development policies designed to overcome a group's economic backwardness. The degree to which social prestige as opposed to material resources, for example, serves to accord recognition to the subsystem is open to empirical enquiry. Thus, variation in relating to the center found across various groups can be explained in part by the identity symbol of those groups. This is not to say that the reaction to the center is necessarily inherent in the ethnic or regional culture. The identity symbols of the group represent a variable, not a constant, and thus I am not pointing to "objective characteristics" of the group as an explanation. Moreover, the existence of outside resources brought into play by the center can also change the group's identity symbols over time.

The combination of these two variables—the group's identity symbols and the center's policies—allows for various outcomes. First, in relation to two regions, the center may apply comparable policies; if one region rebels and the other does not, it is to variation in the identity symbols of the two regions we must look for an explanation. Second, if there is regional or ethnic dissidence in the absence of any change on the part of the center, we can assume a change in the symbolic structure of the group. Third, if central policies change—that is, "relative centrality" of the subsystem is downgraded—dissidence may result even in the absence of change in the subsystem's identity symbols.

The above schematic presentation of relationship is straightforward, but clarity is achieved insofar as the argument anthropomorphizes "regions" and "groups." What remains unclear is how mechanisms of relations between center and periphery actually work. People, not regions, act politically. Thus we need to ask who formulates identity symbols, who provides the "definition of the situation," and who mobilizes a group on the basis of this identity. These are questions of leadership, questions of politics. In examining the emergence, maintenance and transformation of ethnic and regional identity symbols, attention must be focused on leadership groups who define the symbols. As Barnett concluded in her study of Tamil nationalism in the context of the Indian state:

Whether or not cultural nationalism arises is not a function of the direct translation of 'objective conditions,' social cleavages, or primordial sentiments into political identity. The perception of 'objective conditions' constitutes a necessary, but not a sufficient, condition for the rise of cultural nationalism. Someone must define (or create) the collectivity and relate it to a greater whole. Whether cultural nationalism arises, and the specific form it takes, is partially a function of leadership. Similarly, the relationship of a particular cultural unit to the whole is a matter of ideological definition—a definition made by political leaders. What is important is not only the heterogeneith of the social universe, but the perception and interpretation of that heterogeneity.16

The important question is how one set of leaders rather than another comes to articulate the region's symbols. The plurality of leadership groups providing contending definitions of the region is a factor that determines the nature of the relationship with central authority. Although I attribute to leadership groups a determining role in creating a regional identity and in mediating that identity in relation to national authority, the center will naturally seek out and attempt to reinforce a strategically useful group of regional leaders. Various strategies of intervention are available to the center, such as the use of resources to either maintain or subvert existing local hierarchical structure, and the co-optation of local leaders, either by drawing them to the center or installing them in pivotal intermediary positions locally. Such strategies are employed to reduce the coherence of regionalist sentiments, but the results are far from guaranteed; central intervention can also produce political escalation and mobilization on the periphery.

At one level, this dissertation is a narrative of continuity and change of Acehnese leadership groups during the twentieth century. The degree to which various leadership groups have been involved in cooperative or conflictual relations among themselves has varied. Generally, however, conflict rather than cohesion has marked the relations among Acehnese leadership groups throughout the twentieth century. Nonetheless, there is a sense in which the phrase "contending elites" is misleading in the case of Aceh. The word "contending" implies some sort of contest with a fairly clear prize to be gained. This is usually conceived in terms of various actors struggling to gain some form of institutional political power. The assumption here is that different leadership groups are contending to become the »political elite." To the degree this is true, the keeping of the "score" is a relatively straightforward matter. But if the goals of different leadership groups are divergent, which is to say that at least one group does not define "winning" in terms of obtaining institutional power, attention is drawn to a different problem. In the case of Aceh, we find that some religious leaders have not necessarily defined the struggle in terms of winning power as this is conventionally defined. If this is so, then what has been the basis for conflict among leadership groups in Aceh? I would argue that the conflict has been about how one group of leaders rather than another came to be in a position to formulate the symbols of group identity, to provide the definition of what it means to be Acehnese. To be in such a position entails, in turn, a mediating role in determining whether the encompassing center recognizes the value and legitimacy of the identity symbols.

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To return to the question posed at the beginning of this chapter: why have the Acehnese so frequently assuosed a position of defiance towards central authority? To answer this question, we must first look at what I take to be the consistent desire of the religious leaders, the ulaaas,17 to refora the Acehnese community according to what they perceive to be the dictates of Islaa as embodied in the sjari'at (Islamic law). For the ulaaas, reforaisa held out the hope of the faithful overcoming the particularisas of self-interest, kinship, and locality to act in unity and haraony as true Muslins. Kith this goal, reforalst ulaaas emerged as the bearer of the Acehnese identity syabols. Their success was due to the fact that they were not simply "reformists," but they were also "revivalists." As the formulations of reforaisa were not easily translatable into suasive iaages for broader participation, the ulaaas caae to identity religious refora with the historical renovation of the comaunity. In order to persuade the faithful of the necessity of religious regeneration, the ulaaas had to render the aessage in concrete iaagery: the attainment of a glorious future, in which all Muslins would be united through religious law, was presented as a contrast between the "shaaeful" present and a "golden" past.

Thus by linking the idea of refora to the historical renovation of the comaunity, the revivalistic ulaaas caae to be the bearers of a distinctive set of identity symbols for the Acehnese. But there have been other leadership groups who put forward contrasting iaages of what Aceh is or should be. During the colonial period the position of the uleebalang (territorial chieftains) was based on a different set of symbols; namely the uleebalang represented the continuity of adat, or indigenous customary law. During the transition to independence, the contending visions of uleebalang and ulama came into open and violent conflict.

The presently dominant leadership groups of Aceh—technocrats, administrators and military officers-have elaborated a "definition of the situation" which denies the ulama version. In an attempt to capture resources from the center, the strategy of the new leaders was to redefine Aceh as a disadvantaged ethnic minority in need of capital and expertise. In this regard, Aceh was not different from other regions, except the new leadership maintained that Aceh was singularly disadvantaged if seen in relation to its contribution to the national revolution, its increasingly iuportant role in generating foreign exchange, and its potential for militant dissidence.

To the degree that revivalist ulamas have provided the suasive identity symbols linking religious reformation to community renovation, is this not a case, in Deutschian terms, of "subnational" social mobilization running ahead of national assimilation? Or is this not perhaps a case of the resurgence of primordial sentiments? In fact, the predictions implicit in much of the literature on region and ethnicity do not hold in the case of Aceh, for however apparent dissidence has been, the outcome has not been a simple one of "nationality formation" leading to separatism. Although the appeal of religious reform was based on the idiom of Acehnese renovation, the revivalistic ulamas have not been content to limit their vision to Aceh. Precisely because of this identity, Acehnese

Islamic leaders maintained that they had a right to say something about the Indonesian state—that is, to address themselves to the ongoing debate on the ideological foundation of Indonesia. It is this claim to the right to influence the state's central symbols that renders the "Acehnese problem," from the perspective of the central government, so intractable, for it has never been simply a "regional problem." This claim was all the more salient because of Aceh's pivotal role during the national revolution as daerah modal, which means "region of capital," and indicates literally Aceh's financial contribution to the Republic and figuratively Aceh's inspiration as the only major region not to be reoccupied by the Dutch. Conceived in this manner, the "relative centrality," or recognition of Acehnese identity symbols as formulated by the ulamas, accorded by the center can never be high without transforming the nature of central authority itself.

It has thus been in the center's interest to encourage the emergence of other leadership groups who formulated a different set of identity symbols, providing a contrasting definition of the situation by which central policies are evaluated. Such a strategy on the part of the postindependence center was much the same as Dutch policy to maintain the uleebalangs as a counterweight to the political aspirations of the ulamas. 8y way of reaction to outside manipulation of leadership groups, there have been periodic calls for cohesion among various Acehnese leadership groups vis-à-vis the center. That this desired cohesiveness has never been maintained for long is due in part to the resources brought to bear on the situation by the center but also to the conflicting goals of the leadership groups themselves.

The arguments presented above will be elaborated through a narrative history of Acehnese leadership groups since the turn of the century. It is a history seen from the perspective of the periphery. As with any single case study, this one potentially suffers from at least two limitations. First, the focus is much more on the periphery than on the center; this means that while detailed analysis of the region is provided, the priorities and concerns of the center are necessarily presented in a rather summary fashion. It is fair to say, however, that the interests of central elites have hardly been underrepresented either in the general literature on political change or in the specific literature on Indonesia. Most political scientists have focused on the center; by comparison, few have dealt with particular regions. Second, the absence of comparative cases would seemingly limit the theoretical significance of the study. However, this need not be a handicap so long as the pertinent variables are adequately specified. Indeed, the purpose of this study is to propose a strategy for explaining center-periphery relations by focusing on a few variables. A detailed study permits one to see more clearly the relationships among the variables over time. Indeed, if it is political change that is in need of explanation, then conceptual richness is increased by focusing on one case over time rather than on several cases at one given time.

My data base for this study has been a wide range of documentation and almost two hundred elite interviews. Given the time-span of the study, the nature of documents--such as government reports, journals, newspapers, memoirs—varies from period to period. Documents provided only the necessary but not sufficient data base for the study. The elite interviews were central to understanding the perspective of the periphery and to developing the analysis of the study. Only sparsely used as supporting evidence of historic facts, the elite interviews were geared towards eliciting from Acehnese leaders interpretations and meanings of events.

The chapters of this dissertation are arranged chronologically. Chapter Two will provide an interpretation of precolonial Aceh that is essential to an understanding of later periods. Chapter Three will focus on the changes brought about by Dutch colonialism. Chapter Four is an analysis of the impact of Japanese rule on Acehnese leadership groups. Chapters Five and Six will provide a detailed account of Aceh during the national revolution, with special attention on the social revolution and on the Islamic themes of the revolution in Aceh. Chapter Seven examines the events leading to the outbreak in 19S3 of the Darul Islam rebellion. Chapter Eight will attempt to unravel the complicated and lengthy negotiations leading to a settlement of the rebellion in 1962. Chapters Nine and Ten will deal with Aceh following the advent of the New Order. In conclusion, Chapter Eleven will review the arguments outlined in this introductory chapter in terms of the information presented in Chapters Two through Ten.

CHAPTER TWO PRECOLONIAL ACEH

"The Golden Age"

During the first half of the seventeenth century the Acehnese Sultanate M M one of the most powerful trading states in Southeast Asia. A French traveler of that period provided an apt summary observation: "All people in the Indies or on the other side [of] the Cape of Good Hope, when they would go to Sumatra, merely say they are going to Achen: for the city and port has acquired all the name and reputation of the island."1

Beginning in approximately 1520 Acehnese sultans, based in the Aceh River Valley at the northern tip of Sumatra, pulled free of and came to dominate the neighboring Islamic states of Pasai, Pedir (Pidie), and Daya. The emergence of Aceh as the leading Islamic state in the region can be traced to the Portuguese capture (in 1511) of Malacca, which had been the dominant trading center. Forced out of Malacca, Islamic merchants-Arabs, Persians, Turks, Abyssinians and Gujeratis-moved to Aceh, where they carried on barter trade primarily with Chinese merchants in search of pepper. By the middle of the sixteenth century Aceh was the center of Middle Eastern and Indian trade with the Indonesian archipelago, and by the end of the sixteenth century various European merchants were competing to trade with Aceh as well. Being so positioned, Acehnese sultans had a clear incentive to move out from their base area in the Aceh River Valley, which produced almost nothing for the export market, to gain control over 2 rich pepper areas.

The greatest territorial expansion came during the reign of Iskandar Muda (1607-36) when the Acehnese controlled the east coast of Sumatra down to Deli and the west coast all the way down to Padang as well as parts of the Malay peninsula across the Strait of Malacca. Most of the pepper controlled by Aceh originated from western Sumatra. In 1628 Dutch traders complained: "Times are changing: where before it was customary to carry on trade at various places free and unencumbered, without molestation, now the Achinese have so occupied the whole west coast of Sumatra and brought the inhabitants in such fear that they dare not trade with the ships."

The strength of Aceh depended on the maintenance of this pepper monopoly, and the Acehnese went to some lengths to maintain the monopoly as evidenced by their destruction of the pepper plants in Kedah once that Malay state had been conquered. The French traveler Beaulieu reported: "I waited upon the King with some Presents, in order to obtain leave to buy up Pepper from private persons, which he would not allow till his own was sold off, which he always kept half as dear again as the other."4

There is a consensus that the nature of the Acehnese Sultanate differed markedly from the inland agrarian kingdoms of Southeast Asia. Lombard says of Aceh during the reign of Sultan Iskandar Muda: "we are undoubtedly dealing with an urban center and not with an agricultural state." Although the "urban center" where traders of many countries met was the defining characteristic of Aceh in the early seventeenth century, there was more involved than this alone. Reid, for ex?mple, says simply: "The state was the city and its coastal dependencies."6 But the coastal dependencies upon which the city was most dependent for the continuation of its pepper monopoly were in fact those located farthest away. This meant that attention was turned to the frontiers of the state. An inability to maintain the seaways to those frontiers would entail the loss of international trade at the port of Banda Aceh. Thus the control of

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territory and seaways was more important than the control of population and food-crop surpluses. Left unattended was the immediate hinterland of the port city. Beaulieu observed: "As for the Dominions of the King of Achen, the territory of his principal City, is not sufficiently cultivated for maintaining its Inhabitants, so that a greater part of their Rice comes from abroad." Lombard argues that seventeenth century Aceh's shallow food-crop base left the state in a precarious position. Even the importation of slaves from conquered territories to cultivate rice fields did not generate a food-crop surplus.8

Accompanying the temporal power of Aceh, precarious as it may have been, was the development of Islamic scholarship and culture, such that Aceh came to be known as Serambi Mekah, or the "Gate of Mecca." Ulamas (religious scholars) from other parts of Sumatra, and from India and the Middle East as well, gathered at the court of Aceh to receive royal patronage. No small amount of religious scholarship focused on the controversial issue of what constituted "orthodox" Sufism, or mysticism, as opposed to "heterodox" Sufism; this was not simply an abstract theological debate for it was Sufism which facilitated the spread of Islam throughout the Archipelago. The development of Islamic culture in seventeenth century Aceh can also be viewed as a florescence of Malay culture for the great ulamas of this era wrote almost all of their mystical tracts, theological treatises and court chronicles in the Malay language.10 That Malay should be 30 pivotal both as the language of the court and as the language of Islam points up once again the peculiar nature of the Acehnese Sultanate: a polity turned outward toward the international market and the wider comaunity of Islam rather than inward toward the Acehnese-speaking hinterland.

Given the temporal and spiritual grandeur of seventeenth century Aceh, it is not surprising that this period would later be viewed as one when Islamic law (sjari'at) was implemented in the framework of a theocracy. Islamic law was embodied in the collection of regulations and statutes known as Adat Meukuta Alam ("The Law of the Crown of the World," i.e., Iskandar Muda). From this period as well comes the Acehnese tradition that there is no conflict between Islamic law and adat, or indigenous customary law. Dutch scholars have tended to discount Acehnese claims for the importance of Islamic law during the seventeenth century. Snouck Hurgronje stated the issue bluntly: "The golden age of Acheh in which the Mohammedan law prevailed .. . or in which the Adat Meukuta Alam may be regarded as the fundamental law of the kingdom, belongs to the realm of legend." Whether the written statutes of that period reflect actual judicial practice is not so interesting an issue as the fact that the tradition of Adat Meukuta Alam has given rise to a "comparison between an orderly past resting on the basis of the Mohammedan law and a disorderly

12 present." Such a comparison has served to define the meaning of Aceh and to encourage Islamic reform movements; as such, the comparison remains politically significant even up to the present.

The golden age of the Acehnese Sultanate did not last beyond the seventeenth century. After the Dutch captured Malacca in 1641, the Acehnese were driven from the Malay peninsula. Several decades later, the Dutch also began encroaching on Acehnese possessions on the west coast of Sumatra, the richest pepper region of that time. By the end of the seventeenth century the state of Aceh was once again limited to northern Sumatra.

Nineteenth Century Aceh: A.-» Interpretation

In this section an overview of the relaticnships among various actors—sultans, territorial chieftains (uleebalang), and religious scholars (ulama)—will be provided in an attempt to make sense of patterns of authority and governance during the nineteenth century. In large measure this overview will entail a discussion and analysis of two contrasting interpretations of nineteenth century Aceh provided by C. Snouck Hurgronje and James Siegel.

The Sultans

The inability of sultans to maintain a monopoly over even a truncated Acehnese empire indicates their much diminished position. Early in the nineteenth century, Marsden observed: "It must be understood that the king of Achin, as is usual with the princes of this part of the world, is the chief merchant of his capital and endeavours to be, to the utmost of his power, the monopolizer of its trade; but this he cannot at all times effect, and the attempt has been the cause of frequent rebellions."14 The sultans had given up the pretense of controlling trade in favor of tribute paid by coastal uleebalangs and, in time, even the payment of tribute was not assured.

The weakening of the Acehnese Sultanate had engendered changes within Acehnese society. Once the sultans had lost the wealth generated by trade passing through the port of Banda Aceh, they found they could no longer maintain domination over those notables who had been incorporated into the powerful Acehnese navy.15 As the patronage system based on control of international trade collapsed, the notables left the waterways to establish themselves on land. Attention shifted from the far frontiers to the interior. Most particularly the nature of the Sultanate was changed by developments in the nearby hinterland of the Aceh River Valley, or the region of Aceh Besar. With the emergence of Aceh Besar as a riceproducing area with increased productivity and population, the "hinterland reaction" took the institutional form of three federations of uleebalangs. From the 1670s an European visitor provided an account of the turmoil as the balance of power shifted from the sultans' capital city to the hinterland of Aceh Besar:

The Inhabitants up in the Countrey not above 20 or 30 miles off Achin are for the most part disaffected to this Sort of Government, and Scruple not to Say that they will have a Kinge to rule and beare dominion over them, and that the true heire to the Crowne is yet alive and hath Several1 Sons, and him they will obey. He is the one that liveth amongst them, a great promoter of a Rebellion, and often-times doth much prejudice both in Citty and Countrey, although I believe it is and will be past his reach or Skill Ever to Obtaine the Government of Achin. Yett I have been in Achin when about 700 of these insolent highlanders have come down to the Citty, and on a Sudden rushed into the Pallace Royale, and plundered it, to the great Ashtonishment of all the Citizens, Especially the Lords, who were soe affrighted with soe Sudden and desparate attempt, that their onely care for the present was to Secure their Owne Persons.16

The conflict between the capital city and the agrarian hinterland was settled in favor of the latter. The dominance of the hinterland was such that the sultans became, in effect, the captive of leading uleebaJjings in Aceh Besar. At one time twelve uleebalangs (including the three Panglima Sagi) formed an electoral college for the selection of sultans. In reality the Panglima Sagi XXII Mukim, the federation furthest from the capital, was the primus inter pares, and, in Reid's words, "represented one pole of Acehnese power, a constant challenge to the Sultans of the port."17

Unable to control the coastal trade and dependent on the uleebalangs of Aceh Besar, the sultans were clearly not what they had been. At the same time, great reverence was accorded to the sultans. Many uleebalangs still desired a sarakata, a document bearing the Sultan's seal which recognized a territorial chieftain's rule. On this Snouck Hurgronje commented: "As however this feeling of awe has always been coupled with the conviction that the sole sovereign prince of che country exercised no perceptible influence on the conduct of affairs, and was in fact but an expensive luxury like the documents sealed with the chab sikureueng [i.e., sarakata], all this reverence is, comparatively speaking, of very slight value from a practical point of view." In fact, the Sultan represented much more than simply an "expensive luxury," for to the degree that one can speak of some form of cultural continuity in Aceh, some standard to which the populations of outlying regions became acculturated, the idea of the Sultanate must be considered important. Also, Siegel argues that the granting of a sarakata served the purposes of an uleebalang. The making of the Sultan into a religious-magical figure, something the sultans of the sixteenth century and seventeenth century probably had not been, was the means by which the uleebalangs provided themselves with an Islamic ideology justifying their position in Acehnese society. Siegel concludes:

[the Sultan's] cultural superiority was to the uleebelang's interest, as was his powerlessness. Making the sultan into a magical figure resolved the contradiction in favor of the uleebelang. It sustained the cultural position of the sultan but said nothing of his rights.19

Thus despite a profound political change, a form of cultural continuity was maintained in the personage of the Sultan.

The Uleebalangs

The above discussion of the position of nineteenth century sultans implied what should now be made explicit—that is, the uleebalangs were the locus of power in nineteenth century Aceh. Whereas the reasons for the weakness of the sultans may be clear, it cannot be said that the reasons for the power of the uleebalangs are immediately apparent. On this issue Snouck Hurgronje and Siegel differ markedly, although I will argue that insofar as both focus on the source of revenue to explain the anomalous position of uleebalangs in Acehnese society the ideological justification for that position is not clearly established.

Before discussing the contrasting conceptions of Snouck Hurgronje and Siegel, I would like to describe the institutional arrangement found within an uleebalang's territory. First to be considered are the two regions considered to be the heartland of Acehnese culture, viz., Aceh Besar and Pidie. The head of an Acehnese village (gampong) was called keuchi'. In the nineteenth century, the position of keuchi' was mostly hereditary, although in theory an uleebalang could dismiss a keuchi'. Standing alongside the keuchi' was the teungku meunasah, who was changed with the responsibility of the meunasah, the village prayer house, which served a number of communal functions. An Acehnese saying indicates the relationship of the two officials to the gampong: Keuchi' eumbah, teungku ma (the keuchi' is our father and the teungku our mother). To assist the keuchi' and the teungku in managing village affairs there was also a council of elders, generally called ureueng tuha.

Above the gampong in Aceh Besar and Pidie stood the territorial unit of the mukim, which emerged from the Syafie interpretation of Islamic law requiring at least forty (according to the altered Acehnese notion, fortyfour) free men of age in order to conduct the Friday communal prayer service. To meet this requirement a mosque was built in a central location which would serve several villages. Representing the unity of these several villages within a mukim was an official with the title of imeum. Originally the imeum was a purely religious official; what the teungku meunasah was for the meunasah in the village, the imeum was supposed to be for the mosque. Over time, however, the imeum became a hereditary territorial leader. As such, the imeum mukim was in theory a deputy of the uleebalang, and if the uleebalgng were powerful the imeum was in fact not much more than an intermediary. Under a weak uleebalang, however, an energetic imeum could for all purposes become independent; indeed, there were cases of imeums breaking away completely to establish themselves as uleebalangs. The more powerful uleebalangs ruled over territories comprising several mukims. In both Aceh Besar and Pidie there were also federations of uleebalangs: in Aceh Besar, three federations (which have üWHWMfUnutti,

been mentioned above); and in Pidie, two federations under the powerful uleebalangs of Pidie and Keumangan.

To the east of Pidie, the areas known as the North Coast and the East Coast, there emerged a somewhat different pattern of local institutions. At the village level, the arrangement was much the same but with a different set of titles: the keuchi' and teungku meunasah of Aceh Besar and Pidie were called the peutuha and imeum meunasah respectively. The villages to the east of Pidie, however, were not united into a mukim centered on a mosque. Uleebalang rule on the north and east coasts was generally established later than in Aceh Besar and Pidie, developing through colonization by pepper planters from Pidie. What emerged institutionally was a function of power struggles among various peutuha pangkai (those providing capital for the expansion of pepper cultivation) and peutuha seunubok (the heads of pepper gardens), with the peutuha pangkai often becoming the local uleebalang and the peutuha seunubok the intermediaries between the uleebalang and the villages. Several titles were used for these intermediaries, but the most common was uleebalang-cut ("cut" means "little").

The situation on the west coast was more complex still. Beginning in the seventeenth century, the west coast to the south of Meulaboh was colonized by settlers from West Sumatra who maintained, in modified form, Minangkabau institutions of governance which were based more on considerations of genealogy than territoriality. During the eighteenth century the prosperity which the Minangkabau settlers had obtained from pepper cultivation tempted large numbers of Acehnese from Aceh Besar and Pidie. This new wave of migrants provoked a period of warfare (the Prang Rawa), which terminated with the settlement of Acehnese in the greater part of the region to the south of Meulaboh. The result was a mix of institutions which reflected some elements of the Minangkabau tradition influenced by the Acehnese idea of territorial government. The west coast to the north of Meulaboh had also been settled by pepper planters from Aceh Besar and Pidie, but here the situation was not so complex.since Acehnese influence was dominant. Much in the same way as had happened on the north and east coasts, the peutuha pangkai and peutuha seunubok established themselves as 23

territorial chieftains, and, similarly, the mukim was not present. Snouck Hurgronje viewed uleebalang authority in the nineteenth century:

Siegel provides a succinct summary of his interpretation of how

Snouck was correct in pointing out the political independence of the uleebelang, although he misconceived its basis, as I hope to demonstrate. Snouck saw the uleebelang as paratypes of European lords, tied to peasants through rights of land; he thought of them as deriving their power from revenues raised through fines levied in the settlement of disputes, and the control of land. He saw their position threatened by the ulama who, constantly urging reform, in accordance with Islamic law, wished, he thought, to eliminate the uleebelang's source of income. . . . Actually, the uleebelang were similar to the chieftains on the west coast of Malaya that Gullick described. They had few ties with villagers whom they supposedly ruled. Their revenue came not from the administration of the law but from their control of the market. They used their profits to support a body of retainers who were the real source of their power. Dependent on trade rather than on their subjects for revenues they formed a class isolated from village life, in conflict with the sultan, and occasionally at odds with the ulama.24

It must be kept in mind that Snouck Hurgronje took as his model the uleebalangs of Aceh Besar, a region which by the nineteenth century was a sedentary agrarian society. Siegel's description of uleebalangs as dependent on trade, while doubtless applicable to varying degrees to chieftains throughout Aceh, accentuates a characteristic which is primarily identified with the uleebalangs in the "frontier" regions where settlers came to raise pepper. A distinction must be made between the uleebalangs of the rice producing regions (Aceh Besar and Pidie), and those of the pepper producing regions (the west, north and east coasts).2S This is not to say that either of the two regions was strictly mono-culture, for during the nineteenth century large quantities of areca nut were exported from the north coast, including Pidie. Siegel points to this distinction and then, prematurely I believe, denies its significance.

The rice-growing areas were for the most part much older than the pepper areas. But it would be a mistake to see the political situation in Pidie as essentially different from that in the East. Pidie was no more self-sufficient economically than the pepper areas were. Here, just as in the pepper areas, the uleebelang lived off taxes they imposed on trade. Here, too, they were entrepreneurs who tried to control all of the trade in their areas. The only difference between the two regions was the kind of goods produced and exported.27

The kind of goods produced probably did make some difference in the nature of uleebalang authority. Siegel is correct in saying that uleebalangs were not what we customarily consider landed gentry, and this holds even for the rice producing areas of Aceh Besar and Pidie, if by this one thinks of an institutionalized web of land-based rights and obligations binding peasant to nobility. There were some instances of corvee in nineteenth century Aceh but supposedly only for the common good; if an uleebalang forced peasants to work his land, this was seen as exceptional and in conflict with custom. This is not to say, however, that uleebalangs of the rice-producing areas of Aceh Besar and Pidie were not "landed," for they clearly were interested in the possession of ricelands. Those uleebalangs owning extensive rice-lands usually entered into a share-cropping agreement, called mawaih in Acehnese, whereby the crop was divided evenly between land-owner and cultivator.29 There was nothing

Siegel, The Rope of God, pp. 23-24.

Snouck Hurgronje spoke of those exceptional uleebalangs who "are powerful enough to get the work done by feudal service. There are some chiefs who year after year call out the people of one gampong to plough for them, of another to do the planting, and of a third to gather in the harvest." Snouck Hurgronje, The Achehnese, 1, p. 290.

29 The word mawaih was originally used for the equal division of the crop between owner and tenant. Other share-cropping agreements provided two parts for the cultivator and one for the owner (bagi lhee), or three parts for the cultivator and one for the owner (bagi peuet). The tenant provided the necessary inputs for cultivation. The agreement employed depended on the quality of land, availability of irrigation and distance from human settlement. The word mawiah is now used generally for any share-cropping agreement.

"feudal" about this arrangement as such, for the mawaih contract also held for commoners who had their land cultivated by tenants.

It was not unusual for an uleebalang to use his judicial powers to gain control over land through langgeh umong. or the "banning of ricefields," which prevented the owner from working his rice-field until the uleebalang removed the ban. The purpose of langgeh umong was to ensure payment of fines to the uleebalang. The owner of the rice-field could redeem his rights of possession by a money payment to the uleebalang. If the owner did not do so, the uleebalang proceeded to have the field cultivated by his servants. Snouck Hurgronje noted that "langgeh umong takes place when the offender has been guilty of. offending (be it even on strong provocation) a member of the uleebalang's,family, or lost a weapon entrusted by the chief to his charge or the like. Wilful provocation is often given in order to increase the cases of confiscation and more than one of the uleebalangs has the name of being 'very cleaver in annexing rice-fields.'"30

Snouck Hurgronje makes it clear that uleebalangs. at least those of Aceh Besar, were landholders and derived income from land, although it is impossible to estimate their income from landholdings since no figures are available. He does not, however, discuss uleebalang landholdings in such a way that one could say (with Siegel) that "Snouck saw the uleebelang as paratypes of European lords, tied to peasants through rights of land."

Differences in interpreting the nature of uleebalang authority in large measure center precisely on the issue of what constituted their primary source of income. Snouck Hurgronje provided a list of uleebalang revenues, some of which are given below (any given uleebalang would not

have access to all of these revenues): —fines imposed for various offenses —fees for verification of thieves, "sometimes paid even though there is no question of theft, and various other profits which are the fruit of venality" —one per-cent, or more, of the value of rice-land sold under an uleebalang's supervision —ten per-cent of all inheritances distributed under an uleebalang's supervision31 — a share of fish caught with drag-nets — a toll on every vessel using navigable rivers — a portion of debts recovered by the uleebalang's help — a market tax —acquisition of property of those who have died without leaving lawful heirs —contributions of imeums and keuchi ' s "to defray the expenses of important family festivals of the uleebalangs and their relatives"

—compulsory services rendered to an uleebalang bv those who have committed some offense or by those unable to pay fines imposed on them

—taxes on the sale of firewood, bricks, coconuts, coconut oil etc.

— a share of all jungle produce

—gifts of rice and fruits that first ripen

— a portion of all cattle slaughtered

— a portion of the fitrah and zakat (religious taxes)

— a duty on pepper.

It is impossible to say what represented the major single source of income for uleebalangs. The above list indicates that some income was derived from the administration of justice, and some from levies on trade and the movement of goods. "Control of the markets was, indeed, the major source of revenues for the uleebelang in all areas of Atjeh.» Siegel main34 tains. Snouck Hurgronje is emphatic in arguing that judicial revenues were central to the conflict between uleebalangs and ulamas: "A reformation of the institutions of the country conducted in a religious spirit would rob the uleebalangs of everything. Even if the work were carried out with the utmost moderation in conformity with the national character of the Achehnese, still the whole administration of justice now in the hands of these chiefs, and which forms the main source of their revenues, would pass entirely away from their control."35 Uleebalangs did indeed have judicial powers which were not available to imeums and keuchi's. Mediation leading to amicable settlements was available to imeums and keuchi^s, and there was a clear incentive for these lesser officials to bring about such a settlement, for only in this way were they compensated for their efforts. Assisting an uleebalang in the administration of justice was a kali, a religious judicial official, who ostensibly had jurisdiction over family law. Although the kali was present to hear cases brought before an uleebalang, the latter made the decisions. Snouck Hurgronje's conclusion: "The the administration of justice remains mainly in the hands of the uleebalangs. It is only however in the direst necessity that this mediation is sought, for these chiefs hold it before them as their principal aim to get as much hard cash as possible for themselves, and take but little pains with cases, however weighty, from which there is not much profit to be won."36

It would be tempting to resolve this issue by concluding that there were two different types of uleebalangs, one from the older rice region and the other from the newer pepper region, simply because it is eminently plausible. Such a resolution, however, evades the broader issue inasmuch as both Siegel and Snouck Hurgronje discuss uleebalang income as the key to understanding the position of the chieftains in Acehnese society. Siegel argues that since uleebalangs were primarily economic figures, the

bonds between villagers and chieftains were weak:

Their distant presence was an accepted fact of Atjehnese tradition; their use of power conflicted with that tradition but was accepted because there was no alternative. The incongruity of power and cultural conception indicates the isolation of uleebelan 8 {roa villagers. It is difficult to conceive that such a gap would have continued to exist if they had interfered in village affairs to any extent.37

Once Siegel has established the isolation of uleebalangs from villagers and the lack of effective interference of uleebalangs "in village affairs to any extent," he then finds it necessary to analyze how the idiom of Islam contained in the Sultan's sarakata provided a "framework of agreement" between villagers and uleebalangs. It is not clear why it was necessary to have a "framework of agreement" if, as Siegel argues, uleebalangs were so ineffective in intervening in village life. Siegel considers problematic the lack of uleebalang "legitimacy" but also argues that it did not really matter. Siegel says: "The uleebelang's view of their own position in Atjehnese society was contradicted by their action, and they thus weakened the loyalty of their subjects."38 Elsewhere, however, he concludes that since uleebalangs were essentially traders, "a political system based mainly on force and with weak legitimacy is under39 standable."

Siegel portrays Snouck Hurgronje as believing there were strong bonds between uleebalangs and villagers. It is clear that Snouck Hurgronje's list of uleebalang revenues illustrates a greater degree of interference on the part of uleebalangs in village life than Siegel is willing to concede. In discussing the role of uleebalangs as administrators of justice, however, Snouck Hurgronje said: "With the daily life of the gampong in the narrower sense of the words the uleebalang has little 40 to do." Snouck Hurgronje's basic point is simply that uleebalangs interfered in village life insofar as was necessary to obtain revenues. Accordingly, one would expect regional variations in the types of bonds, or lack thereof, between uleebalangs and villagers. An uleebalang in Aceh Besar, notably devoid of export produce, probably appeared more "landed" than an uleebalang on the west coast. But what was it that tied this variety together in such a way that we can speak meaningfully of uleebalangs throughout Aceh? In order to answer this question, we must take seriously, although in a rather peculiar way, the role of uleebalangs as representatives of what was seen to be Acehnese law. Snouck Hurgronje overstated the case in saying that a reformation of the institutions of Aceh 'Vould rob the uleebalangs of everything" since "the administration of justice now in the hands of these chiefs, and which forms the main source of their revenues, would pass entirely away from their control." The significance of the administration of justice passing "entirely away from their control" was not, as Snouck would have it, the loss of revenues. Some uleebalangs would have felt the loss of revenues greatly, others to a lesser degree, and still others not in the least. Siegel rightly draws attention to the trading role of many uleebalangs but misses the significant point about their ideological justification in arguing that "a reform of legal administration would not have weakened the uleebelang since, as I have tried to show, their revenues came chiefly from the collection of tolls."41

The ideology for the uleebalangs was the protection, maintenance and implementation of what was taken to be the laws of Aceh, which meant, in fact, that the uleebalangs were supposed to have been so many localized "defenders of the faith." This is illustrated by a sarakata issued by the sultans recognizing the authority of an uleebalang:

We make known hereby unto all uleebalangs, unto the wakis tandils, imeums, katibs, bilieues and all subjects:

. u" 1 ^ a r d t0 this our Panglima, whose ancestors of old, even re 8 to his father, have been even down to our own times panglimas of the Meuseugit Raya, we hereby appoint him to be Panglima Meuseugit Raya, to fulfil all the duties that appertain to that office, and 1° f°i*°" ln a11 hls dealings the word of Allah (be He praised and glorified!) by commanding the good and forbidding the evil to all chiefs who are subject to his official orders. So it is the boundenduty of all these chiefs to hear and follow his command and prohibitions, in so far as they be in accordance with the law of our prophet Mohammad (may Allah bless him and grant him peace') the law of the adat and the sacred institutions, even as these held good in the days of earlier sultans; on the way of righteousness, so that no injustice may befall the servants of Allah.

Let orders be given henceforth duly to perform the Friday service and the five daily prayers, to build meuseugits, deahs and meunasahs, also to contribute zakat and pitrah on all things that C ^ and where my is able' n L S ^ J u et°i t0 accomplish the journey to Mekka to undertake the haj.

Moreover we make it known by this writing, that we have made him our deputy for all matters of pasah (divorce of judicial decree), marriage and the payment of pitrah for orphans, in respect of all our subjects who are within his jurisdiction. Thus let all who are in straits because they have no marriage-walis or who are desirous of obtaining separation resort to him that he may enquire n into their case.

Should the Panglima Meuseugit Raya himself be insufficiently acquainted with the laws respecting marriage, pasah and the pitrah for orphans, he may appoint some upright ulama as his deputy; so as to ensure that all be done in accordance with the law of Mohammad.

But should this Panglima Meuseugit Raya fail to act conformably with the word of Allah, the law of Mohammad and Our institutions, then shall he forfeit his high office. Here endeth well our word. Amen!42

Both Snouck Hurgronje and Siegel say, correctly, that the granting of a sarakata gave the sultan absolutely no power over an uleebalang. It is thus not surprising that most uleebalangs ignored the injunctions contained in a sarakata. Snouck Hurgronje said: »The whole content of this document, and especially the last clause, form an absurd contrast to the actual state of affairs in Acheh."43 Not all uleebalangs were interested in the administration of justice, particularly if money could be obtained in quicker ways, as was the case in the pepper regions.44 Conversely, to the degree an uleebalang was interested in the administration of justice, villagers had a clear incentive to settle their differences with the mediation of keuchi's for only in this way could they hope to evade the costly decisions of "covetous uleebalangs."

We have seen that there was an incongruity of an essentially powerless Sultan representing the cultural continuity of Aceh. So also was there an incongruity of uleebalangs who did not often administer the law, more often maladministered the law, and should they choose to take seriously the dictates of the sarakata often aroused the fear of villagers, finding their justification within Acehnese society as maintaining what was seen to be the tradition of Acehnese law, which is to say Islam. This justification in its own way also represented a form of cultural transmission to the frontiers of Aceh. The contradiction in the justification for the uleebalang position in Acehnese society, it seems to me, was not immediately apparent in the nineteenth century. Only during the Aceh war did the incongruity become apparent in the form of a contradiction between the particularisms and interests of uleebalangs in their territories, and the implicit theme found in the sarakata. viz., that the dictates of Islam be taken seriously such that all believers could take action jointly as Muslims in defense of Aceh.

The Ulamas

The word ulama can fairly be translated as "religious scholar." In the absence of ecclesiastical authority, the recognition of a learned person as an ulama was always a matter more of community acknowledgment than of official confirmation. In the nineteenth century, however, what it meant to be considered an ulama was much clearer than it is in the 45 twentieth century. An ulama was addressed by the title of teungku, although lesser religious figures also bore this title. A few comments need to be made on these lesser religious leaders before turning to a discussion of the ulamas.

We have had occasion already to mention the village religious functionary (called teungku meunasah in Aceh Besar and Pidie, and imeum meunasah elsewhere), as well as the religious judicial official, kali, who assisted uleebalangs. These officials were called leube or malem, not ulama, indicating the minimal amount of religious knowledge required for the implementation of their responsibilities. The primary function of a teungku meunasah was to provide elementary religious instruction to village boys, which entailed training in the chanting of the Koran (pengalian) , instruction on the nature of God (Tauhid), and lessons on proper ritual in prayer. The amount of learning required for a teungku meunasah was minimal, but even this was not always met as the position became hereditary. In such cases a leube with sufficient learning would assist the teungku meunasah in the fulfillment of his duties. A similar degeneration, perhaps an even more marked one, was evident in the case of kalis. Snouck Hurgronje commented: "If such learning is of little value as a qualification for offices such as those of kali and teungku meunasah, that is due partly to the adat which makes these offices hereditary, and partly to the fact that the chiefs do not want as kalis too energetic upholders of the sacred law, and to the reluctance of all true paiiùils to strengthen the chiefs' hands by pronouncing their crooked dealings 46 straight."

Religious education beyond the rudimentary level available at a meunasah was pursued at a dayah (called pesantren elsewhere in Indonesia), a boarding school where young men gathered to study under a renowned scholar. Only after many years of study at a dayah could a person establish himself as an ulama in his own right. Dayahs were set off from villages, but this spatial distance was, as we shall see, the least important factor separating advanced religious study from everyday village life.

The Acehnese word for a student pursuing religious knowledge at a dayah is ureueng meudagang, which originally meant a stranger traveling from place to place. A student did not attend a dayah near his village: he was compelled to go some distance to study, and often his sojourn entailed moving from one dayah to another. There was no set period of study, for the number of years spent in a dayah depended on the student's luftvlft.dMtmiiiÉfcfcHiimV'fc *--"**^-—int. tfjfn^^~M.-fttn

perseverance and the ulama's acknowledgment that the student had completed his studies. In fact, few ureueng meudagang lasted long in a dayah, most returning to their villages after a brief stay. The significance of leaving one's village in pursuit of greater religious knowledge should be considered in terms of cultural continuity and assimilation: students from Aceh Besar sought knowledge in Pidie, while those from Pidie and the East Coast usually went to Aceh Besar. At the same time, attention should be drawn to how fundamentally discontinuous the experience in a dayah was. Siegel notes that the juxtaposition of life in a dayah with that in a village provided a way of transcending identities of kinship and locality.

The meudagang took the students out of one cultural world the village, where men were linked as kinsmen, and left them in another, the school, where men acted as Muslims and not as kinsmen. The experience of two radically different cultural worlds which were not linked by the normal expectations of the life cycle, led the ulama to stress that man's nature could be the basis of unity between men even when sociological distinctions separated them. In the absence of cultural bonds between them the ulama formulated ideas out of their own experience which could tie men together. Islamic ideas provided an idiom by which unity despite social distinction could be expressed.47

Ulamas should not be viewed as standing higher on an order starting from those religious figures with official responsibilities such as teungkus meunasah and kalis; a true ulama would keep himself separate from such religious officials. Nor should ulamas be seen as somehow having been representative of villagers. Although ulamas came from the village once they had undergone the experience of meudagang for years on end, they were no longer of the village. As Siegel points out, the ulamas were, in fact, "expressing beliefs very much in conflict with the practices of village life." We can, however, think of the ulamas as a type of freefloating intelligentsia, and, as such, striking a critical posture in relation to the social, political and cultural norms of nineteenth century Aceh.

If the ulamas did represent such a critical posture, what can be said of their relationship to the uleebalangs? Here, as elsewhere, Snouck Hurgronje and Siegel provide diverging interpretations. Siegel maintains that if the ulamas "were rivals of the uleebelang. they were peculiar rivals: they wanted neither the office of the uleebelang nor their reve49 nues." For Snouck Hurgronje the rivalry between ulamas and uleebalangs was not in the least peculiar but rather was representative of the inherent conflict between Islamic law (hukom Islam, or more properly, sjari'at) and indigenous customary law (adat). Snouck Hurgronje viewed the conflict in this manner: "the adat assumes the part of the mistress. and the hukom that of her obedient slave. The hukom, however, revenges herself for her subordination whenever she sees the chance; her representatives are always on the lookout for an opportunity to escape from this servile position."S0 The possibility that the representatives of hukom or sjari'at. which is to say the ulamas, might "escape from this servile position" was a great concern to the uleebalangs. according to Snouck Hurgronje:

It is thus not to be wondered at that the chiefs view the advancement of the "upholders of religion" with inward vexation and alarm. With alarm, because they have no means of offering a fair and open resistance to these rivals of theirs. .. . How then could an uleebalang even if he wishes to do so for self-preservation's sake, enter the lists as a hostile champion against an expounder of the law, whose professed aim is to enhance the respect*paid to religion? .. . r r

To rivals such as Teuku Uma, an uleebalang, if he be not too weak, can say "keep out of my territory, you have no right to intrude here." The pandit [i.e. ulama] has no territory, or r-ather his sphere is universal, and he that would hinder his work/would be deemed the enemy of God.SI /

This posited conflict between two opposing value systems, viz., Islamic law and adat, was a cornerstone of Dutch sociological analysis of societies throughout the Indonesian Archipelago. Such an analytic approach was appealing not only because of its simplicity but also because it served Dutch colonial interests.52 That Snouck Hurgronje should discover the workings of the hukom-adat conflict to be so palpable in Aceh meant that Aceh was the crucial case which proved the generality of the conflict.

Acehnese themselves view this issue in a totally different way. In my interviews with Acehnese leaders, when I raised the question of the relationship between hukom and adat in Aceh, the response was that there is not, nor has there been, any conflict between hukom and adat.53 This statement was invariably buttressed by an Acehnese saying: Hukom ngon adat nan j eut ere, lagee dat ngon sifeuet, which means "hukom and adat cannot be separated, no more than can the essence and characteristics (of God) be separated." I believe the response would have been the same in the nineteenth century, the only difference being that the question would have been seen then as an even more obvious non sequitur than is the case at present. An outside observer might deem such a response as particularly disingenuous and set about the business of discovering the "real" bases of conflict within Acehnese society. I believe an observer should not too hastily dismiss the Acehnese perception of the relationship between Islamic law and customary law, for reasons which will be discussed below.

Before analyzing these two contending interpretations of the relationship between hukom and adat, it is desirable to provide a minimal definition of Islamic law as it will be discussed throughout this dissertation. Attention should first be drawn to the expansive nature, at least in theory, of Islamic law.

Islam is a religion of law in the full meaning of the word. Its pronounced political character makes this only natural. The Muslims have always expected that God, through His Messenger, should give them answers to all questions which they felt to be vital, and detailed rules for all their acts. They demanded of the Divine Law not orly principles from which they themselves could derive rules, but detailed regulations for the whole behavior of believers, as servants of Allah, as members of family and society, and as citizens of a theocratic state. As long as Muhammad lived, information could be obtained directly from heaven.54

But the revelations contained in the Koran left unanswered many questions considered important by the faithful. Consequently, there developed a demand for further guidance, which was supplied by taking the Prophet's words (çjawl), actions (fi^), and even silent confirmation, as exemplary guides. What emerged was called the Tradition (Hadith), which in time came to be considered as binding on the faithful as was the Koran. As controversy developed over the application of the principles contained in the Koran and the Tradition, and as the validity of some elements of the latter was continually in dispute, a number of religious scholars attempted to systematize Islamic law. Snouck Hurgronje provided a description of this development: "These stars in the firmament of scholarship became founders of madhhabs, literally 'tendencies' and technically 'rites' or schools of interpreting the law. Their doctrines were the result of their ijtihad, their independent investigation of the sources; the relationship of those scholars who did not claim this independence to these imams of the maddhabs is called tagUd, 'investing with authority.'"55 with the establishment of the madhhabs in the eighth and ninth centuries, the age of ütihad, or independent reasoning, came to an end. What remained to succeeding generations of ulamas was deduction by analogy within the constraints of the madhhabs. An example of such deduction by analogy was that since the religious tax (zakat) was applicable to barley and dates in Arabia, it was likewise applicable to wheat and rice in other countries as these also constituted staple food crops.56 The constraints on deduction Ibid., p . 52.

by analogy are evident in a debate currently underway in Aceh: reformist ulamas, who maintain that the doors of ijtihad are once again open, insist that the religious tax is applicable to all crops, whereas conservative ulamas, who acknowledge the Sjafie maddhab, contend that since the tax was only applicable to barley and dates in Arabia, it must be limited to staple foodcrops everywhere.

Substantively, the heart of Islamic law is the ibadat, which means, generally, the duties of the faithful towards God, and, specifically, the "five pilUrs of Islam": the profession of faith; the five daily ritual prayers; the observance of the fasting month; the payment of religious tax (zakat); and the pilgrimage to Mecca, if a believer is capable financially and physically. If the ibadat represents the heart of the sjari'at, then family law and inheritance law are seen to have central positions as well if only because, in fact, they have had a greater impact on the daily lives of Muslims than has been the case with other elements of the law. Among other areas covered by the sjari'at are legal procedures, property and contract law, penal law, constitutional law, and detailed regulations on the waging of the holy war (jihad).

Much more needs to be said of the complexity and the scope of the sjari'at, but this would lead us far afield from our immediate concerns. I would, however, like to make two general points on the political implications of Islamic law. First, when we confront through che ages demands for a reformation of society according to the dictates of the sjari'at or, a modern variation on the theme, demands for the implementation of Islamic law, what is being signified is not always clear. This is so for a number of reasons, not the least of which is the great scope of human activities covered by the sjari'at. One tendency is to see this as a demand for an "Islamic state." Another quite different tendency is to view such demands as representing nothing more than the ulamas' desire to see that the ibadat is properly observed. If the latter viewpoint is correct, and clearly is so in many cases, it can nonetheless be misleading to minimize such demands as "nothing more" than the desire to see the ibadat observed. A second point concerns the attention paid to the fact that at no time has a significant portion of the sjari'at in its entirety been observed, save perhaps for the few decades following Muhammad. True and obvious as this may be, the power of the sjari'at is due to the realization that it always has been a 'Vhat if" proposition. As such, Islamic law "has been the measuring rod by which the scholars and the mass of believers have judged all aspects of life, the ideal which no one has dared to replace by any other, and from which the Doctors of the law have derived the uncontested right of fearlessly and openly criticizing abuses, without sparing even those in the highest places."

To return to the specifics of the Acehnese case, we need to ask why the Dutch sociological tradition and the Acehnese tradition present such divergent interpretations of the position of Islamic law in Acehnese society. One speaks in terms of unremitting conflict and the other of absolute harmony. The manner in which Snouck Hurgronje discussed the relationship between Islamic law and adat assumes a congruence between symbolic systems and institutions. Only by assuming this congruence is it meaningful to speak of "adat potentates," as Snouck Hurgronje does. On the other hand, the manner in which Acehnese speak of the relationship between Islamic law and adat assumes a lack of congruence between symbolic systems and institutions. Only by assuming this lack of congruence is it meaningful to speak of the absence of conflict between Islam and adat, as the Acehnese do. At most, I believe, only partial congruence existed between symbolic systems and institutions in precolonial Aceh. If we look at what nineteenth century ulamas strove to accomplish, the absence of concern with institutions, aside from a commitment to the dayah, is striking. They did not attack the institutional arrangement of Acehnese society as such, and with one notable exception, they did not talk of establishing new institutions in accord with Islamic law.58 It was only under the pressures of Dutch colonialism that a form of congruence between symbol systems and institutions was imposed on Acehnes« society. In part in response to the Dutch-imposed congruence, and in part in response to changes within Islam itself, some twentieth century ulamas would elaborate their own vision of what form such a congruence should take.

Taufik Abdullah's discussion of the relationship between Islam and ada t within Minangkabau society, which is usually seen as particularly problematical due to the matrilineal nature of that society, provides an

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insight that I believe is also applicable to Acehnese society.

This kind of conflict . . . should not be seen as the tension between two separate entities, but as one within the whole system itself. The so-called adat-Islam dilemma is only one aspect of internal conflict in the whole social pattern. The contradiction, then, should not be interpreted exclusively as the conflict between the actual and the ideal, but rather as a tension within social realities striving to achieve proximity with the ideal.59

It should thus be in terms of a "tension within social realities striving to achieve proximity with the ideal" that we view the position of ulamas, as representatives of the sjari'at. within Acehnese society. Siegel's analysis of ulama-led "reform" movements of the nineteenth century is cast in these terms. At the heart of these reform movements was an appeal for the proper observance of ibadat. Siegel notes that the ulamas' goals "seem innocuous enough";60 but what the "reform" movements illustrated was that whereas different groups in Acehnese society used the same idiom, the significance of this idiom varied greatly. Siegel provides an apt description of the phenomenon:

The attraction of the reform movements for the villagers was, I • think, due to an almost cosmic misunderstanding. The ulama preached reform in this world as a prelude to the next" They had in mind the abolition of the rituals that expressed particularistic ties m favor of the union of men through the law. Villagers, however, understood them to be offering an alternative to this life in the next world. The reform movements did not mean to them that life in this world should be different but, rather, that through ritual one could attain an alternative to this world in the next.01

But the "cosmic misunderstanding" was not only between ulamas and villagers; rather it characterized Acehnese society as a whole and therein lies the nature of conflict during the nineteenth century. The idealization of nineteenth century Aceh as an Islamic society was commonly expressed but differentially interpreted. In Siegel's words: "the meanings of 'Atjehnese' and 'Islam' were not agreed upon by all groups within Atjeh. Adat as the means of fulfilling Islam meant one thing to the ulama, another to the uleebelang, a third to the sultan, and something else again to villagers."

In summary, the position of Acehnese ulamas, points up two fundamental characteristics of nineteenth century society. The first was the only partial congruence between symbolic expression and institutions. This calls into question the validity of the Dutch sociological tradition which posits an unremitting conflict between Islam and adat, inasmuch as this tradition attempts to identify conflicting values with institutions. The second characteristic was that the idiom of Aceh as an Islamic society was shared by sultans, uleebalangs and ulamas alike. But if the signifier was mutual, the signified clearly was not. Rooted in a common idiom, there were nonetheless very different visions of what "Aceh" meant. An explicit elaboration of these different visions might have been long in coming had it not been for Dutch intervention.

CHAPTER THREE THE COLONIAL PERIOD

Resistance

The first Dutch attack on the Sultan's capital in April 1873 was repulsed by the Acehnese. Several months later a larger Dutch expedition succeeded in capturing the dalam (royal enclosure). This was the beginning of what would be known as the "Aceh War," which lasted, according to conservative estimates, thirty-five years and, according to the Acehnese, seventy years. The Aceh War was the most prolonged and costly colonial conflict waged by the Dutch in the East Indies. For the Acehnese, the war was devastating. After the Dutch offensive of 1879, launched to clear the Aceh River Valley of resistance fighters, it was estimated that only 50,000 Acehnese remained in the valley out of a prewar population of 300,000. Yet six years later the Dutch were forced to retreat to what was called the "concentration line," a triangle of only twenty square miles around Kutaradja.3 The Dutch offensive beginning in the late 1890s, which would finally break organized resistance, resulted in an estimated 20,000 Acehnese dead.4

It is not my intention to describe the events of the Aceh War.5 I do, however, want to examine the role of the Sultan, the uleebalangs and the ulamas in resisting Dutch imperialism, and, in turn, to draw attention to the consequences of the Aceh War for each of these three components of Acehnese society.

The Dutch initially assumed that once the dalam was captured the war was won. Very quickly the invaders were disabused of their optimism, for the taking of the dalam was only the beginning of the war. Although thousands of Acehnese from the north coast and the west coast came to the defense of the sultan's capital at the time of the Dutch attack, continued resistance did not depend on Sultan Mahmud Shah who in any event managed to escape the Dutch but died very soon thereafter. The six-year-old Muhammad Daud was elected sultan under the guardianship of Tuanku Hasj im. The royal court then retreated from Aceh Besar to the village of Keumala in the mountains of Pidie where the Sultanate remained what it had been for some time, the object of great reverence with little actual power over nominal subordinates. By the time Sultan Muhammad Daud surrendered in 1903, the Dutch were in a strong enough position that no serious thought was given at the time to establishing the sultan as a "native ruler." Aceh would henceforth be without a sultan.

With the Dutch invasion, uleebalangs responded in various ways, some emerging as steadfast resistance leaders of the Acehnese forces, sowe others hurriedly going over to the Dutch side, and most for years on end going back and forth between the two sides. During 1874 twenty-six coastal uleebalangs submitted to the Dutch by accepting Dutch sovereignty and the Dutch flag. The incentive for coming to terms with the Dutch was clear enough, for only by "submitting" would the Dutch sea blockade be lifted allowing coastal uleebalangs to resume their pepper and areca nut trade across the Strait of Malacca. Almost all of these coastal uleebalangs continued to make contributions to the Acehnese actively engaged in fighting against the Dutch in Aceh Besar. Motives for supplying material assistance to the "war party" varied: for some uleebalangs feigning submission was the only way to obtain revenues for the resistance to which they were genuinely committed; for others it was more a matter of paying protection money to the resistance forces. But to the degree that the Dutch evinced weakness in their inability to conquer Aceh Besar, the acceptance of Dutch sovereignty on the part of coastal uleebalangs remained purely nominal, which in any event was sufficient to avert the Dutch sea blockade. When the Dutch showed some strength, as in the 1879 offensive in Aceh Besar and in a few coastal regions as well, more uleebalangs were obliged to come to terms: in 1880 ten coastal uleebalangs accepted Dutch sovereignty, as many as the total for the preceding five years.

By the 1880s uleebalang participation in the resistance gave way to ulama leadership: "the war was gradually transformed into a genuinely popular cause under ulama inspiration, rather than a defense of one district after another by the woefully divided traditional chiefs."9 Aside from the issue of the personal piety or venality of any given uleebalang, there were clear limits to the extent to which an uleebalang would commitment himself to the resistance. As Snouck Hurgronje put it: "The great defect in most of the hereditary chiefs consisted and still consists in this, that their religious and political convictions never impel them to action on behalf of Acheh; they wait as long as possible to see whether their own territory will be threatened."10 Once the Dutch gained the upper hand sufficiently to levy fines on uleebalangs for anti-Dutch activities in their territories, self-interest shifted from cooperation with to opposition to the resistance leaders. By 1904 most uleebalangs had been separated from the resistance movement and were being formed into "native" administrators for the Dutch East Indies government. The prolonged war brought to the fore the contradiction between the particularisms and interests of uleebalangs in their territories and the implicit theme found in the sarakata. namely that the dictates of Islam be taken seriously such that all believers could take action jointly as Muslims in defense of Aceh.

Since uleebalangs were for the most part incapable of working together and since the sultan was not in a position to coordinate the resistance, the ulamas emerged to provide the inspiration for prosecuting the perang sabil (holy war) against the infidel invaders. "What the Dutch have had opposed to them in Acheh is not a Keumala party11 (such has never existed) nor disconnected bands of marauders, but a national party, as far as that is possible in Acheh, held together and organized by the ulama."12 Ulamas emerged from their dayahs (religious boarding schools) to head the struggle; the most effective leader was Teungku Chi' Saman di Tiro from the famed dayah in Tiro, Pidie.

The most powerful weapon in the ulama arsenal was an epic poem—the Hikayat Perang Sabil-which recounted the fantastic rewards awaiting the faithful in paradise should they fall in the holy war against the infidels. Two points should be made about this epic poem. First, that the Hikayat Perang Sabil was in the Acehnese language meant that ulamas left behind the languages of the dayah-Arabic and Malay-and the esoterica available to those who had mastered these languages in order to make a popular appeal comprehensible to all.13 Second, that the Hikayat Perang Sabil focused on the splendor of paradise meant that ulamas had to forego, for the time being at least, their campaign to reorient social life towards a community of believers on earth. To the degree that ulamas were successful in mobilizing resistance they were diverted from their reform goals. By relying on the Hikayat Perang Sabil. ulamas in fact deviated from the Islamic tradition which stipulates that a reasonable hope of success be a prerequisite for a holy war. Only when all hope of driving the Dutch from Aceh receded did the Hikayat Perang Sabil come to the 14 fore. Invoking the rewards of paradise, ulamas continued to direct organized guerrilla warfare until about 1910. That it should have been the ulamas who were successful in mobilizing the Acehnese, even though the appeal diverted attention to the afterworld, would serve to deny the Sultanate its position as the ultimate cultural bearer of the meaning of "Aceh."

Although large-scale fighting against the Dutch ceased after 1910, sporadic Acehnese resistance nonetheless continued for years thereafter.15 Of great concern to the colonial government were the apparently random and sudden attacks that claimed the lives of 120 Dutchmen between 1910 and 1937. The attacks, which came to be known as "Atjeh-moorden," differed from the amok syndrome for the perpetrators showed no signs of frenzy or madness during their attacks. Indeed, evidence indicates that these attacks were planned. A Dutch report on several Acehnese who were planning to kill an infidel is instructive. One villager had expressed the desire to kill a Dutchman, whereupon he gave away all of his belongings, held a kanduri (a religious feast) at the grave of a venerated saint, and passed the time by sharpening his rencong (an Acehnese dagger). Concerning another villager who had been heard expressing a desire to kill an infidel, the report concluded: "this man presumably is not insane."17 What compelled these villagers, and many others as well, to consider almost certain death in attempting to kill an infidel were the fabulous rewards of paradise waiting for those martyred in the holy war.

Resistance also continued in the form of small bands living in the jungles for years on end, emerging only rarely to launch sporadic attacks on Dutch troops. Only in 1920 did the last small group of guerrillas operating in Pidie surrender.18 Such groups however continued to operate in the jungles of the west coast, and were instrumental in sparking the uprising at Bakongan in 1925-26 and the uprising at Lhoong in 1933. The small groups remained elusive targets for Dutch troops since local villagers were generally unwilling to provide information on their whereabouts to colonial authorities. Central to each group was a charismatic leader considered to be saleh or holy. One band leader in South Aceh, Teungku Amin, was famed for his reportedly magical powers of invulnerability and invisibility.19

Both forms of resistance—individual attacks and guerrilla bandsreceded in importance during the 1930s. This was in part due to the predominant strength of Dutch forces of course, but more importantly, as shall be seen below, it was due to changing conceptions of Islam within Acehnese society itself.

Dutch Colonial Policy and the Role of the Uleebalangs

It is important to emphasize the brevity of effective Dutch control in Aceh-roughly three decades. At the same time it should be noted that colonial policies worked significant changes in Aceh. As important as these changes may have been on their own, their significance is the more notable sijnply because the three decades of Dutch rule constitute the longest period of relatively peaceful conditions in Aceh over the last century.

Uleebalangs represented the cornerstone of Dutch colonial policy in 20 Aceh. Dutch officials seemingly never tired of pointing up the importance of uleebalangs in achieving their objectives in Aceh. Governor Goedhart's analysis of 1928 is representative.

I have not lost hope that eventually good feelings will exist between us and the Acehnese. Their exclusivity and keen sense ot self-esteem will in time, I anticipate, lead them to prefer close relations with us rather than with other "Indies" peoples. The Acehnese are too intelligent not to understand that even- »ï*j- \ l n Vle W ° f th e numbers . the y "ill be dominated by other indies ethnic groups. Discussions with intelligent Acehnese youths have confirmed my opinion. In order to attain good feelings it is first of all necessary that we remember that our power in Aceh, aside from the force of arms, depends in the main on the uleebalangs. Through them and with them we can win over the people. Without them in the long run we will accomplish nothing in Aceh.^1

That the Dutch sometimes confused uleebalang cooperation with popular compliance is pointed up, unwittingly, by the journalist Langhout: "

22 General Swart loved and still loves the people of Acheen. This became evident to the present author when as requested, General Swart . . . agreed to have a chat with him on Acheen. General Swart had, not without regret, taken cognizance of what had lately been reported in the newspapers regarding the ineradicable hatred which the women in the Kampongs (native villages) were said to keep alive against us. That is not true, he said. There is no question of a hereditary and ineradicable hatred. Who says so, does not know the people. "I would be able to adduce innumerable examples which would prove quite the contrary," he added, and then he related what he, the official whose hair had become grey in his country's service, had experienced of the people. He told me of Teukoe Tjhi Peusangan, of Panglima Polem and his sister, of his brother-in-law Toeankoe Radja Keumala, of Potjoet Meurah and of many other princelings and Acehnese chieftains who saw no harm in the Kafir linfidel] and even felt confidence in him, confiding him their dearest and most secret thoughts 123

If it is clear what the Dutch hoped to accomplish through the use of uleebalangs—pacification, in a word—it remains unclear what, in fact, the Dutch thought of uleebalangs. There was a contradiction in the Dutch perception of uleebalangs; this perception entailed a contradiction in colonial policy as well. On the one hand, uleebalangs were seen as adat (customary law) chieftains. As such, uleebalangs represented the continuity of "real" Acehnese culture in opposition to the aspirations of the ulamas. As Piekaar said, with Dutch colonialism "the traditional superiority of the uleebalang was restored."24 While persisting in their perception of uleebalangs as adat rulers who would maintain tradition, it is also clear that the Dutch felt that something needed to be done with the uleebalangs, that the colonial situation demanded the uleebalangs become something different from what they had been in the past. There were various ideas of why uleebalangs should be changed, ranging from the "Ethical" vision of Snouck Hurgronje who saw the uleebalang class as the most likely candidate for "Westernization" leading to some form of association between the Netherlands East Indies and the home country to the more mundane-minded colonial officials who saw the uleebalang class as the most appropriate source for filling those administrative positions reserved for educated Indonesians. With regard to uleebalangs as "territorial rulers," the Dutch hoped to lay the foundations for a more rationalized administration.

This fundamental contradiction remained until the end of the colonial period. Some Dutch officials were painfully aware of the contradiction. In a report written in 1920, R. A. Kern noted that the inability of uleebalangs to distinguish between their own self-interest and the good of their territories was leading to increasing dissatisfaction among villagers, and yet he argued that it was necessary to allow the territorial rulers as much freedom of action as possible.25 Almost three decades later, Piekaar reflected on efforts to achieve a balance between reforming what he called "the hereditary adat administration based on the Eastern patriarch model," and maintaining the principle of "self-rule." Ir. view of the traumatic events in Aceh following the demise of Dutch colonialism, Piekaar questioned whether the Dutch government had been too cautious in taking measures against uleebalang deviations.

Replacing the sultan as nominal overlord of the uleebalangs was the Governor-General of the Netherlands East Indies, whose rule would prove not to be nominal. Replacing the sultan's sarakata were the Korte Verklaringen--the "short contracts" which acknowledged Dutch sovereignty— and a host of Dutch regulations designed to rationalize and standardize uleebalang governance. Uleebalang duties stipulated by the sarakata had been for the most part implicit and, in any event, largely ignored; uleebalang duties stipulated by the Dutch were explicit and, if often undermined in practice, could never be blatantly ignored. Only under the Dutch did the identification between uleebalangs and governance become complete. The Dutch had recognized uleebalang territories as "self-governing states" where indirect colonial rule was in force. There were slightly over one hundred "self-governing states," ranging in population from a few hundred to over fifty thousand. The district of Aceh Besar and the subdistrict of Singkel were directly ruled territories, where roughly fifty indigenous chieftains—panglimas sagi, uleebalangs, independent imeum mukin and the like—were made government officials. In practice, the distinction between directly ruled and indirectly ruled areas was not all that clear.

The colonial experience transformed uleebalangs in a number of ways, some intended and others not intended. Four changes in particular deserve attention: the strengthening of their position as territorial rulers; the transformation of their economic power; the solidification of their role as administrators of the law; and the increasing acculturation of those receiving a Western education.

With the clear demarcation of the boundaries of uleebalang territories, the chieftains were no longer compelled to fight among themselves over territorial rights. Dutch rule served to consolidate their authority vis-à-vis underlings—uleebalang cut and imeum mukim—who had in the past sometimes succeeded in freeing themselves from higher authority. Having not to worry about either covetous neighbors or conniving subordinates spelled the end of uleebalangs as martial figures; but this was hardly a loss, as it turned out, for Dutch rule provided greater security than the force of arms. Also important in strengthening uleebalang rule was the establishment of primogeniture as an almost inviolable principle. Hereditary succession had for the most part been practiced in Aceh, but the Dutch insistence on primogeniture served to keep the uleebalang class far more restricted than had been the case under the traditional system of succession which in practice sometimes had been fluid and open. Even Dutch attempts purportedly designed to protect villagers from arbitrary rule often in fact provided uleebalangs with powers some had not enjoyed before. The very process of attempting to regulate through rules and procedures uleebalang governance could rebound to the chieftains' favor. For example, compulsory labor, which had been regionally variable and irregular during precolonial times, became regularized under colonial 27 authority. Not unnaturally, uleebalangs came to value this unprecedented

t security such that any attempt to change "native" governance was stoutly resisted. A move for the restoration of the sultan attracted some attention in the late 1930s, and the colonial government was not necessarily opposed to the idea, but this was blocked by a united uleebalang opposi28 t ion.

The economic position of the uleebalang class was transformed by colonial policies. The Dutch created a dualistic economy in Aceh by concentrating capital intensive estates oriented towards international commodity markets in those areas which had been pacified early in the war and, therefore, were not ethnically Acehnese. European owned rubber and oil-palm estates were established in the contiguous regions of Tamiang, a Malay area, and Langsa, a mixed area ethnically, on the east coast. The two areas constituted an extension of the estate economy of East Sumatra. That coincidentally sizable oil fields were discovered and exploited in East Aceh served to reinforce the enclave character of the region. On the west coast, rubber and oil-palm estates were established in the Singkel region, an ethnically mixed border area, and in the Meulaboh region, an Acehnese area and thus exceptional. By 1938 there were 105 European estates in Aceh with a total planted area of 47,730 hectares which accounted for 9.2 percent of the total amount of land in Sumatra cultivated by European enterprises. Of the total European estate

der Buitengewesten van het Departement van Binnenlandsch Bestuur, Zelfbestuursverordeningen Atj eh en Onderhoorigheden, Mededeelingen Serie A, No. 9 (Weltevreden: Landsdrukkerij, 1930), pp. 86-97.

Tlailrapport 742x/39; and Mailrapport 959x/39.

29 C. van de Koppel, "Eenige Statistische Gegevens over de Landbow in Nederlandsche-Indie," in De Landbouw in den Indischen Archipel, ed. C. J. J. van Hall and C. van de Koppel ('s-Gravenhage: W. van Hoeve, 1946), Vol. 1, p. 393. East Sumatra accounted for 72.7 percent of the Sumatran total.

planted area throughout the Netherlands East Indies in 1938, Aceh accounted for 5.3 percent of planted area in rubber and 11.1 percent of planted area in oil-palm.30 Another enclave was found in central Aceh, the homeland of the Gayo people, where the government established a 70,000 hectares pine-forest estate for the production of resin and turpentine. In large measure, investment for infrastructure was geared to support the estate economy. As part of the development of European plantations, Javanese contract laborers were brought to Aceh: in 1930 there were 14,594 Javanese laborers in East Aceh, 4,329 in West Aceh and 2,800 in Central Aceh.31

Due to the concentration of the estate economy in the border regions, the impingement of European estates on the Acehnese populace was limited. In any event, the Acehnese were disinclined to do plantation work. Yet. what the Dutch had in mind for village economic life was not divorced from the estate economy; it was hoped that the peasantry would produce a food surplus such that Aceh would become a granary for the sizable estates of East Sumatra. The Acehnese were sawah (wet-rice field) farmers, but cultivation was not intensive. Thus, the Dutch government made efforts to increase productivity through intensified cultivation, improved seed selection, irrigation works and farmer extension services. The possibilities of producing a rice surplus were increased after the Depression drew a greater number of Acehnese into rice farming. In 1939 • Aceh produced a rice surplus of 5,600 tons which increased to 36,000 tons in 1941. By the late 1930s Aceh was also supplying East Sumatra with 32 large quantities of slaughtered cattle, buffaloes and chickens.

Operating in between the European estate economy and the Acehnese agrarian economy were small holders engaged in export commodities cultivation. The viability of small holder cultivation was precarious throughout the colonial period, and, of course, the Depression greatly exacerbated the risks involved. Pepper cultivation, so closely identified with Aceh during the precolonial era, was a dying enterprise by the late 1930s due to declining prices. The impact of declining pepper production was most apparent in Pidie, where men settled again once there was no longer work in the pepper fields in other parts of Aceh. The labor of pepper planters was not sufficiently absorbed by the cultivation of two other export crops found on the north coast, areca nuts and copra. Areca nut production accounted for the greatest portion of small holder export earnings, but the level of production was not increased significantly as market prices 34 fell. Copra production, found throughout Aceh, also suffered from market fluctuations. Small holder rubber, which was concentrated in East Aceh and in the area around Meulaboh, suffered badly from the

Depression and then made something of a comeback within the constraints of government-imposed production limitations.36 Although always important locally as a cash earner in relation to other small holder crops, small holder rubber ih Aceh was never significant if seen in relation to other regions of the "Outer Islands." Small holder rubber trees in Aceh accounted for only one percent of the Outer Islands total.37

Small holder commercialization certainly occurred in Aceh during the colonial period, but in comparison with many other Outer Islands regions the process was incomplete. The economic dynamism Geertz saw occurring in "Outer Indonesia" as a result of commercial farming was not pervasive in Aceh. This was clearly not so because of a disinclination of Acehnese men, particularly those from Pidie, who in the past had gone great distances to participate in pepper cultivation. But post-Depression market instability prevented the complete transformation from subsistent peasant to export farmer. By the end of the colonial period the Acehnese peasantry was producing the rice surplus desired by the colonial government.

The structure of the colonial economy deprived the uleebalangs of their patrimonial grip on the flow of goods in and out of their

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territories. They had to forego their pivotal trading role in favor of administrative security. The government provided them with salaries, the amount received varying roughly in accordance with the population of the territory. Tolls collected on the flow of goods through an uleebalang's territory were abolished. Levies on pepper, areca nut, forest products and the like were paid into regional treasuries instead of to the uleebalang. Similarly, revenues derived from judicial fines went into the regional treasuries, although regulations did provide for fees to be paid to uleebalangs, who presided over inheritance and other civil cases.

The transformation of uleebalang authority meant that the territorial rulers could no longer become wealthy from control over the movement and marketing of cash crops. In the absence of uleebalang monopoly control over trade, there emerged a group of traders who were involved in the marketing of small-holder cash crops. As it turned out, however, the Depression rendered the trade of these crops a less than lucrative enterprise. As a result of these developments, uleebalangs were compelled to look within their territories for sources of income to supplement their administrative salaries. The primary source was ownership and control of ricelands, which had become significantly more valuable as the colonial government actively encouraged rice production in order to achieve a surplus for export to East Sumatra and as falling commodity prices during the Depression forced people back to foodcrop production. The result was an increasing concentration of rice land on the part of uleebalangs, particularly in Pidie, a development that further served to exacerbate relations between the territorial rulers and the peasantry.40 Some uleebalangs also derived income from those lands supposedly to be used for religious purposes (wakaf) and from religious taxes (zakat) over which they had official control. Teuku Panglima Muda Dalam Bambi in Pidie, for example, drove around in what was mockingly called auto zakat-a car purchased with religious tax money.

In precolonial times, administration of the law had provided an ideological justification for the position of uleebalangs within Acehnese society. That in fact not all uleebalangs took seriously the administration of the law did not deter the Dutch from attempting to bring normative expectations and role behavior into congruence. In time the Dutch fashioned a uniform system of justice based on the uleebalangs.42 But the system never quite functioned in the way envisioned by the Dutch: limits could be placed on the allowable percentage taken by an uleebalang in hearing disputes over inheritance or landownership but it proved impossible to control the possibilities for kickbacks and outright expropriations some uleebalangs saw in these disputes. Also, upon the shoulders of uleebalangs fell those many small "law and order" cases which were of such concern to the colonial government. For example, when a religious teacher in Labuhan Haji, South Aceh, told a gathering that taxes should be lowered, he was fined by the local uleebalang for 'Violating adat" by giving religious instruction without a permit.43 The significance of uleebalangs as administrators of the law under colonial authority was neither the occurrence of blatant deviations, whether viewed from Dutch or Acehnese norms of justice, nor the palpable "law and order" purposes to be served by "native" justice, although both of these factors were important in arousing popular resentment against uleebalangs. Much more significant, I believe, was that the colonial system of "native" justice rested upon the forced congruence between what the Dutch took to be a separate symbolic entity of adat and the institutionalization of uleebalangs as "adat potentates." Such a forced congruence brought into bold relief a conflict Acehnese would have previously denied as meaningful, namely a conflict between adat and Islamic law.

To whatever ends use of uleebalangs was directed, central to the effort was Dutch-language schooling in the "European" stream of the colonial educational system. Only in exceptional circumstances did children from ordinary Acehnese families gain admission into "European" stream schools. Uleebalang education was a high priority for the colonial administration. Governor A. H. Philips said in 1932: "The Government has always proposed that uleebalang children, especially those who will later replace their fathers [as territorial rulers]-usually the eldest sonshould obtain an appropriate education."44 Also, the Dutch needed to provide an appropriate education for a new class of lower-level administrators who were for the most part to be drawn from uleebalang families. At the elementary level of the "European» stream, education was provided at the Hollandsch Inlandsche Scholen (H.I.S.: Dutch Native Elementary Schools), of which Aceh had eight in 1939. The H.I.S. provided seven years of instruction in Malay and Dutch. Following H.I.S., a few students attended a junior high school (M.U.L.O.) in Kutaradja, the capital of Aceh. Further education was pursued by only a handful of uleebalang offspring in Medan or Bukittinggi on Sumatra or, in some cases, on Java.

A result of the colonial education policy was the emergence of a new, foreign-imposed stratification system frozen according to ascriptive criteria. As important as the social differentiation growing out of Western education was, the long-term consequence was the creation of a cultural divide. Such cultural separateness was evidenced by those few Western educated uleebalangs—such as Teuku Nya' Arif, Teuku Muhamad Hasan 45 Glumpang Payong and Teuku Muhamad Hasan —who came to be known as "nationalist" uleebalangs. What set these uleebalangs apart as "nationalists" was not simply their disenchantment with Dutch colonialism but also a colonial education that provided them with the esoteric language necessary for communicating with the emerging secular elite in other regions of the Netherlands East Indies. Whether uleebalangs were collaborators, in

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the case of the many, or nationalists, in the case of a few, with access to the colonial language they became increasingly isolated within their own society.

By the late 1930s, criticism of uleebalang rule had surfaced in periodicals published in Medan. Complaints were made about the uleebalang "noose around the people's neck": uleebalangs reportedly used compulsory labor for their own personal interest, expropriated rice land and live47 stock in inheritance cases, and forced farmers to sell rice at lower than market prices to uleebalang-owned rice mills. Critics argued that such abuses could be continued precisely because of uleebalang judicial powers. One writer bemoaned the fact that once a villager had been hit by the adat "torpedo"—in other words, subject to an uleebalang's judicial decision—appeals to Dutch officials were of no avail.

The question naturally arises as to what was "wrong" with uleebalangs such that during the process of decolonization the popular reaction against them would be so intense. That uleebalangs were the willing tools of an infidel colonial power does not in itself explain much, for comparable groups were to be found throughout Indonesia; at best, this is a necessary but not sufficient condition. The nature of the postcolonial reaction resulted from the peculiar, contradictory character of the uleebalangs. On the one hand, the uleebalangs, in their "traditional superiority" as the Dutch would have it, represented the particularism of their many respective territories. This particularism constituted an obstacle to the transformation of Aceh along the lines envisioned by reformist ulamas, for whom, as shall be shown, unity was a rallying theme. On the other hand, certain segments of the uleebalang class, those with a Dutch education, were becoming acculturated, "Dutchified" as it were. Both manifestations of uleebalangs came to be seen as contrary to the ulama vision of a revived and unified Islamic community.

Islamic Reformism and Acehnese Revivalism

Acehnese Islam changed during the colonial period. What occurred was in large measure a matter of self-conscious and willed change. As such, those ulamas who emerged as leaders of change in the 1930s can be identified as local proponents of the transformation of Islam throughout the world in the twentieth century. Western students of Islam have employed various terms to describe this transformation—fundamentalism, modernism, neo-orthodoxy, and reformism are the common ones—and each conveys a somewhat different interpretation. "Fundamentalism" is perhaps the more pejorative term, implying as it does the conservatism, stnngest austerity and militancy associated with the Wahhabi movement in Saudi Arabia. "Modernism," conversely, is often used approvingly as a way of acknowledging the professed desire to reinterpret Islam in order to bring it into harmony with contemporary conditions. "Neo-orthodoxy" is a neutral term but at the same time is not insightful since various Islamic groups all claim to be orthodox. "Reformism" is the term I shall use to denote what Geertz aptly calls the "tense intermixture of radical fundamentalism and determined modernism" characteristic of the transformation of twentieth-century Islam.50

Yet what occurred in Aceh was in a sense at the same time something less and something more than the term "reformism" connotes. It was something less in the sense that reform movements were not new: during the nineteenth century periodic reform movements aimed at reviving proper observation of religious duties swept Aceh. It was also something more, for what was to be "reformed" was not so much the doctrinal foundations of the faith as the manner in which people perceived themselves as Acehnese Muslims.

Dutch policy towards Islam was one of benign neglect. Snouck Hurgronje's guidelines for handling the "Islamic problem" were for the most part followed: first, separata the ulamas from politics; and, second, to the degree this separation was effected, Islam as a religion would be tolerated. It was hoped that eventually Islam would become a personalized faith devoid of any disturbing social and political implications.

In the short run, however, the Dutch authorities knew that they would have to live with the mistrust of the ulamas. For the time being, the Dutch were pleased that ulamas, following their devastating defeat in the Aceh War, were given to "self reflection."53

When in the late 1920s self-reflection gave way to renewed activism, reformist ulamas confronted little opposition. No secular, partly Westernized group of nationalists existed in Aceh. There were a few notable leaders—such as Teuku Nya' Arif and Teuku Muhamad Hasan Glumpang Payong— who maintained supraregional links with secular ••nationalist" leaders in Java. But such leaders never came to form a new stratum in Acehnese society, for their numbers were far too few and their socially homogeneous origin—almost all were uleebalangs—limited their appeal. Accordingly, nationalistic parties found in Java and other regions of the Dutch East Indies—such as Partai Nasionalis Indonesia or Parindra—won few adherents among the Acehnese. The nationalistic Taman Siswa school movement established schools only in a few towns in Aceh. Even the impact of Sarekat Islam in the early 1920s had been limited.54

That the reformist social-educational Muhammadiyah did not establish roots within Acehnese society has been taken as an indication of the pecular insularity of the Acehnese and of the inherent antirefonnist character of Acehnese Islam. It is doubtless true, as we shall see, that a reformist organization needed to bear the clear imprint of Aceh to attract

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followers. But it also seems true that Muhammadiyah leaders in Aceh were content to remain an urban-based, largely non-Acehnese, organization. A Dutch government report noted that the Muhammadiyah branch in Kutaraja was making no efforts to carry out "propaganda" in the villages.55 Acehnese participation in the leadership of Muhammadiyah was provided by two Western-educated uleebalangs—Teuku Muhamad Hasan Glumpang Payong and Teuku Cut Hasan Meura'sa--which may have worked to limit Muhammadiyah's popular appeal.

It would be in Persatuan Ulama2 Seluruh Aceh (PUSA: All-Aceh Ulama Association), founded in 1939, that reformist Islam found an organizational form. PUSA represented the culmination of a decade of endeavor to reinvigorate religious education. Traditional dayah education57 never recovered completely from the Aceh War: many of the leading ulamas and their students were killed in action against the Dutch. The brief Pax Neerlandica did provide the conditions for a rebuilding of the dayah system of education but did not provide much of an incentive for doing so. The failure of the dayah system to sustain a successful resistance left its surviving leaders in isolation.

Bïginning in the late 1920s some younger ulamas established religious elementary schools, called madrasahs, which differed from dayahs. Initially not much was made of the differences between a madrasah and a day_ah, for the ulama founders of madrasahs were products of the traditional form of education and not a few still taught at dayahs. In part, madrasahs, modeled on the West Sumatra religious schools, can be seen as a fusion of the content of religious education provided by dayahs and the methods used in government primary schools, such as grades (the number of grades varied from four to seven in madrasahs), comprehensible textbooks, blackboards, and desks and chairs. The result, nowever, was in fact a reorientation of religious education in that the madrasahs attempted to render comprehensible what had always been held esoteric in the dayahs. In time, madrasahs expanded the curricultan beyond religious subjects to include more "secular" subjects: the initial concession in this direction was the inclusion of Middle Eastern geography and Islamic history (tarich). A further increase in the number of secular subjects was justified practically as a way of providing religiously educated youths with the skills and knowledge necessary for earning a living in a changed world. Moreover, the general education component of the madrasah was intended to remedy what the reformist believed to be the deficiencies of the education system the Dutch deemed appropriate for the Acehnese peasantry. Volksscholen, or village schools, had been established to provide three years of instruction in the three R's. "For the average villager," Jongejans wrote, "who spends his life as a farmer, a fisherman or a shopkeeper, more is not necessary. It pulls him out of the sphere of his narrow village existence, capriciously brings him into contact with things beyond his horizon, and leads him unwittingly to rely on a number of Western institutions and decrees." 9 Many parents were reluctant to send their children to village schools which came to be known as sikula kaP"g (Acehnese, meaning "the infidel's school"). Nonetheless, an increasing number of Acehnese children attended the village schools established by the colonial government: by 1920 the percentage of school-aged children attending village schools was 12.3 percent for Aceh, compared with 4.3 percent for all of the Netherlands East Indies.60

The proximate impetus for the establishment of madrasahs came from conditions within Aceh, but the Acehnese leaders of the madrasah movement were following the lead of Islamic education reformists in other regions of the Netherlands East Indies. Most particularly, the example of Islamic leaders in West Sumatra challenged the Acehnese to modernize religious education. Responding to the challenge was a group of young dayaheducated ulamas—among the more prominent were Teungku M. Daud Beureueh61 who established the Madrasah Sa'adah Abidiyah in Pidie, Teungku Abdul Wahab Seulimeum who established the Perguruan Islam in Aceh Besar, and

Teungku Abdurrahman Meunasah Meucap63 who established the Madrasah alMuslim in North Aceh. Crucial to the survival of these fledgling madrasahs was the support, or at least the absence of opposition, of uleebalangs and older ulamas. Among uleebalangs. Teuku Chi' Peusangan in North Aceh and Teuku Panglima Polem Muhamad Daud in Aceh Besar were particularly supportive of the new schools.64 Uleebalang patronage was withdrawn once it became apparent that the goals of the madrasah movement went beyond modernization of religious education. A number of, but not all, older or more conservative ulamas gave their assent to the new schools, although some who initially went along, such as Teungku Hasan Krueng Kale, would later split with the madrasah group. By 1936 there were more than one hundred madrasahs throughout Aceh; most were in Aceh Besar, Pidie and North Aceh. Staffing these madrasahs as teachers were Acehnese young

Teungku Abdurrahman Meunasah Meucap, born in 1900 in a village near Matang Glumpang Dua, North Aceh, first studied the Koran with his ulama father. At the age of twelve years, he left home for sixteen years of study at various dayahs in North Aceh, Pidie and East Sumatra. On his return to Matang Glumpang Dua, he founded the Madrasah Al-Muslim. See Ismuha, "Teungku Abd. Rahmad Meunasah Meutjap," Sinar Darussalam, 33 (April 1971), pp. 42-45.

64 On the Panglima Polem's support for religious schools, see A. Hasjay Pendidikan Islam Di Aceh Dalam Perjalanan Sejarah," Sinar Darussalam, 63 (August/September 1975), p. 33.

men who had attended middle-level religious schools and teacher training schools in West Sumatra, an experience that strengthened their reformist and anticolonial sentiments.

The efforts of reformist ulamas in the 1930s were not limited to religious education. Attempting to mobilize support for their vision of an Islamic society, reformist ulamas held large public meetings—called tabligh—throughout Aceh. Such public meetings represented a change in the role of ulamas, who were emerging from the separate esoteric world of the dayah. Traditionally, students flocked to an ulama rather than the religious scholar leaving his dayah in search of an audience; at most, a traditional ulama would consent to read and expound upon Koranic texts at a local gathering. In contrast, the madrasah leaders traveled widely to proclaim the themes of Islamic reformism. The meetings were almost always held in villages rather than in towns. Thousands of villagers flocked to the meetings to hear reformist ulamas, among whom Teungku M. Daud Beureueh emerged as the most popular speaker.67 Public speaking skills accounted for the fame of the new religious leaders. Unlike traditional religious leaders whose fame rested on mastery of esoteric knowledge, the new ulamas set out to relay the truth to a wider public. The speeches given at one hel d i« Aceh Besar in 1936 are instructive in that not only issues tabligh of madrasah education but also those of religious practices and reformism in general were raised. Teungku Abdullah Ujong Rimba argued that not only was it permissible to include secular subjects in the madrasah curriculum, it was the clear responsibility of all Muslims to study such subjects. Teungku Hasballah Indrapuri refuted the argument made by conservative ulamas that it was in conflict with religious laws for male instructors to teach girls; he said it was even permissible for female instructors to teach boys. Teungku Abdullah Lam U defended the Egyptian reformist Syech Muhamad Abduh against conservative attacks. Finally, Teungku Haji Paru denounced those traditional Acehnese practices designed to provide intercession with God for the dead as being in conflict with religious law.66

The appeal of the reformist ulamas of the 1930s was based on an explicit linking of reformist goals with the historical renovation of the community. What this phenomenon should be called is somewhat problematical. Anthony Smith, for one, uses the term "revivalism" to provide an insight into the phenomenon:

["Revivalists"] hold that communities as a whole rediscover God after a period of decline in faith, and they search for the constant "essence" of religion in an idealized pristine age of religious faith which will serve them as a model for the task of future collective regeneration. (Other terms—"regenerationist," "renovationist," etc.—would serve the purpose equally well, were these neologisms not so barbarous.) The nub, however, lies in the interest of this type of heretical reformist : his purpose is to conserve and salvage as much as possible from the communal tradition in order to regenerate his people spiritually. He believes that a moral revolution must precede a social and political one. He stands in the ancient Prophetic tradition, except that he is determined to come to terms with external 69 political and social realities as he sees them. . . ,

The term "revivalism" may be misleading since anthropologists have preempted its use to describe a movement or an ideology which aims to restore a golden age believed to have existed in a community's past.70 But Anthony Smith's use of the terms does not emphasize restoration. Acehnese ulamas spoke of a "golden age" which was identified with the Acehnese Sultanate at the height of its power; but their purpose was not to restore an idealized version of this "golden age." Rather, in order to persuade the faithful of the necessity, or even of the possibility, of religious regeneration, ulamas were compelled to concretize or historicize the imagery: the attainment of a glorious future, where all Muslims would be united through religious law, was presented as a contrast between the "shameful" present decline and a "golden" past. Another way of putting this is that the ulamas were concerned with the problem of rehabilitating history, a concern rendered urgent by the devastating loss of Acehnese independence. In this regard, Acehnese ulamas were not peculiar; the problem of rehabilitating history is central to reformist Islam. Muslims are convinced, in the words of Wilfred Cantwell Smith, "that the course of history and the social shape that it may assume are profoundly relevant to the quality of personal life within it; that there is inherent in the structure of this world and its development a proper course, a right social shape; that the meaning of history lies in the degree to which these become actualized; and finally that they who understand the essential laws for these, and accept the responsibility involved, are entrusted with the task of executing that actualization, of guiding history to its inevitable and resplendent fulfillment."71

Illustrative of this concern to revive the community and rehabilitate history were the writings of young Acehnese religious activists. The central theme was the decline of Aceh.

After experiencing a time of glory, a time of unity, after taking pride in her ulamas and men of letters, after gaining several high-sounding titles, there came a downward turn [for Aceh] . . . its star became blurred, the rope of unity grew slack, conflicts emerged. As time progressed Aceh became hazy, in time it receded from sight altogether; Acehnese society was in darkness. Conflicts raged. The inhabitants of one region fought those of another region. . . .

With the loss of unity, so ended the common good, so ended the development of religion.72

Much that was clearly identified with the period of decline was suspect

and brought into question. For example, one writer argued that Acehnese

girls should go to school as well. In the past girls received only a

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little training in chanting the Koran and were, after ten years of age, confined to the house. But since those practices were identified with the period of decline, this was sufficient reason, to the writer's mind, to 73 justify a change.

The proposed remedies for the decline of Aceh were unity (persatuan) and consciousness (kesadaran or keinsafan). And it was in terms of unity and consciousness that reformist ulamas attacked those Acehnese religious practices—and the practitioners, conservative ulamas—which they saw to be in conflict with a purified Islam. Reformist ulamas initially directed their fire against ritual rather than doctrine. One writer noted that the issue of when the fasting month began and ended, which gave rise to incessant disagreements among ulamas, had nothing to do with doctrine but was simply a matter that "the inhabitants of each region took pride in 'having their own ulama!'" As long as an ulama in one village determined that the fasting month began one day and an ulama in another village determined the next day, it would be impossible to attain unity. But the conservative ulamas, the writer charged, did not want unity because this would undercut their own positions. Another writer, who saw Aceh's decline as resulting from the lack of consciousness, argued that it was precisely the Acehnese variant of saint veneration—the making of vows at the tombs of famed ulamas—which prevents the true consciousness necessary for religious renewal. Also attacked as contrary to consciousness were various practices revolving around death-attempts at intercession with God on behalf of the departed and feasts (kenduri) held to commemorate the A J 76 departed. Mystical orders were seen to endanger both consciousness— because they were other-worldly-and unity-because they demanded intense loyalty to a leader considered to be saleh, i.e., ulamas with great spiritual, and sometimes supernatural, powers.77 In time, uleebalangs came under attack from young Islamic leaders for being opposed to unity and consciousness. Osman Raliby wrote: "The nobility who have been eager to advance themselves at the expense of the people no longer receive the attention [i.e., deference] they once did, and clearly they will continue to be isolated from the people if they persist in refusing to join the people in becoming conscious, aware and progressive. Nowadays the Acehnese people emphasize democracy, and they will acknowledge only those

nobles who are enlightened and community-oriented."78

The linking of reformist goals and revival of community provided new categories of meaning through which Acehnese perceived themselves and their contemporary situation. The result was, in short, a heightened consciousness of their identity as Acehnese Muslims which transcended kinship, village and territorial identities. But in the process of linking religious reform with community revival the goals of reform tended to be transformed. As Anthony Smith says: "The community is no longer valued simply as the elected bearer of the divine word or wisdom. It is prized for itself, and its discovery of the precious word of God, its production of great prophets and reformers in the past, is construed as but another, and signal, proof of its intrinsic worth."79 And yet Islamic reform leaders in Açeh were not oblivious to developments in other regions of the Dutch East Indies. Indeed, Acehnese activists modeled their movement on Islamic reformism in other regions. For some, the contrast between Aceh's past grandeur and contemporary decline was all the more striking because Aceh lagged behind other areas of Indonesia in responding to the reformist challenge.80 Nor did the idea of Acehnese revival preclude, as such, notions of an overarching Indonesian unity. This was made clear by A. Hasjmy in an article on medium of instruction in the madrasahs. After maintaining that the use of Acehnese in village schools had been a Dutch attempt to isolate the Acehnese, he said:

. . . when our children had forgotten their national language (Indonesian) which has become the language of unity . . . when our children had been isolated from the language of unity, the madrasahs appeared to restore Indonesian, requiring them f i e our children] to use it again.81 '

In April 1940 a decade of endeavors was celebrated by the first congress of Persatuan Ulama-Ulama Seluruh Aceh (PUSA). PUSA had been founded slightly less than a year before with the ostensible purpose of designing a standard curriculum for madrasahs throughout Aceh82 and of establishing a teaching training school to meet the staffing requirements of the madrasahs. Thousands attended the PUSA congress: the organization had opened membership to all Acehnese. By this time, PUSA branches had sprung up throughout North Aceh, Pidie and Aceh Besar.84 Publications before the congress hailed PUSA as the organization which would give substance to the appellation of Aceh as Serambi Makah ("Gate of Mecca") just as Syech Abdu' Rauf had done almost three centuries before.8S PUSA invoked God's will and guidance so that its work would succeed in reestablishing Aceh's grandeur and so that Aceh would euni a place in the "struggle along with our

Indonesian brothers." At the congress the faithful gathered, in the words of a young PUSA leader, "filled with the spirit of consciousness, revival and progress."

Two aspects of the PUSA congress deserve attention. First the congress confirmed the leadership of Teungku M. Daud Beureueh.88 Already famous as a pioneer in the madrasah movement and as an orator giving expression to the Islamic cause, he now had an organizational format in PUSA. A young PUSA journalist, A. G. Mutyara, used dark and light imagery to recount the emergence of Teungku M. Daud Beureueh: "In the middle of the dark night there suddenly appeared a small star; at first its radiance was small, but gradually it became clearer. This small star later became a moon and later still a sun capable of giving a sparkling radiance to the world. .. . A star, then a moon and finally a sun—this is Daud Beureueh, the father of the Acehnese who is glorified by the people."89

The second important aspect of the congress was the formation of a youth division, called Pemuda PUSA, under the leadership of Teungku Amir Husin al Mujahid from Idi, East Aceh. With a mass following and a charismatic leader, PUSA was now augmented with a cadre force in the pemudas (youths). Members of Pemuda PUSA were for the most part those who had attended madrasahs; they were, under ulama guidance, to become the driving force of the perjuangan (struggle) during the Japanese Occupation, the Revolution and the Darul Islam rebellion. Abdullah Arif accounted for the importance of Pemuda PUSA in these terms: "If PUSA can be seen as the locomotive of the struggle and movement in Aceh, then Pemuda PUSA can be seen as the wheels of the struggle."90

Although the young activists of PUSA enthusiastically accepted the leadership of Teungku M. Daud Beureueh who believed that a religious revival must precede a social and political revolution, they increasingly focused on social and political issues much to the concern of uleebalangs and Dutch colonial officials. Uleebalangs were seen to be an obstacle to unity, and as long as the Dutch remained it was impossible to conceive of the redemption of history. Piekaar noted that the "more advanced and militant elenents, reacting against the pressure of adat authorities, sought within this movement a refuge, and a means of expressing their own ideas. As a result the youth movement quite quickly began to take on a more militant and subversive character."

During the 1930s reformist ulamas endeavored to provide new categories of meaning for the Acehnese. Many years later one of the most prominent young ulamas of that generation reflected on the change:

Before the 1930s we thought of religion only in terms of praying (sembahyang) and the pilgrimage to Mecca. We did not think of religion as a "way of life." We were stupid but happy. We did not think of independence from the Dutch. And then we started the • madrasahs—only then did consciousness (keinsafan) begin.92

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But there was no place in the colonial system for this new consciousness.

system. A Pemuda PUSA leader of that time who later became one of Aceh's

Nor could the graduates of madrasahs make any claim to participate in the

most influential politicians recounted:

Because my father was neither an uleebalang nor a government official, I could not attend a Dutch language elementary school. So after finishing five years of village school and continuation school, there was no place for me to go except religious schools. So I received a religious education: I read books by Egyptian leaders—Muhamad Abduh and Rashid—who vrrote of the struggle against colonialism. That influenced me to struggle to free Indonesia from Dutch colonialism. Had I been permitted to attend a Dutch language school, I probably would not have fought for independence. Religious schools taught that according to Islam, love of country is also a part of faith (keimanan). That is what we learned.93

It has been a consistent desire of ulamas to reform Acehnese society according to what was perceived to be the dictates of Islam. Efforts at reforming the community of believers on earth were diverted during the Aceh War as attention was turned towards paradise where rewards awaited those who fell in the holy war. Neither reform nor victory was to be for the Acehnese. But in the 1930s young ulamas linked the idea of religious reform to the historical revival of the community. The result was that the reformist and revivalistic ulamas emerged as the bearer of a new and distinctive set of identity symbols for the Acehnese. There was, however, another group which put forward contrasting images of what Aceh was or should be: the position of the uleebalangs depended on a different set of symbols, namely that uleebalangs represented the continuity of adat, or indigenous customary law. In time, a segment of the uleebalang class emerged to claim that its right to rule was based not only on the maintenance of adat but also on its acquisition of Dutch education. What the uleebalangs were saying about themselves and about Aceh was legitimized by the colonial ideology. The identity symbols formulated by the ulamas, however, could not claim recognition in the colonial system. If Dutch intervention created the conditions for the emergence of starkly conflicting definitions of Aceh, Japanese intervention would create the conditions leading to the violent resolution of the conflict.

CHAPTER FOUR THE JAPANESE INTERREGNUM

Dutch rule was brought to a sudden and dramatic end by the Japanese invasion of the Netherlands East Indies, military reverses in the Pacific compelled the Japanese to prepare for Allied attacks against Sumatra. Initially, the Japanese anticipated that the attack would come on Sumatra's west and northwestern coast. By 1944 the Japanese assumed an Allied offensive would be launched against the east coast of Sumatra. In either case, Aceh was at the forefront of Japanese defense planning.

For reasons of defensive strategy and economic self-sufficiency, the Japanese followed a policy of administrative fragmentation. Initially, Sumatra and Malaya were administered jointly by the 2Sth Army; after one year, Sumatra was the sole responsibility of the 25th Army. Unlike the 10th Army on Java, the 2Sth Army command was generally unwilling to nurture any movement toward independence. Even within the domain of the 2Sth Army, Japanese policy vis-à-vis indigenous leadership groups varied widely as local army commanders responded differently to the exigencies of wartime conditions.

The Japanese interregnum lasted only three and one-half years. Despite its brevity, Japanese rule set internal forces in motion in a way that resulted in a traumatic and violent transition to independence. The question as to whether purposeful Japanese policies in relation to ulamas and uleebalangs led irrevocably to this outcome deserves consideration.

The classic statement on this problem is Piekaar's balance theory: that it was the conscious and consistent policy of the Japanese to play uleebalangs and ulamas off against each other. Given harsh wartime conditions which placed great demands on subjugated populations, the Japanese felt compelled to establish and maintain a broad overarching coalition in support of their war aims. Such a policy represented a shift from Dutch colonial policy inasmuch as religious leaders under the Japanese gained status, prestige and some semblance of authority heretofore unavailable to them. The significance of Japanese policy for both groups had to be seen in relation to their respective positions under Dutch colonialism. Piekaar perceived this as a zero-sum game where gains made by ulamas necessarily represented a loss for uleebalangs. Why should both groups have allowed themselves to be played off against each other? Piekaar argues that since each depended on the Japanese, neither was willing to break openly with them for fear that they would then favor the other group. Thus, to Piekaar's mind, a violent conflict between uleebalangs and ulamas was not inevitable, even though he acknowledges that the bases for conflict had been established during Dutch times, but rather should be attributed to Japanese policies.

In contrast to Piekaar's thesis, Reid argues, with Aceh specifically in mind, that Japanese policy tended to produce unity among different elite groups. Japanese policy was designed to incorporate different elites into administrative, advisory and propaganda bodies established to further Japan's war aims, providing these elites an opportunity to work together and discover grounds for unity. There are, however, some problems with Reid's counter-thesis. To attribute unifying motives to the Japanese military administration is an altogether different matter from assuming unifying results, a distinction which is not clarified. Nor is Reid able to marshall sufficient empirical evidence for his argument with regard to Aceh. Mention has been made of the incorporation of available elite groups into administrative, advisory and propaganda bodies; it should be remembered, however, that administrative positions proper remained in uleebalang hands, propaganda was given over to young PUSA leaders, and advisory bodies, which met infrequently, were never of great 3 importance.

Whatever Japanese motives—and I believe the evidence favors Piekaar's balance over Reid's unity—it is clear that Acehnese leaders themselves came to perceive the Japanese interregnum as a time of shifting gains and losses for both sides. As Abdullah Arif put it: "Actually, the attitude of the Japanese occupation government was constantly changing. At one moment the Japanese would follow the advice of the uleebalang group and a moment later they would allow suggestions from the ulama group, that is to say from PUSA and Pemuda PUSA."4

The question of how Acehnese leaders themselves perceived the changing balance policy of the Japanese needs to be addressed. It is readily assumed that the nature of the conflict between uleebalangs and ulamas was clear-cut—that is to say, they were "rival" elites engaged in a contest with a clear and agreed-upon prize going to the winner. Piekaar and Reid both work with this assumption, for neither question whether the prize might have been something other than some form of institutional political power. To the degree this assumption is true, keeping "score" is a straightforward matter. But if the goals of the two groups are not always congruent, which is to say that at least one group does not necessarily define "winning" in terms of obtaining institutional power, keeping "score" is rendered problematical. Now, the usual assumption of what might be called the "rival" elites model is that since uleebalangs monopolized institutional power under the Dutch, they were intent, not unnaturally, on maintaining this monopoly under the Japanese. The corollary assumption is that the ulamas coveted institutional power, and that, further, the nature of their position within society allowed them to employ religious symbols in pursuit of conventionally defined political goals. It is the corollary assumption which is in greatest need of reexamination. To my mind, the postulated relationship was in a sense reversed: what the Japanese occupation allowed the ulamas to do was to use political means to achieve what they conceived to be religious ends. Thus gains for the ulamas were not to be measured simply in terms of how many administrative positions came to be occupied by PUSA loyalists. Rather the question was the more fundamental one of whether active cooperation with the Japanese would lead to what was envisioned to be a revived and unified community of believers. That this should have been the case did not by any means serve to diminish conflict with uleebalangs during the Japanese occupation; on the contrary, it doubtless exacerbated the conflict.

During the three months prior to the Japanese landing of March 12- 13, 1942, a number of Acehnese had made contact in Penang, Malaya with Major Fujiwara Iwaichi, a Japanese military officer designated to establish fifth-column groups. A Pemuda PUSA activist, Said Abu Bakar, who was at that time teaching at a religious school in Kedah, Malaya, was chosen by the Japanese to head what became known as Fujiwara kikan, or Fujiwara Organization, for Aceh. From this developed what might be called the Fujiwara kikan myth: that the disturbances preceding the Dutch collapse were attributable to and under the central direction of this fifth column movement. After the fact and throughout the duration of the Japanese occupation, there were attempts to claim responsibility for, or at least connections with, the Fujiwara kikan.5

Two large-scale uprisings during the apocalyptical months of early 1942 were probably more attributable to local initiative than to concerted fifth column activity, and each was markedly distinct in character. The first uprising in the subdistrict of Seulimeum (Aceh Besar) began in the latter half of February 1942, died down for a couple of weeks, and then was rekindled in the last few days before the Japanese landing. The Seulimeum uprising resulted from a coalition of forces: prominent ulamas such as Teungku Abdul Wahab Seulimeum and Teungku Hasballah Indrapuri; young madrasah teachers recently returned from West Sumatra such as A. Hasjmy and Ahmad Abdullah; and several uleebalangs, the most important being Teuku Panglima Polem Muhamad Ali, the recently appointed sagi chief of Mukim XXII. The presence of Teuku Panglima Polem Muhamad Ali in the movement served to neutralize most of the other uleebalangs in the subdistrict, such that even if they were opposed to the uprising they refused to give full cooperation to the Dutch authorities. The uprising was comprised of a series of acts of sabotage against communication and transportation facilities. The perpetrators were for the most part Pemuda PUSA activists who successfully evaded direct engagement with Dutch troops.6

In early March 1942 the second large-scale uprising broke out in the subdistrict of Calang (West Aceh). As was the case in Seulimeum, the uprising in Calang had the support of a local uleebalang: Teuku Sabi of Lageuen who had gained some recognition in the late 1930s as the only notable uleebalang supporting the restoration of the Sultanate. In other respects, however, the Calang uprising differed from the Seulimeum uprising. In Calang the Acehnese combatants used tactics from the Aceh War—a frontal attack on Dutch troops by Acehnese with no armaments to speak of. Most of the combatants were in fact of an older generation and clearly not PUSA-influenced youths. The attack on the Dutch was led by a dancing, white-shrouded ulama who continually recited the confession of faith; reportedly, it was some time before Dutch troops were able to shoot this ulama.

Disturbances spread to other parts of Aceh only when Dutch troops were in full retreat. That action against the Dutch in most areas was delayed until the last moment, PUSA activists attributed this to the restraint of pro-Dutch uleebalangs. To an ulama such as M. Joenoes Djamil uleebalang opposition to anti-Dutch uprisings was natural enough "in view of all the wrongs they had done the people."8 Most particularly in Pidie did ulamas take uleebalang refusal to cooperate in the movement as signal proof of incorrigible loyalty to the colonial regime. Also, on the west coast south of Calang, uleebalangs were particularly energetic in preventing anti-Dutch disturbances. Piekaar says that following the Dutch retreat and prior to the establishment of secure Japanese control, Pemuda PUSA activists totally ignored uleebalang authority: marriage ceremonies, land transactions and the like were conducted without recourse to uleeg balangs.

Those activists who believed that their participation in anti-Dutch uprisings, however belated, would bring them special rewards were to be disappointed initially. The Japenese made it clear that they intended to continue Dutch colonial policy by leaving "native administration" in uleebalang hands, where it would remain until the end of the occupation.

9 Piekaar, Atj eh en de Oorlog met Japan, p. 190.

Continuity was also maintained in limiting, for the most part, higher education opportunities to uleebalang offspring.11 Early reliance on uleebalangs must have seemed to be all the most justified in view of the antiJapanese rebellion of November 1942 in North Aceh. Led by an ulama, Teungku Abdul Jalil, the rebellion was violently repressed by the Japanese army after heavy losses on both sides. Uleebalangs were able to turn this incident against PUSA, thus weakening further the ulama position. In fact, Teungku Abdul Jalil was a conservative ulama opposed to PUSA reformism .

Most of the uleebalangs. save for those seen to be irremediably proDutch, were confirmed in their positions as territorial chieftains with a change in terminology from zelfbestuurder ("self-ruler") to son-cho (subdistrict head). But the bonus for uleebalangs was that the administrative positions at the district level which had been held by Dutchmen with the title of controleur were given to Acehnese with the new title of gun-cho. Seventeen of the nineteen gun-shos initially appointed were uleebalangs; at the end of the occupation, all gun-chos were uleebalangs. One of the two non-uleebalangs originally appointed as gun-cho was Said Abu Bakar, leader of Fujiwara kikan, but before the end of 1942 he had been replaced by an uleebalang. In time, the more prominent uleebalangs—Teuku Nya' Arif, Teuku Muhamad Hasan Glumpong Payong and Teuku Panglima Polem Muhamad

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Ali—were given administrative and advisory positions at the Residency level.

Yet in many ways time proved this continuity of uleebalang power to be illusory, for the nature of uleebalang authority changed significantly under the Japanese. One change was that the Japanese military administration came to ignore the principle of primogeniture which had been of such importance to Dutch authorities in determining the succession of terri14 torial chieftains. Another change was that the Japanese abrogated the police powers uleebalangs had enjoyed under the Dutch. The uleebalangs' police force was absorbed into a central police corps in the interest of tighter control.

As the war turned against the Japanese and as the military administration came to exact more from the Acehnese in preparation for an Allied counteroffensive, the Japanese made concessions to those persons seen to be popular leaders, the ulamas, at the expense of the uleebalangs. By far the most important concession entailing an abridgment of uleebalang authority was the revamping of judicial administration carried out in early 1944. One aspect of judicial reorganization was the establishment of a separate court system for the implementation of Islamic law. At the apex of the new religious judicial system was the Mahkamah Agama, a court established, in the words of the enabling regulation, to show "honor and esteem for Islam." Below this court there was a Chief Kali in each of the four administrative divisions; he was assisted in his deliberations by a majelis (council) of religious scholars. The Mahkamah Agama and Kalis were to pass judgment in accord with Islamic law on cases involving marriage, divorce, inheritance, zakat (religious taxes), wakaf (religious trusts), and orphans. The judgments could be implemented, however, only with Japanese approval.17 It was particularly at the level of the son (the Japanese term for an uleebalang's territory) that the new religious judicial system aroused strong uleebalang opposition. During the Dutch period, the kali had been an advisor on Islamic law to the uleebalang as the latter carried out his judicial role; contrary to the title, the kali had not been an independent religious judge. The new regulation established kali son who were to be independent of uleebalangs in judging cases relating to family law, inheritance, zakat (religious taxes) and wakaf (religious trusts). Also a kali son was given supervisory authority over lower level religious officials-mosque officials and teungku s meunasahwho had heretofore been subject to uleebalang control. In turn, a kali son was to be supervised by a Chief Kali.18 Complications soon arose as the regulation stipulated that the kali son appointments were to be made by uleebalangs (son-chos) subject to the approval of the PUSA-dominated Mahkamah Agama; but since the two parties often could not agree on a candidate, many kali son positions remained vacant.19

The new religious judicial system was seen to be a major triumph for the implementation of Islamic law. Piekaar saw the change as constituting a power shift of "an almost revolutionary character";20 the result being, in a rephrasing of the famous Snouck Hurgronje quote, that "the adat was no longer the mistress and the hukom [Islamic law] her obedient slave21 girl." Aoki, the Japanese official responsible for the judicial reforms, saw the change as returning to ulamas rightful authority which had been usurped, with Dutch connivance, by uleebalangs.22 Piekaar and Aoki represent different sides of the same coin, but it is important to remember that it was not a coin of Acehnese mint. When nineteenth century ulamas attempted to reform Acehnese society according to what they believed to be the dictates of Islamic law, they did not demand new institutions specifically designed to implement Islamic law. That there should be distinctive and separate institutional embodiment of two symbol systems —adat and Islamic law—was not a relevant consideration. The Dutch found this ambiguity not at all useful, for the nature of Dutch rule rested on the assumption that something called "adat" must take precedence over something called "Islamic law." The institutionalization of the dominance of adat was accomplished by establishing uleebalangs as "adat potentates." Dutch colonialism thus imposed on Acehnese society a congruence between symbol systems and institutions; heretofore congruence had been only partial. It was in reaction to the institutionalization of adat that ulamas began to demand institutions which would embody Islamic law. The Japanese military administration, in an attempt to placate the ulamas, responded to the demand by establishing the Islamic judicial system. Both the Japanese authorities and the ulamas hailed this as a victory for Islamic law. In fact, it was a peculiar victory, for the designation of certain legal issues—marriage, divorce, inheritance, zakat (religious taxes), wakaf (religious trusts)—as being within the purview of religious courts applying Islamic law meant that those legal issues not so designated were not subject to rulings based on Islamic law.

As displeased as uleebalangs were with the religious court system, the Japanese proposal for a new "secular" court system engendered even stronger opposition, for this represented the total loss of uleebalang judicial authority. The idea of uleebalangs as "adat potentates" was drawn into question once they had been deprived of the institutional base for carrying out adat functions. Indeed, the relevant enabling regulations did not mention the word "adat." Replacing the uleebalang as administrator of law was a five-member court (ku-hoin) in each uleebalang territory. The ku-hoin was to pass judgment on those cases outside the jurisdiction of the religious judiciary.23 Tha significance of this judicial change was certainly great in Pidie where uleebalangs had long used their judicial powers to settle land control and ownership disputes in their own favor.

The loss of judicial power was exacerbated for the uleebalangs by the fact that Japanese authorities relied for the most part on the advice 25 of PUSA leaders in appointing members to the new courts. Data on the occupation of members appointed to the ku-hoin at the son administrative level are available for thirteen of twenty-one districts. Almost onethird of the members were listed either as ulamas or religious teachers (guru agama); if these are combined with "religious officials"—imeum mesjid and teungku meunasah—the total engaged in religious work was 42.6 percent. More striking still was that 62.7 percent of members used the title "teungku," an honorific indicating either religious knowledge or identification with religious institutions. Thus a proportion of those listed by occupation as traders (24.6 percent of total) and farmers (25.7 percent) can be considered as community religious leaders as well. By contrast, only 10.5 percent used the title "teuku," an honorific indicating uleebalang descent. Uleebalang leaders were dismayed with the list of

Tokyo, 1975), p. 39.

M^H

court members, but they had been outmaneuvered by PUSA leaders.27

The remarkable aspect of this new court system was that, almost literally, anybody could become a court member. To be sure, those appointed had standing with the community and some knowledge of adat, but these attributes were possessed by a great, many people. There were, however, two attributes which the new court members did not possess: neither were they born to be administrators of law nor need they claim a special expertise based on Dutch education.

What remained for the uleebalangs? In a word, administration; but under the Japanese, administration involved separating the farmer from his rice crop to supply the occupation army and recruiting manpower for forced labor to construct defense installations. As Aceh was a focal point of the Japanese defense strategy, an unusually heavy concentration of troops was stationed there. Accordingly, the food demands of the occupation army were proportionally higher than in other regions. The Japanese saw the uleebalangs as the best instrument to achieve their goal of achieving an autarchic economy through the control of the rice harvest. In April 1943, a regulation stipulated that the entire rice harvest beyond what was needed for local consumption would be bought at a fixed low price; in each district there was a commission, composed of uleebalangs and rice mill owners, to implement the regulation. A year later, specific quotas of rice production were set for each territory, with the uleebaiangs responsible for ensuring that the quota was met. Villagers were encouraged to eat less rice and more maize or root crops; nonetheless the quota for rice deliveries was less than half filled. Under such circumstances, blackmarketing flourished as a means of circumventing those regulations intended to prevent the flow of rice from one district to another. At the same time, uleebalangs were charged with the registration of the aale labor force between the ages of sixteen and forty-five as the Japanese needed greater numbers of workers for the construction of fortifications, airfields, and roads. As Acehnese men were continually sent away for labor projects, the prospects for increased rice production receded.28

Without question it was a bad trade-off for the uleebalangs: confirmed in their positions as rulers, the prerogatives of rule were stripped away leaving them only those tasks that aroused popular resentment. It should be noted that PUSA leaders participated in various organizations established to encourage mass support for Japanese war goals, and their participation was, on the whole, energetic. But when the rice crop was collected and when manpower was needed, the responsibility for delivery consistently fell on the uleebalangs. It is thus questionable whether, as Reid has argued, all elites "paid the same price in having to mediate between the heavy demands of the occupying power and the 29 increasing misery of the population." In fact, the uleebalangs were to pay a much higher price. Not surprisingly, then, some uleebalangs began to make contact with the Allied Forces underground.30

For ulamas identified with PUSA, significant gains were won from the Japanese. The gains were not gratuitous, of course: ulamas were expected to participate actively in advisory and propaganda bodies at the various administrative levels. The purpose of the Japanese in using ulamas was clear: to link what they took to be Acehnese Islamic zeal to their own war goals. Initially, the Japanese military administration was reluctant to make many concessions to the ulamas for the Japanese did not want to give free reign to forces pent up by Dutch colonialism. But as the pressures of war demanded greater cooperation from villagers and as the Japanese became more desperate, the military administration granted more to those leaders, the ulamas, who were capable of mobilizing the populace. It was clear that the harsh procurement system entrusted to the uleebalangs was not meeting Japanese goals of rice productivity. Consequently, the uleebalangs were becoming less useful to the Japanese. Although concessions were premised on a positive assessment of the ability of the ulamas to persuade an increasingly impoverished populace of the righteousness of the war, the Japanese also had calculated the negative risks of leaving the ulamas outside the system to lead resistance against the grim wartime regime. By far the most important concession to PUSA leaders was the complete revamping of the Acehnese judicial system, which has been discussed above. Also, advisory councils on Islamic affairs were established throughout Aceh, although not all members of these councils were necessarily PUSA members and uleebalangs were designated as advisors to the council. Official recognition was accorded to the religious schools (madrasah) with the appointment of Teungku Ismail Yakub as religious education inspector. Young PUSA leaders gained the upper hand in Japanese propaganda and publishing organizations: leaders of Pemuda PUSA held most of the important positions in Sendenbu (the propaganda office) and Atjeh Shinbun (the official newspaper). Finally, the military administration provided funds for building new mosques and repairing old ones. The contrast with Dutch rule was never complete, but it was sufficiently striking to encourage ulama cooperation: whereas the Dutch had followed an Islamic policy characterized by wariness and benign neglect, the Japanese followed an Islamic policy characterized by equal wariness perhaps but also, as deteriorating conditions dictated, by praise and esteem for the faith.

Most particularly for Acehnese youth, the Japanese occupation was a formative period. Whereas under the Dutch there had been no outlet for youths with a madrasah education, under the Japanese their energies were to be absorbed and mobilized. As was the case elsewhere in Indonesia, the Japanese attempted through semimilitary and ideological instruction to involve the youth in building a "New Asia." Indeed, the idea of a "New Asia" struck a responsive chord with the madrasah generation brought up on the "revivalism" themes of youth (pemuda), unity (persatuan), consciousness (kesadaran and keinsafan), awakening (kebangunan), and the new era (zaman baru). That it should have struck a responsive chord is not surprising since the young PUSA writers of the late 1930s were now writing much the same material, employing much the same vocabulary, for the Japanese. There was an important thematic addition, however; images of conflict and struggle, along with exaltation of martial skills, became prominent. A. Hasjmy, for example, in presenting the by now standard golden age-decline-revival theme, gave precedence to Aceh as having been a nation of warriors over those other attributes usually included in the litany of past greatness.32 As Benedict Anderson has put it:

. . . the younger men found the violent symbols of Japanese authority very much to their liking. By contrast alone they provided a lasting critique of the values and standards which Dutch rale and education had instilled in their fathers. Within the repressive structures of Japanese military government, these symbols beckoned subtly toward the apocalypse. Even before the revolution began, its style had been discovered.33

Perhaps in contrast to other regions of Indonesia, in Aceh it was not so much a matter of the Japanese calling into being an entirely new self-conscious group of pemuda as it was a matter of the Japanese working with and building upon what was already available, which is to say, Pemuda PUSA and its auxiliary Islamic scouting organization. Consequently, there would endure a striking unity between the older ulama founders of PUSA-by the end of the Occupation most were in their forties-and the pemuda generation they had educated in the madrasahs. Indeed, the trump card to be played by the PUSA ulamas in the early days of the Revolution was the group of madrasah-educated youths who had received military and paramilitary training during the Occupation. The Japanese had from the beginning established various paramilitary and auxiliary bodies, but much more important was the formation in late 1943 of the Giyugun as a separate military unit with its own lower-grade officers. A number of the Giyugun officers were from uleebalang families, but the overwhelming majority of the soldiers was comprised of PUSA youths. The Giyugun established in Aceh was composed of an estimated 5,000 soldiers, a significantly larger force than found in other regions of Sumatra because of the Japanese conviction that the Allies would attempt a landing on the north coast of 34 Aceh. The significance of the Giyugun and paramilitary groups was not that they created a pemuda force; a self-conscious group of pemuda had existed in Aceh since the formation of Pemuda PUSA. Rather the significance of the military organizations was that they provided training and experiences otherwise unavailable to Pemuda PUSA members.

That Acehnese pemuda under the guidance of PUSA ulamas responded so positively to the Indonesian national revolution was striking since the 25th Army command purposefully attempted to isolate Sumatra from Java. Propaganda and advisory organizations within Sumatra, in turn, were limited to the residency level. For reasons of defense planning and economic self-sufficiency, as well as an essentially antinationalist bias, the 25th Army command followed a policy of administrative fragmentation. Even after the announcement of September 1944 that Japan would eventually grant independence to an Indonesia of still undetermined boundaries, contact between Java and Sumatra was still limited. The use of the Indonesian flag and national anthem was allowed, but the foremost nationalist leader, Sukarno, was prevented from visiting Sumatra. Only in the last few months did the Japanese establish a supraresidency organization, the Sumatran Central Advisory Council, which brought together leaders from the various regions of Sumatra. At the end of the occupation, three Sumatrans —including Teuku Muhamad Hasan, an Acehnese uleebalang living in Medan— were appointed to the Committee for the Preparation of Indonesian Independence; they arrived in Jakarta three days before the declaration of independence.

Piekaar has argued that Japanese policies in Aceh were designed to balance two different leadership groups in attempting to form an overarching coalition in support of Japanese war aims. Neither group was willing to break openly with the Japanese for fear that the other would gain favor. The confirmation of uleebalangs as territorial rulers at first appeared to be a shrewd continuation of Dutch policy. In time, however, it became clear that Japanese policies had transformed and, in some ways, undermined the bases of uleebalang authority. The most evident blow to uleebalang authority was judicial reform. Also, uleebalang implementation of the military administration's harsh economic policies enhanced the popular perception of uleebalangs as repressive rulers. Aside from the specifics of Japanese policies in relation to uleebalangs, however, was the fact that any change of regime would introduce an unsettling ambiguity for a group whose "traditional superiority" was in large measure an artifact of Dutch colonialism. For reformist ulamas and their followers, Dutch rule constituted an obstacle to realizing their vision of a revived and unified community of the faithful; a change in regime would remove the obstacle. The motive for reformist ulamas cooperating with the Japanese was nothing so simple as replacing uleebalangs as "rulers" of Aceh. Rather, the Japanese occupation allowed ulamas to use political means, highly constrained of course, to achieve what they conceived to be religious ends. The Japanese, in turn, came to be seen as an obstacle, the removal of which would allow reformist ulamas the freedom to take some tentative steps toward the implementation of their vision.

CHAPTER FIVE THE REVOLUTION (I)

What Aceh had been under Dutch colonialism and what it would become within the Republic of Indonesia came together during the Indonesian National Revolution. The question to be addressed in the next two chapters is this: what was it about the Acehnese revolutionary experience that can explain Aceh's steadfast loyalty to the Republic during four years of resistance to the Dutch and, then, only three and one-half years later, rebellion against the central government?

First, it is important to point to the distinctiveness of Aceh at the time of independence. As Benda put it: "Under the banner of a distinctly Islamic local and ethnic patriotism, Aceh thus entered independent Indonesia as a virtually autonomous imperium in imperio."1 We have seen how in the 1930s the goals of Islamic reformism were linked to the historical renovation of the community, a linkage which elaborated and intensified Acehnese consciousness. It should be remembered, however, that the young PUSA writers who developed the "revivalist" theme willingly accepted the idea of an "Indonesia." The fragmentation of Japanese military administration also contributed to the isolation of Aceh from developments on Java. And yet one needs to discount to a certain degree Acehnese

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distinctiveness as explaining what followed the revolution, for "Acehnese patriotism," to use Benda's phrase, was changed by the revolutionary experience. This is natural enough for ethnicity is not simply an invariant "given of social existence" but emergent and responsive to the larger political context. More concretely, one must take into consideration Aceh's signal loyalty to the struggling Republic of Indonesia during the revolution, for the early days of the revolution would have been an opportune time to establish an independent Aceh.

In an attempt to resolve the apparent paradox between intense ethnic consciousness and Republican loyalty, one must examine what the revolutionary experience meant to Acehnese leaders. Representative of the standard view is Reid's statement: "The leadership of the dominant popular force, PUSA, indisputably thought in Atjehnese and Islamic rather than in 2 Indonesian terms." The validity of this statement rests on two presumed contradictions: one between "Atjehnese" and "Indonesian" and another between "Islamic" and "Indonesian." A corollary assumption is that each of the three are distinct and separately meaningful categories of thinking. The argument I want to present is that Acehnese leaders during the revolution thought in Acehnese, Islamic and Indonesian terms with little awareness at that time of the possibility of conflicts existing among the three.

The Early Days of the Republic in Aceh

In late August 1945 the Japanese military authorities announced publicly that the war was over. It would be a number of weeks, however, before knowledge of the August 17 declaration of independence became widespread in Aceh. Rumors of independence led to the periodic raising of Indonesian flags during September but only at the beginning of October were steps taken to establish Republican authority in Aceh. Even then the initial steps were hesitant and cautious, for many leading officials of the Republic in Aceh, who were uleebalangs, expected the return of Dutch authority as part of the Allied occupation of Indonesia.3 The revolutionary impulse came from prominent PUSA ulamas and pemuda (youth) educated in PUSA madrasahs. Although pemuda often led the way and employed a somewhat different vocabulary than that of older ulamas in giving expression to the independence struggle, both generations shared an ideology derived from the reformist and revivalist movement of the 1930s. The contrast between official Republican leaders, on the one hand, and PUSA ulamas and pemuda, on the other, was apparent in the words each used to justify the establishment of Republican authority. Official leaders took action atas nama pemerintah Indonesia—"in the name of the Indonesian government." PUSA and pemuda leaders took action atas nama rakyat—"in the name of the people."

Two days after the declaration of independence, the Independence Preparatory Committee in Jakarta appointed Teuku Muhammad Hasan, an Acehnese uleebalang intellectual, as the Republic's Governor of Sumatra.4 He in tura appointed Teuku Nya* Arif as Resident for Aceh. The choice of Teuku Nya' Arif was not surprising as he had been the highest ranking local official during the Japanese occupation. The point was to upset as little as possible the Japanese army, which although vanquished was charged by the Allies with maintaining order, by keeping Japanese period officials in place even though they gradually came to be known as Republic of Indonesia officials. Both the Dutch and the Japanese had been wary of Teuku Nya* Arif's strong streak of independence, but his long-standing nationalist credentials were soon called into question by pemuda activists who were convinced that he had been concealing the news of the independence declaration for some time. The appointment of lower-level territorial administrators represented a continuity from Dutch and Japanese times: all assistant residents and district administrators were uleebalangs. The clean sweep of administrative positions by uleebalangs must have seemed to be a natural progression. With the coming of the Japanese, uleebalangs had replaced Dutchmen as district administrators; with independence, they replaced Japanese as Assistant Residents and Resident. The appointment of Republican officials was doubtless an attempt on the part of Resident Teuku Nya' Arif to reaffirm the position of uleebalangs within Acehnese society, a position undermined by Japanese policies which had stripped uleebalangs of the prerogatives of rule—most importantly, judicial administration-leaving them only those tasks engendering popular resentment. It should thus not have been difficult for uleebalangs to be pro-Republican for they were, after all, the official leaders of the Republic in Aceh. Nonetheless there were uleebalangs-appointed territorial administrators among them—who were convinced that the establishment of a Republican government was a farce since the Dutch surely would return. Others who were initially in favor of independence became troubled and confused once it was clear that the perjuangan (the "struggle") was beyond their control.

The fate of the Republican leaders, and of the uleebalang class of which they represented the apex, would be determined in large measure by the pemuda movement which compelled older officials to take a stand. As one pemuda leader remarked: "Once Teuku Nya' Arif knew that a pemuda movement had been organized then even he was no longer hesitant-he began openly to take positive steps."7 On October 6 a pemuda organization, BPI (Badan Pemuda Indonesia, Indonesian Youth League), was established under the leadership of Ali Hasjmy.8 The name of the youth organization emphasizing "Indonesia" underlined the commitment of the pemuda to a cause much larger than Aceh. One week later a BPI conference laid the basis for g extending the movement beyond the capital. At the same time Ali Hasjmy's group took steps to establish a militia comprised of pemuda who had received some military training from the Japanese.

All of the major pemuda leaders had been involved in the prewar Pemuda PUSA movement. PUSA ulamas had taught them that pemuda possessed a special role in developing those attributes of unity (persatuan), consciousness (kesadaran and keinsafan) and awakening (kebangunan) which would lead to the new era (zaman baru). The pemuda had learned from their studies in madrasahs throughout Aceh that the new era could come only with the overthrow of Dutch colonialism. Not only the message but the medium also came from PUSA ulamas who had developed a new rhetoric in the tabligh (public meetings) so popular during the 1930s. Then the Japanese had attempted through semimilitary and ideological instruction to mobilize the energies of the madrasah generation in building a "New Asia." Through the inculcation of images of conflict and struggle, the Japanese succeeded in giving birth to apocalyptical fervor. With the declaration of independence, the apocalypse had come for the pemuda.

In giving expression to their cause, Acehnese pemuda shared an Indonesian-language vocabulary with pemuda throughout Indonesia. The rallying words were merdeka (freedom), revolusi (revolution), perjuangan (struggle), and bersiap (vigilant). These words, as Anderson has put it, "stem from the seedtime of the Republic, the time of its most violently anguished awareness of itself as the expression of a hopeful new enterprise and solidarity. Virtually all the emotive words in Indonesian are centred round the struggle and violence of the physical revolution and almost all have highly political-heroic connotations."10 The urge to identify with an Indonesia-wide pemuda consciousness was also apparent in the choice of a name for the pemuda organization in Aceh. In a matter of days Ali Hasjmy's BPI changed its name to PRI (Pemuda Republic Indonesia: Youth of the Republic of Indonesia) in response to instructions from pemuda leaders on Java. In December the name of Ali Hasjmy's group was changed once again to Pesindo—an acronym for Pemuda Sosialist Indonesia (Socialist Youth of Indonesia). Pesindo was a pemuda organization on Java emerging in November 1945 from the merger of several extant pemuda bodies, including PRI. The new pemuda organization was to be based on socialist principles as articulated by the two leading spokesmen at the center of what would become the Socialist Party, Amir Sjarifuddin and Sutan Sjahrir. Although Acehnese pemuda shared with youth throughout Indonesia basic egalitarian principles, they did not understand or appreciate the more programmatic elements of socialisme that were important to Pesindo leaders on Java. Despite these ideological differences between center and region, which became more evident during the course of the revolution, the name of Pesindo remained of crucial importance to Acehnese pemuda leaders for what was involved was the naming not of an organization but of a cause, of a consciousness, and of a predilection for direct, spontaneous action. What was being named was a commitment to a common struggle, one in which Indonesia-wide pemuda identities were formed that were at once transcendent and transitory.

It is fair to say that PUSA leaders employed a distinctly Islamic idiom in giving expression to the independence struggle, but the commitment of the older reformist ulamas was no less intense and, to their own way of thinking, no less "nationalistic" than that of the younger generation. Support for the Republic first came on October 15, 1945 with the "Declaration of Ulama throughout Aceh," signed by four eminent ulamas: Teungku M. Daud Beureueh and Teungku Ahmad Hasballah Indrapuri, both PUSA leaders; Teungku Ja'far Sidik, an elderly dayah-based ulama; and Teungku Hasan Kreueng Kale, the foremost conservative ulama. The declaration urged the people to unite behind "our great leader Sukarno" in resisting the Dutch attempt to recolonize "our fatherland Indonesia." Since the Dutch would once again "try to destroy our pure religion as well as repress and hamper the glory and prosperity of the Indonesian people," the ulamas stated that the struggle for independence was a sacred cause 12 properly known as a perang sabil (holy war). No more persuasive appeal could have been made to the Acehnese than to identify the defense of the newly independent Republic of Indonesia as a holy war in which all members of the ummat were obligated to participate. The commitment of Teungku

M. Daud Beureueh and his PUSA colleagues to the fledgling Republic remained strong throughout the revolution.14 In November PUSA leaders established Barisan Mujahidin as a separate militia with a view to mobilizing the youth in rural areas.15 In March 1946 the PUSA leadership aligned itself with Masjumi, the sole Islamic political party at the center. To the degree that Acehnese leaders participated in political activity at the center during the postrevolution period, Masjumi would be the primary partisan linkage.16

As united as pemuda leaders and PUSA ulamas were to be throughout the struggle for independence, the ulamas did have a somewhat different view of the revolution. The difference was not that the pemuda stressed less their Acehnese identity than did the reformist ulamas: the difference was one of degree which should be properly minimized in light of the strong commitment of both groups to Indonesian independence. Nor was the meaningful difference one between the "nationalism" of the pemuda and the "Islam" of the ulamas for such a view accepts too readily the secular metropolitan elite's definition of "nationalism." Pesindo leaders in Aceh in fact held firmly to the idea that independence should lead to the establishment of an Islamic state, an idea which would lead many former Pesindo leaders to join the Darul Islam rebellion in 1953. The difference was found in the ulamas' unswerving conviction that a moral revolution must accompany a political and social revolution. This is evident in Teungku M. Daud Beureueh's message to a Pesindo congress in January 1946. Physical freedom (merdeka lahir) from colonialism was incomplete, he argued, in the absence of spiritual freedom (merdeka bathin). The lack of spiritual freedom is to be enslaved to hawa nafsu (passion) which leads individuals to give precedence to base and narrow self-interest over the well-being of the community of the faithful. Hawa nafsu would, in Teungku M. Daud Beureueh's words, "destroy physical freedom, for whatever the outward appearances of freedom fundamentally it is not truly freedom since it benefits only a few individuals or those of a certain lineage. . . . For this reason we urge all people, the glorious people, to liberate their souls from Satan's domination; but first they must destroy that traitor, ftaWa nafsu ' alon* «fith all of its foul accomplices.18 Only then can we carry out deeds in accord with our words, only then can one see that we are a people capable of working in accord with what we proclaim. Only then will we be strong, only then will we be firmly united, [and] solidarity will replace conflicts.» Finally, Teungku M. Daud Beureueh asserted that whereas hawa nafsu still dominated government officials, the rakvat ("people" in the populist sense) were free of hawa nafsu's control. Thus, PÜSA ulamas who hoped for the moral perfection of society were confronted by pemuda leaders who believed that priority must be given to the political and social revolution. If before reformist ulama opposition to uleebalangs did not manifest itself in a desire to usurp institutional power, during the revolution pemuda leaders came to believe that only by taking over the offices of government could true independence be realized. Although Teungku M. Daud Beureueh viewed independence as the necessary condition for realizing his vision of a revived and unified community of the faithful, he would maintain that in the absence of a moral transformation the social and political revolution would remain 20 incomplete.

In the face of the spontaneous mobilization of pemuda and PUSA ulamas, the uleebalangs representing Republican officialdom found themselves without an effective counterweight. Efforts to remedy this imbalance centered on the establishment of the Indonesian Army in Aceh. In early October Teuku Nya' Arif called together those Acehnese pemuda who had received officer training from the Japanese to form the nucleus of a Republican army. Not yet aware of plans at the center for establishing an army, Teuku Nya' Arif gave the Republican military organization the name API (Angkatan Pemuda Indonesia, Young Generation of Indonesia) which was changed to TKR (Tentara Kemanan Rakyat, People's Security Army) once the army's official name was known in Aceh. It was at the beginning an army without arms: a few days before the public announcement that the war was over, the Japanese had disarmed the Acehnese pemuda trained for service in the Giyugun and paramilitary bodies, sending them back to their villages 21 with an allotment of rice, soap and cloth. Teuku Nya' Arif envisaged an

Modal Revolusi 45, p. 29.

army based on the expertise and experience of those who had received officer training during the war.22 This neant, in effect, that leadership of the army was given to a small group of trained men comprised, for the most part, of young uleebalangs and, also, of youths with a secular education. With a few exceptions pemuda identified with PUSA found no place in the army's leadership structure.23 The APi/TKR commander was Sjammaun Gaharu, a remarkable young man of twenty-nine years, who, though born in Pidie, had never been part of the madrasah movement: he had attended a teacher training college in Pematang Siantar, returned to Aceh to teach at the nationalist Taman Siswa school in Kutaraja, and then continued his education at ?n agricultural teacher training school in Bogor, all of which were rather unique experiences for a non-uleebalang youth. The API/TKR chief of staff was Teuku A. Hamid Azwar, an uleebalang and a relative of Teuku Nya' Arif.

Had Teuku Nya» Arif and the Japanese-trained officers possessed sufficient resources, they might have succeeded in founding an army responsive to the official Republican leadership. As it was, they succeeded in alienating those pemuda leaders who were allowed no role in the new army, undermining further Teuku Nya' Arif's standing with the pemuda.

Divergent perspectives on military organization at the beginning of the revolution were found throughout Indonesia, indicative of the broader issue of whether revolutionary elan was necessary for waging a successful war of independence. For those pemuda leaders whose appeal, in Anderson's words, "rested on personal example, revolutionary visions, and the egalitarian solidarity of pemuda comradeship," an army based on education, expertise and hierarchy was naturally suspect. The pemuda leaders feared that Teuku Nya' Arif and the uleebalangs would use API/TKR to ensure a restoration of the old order.

The intense competition for and distribution of arms would have a bearing on the resolution of the military organization issue. The source of arms was the Japanese army still in Aceh awaiting evacuation. Early on Japanese officers, some of whom were not unsympathetic to Indonesian independence, gave light arms to Republican authorities ostensibly for police duties. By the middle of November 1945, however, the Japanese found themselves in an increasingly untenable position throughout Aceh as attacks on their outposts escalated. Initial attacks were carried out by thousands of villagers and pemuda armed with little more than sharpened bamboo sticks and an array of daggers and long knives. Confronted with the spectacle of thousands of Acehnese advancing while shouting in unison "Allahu Akbar" ("God is Great"), Japanese commanders often agreed to a truce and a transfer of arms to the attackers. The result was that in time attacks were launched with cries of "Allahu Akbar" and rifles in hand. Culminating these attacks was the Pesindo drive in early December against the major Japanese air base located near Kutaraja. After bitter fighting the Japanese evacuated the base under cover of night, whereupon Pesindo inherited an impressive array of artillery making Ali Hasjmy's militia the heaviest armed unit in Aceh. By late December the Japanese had pulled out of Aceh—escept for the town of Kuala Simpang on the border with East Sumatra which they evacuated in January 1946— leaving behind an assortment of armaments which went to arm not only the TKR but the Pesindo and Mujahidin militias as well.

The Social Revolution

The wave of internal violence in late 1945 and early 1946 leading to the overthrow of the uleebalangs came to be known as the "revolusi sosial," a label applied only after the event to identify with popular uprisings against hereditary ruling gToups occurring elsewhere on Java and 27 on Sumatra. One social revolutionary, a Pemuda PUSA leader from North Aceh, recounted:

PUSA in fact had no plans concerning uleebalangs at the beginning. We were not thinking in a "revolutionary" way. At most we wanted uleebalangs to be only administrators, not judges. And this we had achieved during the Japanese occupation. The social revolution was not planned.28

History does not disclose its alternative. Some victorious social revolutionaries maintain that the overthrow of the uleebalangs was not inevitable. A military man for whom the social revolution meant a powerful position in the army said:

The problem was that most uleebalangs, particularly those of Pidie, wanted to guarantee their continued position as territorial chieftains. They believed that the Dutch would restore them and thought it improbable that the Republic would do so. But this was a mistake for they were educated and much smarter than we were. If they had used reason instead of guns they could have survived. Moreover, our attitude was that for the time being it did not matter if they were "feudal" just as long as they were not traitors.29

However, a Pesindo leader in Pidie recalled the conflict as inevitable:

Actually the uleebalangs had little choice. They knew that what the Japanese had taken away—their judicial powers—would not be returned without the Dutch. There was a vacuum and they knew that if they did not fill it others surely would. This made them traitors but they were acting logically. In turn, we had no choice but to oppose them.-*0

That the social revolution began and reached its most bitter intensity in Pidie was not coincidental. The proximate cause of the conflict was the absence, from the beginning, of anyone claiming to represent Republican authority who was acceptable to both uleebalangs and PUSA activists. Pidie uleebalangs were intent on resuming their prewar powers seemingly indifferent to any higher authority. Continued Allied landings

Interview, August 23, 1976.

in other regions of Indonesia and the Dutch presence on the Island of Sabang, off Aceh Besar, convinced them that it was only a matter of time before the prewar status quo was restored. Under the Dutch Pidie had been the stronghold of uleebalang power. We should recall here the ways in which Dutch colonial rule affected uleebalang authority. First attention should be drawn to the fact that Dutch rule served to buttress uleebalang authority by providing territorial chieftains unprecedented security of tenure. At the same time, the desire to promote the "tradition" of adat in the face of what colonial authorities thought were unsettling inroads by the upholders of Islamic law, the ulamas, led the Dutch to fashion a uniform system of "native" justice based on uleebalangs as adat rulers. The position of protectors and administrators of the law constituted the ideological justification for uleebalangs. One other factor came into play: colonialism transformed the economic position of uleebalangs. The Dutch had abolished tolls and levies on the flow of goods into, out of and through an uleebalang's territory, a change that forced uleebalangs to look within their territories for new sources of income. One source was ownership and control of ricelands, which became all the more valuable as the Dutch came to encourage rice production for export to East Sumatra and as falling small-holder commodity prices during the Depression forced people back to foodcrop production. The result was an increasing concentration of landholdings on the part of uleebalangs—as young PUSA publicists bitterly charged and Dutch officials begrudgingly admitted—and this was most evident in the highly productive "rice-bowl" of Pidie where pressure on land was greatest. Dutch backing allowed uleebalangs to increase their control of land since they were not dependent on local support for their positions. Also, their function as adat rulers provided uleebalangs judicial means to enhance their economic power. Should either their security of tenure or their judicial authority be removed, uleebalang power would be threatened. The Japanese decision to abrogate uleebalang judicial authority was a devastating blow for two reasons. First, it undercut their standing as adat rulers which served as an ideological justification for the position of uleebalangs within Acehnese society. Second, and more practically, it deprived uleebalangs of the tried and true judicial means of enriching themselves. What remained for the uleebalangs was the onerous task of squeezing rice and manpower out of the villages for the Japanese. Thus, the initial challenge for territorial chieftains of Pidie, -and to varying degrees those of other regions, was to restore the felicitous trinity of outside backing, judicial authority and economic power which had served them so well during the colonial period. In light of the widespread popular resentment generated by wartime hardships, many uleebalangs must have thought an independent Republic of Indonesia to be a singularly implausible candidate for restoration of the ancien regime.

It is noteworthy that the Pidie uleebalangs presented a united front in the face of perceived threat for they had the reputation of being particularly factious even though Dutch rule had removed most of the reasons for conflict. Emerging as the uleebalang leader was Teuku Muhammad Daud Cumbo', "self-ruler" of Gumbo' under the Dutch, guncho of the district of Lammeulo under the Japanese and the newly appointed Republican wedana (district administrator) of Lammeulo. Initially some uleebalangs who wanted to avoid confrontation were reluctant to align themselves with the more adamant uleebalangs who wanted to force the issue. But once pemuda identified with PUSA had been mobilized, the hesitant uleebalangs were swept into Teuku Muhammad Daud Cumbo's camp by the polarized atmosphere.

Early confrontations occurred when pemuda attempted to raise Indonesian flags where Japanese flags still flew. Elsewhere in Aceh, uleebalang officials cautioned pemuda leaders that youthful enthusiasm for flagraising would provoke a Japanese reaction but in the end official apprehension gave way to pemuda spontaneity. In Pidie, by contrast, those who had been appointed Republican officials actively prevented pemuda leaders from raising the Indonesian flag. Initially uleebalangs held the preponderance of military power in Pidie as several Japanese-trained officers who were ostensibly the local API/TKR representatives went over to Cumbo's side. The API/TKR leader for Lammeulo, Teuku Abdullah Titeue, trained men for the uleebalang militia BPK (Barisan Penjaga Keamanan, Protectors of Security Corps). The relative ease with which BPK obtained arms led the pemuda to suspect that the Assistant Resident for Pidie, Teuku Cut Hasan, and the API/TKR commander for Pidie, Teuku A. Rahman, were diverting arms to the uleebalang forces.

The chances of avoiding widespread bloodshed in Pidie disappeared in the first week of December when uleebalang forces moved into Sigli, capital of Pidie, in an attempt to seize Japanese armaments. Once thousands of pro-PUSA villagers had surrounded Sigli, Residency officials in Kutaradja moved to prevent fighting. For his efforts at mediation, Sjammaun Gaharu, the TKR commander, was captured by villagers and, by his own account, he would have been killed save for the intercession of a PUSA

'l .IM . II'. II,..II. • . Kemerdekaan," p. 29.

32 ulama. After several days of fighting between uleebalang forces and PUSA sympathizers, the TKR chief of staff, Teuku A. Hamid Azwar, managed to arrange a cease-fire whereby both sides returned to their respective strongholds outside Sigli.

The intervention of TKR leaders from Kutaradja in the Sigli battle served to diminish even further the standing of Residency-level officials with pemuda leaders and PUSA ulamas who were already convinced that Republican officials in Pidie were in fact pro-Dutch. Military and civilian officials in Kutaradja perceived the problem in terms of avoiding a civil war in Pidie that would undermine the unity needed in facing the threat of the Dutch. PUSA leaders, however, perceived the matter in an entirely different way: they believed that the uleebalangs were the driving wedge for a return of Dutch colonialism. In time, anti-uleebalang movement leaders came to see official indecision and weakness in the face of increasing chaos in Pidie as little more than complicity with Cumbo's 33 forces. Confronted with a spontaneous movement over which he had no control, Resident Teuku Nya' Arif voluntarily went on leave in the middle of December. Teuku Nya Arif's presence, however, continued to be felt for the Sumatra Command of the Indonesian Army appointed him as supervisor of the TKR in Aceh with the rank of Major General.

Skirmishes in Pidie continued throughout December. Uleebalang forces established four strongholds—Meureudu, Lueng Putu, Beureunun and Lammeulo—and maintained a preponderance of firepower allowing them to launch frequent raids. Significantly, a primary target of these raids was the destruction of the buildings housing the ku-hoin, the lower-level civil courts from the Japanese occupation. Anti-uleebalang activists organized themselves into the Markas Besar Rakyat Umum (People's General 35 Haadquarters), under the leadership of Hasan Ali, the PRI/Pesindo chairman for Pidie, and Teungku Umar Tiro, a local Mujahidin leader and prominent ulama. Residency-level officials did not heed Hasan Ali's repeated demand that the entire military and civilian establishment in Pidie be replaced and reorganized on the basis of kedaulatan rakyat ("people's sovereignty"). By the end of December the position of antiuleebalang forces was strengthened with the arrival of armed Pidie highlanders under the command of the PUSA ulama Teungku Syech Daud Tangse.

The battle of Pidie was to be determined in part by political maneuvering in Kutaradja and in part by the move of PUSA forces from North Aceh into Pidie. Throughout December military and civilian officials were reluctant to give in to the pressures generated by the anti-uleebalang movement in Pidie. Following the debacle in Sigli, Republican administrators feared a complete breakdown of authority. Moreover, they must have known that the destruction of the Pidie uleebalangs would unleash forces which could bring down the entire uleebalang structure. In the face of official hesitancy, PUSA leaders and their pemuda proteges took their case to the Residency KNI (Komite Nasional Indonesia, Indonesian National Committee) , the quasi-legislative body established to provide representation to various groups. Aceh's foremost ulama recounted his speech before the KNI:

The time for a decision has come. Will the government take steps to crush the traitors or will it just cave in? There is no need to be afraid of the uleebalangs; they do not have the people with them. I have the people in my hands. How many people are there in Aceh? One and one-half million. One million of those are in my hands, the other half million are indifferent. If the government does not act, then I will.37

Meanwhile Teungku M. Daud Beureueh instructed two PUSA leaders in Bireuen, Teungku Abdurrahman Meunasah Meucap and Teungku Nur el Ibrahimy, to mobilize Pesindo and Mujahidin forces from North Aceh for an attack into eastern Pidie. Chosen as commander of this force—known as Barisan Rakyat (People's Corps)—was Teungku Abdul Wahab Seulimeum, the leading reformist ulama from Aceh Besar. The Barisan Rakyat attracted village pemuda as it moved into Pidie. In the last week of December, the Barisan Rakyat took Teuku Chi' Mahmud*s fortress in Meureudu after uleebalang forces 39 pulled out. In the first week of January, Teuku Laksamana Umar and his family were killed after a bittle battle for Lueng Putu. Then the Barisan Rakyat captured Beureunun, the headquarters of Teuku Pocut Umar Keumangan.

The remaining uleebalang stronghold was Teuku Muhamad Daud Cumbo's fortress at Lammeuio to which uleebalangs from throughout Pidie had retreated. As thousands of pemuda and villagers converged on Lammeulo, it was clear that the denouement was at hand. But the "ature of the denouement was determined in Kutaradja where PUSA ulamas and pemuda leaders had finally prevailed in their efforts of compelling the hesitant Republican leaders, who still had reservations, to turn against the Pidie uleebalangs. On January 8, 1946 the Residency Government and the Markas

Umum Perjuangan dan Pertahanan Rakyat (General Headquarters for the 41 People's Struggle and Defense) issued two joint announcements. One announcement labeled the uleebalang forces centered at Lammeulo as "traitors and enemies of the Republic of Indonesia." The second announcement, actually an ultimatum, demanded that the uleebalang forces surrender 42 their arms in two days.

The Pidie uleebalangs ignored the ultimatum. In a matter of days Lammeulo fell and all of the uleebalang leaders subsequently were captured. The Residency government requested that the uleebalangs be brought to Kutaradja to stand trial; but as Teuku Muhammad Ali Panglima Polem noted, "the government's instruction that they stand trial in Kutaraja was not 43 followed." There were no trials. "At that time," a Pesindo leader wrote, "the people's hearts reverberated with the slogan: 'The People have become the Judge.' The people became the judge of the traitors because the government itself did not have sufficiently strong judges with the courage to pass judgment on the traitors to our fatherland. Accordingly the people took the necessary steps for the glory of the Nation." And with the people as the judge, the Pidie uleebalangs were virtually eliminated. Pesindo and Mujahidin forces executed those uleebalangs considered to be "traitors," which included all, save for two, who had served as territorial chieftains under the Dutch and/or the Japanese. Also killed were those uleebalang notables who had been appointed to Republican offices in Pidie: Teuku Cut Hasan, the first Assistant Resident; Teuku Chi' Muhammad Said, the second Assistant Resident; and Teuku A. Rahman, the TKR commander. Then villagers turned on the surviving uleebalang family members of their respective territories, in some cases killing all related males and in other cases sparing only the youngest boys. The number of deaths ran into the hundreds. And the survivors were quickly dispossessed as villages took over uleebalang property. Since uleebalangs kept some of their wealth in gold jewelry, a conveniently movable commodity was available to villagers desiring a quick redress of their grievances. But the greatest windfall was the most prized possession in Pidie —riceland. Tenants took over land they had been cultivating for uleebalang owners. And those who believed that uleebalangs had wrongly deprived them, or their ancestors, of their land quickly laid claim to uleebalang rice-fields, coconut groves and areca-nut gardens. Several months later the Residency government established a special court, the Majelis Penimbang, to resolve the many property disputes growing out of 45 the Pidie social revolution.

Menguasai Atau Memiliki Harta Benda Peninggalan Pengchianat-Pengchianat

After the battle of Pidie, Markas Besar Rakyat Umum leaders held public meetings to establish a government based on "people's sovereignty" (Kedaulatan rakyat). Teungku Abdul Wahab Seulimeum, the commander of the Barisan Rakyat force from North Aceh, was chosen as the new Assistant Resident for Pidie, and Hasan Ali, the Pesindo leader, was chosen as deputy Assistant Resident. The positions of wedana (district administrator) were given to local Pesindo leaders. At the level of uleebalang territories, the Markas Besar Rakyat Umum established governing committees of at least four members who, in turn, chose a chairman. Virtually without exception PUSA loyalists emerged as the guardians of the "people's sovereignty."

The repercussions from Pidie were soon felt in other parts of Aceh. In the middle of February 1946 twenty-three uleebalangs from the XXII Mukim region of Aceh Besar declared that in response to "people's sovereignty" they were stepping aside in favor of popularly-chosen territorial heads. The Dutch-educated uleebalangs still retained their positions in the Residency government and in the kabupaten governments outside of Pidie, but the official Republican establishment would soon be battered by the ongoing revolutionary wave.

In February disturbances broke out in East Aceh which heralded the second phase of the social revolution. Teungku Amir Husin al Mujahid, the founding chairman of Pemuda PUSA, declared himself commander of the TPR (Tentara Perjuangan Rakyat, the People's Struggle Army), a force established to depose those uleebalangs who, in Teungku Amir Husin al Mujahid's view, were henchmen for Cumbo' and the Dutch. The TPR was, in fact, never much of an army, its recruits possessing little or, more often, no military training and, initially at least, no arms to speak of. Teungku Amir Husin al Mujahid's ardent call to struggle, his colorful personality and his inimitable allegorical oratory soon attracted hundreds of village pemuda to his force. The TPR was temporarily stalled by an uleebalang force under the command of Teuku Ibrahim Cunda, the self-styled Panglima Agung (Exalted Commander). The Panglima Agung's resistance was soon broken by the overwhelming numbers of village pemuda who had joined the TPR. After deposing the uleebalang officials of East Aceh and appointing their successors, Teungku Amir Husin al-Mujahid installed a PUSA ulama, Teungku Daud Sulaiman Bungkaih, as the new Assistant Resident of North Aceh. The TPR then continued its disorganized march along the north coast towards the Residency capital.

In early March the TPR, now numbering in the thousands, moved into Kutaradja. Teungku Amir Husin al Mujahid demanded the dismissal of Major General Teuku Nya' Arif, Colonel Sjammaun Gaharu and several other officers of the TRI command. To the end, Sjammaun Gaharu stuck to his vision of a professionalized army in the face of revolutionary spontaneity. Sjammaun Gaharu had earlier rejected a proposal to give Teungku Amir Husin al Mujahid command of the Military Police Division on the grounds that officers gained their TRI rank only from their previous position in either the Giyugun or the KNIL (Dutch colonial army).4 9 Tsungku Amir Husin al Mujahid also demanded the removal of Teuku Nya' Arif as Resident on leave and Teuku Husin Trumon as Assistant Resident for Aceh Besar. The TRI command found itself isolated with little choice but to comply with the demands. Clearly Pesindo chairman Ali Hasjmy, who controlled the heaviest armed military unit in Kutaradja, was eager to see the departure of Teuku Nya' Arif and Sjammaun Gaharu, both of whom he found to be singularly lacking in revolutionary zeal. Nor was Teungku M. Daud Beureueh amenable to supporting the now truncated official Republican establishment. Against such formidable opposition, Colonel Sjammaun Gaharu could count on neither the TRI soldiers nor the TRI officers with a PUSA background.51 The TRI and the Residency government were direpolusikan oleh rakyat— "revolutionized by the people." Teungku Amir Husin al Mujahid assumed Teuku Nya' Arif's title as TRI supervisor with the rank of Major General and Husin Yusuf replaced Sjammaun Gaharu as division commander. Acting Resident Teuku Chi' Muhammad Daud Syah was elevated to Resident, a position he would hold for the remainder of the revolution. But the important change in the Residency government was the appearance as Assistant

Resident of Teuku M. Amin, the PUSA secretary who had since the late 1930s been Teungku M. Daud Beureueh's right-hand man.53 While Teuku Chi' Muhammad Daud Syah handled administrative matters and, thus, provided a semblance of continuity, Assistant Resident Reuku M. Amin was the troubleshooter handling political matters.

In a matter of days a number of uleebalangs and former TRI officers, including Teuku Nya' Arif and Sjammaun Gaharu, were placed under arrest in Kutaradja. At the same time, the TPR detained the Aceh Besar uleebalangs, even those who had voluntarily stepped aside a month earlier. Then a P emud a force moved down the west coast in a round-up of most of the uleebalangs of West Aceh and South Aceh.54 Approximately sixty uleebalangs, including Teuku Nya' Arif, were interned in the mountains of Central Aceh.55

By the end of March 1946 the social revolution was completed. Of the various popular uprisings on Java and Sumatra accompanying independence, the social revolution in Aceh was, in Reid's estimation, "the most complete and successful. For that very reason, however, Aceh could not fit easily into post-independence Indonesia." Why this should have been the case deserves some comment. For one thing, the national elite drew a distinction between "National Revolution," the struggle to gain independence, and "social revolution," the uprising against indigenous power structures. But for PUSA leaders national revolution and social revolution were inseparable. For the social revolutionaries the issue was clear-cut: only by overcoming those who awaited the return of the Dutch, those who prevented the mobilization of the "people" and those who, even if "nationalistic," were considered to be lacking in the requisite semangat (spirit) could true independence be attained. Postrevolution central governments, however, were never willing to acknowledge the social revolution in Aceh as a legitimate and valued part of the national revolutionary heritage. This was not surprising in view of the fact that in late 1945 and early 1946 the central Republican leadership had brought to bear its then meager resources in opposition to the social revolutions taking place on Java.

The inability of the national elite to accord "centrality" to the Acehnese social revolutionaries was also in large measure a cultural problem. The result of the social revolution was the removal of an elite possessing the one characteristic seemingly necessary for relating to the center, viz., the mastery of the colonial language which provided a shared modality of thought with the national elite. Anderson provides this analysis of the importance of the Dutch language in postrevolution Indonesia:

Since it was the school language of this whole generation of intellectuals which grew up before the Japanese Occupation, it remained the inner language of elite discourse, especially between nationalists of different ethnic groups. It was the medium for thinking about and absorbing ideas and institutions from the West. . . . And because, as mentioned previously, Dutch education was largely given to the children of prijaji (even upper level prijaji) families, it was subsequently to appear as a sort of diploma of high status within traditional society. To this day the vague line dividing those who are binnen (in) and those who are buiten (out) in Djakarta politics remains fluency in the colonial language.58

Lacking as they did the colonial language, and lacking the shared experiences and implicit meanings that its mastery provided, the Acehnese social revolutionaries were unable to operate comfortably or effectively in postrevolution Jakarta where the Dutch language was centrally important. There would be no influential Acehnese leaders at the center in postrevolution Indonesia; indeed, Acehnese revolutionary leaders seemed to have little ambition for political roles at the center.

That the social revolution was so complete and successful was attributable to the presence of a cohesive group, under the guidance of PUSA ulamas, possessing its own shared experiences and symbols from the reformist and revivalist movement of the 1930s. For a people who had suffered the shock of defeat at the hands of the Dutch, PUSA ulamas attempted to provide new categories of meaning. In the process, the position of the ulama in Acehnese society was transformed. In contrast to conservative ulamas who stayed in their dayahs, reformist ulamas emerged to hold mass meetings in villages. In contrast to conservative ulamas who maintained that the esoteric meanings of Islam were open to only a small group of initiates, reformist ulamas proclaimed the message that the meaning of the scriptures was open to all believers. Against this background, the significance of the social revolution is clear. The point is not that a contending group replaced an established elite. It is, rather, that the social revolution confirmed the position of reformist ulamas as popular leaders, a fundamental transformation of the position of religious leaders within Acehnese society. Central to this transformation was the idea of implementing the "people's sovereignty." An ulama who had been a Pesindo leader and then an Assistant Resident recalled:

I had no preparation at all, according to the sarj anas [university degree holders], before becoming Assistant Resident. But I knew the people. I had practical knowledge of society. I and others asssswsijwsfflffiRtasjOTgs;

like me were chosen to head the government because we were the real leaders. We were the ones who led the people during the revolution, and the people were completely behind us. Once the revolution was over, the sarj anas emerged and asked where their government positions were since, they said, we were not "qualified" for our positions.59

Finally, we need to ask what the Acehnese social revolution "meant" to the participants, what shared idiom bound the "people" to the social revolutionary leaders who claimed to be acting on their behalf. Two ideas were central to the social revolution: first, the idea of equality in Islam; and, second, the idea of transcending particularistic self-interest through perjuangan (struggle). A fundamental tenet of Islam is the equality of all believers before God and before the religious law revealed to His Prophet, what Kessler calls a "profound moral egalitarianism." Such a belief has relevance for social life if only because of the glaring incongruity between moral egalitarianism and social realities. A persistent question is whether this incongruity can be bridged. Prophetic voices have promised social egalitarianism as well if only Muslims could transcend the base interests and act on behalf of the community of the faithful; but since hawa nafsu (passion) is an innate part of human nature, Islam can consistently provide only an abstract moral egalitarianism. The tension between moral egalitarianism and social egalitarianism produces an ambiguous outcome for there are no specific prescriptions for action. In this regard, the egalitarian imperative resembles the populist conception of justice. And yet the idea of realizing social egalitarianism remains.

Ritual temporarily bridges the gap: through a ritualized suspension of the realities of social life, important religious occasions such as celebration of the pilgrimage and observance of the fast allow believers to join together in equality before God, leaving behind the particularisms that divide them in everyday life.

Aside from ritual occasions, there are times of prolonged upheaval when the prospect of realizing the implicit promise of social equality assumes an aura of immediacy. Such was the time of the social revolution in Aceh. As Kessler says:

. . . it is humanly persuasive and therefore politically relevant; it becomes especially persuasive on occasions when the normal social order, with all of its divisions and conflicts and enduring inequities and inequalities, goes into abeyance. Then, in time of political crisis or religious climax, all are faced equally by the same overriding issue. This transcendental if momentary equality gives intimations of the ideal Islamic community, harmonious, solidary and egalitarian.62

But the prospect of realizing equality on this earth, however transitory,

is not dependent on political crisis as such. Rather, it depends on what

the faithful do in a time of crisis, whether they act in a disinterested way transcending their individual particularistic interests. It is here that the idea of perjuangan (struggle) is important. The participants remembered the social revolution as a time when they perceived themselves to be acting on behalf of the community of the faithful. It is thus during the perjuangan that the ritualized community of equal believers came closest to realization. In these terms the remark of Teungku M. Daud Beureueh, made during the social revolution, that the "people" were free of the grip of hava nafsu made sense.63 It was not that he was blind to individual interests and ambitions, but simply that for the time being these paled to insignificance in the face of the commitment to the perjuangan in which the faithful were unified and the identities dividing men during corrupted times did not exist.

-•—i.j.'eaHff.rtafe^

63 'Teungku M. Daud Beureueh, "Merdekakanlah Bathinmoe!" p. 24.

CHAPTER SIX THE REVOLUTION (II)

The Dutch did not reestablish a presence in Aceh during the revolution; doubtless memories of the Aceh War dissuaded them.1 The beleaguered central Republican leadership, faraway on the island of Java, had neither rewards nor sanctions to bring to bear on the situation in Aceh. Precisely because Republican authority rested solely on moral suasion, the central leadership enjoyed a high degree of popularity and compliance in Aceh. Accordingly, the post-social revolution government operated with almost complete autonomy. Also, the religious leaders and youth leaders who took over government positions maintained among themselves a remarkable degree of cohesion. »When Indonesia was basking in the radiance of freedom," a PUSA publicist wrote, "the people of Aceh took this broad opportunity to conduct their own religious and state affairs."2 Only during the last year of the revolution would the new leadership confront some of the complexities and challenges awaiting them in postrevolution Indonesia.

Following the First Dutch military offensive against the Republic (July 1947), the central government appointed Teungku M. Daud Beureueh as Military Governor of Aceh with the rank of Major General. The Military

*:z;-.-.ï?:«ffl«jHBHI

Governor's commitment to the Republic remained steadfast, as demonstrated by his response to a proposal in early 1949 that Aceh could be selfgoverning in the Dutch-backed federal system established as a counter to the Republic:

There are no regional feelings in Aceh; thus we have no intention of establishing a Great Aceh state as we are Republican spirited . . . The loyalty of the people to the Republic of Indonesia Government is neither pretended nor fabricated but rather is honest and sincere loyalty that comes from pure heart-felt commitment as well as from firm calculation. The Acehnese people are convinced that separate independence, region by region, state by state, can never lead to enduring freedom.3

Teungku M. Daud Beureueh's commitment to the Republic was not limited to words alone, however, but was evident in his actions to reorganize the Republican military forces in Aceh. Vice President Hatta, who remained on Sumatra for six months following the Dutch offensive of July 1947, urged the Military Governor to facilitate the merger of the independent militias into the Indonesian army, which, as of June 1947, had been renamed TNI (Tentara Nasional Indonesia, Indonesian National Army).4 The central Republican leaders gave high priority to military reorganization, for should the Dutch attack the capital of Jogjakarta they anticipated a move to Sumatra where, hopefully, there should be a unified military force responsive to higher control. Teungku M. Daud Beureueh obliged the central government by negotiating the incorporation of his own Mujahidin militia, Ali Hasjmy's well-armed Pesindo force, Teungku Amir Husin al

Mujahid's Payabakong Division,5 and the extant TRI forces into TOI Division X. These negotiations were intricate as in the course of two years institutional and personal interests emerged within the four organizations which militated against incorporation. As one participant said: »No one but Daud Beureueh could have solved the military integration problem.»6 The solution to the problem was that Teungku M. Daud Beureueh appointed himself as Acting Division Commander and the Mujahidin commander, Cet Mat Rahmany, as Division Chief of Staff. Most of the regiment commands were given to TRI officers, but a number of Mujahidin and Pesindo leaders received staff positions. TRI commander Colonel Husin Yusuf was initially unhappy that the Military Governor gave so many staff positions to militia leaders. Such was Teungku M. Daud Beureueh's power that he could deny Husin Yusuf a position in the TNI for recalcitrance and then, several months later, appoint him as TNI Division Commander. But Teungku M. Daud Beureueh came to regret his actions in reorganizing the military for, once the revolution was over, the center had greater control over Acehnese officers and the armaments they had collected.

Since the Dutch did not attempt a moye into Aceh, Acehnese merchants were able to carry on a lucrative barter trade across the Strait of Malacca with Penang and Singapore. Intially, trade across the Strait was unhampered as the Dutch had not yet gained control over the waterways. By 1947 the Dutch had established a naval blockade which made passage across the Strait dangerous but did little to deter the Acehnese traders. The most important export commodities from Aceh were rubber and palm oil which came from stockpiles the Japanese left behind and, then, from the plantations of East Aceh. Also, small-holder copra and areca nut commanded high prices in Malaya. Acehnese traders brought back textiles, in great demand after the Japanese occupation, and guns and ammunition. The trade was as firmly under PUSA's control as were the administrative apparatus and the military forces. PUSA members were appointed to direct the various Residency government-financed trading companies. But not all the proceeds from trade were used in Aceh; consequently, the Acehnese would claim for themselves the title "daerah modal Revolusi" (the region of capital for the Revolution). Acehnese merchants donated a portion of their profits to support the Republic's foreign emissaries and, in 1948, provided foreign exchange funds sufficient for the purchase of two airplanes.7

Given autonomy from the central Republican leadership and cohesiveness among themselves, PUSA leaders had the opportunity to take some initial steps in accord with what they perceived to be the imperatives of Islam. Such steps would prove to be contentious issues between Aceh and the central government once the revolution was over. But more problematic than any given policy initiative was the underlying attitude of Acehnese ulamas which became evident in the latter part of the revolution -they were presuming to make a contribution to the national ideological debate, to indicate what they believed should be the foundation for a postrevolution Indonesia. Whether these initial steps taken during the revolution are seen to be of great or minimal significance depends in large measure on what meaning is attributed to the professed desire of establishing an Indonesian state "based on Islam." It is remarkable that the idea of a state based on Islam—or what came to be called "Islamic state" in the 1950s—is almost completely, but not quite, lacking in concreteness and institutional focus. Outside observers have been struck, as W. Cantwoll Smith says, "by the fervour for an Islamic state seemingly accompanied by a vast obscurity as to its nature, or at least an inability on the part of those involved to declare what they had in mind."8

During the revolution, the chairman of Masjumi for Aceh, Teungku Nur el Ibrahimy, set forth the rationale for "a state based on Islamic ideology." He first outlined the limitations of the perspective which argued against such a state:

. . . there has emerged an opposing school influenced by Western thought which, without bothering to investigate the details of Islam, maintains that Islam is a personal matter, an individual matter, which is to say a matter of an individual's relationship with God. Which means that if we have fulfilled our duties towards God [ibadat], then we have finished, for that is our sole responsibility to God or to Religion . . . [it is further maintained that] Religion has to be kept far outside the political realm. The state may be arranged and organized however we wish without being guided by Religion, without being restricted by God's teachings.9

Teungku Nur el Ibrahimy responded to this "Westernized" perspective by

pointing to the broad applicability of Islamic teachings:

ltlitS ?ealin S ,wit h if3 "« of divinity, religious duties and morals, Islam also emphasizes political issues or, more generally, worldly matters. * w

Within the glorious Koran we find abundant evidence that Islam does not only provide guidance to mankind in matters of divinity "Ä"f duties but al*o provides guidance in social problems ^ ma ? * l n d can I™* achie ve prosperity and happiness in this life as well as in the hereafter.

Within the holy scriptures we find many verses spelline out various 'lawssuch as those relating to trade, mortgages?g debts and credit, interest and so forth; marriage, divorce ' S the like; inheritance and other matters as well. Also we find "laws" concerning theft, adultery, murder and so forth which cover all events in the social life of mankind.

Do not think that all of these laws are suitable for the age lL^l/TLmlY' f°r they are also suitable for t«« »odem *fe. the age of the airplane, of the radio, of the atom; moreover they SU1^ bl! f0r a fUtUre Which ha* Z« to Zline y r? , ^ ^

win L**Z 1 u6 Clear h0w severe and d"adful God's "reward" will be for those who want to separate politics from Religion or more specifically, for those who want to form a state frefof' ' 8S Kora^.10 " contained in «>e holy book, the glorious

Even though the transcendent appeal of a state based on Islam involved a great deal more than the legal claims made on its behalf, the concept remains elusive. To gain a better understanding of the concept, I believe a simple and perhaps seemingly trivial question must be confronted: why should Acehnese ulamas have wanted the state to be called islamic? One answer to this question is provided by Smith and is instructive as far as it goes: "For in the first instance, an Islamic state is not a form of state so much as a form of Islam. It is to be distinguished not so much from other kinds of state-liberal, democratic, fascist, or whatever-as from other expressions of Islam as a religion."11 The argument here is that there is a desire to complete the circle—if there are separate expressions of Islam such as Islamic theology, Islamic mysticism, Islamic art and the like, then there should be an Islamic state. The compelling logic of this for the faithful must be seen in light of the urgent desire to rehabilitate history, to redeem the indignities of defeat and colonization at the hands of Westerners. For Acehnese ulamas who in the 1930s explicitly linked reformist goals with the historical renovation of the community, the perjuangan (struggle) necessarily entailed the concept of an Islamic state for such an entity would be manifest evidence that the circle was complete, the indignities redeemed and history rehabilitated.

If the appeal of the idea is evident, what, if any, substance would there have been to an Islamic state? Or, to state the question in a different manner: should the Acehnese ulamas have won the day, should they have succeeded in gaining an Indonesian state called Islamic, what would they have proposed to do with it? I have argued earlier that an understanding of the reformist ulamas is undermined by assuming that their position within Acehnese society allowed them to employ religious symbols in pursuit of political goals. The relationship was reversed: the ulamas used political means to achieve what they conceived to be religious ideals. Now the one ideal of transcendent appeal is the possibility of all believers overcoming the particularisms of self-interest, kinship and locality, and acting as true Muslims, in unity and harmony, as equals before God and His Law. The ideal is not so much one of the perfectability of man as it is one of realizing that the establishment of the community of the righteous can come only through complete submission to iiiraiM^trMmiiiW'iwttrir~Tirti«ifrrHi«ii*firi!riii't'Ht >W-V«>p <»vW, .rî:M7, - r'fx-y:~^n

God. Nonetheless, the ideal is optimistic. Another aspect of Islam, however, is a profound pessimism that a unified and harmonious community of the faithful can be maintained over the long run for hawa nafsu is an innate part of human nature. What is seemingly a contradiction between an optimistic vision of community and a pessimistic view of human nature is not recognized as a contradiction but rather as a tension central to the Islamic faith.

That Islam contains an optimistic ideal of community and a pessimistic view of human nature is crucial to understanding what Acehnese ulamas had in mind when they spoke of a state based on Islam, and is also crucial to understanding that their views, inchoate as they may seem to outsiders, represented what might be called a theory of Islamic statecraft. The essence of their Islamic statecraft was that the state should be centrally concerned with this tension such that it would define and promote those tenets of the Faith which motivate believers to base their actions on a higher principle that self-interest. Further, and most importantly, an Islamic state should foster and protect a society possessing a shared awareness that justice and righteousness comes only through complete submission to God and His Law as revealed to His Prophet. Although the possibility of achieving a just and righteous society ultimately rests on the moral worth of individuals, the goals of an Islamic state included neither protection of individual rights nor encouragement of individual actualization. The emphasis always remains on the community of the faithful, not on the individual. What form such a state would take remained unclear and, in some measure, irrelevant. When in my interviews with Islamic state proponents I asked if in fact Indonesia had been declared an Islamic state what, if any, institutional changes would have followed, the response was invariably that none would necessarily have occurred. The compelling question for Islamic state proponents was not one of institutions but rather one of how public authority could be used to create and maintain a unified and harmonious community of the faithful. It is striking that when proponents spoke of an Islamic state, they in fact had little to say about the state as such. Their real interest was the quality of society, and the state entered into their thinking only insofar as it served the ends of achieving the ideal society. I once asked Aceh's foremost ulama: "Why an Islamic state?" His response was to the point: 12 "So that Acehnese society can be truly Islamic."

PUSA ulamas contemplated these issues of state and society during the revolution. Although they did not openly press their ideological claims for an Islamic state on the beleaguered Republican central leadership—this would come once the Republic was victorious—they were nonetheless intent on giving the revolution a distinctive Islamic flavor in Aceh. Three areas of endeavor exemplified the Islamic commitment of the Acehnese revolutionaries: Teungku M. Daud Beureueh's continued efforts to mobilize the Acehnese through his inimitable suasive and hortative skills; some initial efforts at using public authority to control and regulate the moral climate of society; and specific steps to institutionalize the religious judicial system established by the Japanese and to insure the future of the madrasah.

Teungku M. Daud Beureueh as Military Governor continued doing what he did best, exhorting the faithful to unity, struggle and ritual purity.

An idea of his message can be gained from an interview with the Military Governor's adjutant:

I accompanied Daud Beureueh on his many speaking tours around Aceh. He always began his speeches by emphasizing the importance of semangat perjuangan [the spirit of struggle] and the importance of unity. And he always said that the struggle for the Republic of Indonesia was a perang sabil [holy war], for if the Republic failed the Dutch would return once again to repress Islam. It was a religious duty to prevent the Dutch from winning. Thus the signs of being a good Muslim, he maintained, were struggle and unity in face of the enemy.

But then Daud Beureueh continued by talking about other ways of becoming a good Muslim. Conduct and habits which were not according to the teachings of Islam must be changed. Once when we went to Blangkejeren in Southeast Aceh, he declared that the attire of local women—revealing a section of the midriff—was in conflict with Islam. But he was even firmer with the men of Blangkejeren: he said he had heard they were lazy—gambling on cock fights and sitting around the house while the women worked in the rice-fields. This is not the way true Muslims act. He said that believers should not be fooled by those who claim to possess a special ilmu [here meaning various magical arts such as invulnerability] because Islam teaches that believers must pursue real ilmu [here meaning knowledge or science]. And, as he did elsewhere, Daud Beureueh told the people that traditional rituals surrounding death—feasts, intercessory prayers and the like—were strictly forbidden by Islam. He was always firm on this issue.^

Teungku M. Daud Beureueh and his followers saw a close connection between moral rectitude and piety, on the one hand, and a sense of community and purpose, on the other. Beyond exhortation, Teungku M. Daud Beureueh took some concrete steps to enforce public morality and piety. The most notable step was the Military Governor's use of his extraordinary powers to proclaim that those deemed guilty of gambling, adultery or theft, whether formally charged or not, whether acquitted of charges or not, and even those who were only suspected of these transgressions, could 14 be interned in the interests of "public security." Such apparent disregard for evidentiary requirements naturally outraged Dutch-trained lawyers. This negative reaction raised the disturbing question, in the words of a PUSA leader, of "why couldn't we implement Islamic law? We wanted to do away with gambling and the like, but we were told that we did not have the legal authority to do so. It appeared that the goals of Muslims could not be carried out since the center insisted on following Dutch law."

Attempts at enforcing moral rectitude were extended to ritual as well. We have seen that the Islamic reformism of PUSA ulamas had much less to do with doctrinal issues than with ritual. Accordingly, in 1948 the Residency Office of Religious Affairs along with "ulamas throughout Aceh" issued a joint declaration forbidding various traditional religious practices which were deemed to be local accretions anathema to a purified Islam. This prohibition included the whole ritual complex associated with death-elaborate feasts held at fixed intervals following the burial of a relative and incessant chanting of prayers (ratib) as well as other efforts at intercession on behalf of the soul of the departed. Also, the reformists forbade the Acehnese variant of saint veneration: feasts, recitation of the Koran and worshipping at the tombs of famed ulamas whose grace and mercy had been invoked to grant a wish, cure an illness and the like.16 These prohibitions of traditional ritual practice were unenforceable, of course, but during the revolution the government did prevent public access to the tomb of the most venerated Acehnese ulama, Teungku Abdurrau'uf (Syiah Kuala).

While PUSA ulamas did not think primarily in terms of institutions when they spoke of implementing Islamic law, they nonetheless wanted to consolidate the judicial reforms from the Japanese occupation. In August of 1946 the Residency government established Islamic courts, called Mahkamah Syariah, at several administrative levels and an Islamic appellate court with the same name in Kutaradja. The religious court system established in Aceh was a completely autonomous endeavor separate from any authorization from the central government. In January 1947 Mr. Teuku Muhammad Hasan, the Governor of Sumatra, instructed the residents in Sumatra to establish religious courts. In part the Governor took this action to meet demands for Islamic courts in other parts of Sumatra where, in contrast to Aceh, the Japanese military administration had not separated religious judicial matters from the customary courts and in part to control, in Lev's words, "what appeared to be a wild situation in Atjeh." Since Mahkamah Syariah. already existed in Aceh, local leaders chose to interpret the Governor's instruction as allowing for an even broader competence of the Islamic courts. Thus in Aceh more legal areas were subsumed by the courts than in other regions of Sumatra. Mahkamah Syariah had jurisdiction over nikah (marriage), talak (divorce) and rujuk (revocation of divorce)—all traditional concerns of religious courts. More problematical in terms of judicial competence, however, were issues of inheritance and harta wakaf (religious trusts, usually land). The legislative assembly in Aceh decided that inheritance was strictly within the competence of Islamic courts, denying secular civil courts the right of hearing inheritance cases. Inheritance was thus the contentious issue between religious courts and secular courts. More importantly, however, these judicial initiatives would emerge as a contentious issue between the center and Aceh, representative of the broader problem of whether postrevolution central governments acknowledged the existence of legitimate Republican authority in Aceh during the revolution. Only ten years later would the central government official decree whether Governor Teuku Muhammad Hasan's order of January 1947, which established Islamic courts on Sumatra, was a legitimate act of the Republic. In the interim, the delay in confirming the Governor's instruction called into question the entire Islamic legal apparatus on Sumatra and, to PUSA leaders, was a 19 disturbing portent.

pp. 10-12.

Another important item on PUSA's agenda was the future of the madrasah. For PUSA leaders the madrasah, their own creation, represented the corner stone of the struggle for independence: the madrasah was the source of the pemuda who played such an important role in the revolution and of the reformist and revivalistic symbols which provided an ideological orientation for the younger generation. As a PUSA ulama said: "Acehnese leaders at that time saw no shortcomings in the madrasah. Those who became revolutionary leaders had either taught at or studied at madrasahs. But even today we feel the same way: we still do not concede that there 20 are any shortcomings." In 1946 the Residency government decreed that madrasahs were state schools receiving government subsidies and that madrasah teachers were state employees receiving government salaries.21 This step predictably encouraged the establishment of even more religious schools; by the end of the revolution the Residency government was funding more than two hundred madrasahs. By contrast, the PUSA stalwarts did absolutely nothing to encourage the revival of the traditional dayah. As natural as support for madrasahs seemed to the reformist ulamas, they were nonetheless aware of the potential for ensuing problems. When central government officials visited Aceh, the question of what to do with the state-supported madrasahs invariably came up since nowhere else had a local government completely taken over responsibility for Islamic elementary schools. There were no central government regulations providing for what Ministry of Education officials considered to be a highly irregular state of affairs. An intense commitment to a religiously based elementary education plus an awareness that there were forces working against making the madrasah an integral part of state education led PUSA ulamas to propose an integration of the madrasahs and the village schools. The basis of the proposed integration was a curriculum including a minimum of 23 thirty percent of religious subjects. In the event, the integration did not come about. Nor, as we shall see, have continued attempts at integration of religious and secular elementary schools been successful. Yet the idea that Acehnese children should receive an education based on the madrasah model remains. During the revolution, PUSA leaders institutionalized the madrasah such that it could not easily be dismantled by unsympathetic education officials at the center. In this respect, at least, they were successful.

In late 1948 the Residency government faced an opposition movement which was noteworthy not because it threatened PUSA's control—this was never endangered—nor because it undermined the cohesion between ulamas and pemuda leaders—opposition served to enhance cohesion—but rather because it foreshadowed the complexities and problems PUSA leaders would have to confront in postrevolution Indonesia, The opposition leaders accused a number of government officials and pemuda leaders, including Assistant Resident Teuku M. Amin and Pesindo leader Ali Hasjmy, of incompetence and corruption in the management of the Pidie uleebalang properties, state plantations and trading companies. Also, the legitimacy of

November 1948, No. 41." Typescript in my possession.

the social revolution was called into question as opposition leaders criticized the March 1946 overthrow of Resident Teuku Nya' Arif and the TRI officers. The nominal leader of the opposition was Said Ali, after whom the movement was named, but whatever threat this movement represented came not from Said Ali and his followers in Kutaradja but rather from three disparate groups, all anti-PUSA, which supported the movement: uleebalangs, left-wing nationalists and conservative ulamas. Uleebalangs were not unnaturally embittered over their position in post-social revolution Aceh; the Said Ali movement provided them an opportunity to seek redress of their many grievances.. The interest of left-wing nationalists from Medan, who since the first Dutch military offensive in mid-1947 had sought refuge in the vicinity of Langsa (East Aceh), in the Said Ali movement was related to the ongoing conflict between the leftists, who considered the Kutaradja government reactionary, and PUSA leaders, who considered the Langsa group anti-Republican. The area around Langsa was a mixed zone; although part of Aceh, the presence of plantations and oil fields gave it an enclave character rather more similar to East Sumatra. Military Governor Teungku M. Daud Beureueh used his powers on several occasions to limit the activities of the left-wing nationalists in Langsa, the most drastic instance being the detention for several months of the Communist leader Abdul Karim MS. The identification of several conservative ulamas in Aceh Besar with the Said Ali movement was indicative of the ever expanding schism between PUSA reformists and those religious leaders who viewed PUSA as a threat to the institutional, ritual and doctrinal foundations of traditional Acehnese Islam. We have already seen how PUSA leaders gave complete precedence to the madrasah over the dayah and how they moved firmly against the ritual complex—death rituals and saint veneration—of conservative Islam. Opposed to the ecstatic and esoteric mysticism of some conservative ulamas was the stark and literalist message of PUSA ulamas that the Koran's truths were open to all believers. And something as basic as the proper observation of the five daily prayers became a bitter issue of contention between the two groups. Even in areas where conservative ulamas were strongest they gained no influence in local government: in South Aceh, the most conservative region, the Assistant Resident, M. Sahim Hasjmy, and the wedanas were ardent reformists and local Pesindo leaders.

The Said Ali movement was essentially an effort to exploit potential center-regional conflicts, but the movement made little headway because it came too early and the central government came down on PUSA's side. Anticipating a second Dutch offensive, the central Republican leadership was unwilling to jeopardize its position in Aceh. In November 1948 Teungku M. Daud Beureueh authorized the detention of Said Ali and approximately one hundred of his followers. Also the Governor of North

Sumatra, Mr. S. M. Amin, declared that, contrary to Said Ali's demands, there would be no prosecutions of those who defeated the uleebalangs in the social revolution.

Following the second Dutch offensive against the Republic in late December 1948, the autonomy of the Acehnese leadership was all the greater as Dutch forces captured the central Republican leadership and as the Republican strongholds on Sumatra were cut off from Java. Sjafruddin Prawiranegara, a Masjumi party leader and cabinet minister who was on Sumatra when the Dutch captured the Republican central leadership, announced the establishment of the Republic of Indonesia Emergency Government. By July 1949 Dutch-Indonesian negotiations had led to the return of the central Republican leadership to Jogjakarta, whereupon Sjafruddin Prawiranegara returned his mandate as head of the Emergency Government.28 But because of the uncertainties surrounding continued negotiations with the Dutch, President Sukarno requested that Sjafruddin remain on Sumatra with the title "Deputy Prime Minister." Noting that communications between Sumatra and the center were difficult and that the situation on

Sumatra demanded special regulations, the President authorized the Deputy 29 Prime Minister to act on behalf of the central government.

Deputy Prime Minister Sjafruddin thus possessed the extraordinary power of unilaterally decreeing government statutes for Sumatra which would later be subject to central government review. And indeed Sjafruddin did something quite extraordinary with this power: at the urging of PUSA he issued, in the name of the President, a government decree establishing Aceh as a province separate from North Sumatra. Sjafruddin's decree of December 1949 preceded by only a few days the formal transfer of sovereignty from the Netherlands to the Republik Indonesia Serikat (Republic of the United States of Indonesia), a negotiated compromise state including both the Republic of Indonesia and the various Dutch-created 31 "federal" states. Preparations were then made in Aceh to establish a provincial government. In a matter of days, however, a cable from the Ministry of Home Affairs stated that Sjafruddin's decree was being reviewed by the central government. According to the Ministry, a separate province of Aceh was in violation of an earlier decision dividing Sumatra into three provinces only. But a second Ministry of Home Affairs cable said that preparations for the province could continue pending a definitive decision. On this ambiguous and problematical note the revolution came to an end.

Anthony Reid, with Aceh in mind, notes "the apparent paradox that the strongest regional challenges to the central government came from just those elements who had fought most tenaciously and successfully for the Republic during the revolution." Acehnese revolutionaries took pride in their loyalty to the Republic during the struggle for independence. In this vein was Ali Hasjmy's tribute to those who fought during the revolution:

. . . many of our youths fell as martyrs. But they did not die in vain . . . their struggle and their sacrifice were successful, for the Dutch army was unable to occupy Aceh. Thus there remained a single region of the Republic of Indonesia which was still one hundred percent in Indonesian hands. That was Aceh!34 As intense as the commitment to the Republic was, why, then, the "apparent" paradox of an early challenge to the center following the revolution? The challenge came because the Acehnese revolutionary experience entailed a great deal more than supplanting Dutch colonialism. Acehnese revolutionaries were, in a sense, too revolutionary by half—they were also social revolutionaries. Furthermore, they began to think about how to make the postrevolution state one based on what they thought were the dictates of Islam. From the social revolution and the Islamic state idea,

PUSA leaders elaborated a distinctive set of identity symbols which at once made sense of the revolutionary experience and laid the foundation for Aceh's participation in postrevolution Indonesia. Leaders at the center would display little understanding of and patience with the Acehnese revolutionary symbols. The national leadership proved incapable, for reasons we shall explore, of according legitimacy and value—"relative centrality"—to what the Acehnese leaders were saying about themselves and their vision for Indonesia.

CHAPTER SEVEN THE DARUL ISLAM REBELLION: THE BACKGROUND

The Postrevolution Center: The View from Aceh

The Indonesian national revolution was over. What could be made of the revolution was the foremost political issue of the 1950s. For the Acehnese revolutionaries the goal of the struggle was clear even if they were uncertain as how to go about achieving their goals. Hasan Saleh, an Acehnese army officer who became the military leader of the Darul Islam rebellion, argued that there were two phases of the perjuangan (struggle): "The first is the struggle to obtain the state as a bowl [wadah] and a room [ruang], and the second is the struggle to fill this bowl or room • with a meaning desired by various parties and groups. Whereas before people from every party and religion were united in order to realize an independent state, they are now divided into separate groups to press their own ideologies and beliefs." And with a change of metaphor, Hasan Saleh continues: "We already have a glass, but this glass has yet to be filled; one person wants to fill it with milk, another with soda, and yet another with forbidden rice wine. In fact Sukarno has already filled the glass with rice wine, but this has to be thrown out because he did this without the agreement of the people who own the glass." For Muslims the second phase was the struggle "to fill the state with God's law."1

It is striking to what degree the Acehnese leaders made their ideological argument with regard to all of Indonesia. Yet their immediate concern was a defense of Acehnese Islam against the onslaught of a secularizing center; for this reason, a separate province of Aceh assumed great importance. Acehnese reformist ulamas put forward two claims: on the one hand, a demand for a separate province, and, on the other, a projection of PUSA's struggle on the national scene. Accordingly, there are two contending explanations for the Darul Islam rebellion giving emphasis to one or the other of the two demands—region and religion. The "regionalist" explanation is that the rebellion resulted from bitterness over the abolition of the province of Aceh, inability to Acehnese to compete with other ethnic jrcups in the larger province of North Sumatra, and disappointment over the level of central government allocations for infrastructural development. If it were a "regionalist" rebellion, the central government would have been confronted with a fairly clear set of policy alternatives to settle the rebellion. This is not to say that a settlement would be achieved easily or that any of the coalition cabinets during the 1950s possessed the political, administrative and financial capabilities to bring about a settlement. But such considerations are complicated by the "religious" explanation which holds that the rebellion was an attempt to establish a state based on Islam. According to this explanation, the rebellion said something about Indonesia—that is, it purposefully set out to address the ongoing debate over the ideological foundation of the state. If it were a "religious" rebellion, as opposed to a purely "regionalist" one, a completely different response on the part of the government would be in order. Both explanations are relevant to understanding the Darul Islam rebellion in Aceh. Indeed, the fusion of the two rendered a resolution of the rebellion particularly intractable for the central government.

As my primary concern is to explain the causes of the Darul Islam rebellion from the perspective of the periphery, the center may appear to be far more cohesive than was in fact the case. It would thus be appropriate to make a few comments on the nature of the postcolonial center. Successor to and derivative of the Netherlands East Indies, the postcolonial center possessed much less power than its predecessor. There was a dramatic loss of central power for a number of reasons, not the least being the economic prerogatives the Dutch maintained in the postcolonial state which, for many Indonesians, raised the uncomfortable question of how genuine independence was. And in 19S0 the center confronted a country that during the revolution had either been under Dutch domination or been autonomous of the central Republican leadership. Yet as much as political weakness characterized the center, the comparison with the colonial order is in some measure misleading for an independent Indonesia was to constitute a new and different center. This was so not simply because Indonesians replaced Dutchmen. It was to be a new and different center because its very emergence had depended on the mobilization of popular support, and the appearance of local leaders who could deliver that support, against the colonial rulers. Attention is often focused, and rightfully so, on the unswerving commitment of the nationalist intelligentsia to an Indonesian nation-state. But there would have been no center for national-level leadership to claim as its own save for the involvement of the masses in the revolution. Moreover, the revolutionary character of the transition to independence, and the accompanying adulation of the "people," necessarily committed postcolonial governments to popular participation.

That Indonesia is such a diverse country ethnically, culturally and socially has led many observers to seek the underlying cause of political instability during the 1950s in this very diversity. However, attention should also be drawn to how remarkably strong and widespread the commitment to an Indonesian center was. The issue of the 1950s was thus not whether there should be an Indonesian center but whether, in the first instance, the center as constituted was representative of the revolutionary heritage. And as different groups attempted to attach their varied and mutually irreconcilable meanings to the revolutionary heritage, the issue became, to return to Hasan Saleh's simple metaphor, one of how to fill the glass. It was the responsibility of the national elite to mediate these various meanings within the formal framework of parliamentary democracy. The result, as is well known, was almost a decade of deadlock, stalemate and polarization at the center as one after another coalition cabinet attempted to make some sense of the demands placed on the government. Clearly the bitter divisions within the national-level leadership were apparent for all to see, but from the perspective of the far periphery the cohesiveness of this leadership was also striking. As Ruth McVey describes the group: "The social-political group that derived from the metropolitan superculture and peopled the post-Independence nationalist leadership was homogeneous enough, in spite of its factional quarrels, but this coherence derived in good part from its isolation and its ambivalent relationship to the larger society. In one sense it was a pioneering element, the spearhead of a change which would inexorably involve all of Indonesian society; but in another it was a hybrid, born of a brief and violent relationship between European and Indonesian cultures, insufficiently rooted in the general society."2 For five years the national elite delayed putting itself before the electorate: "they were anxious on the one hand to put down deeper roots into the society, to establish a real relationship with the mass clienteles they claimed to represent, and to link to themselves those lower-level leaders who might otherwise compete for the loyalties of the mass; at the same time, they were unsure of the extent of their public support, uncertain of how to go about securing it, and uncomfortable with the idea of sharing power with leaders who did not come from their own cultural milieu. The holding of the 195S general elections was in this sense something of an act of desperation, in which elite hesitation was overcome by an even greater alarm at political stagnation and a rapid decline in the Djakarta leadership's authority."

As much as anywhere the distance between central and local leadership was evident in Aceh. The social revolution had removed those Acehnese leaders—Dutch-educated uleebalangs—who most closely approximated the cultural milieu at the center and who shared with the central leadership a modality of thought derived from higher Dutch education. Moreover, the nature of the struggle for independence had isolated Acehnese from national-level politics. Even though the ideological claims of P(JSA leaders were consistently national, their political ambitions and skills remained regional and parochial. It was striking that in the early 1950s there was no national-level political leader of Acohnese origin who was active in Jakarta representing the interests of the Acehnese, and this at the time in postcolonial Indonesia when the Jakarta political elite included the highest proportion of leaders from Outer Islands. Even if an Acehnese had found a place in the upper reaches of Jakarta political life, it is probable that the sense of affinity required for admission into the national political elite would have preluded an effective role as a broker for Aceh. Benedict Anderson provided this analysis:

With a few rare exceptions, the modernist Islamic politician is caught in a critical dilemma. To the extent that he authentically represents the claims of Islam, he will have high prestige within his own community but little purchase on the nation as a whole; to the degree that he succeeds in working out relationships with nonummat groups and spreading his effective influence in the society at large, his prestige within his own community may be weakened.4 This dilemma of the national-level Islamic politician was exemplified by the role of Masjumi leaders who participated in every postrevolution cabinet until 1953. The realities of political survival in the capital were quite divorced from the dictates of natural Masjumi constituencies. Reformist Islamic politicians were particularly vulnerable to opposition charges that Masjumi was soft on the issue of maintaining central authority. One result of this vulnerability was that postrevolution moves against local autonomy in a Republican stronghold were implemented not by Javanese politicians but rather by central Masjumi leaders who in many cases originated from that region. Reformist Islamic leaders at the center, doubtless aware of the precariousness of their position, believed that the Jakarta political game had to be kept going until parliamentary elections allowed them to strengthen their hold on the government. In time, Masjumi followers on the far periphery came to see the game as ,'nherently compromising.

The secular-educated members of the national elite, who were unsympathetic to Islamic goals, had no intention of extending legitimacy to those religious-educated Acehnese leaders for whom the social revolution and an Islamic state represented the culmination of the struggle for independence. This segment of the Jakarta elite was unwilling or, more appropriately, simple unable to accord "relative centrality" to what PUSA leaders were saying about the type of Indonesia they wanted. For the most part, the national elite was at best unsympathetic and at worst hostile to what were seen as the pretensions of Islamic leaders. "No amount of Islamic symbolwaving by national political leaders," Lev commented, "can convince devout Muslims that such leadership is sympathetic to Islamic goals-historically their class never has been. They belong to a quite different world-view."5 Lev's mention of "world-view" is with regard to the Javanese cultural tradition which constituted an alternative Weltanschauung to Islam. Fran the perspective of PUSA leaders the "problem" with most national leaders was not only that they were "secular" but that this secularism was, in their view, a cover for a world-view still under the sway of the Indie cosmology of the classical kingdoms.6 Nominally Islamic, the religion of

Java, in Benda's words, "was an Islam with a difference; it constituted a syncretic absorption of certain aspects of Islam into the Hindu-Javanese 7 'establishment.'" The Javanese religious tradition is thus highly syncretic: transcendental, pantheistic and contemplative at the gentry (priyayi) level; magical, animistic and communalistic at the popular (abangan) level. The administrative elite at the center was almost completely derivative of the Javanese gentry class; the national parliamentary leadership to a lesser degree but sufficiently so to block Islamic party leaders who constituted only a minority of the group.

Prelude to Rebellion

From the start relations between Acehnese leaders and the central government were problematical, due to the ticking time bomb Deputy Prime Minister Syafruddin Prawiranegara left behind by declaring Aceh a separate province. Despite the dubious legal basis for a separate province, a governor (Teungku M. Daud Beureueh) and members of the provincial representative assembly (virtually all were PUSA leaders) were selected. It was not to last long, however. In early August 1950 the central government announced plans for a single North Sumatra province incorporating the

residencies of East Sumatra, Tapanuli and Aceh. The provincial reprethe style of Indonesian politics, see Benedict Anderson, "The Idea of sentative assembly of Aceh reacted by passing a strongly-worded resolution reiterating the demand for provincial status. The resolution was replete with expressions of loyalty to the central government and of great affection for Indonesia but maintained Aceh's right to manage itself under the supervision of the central government. PUSA leaders threatened that should their demand not be met the entire revolutionary leadership would leave government service. This threat was certainly unsettling: the central government could not afford to see PUSA retreat to a position of unremitting opposition.

Over the next several months the central government dispatched various national leaders to Aceh in an attempt to persuade PUSA leaders to go along with the new arrangement. In September two members of the newly inaugurated Natsir cabinet-Finance Minister Mr. Sjafruddin Prawiranegara (Masjumi) and Home Affairs Minister Mr. Assaat (nonparty but with close connections to Masjumi)-journeyed to Aceh to present their reasons why th* Acehnese should comply with the central government's decision. Assaat first argued that development demanded peace and security which, in turn, depended on a strong central government. Second, Assaat said that it would now be impossible to change the ten province arrangement for if one exception were made other regions would quickly advance reasons for even more changes. The recently negotiated agreement between the Republic and the Dutch-established "federal" states which had laid the basis for a unitary state precluded any tampering with the system.9

Sjafruddin told the PUSA leaders that he personally regretted such an unfortunate outcome as he had been responsible for the earlier decision approving a separate province of Aceh. Nothing could be done now, however, as there were many other regions dissatisfied with the ten province division eager to capitalize on any concession the central government 10 made. PUSA leaders responded by arguing that concern over fragmenting the unitary state did not apply to them since they had always been loyal to the Republic. But they made clear their apprehension over the role of Islam in a North Sumatra province and their uneasiness over uleebalang agitation, already underway in Jakarta and Medan, against the Acehnese social revolutionaries.11 In short, PUSA leaders were not persuaded. In November Vice President Hatta went to Aceh to present the central government's case: he had no greater success than Assaat and Sjafruddin.

In late December the PUSA faithful gathered in Kutaradja for a congress. The central theme of the congress was the demand for a separate province. Yet PUSA leaders would not let it go at that for they were also demanding the right to participate in the formulation of the central symbols of Indonesia. At the congress Teungku M. Daud Beureueh grandly pronounced that the basis of PUSA's struggle "was none other than unifying Indonesian society according to the pure religion."12 PUSA leaders believed an Islamic state of all of Indonesia would come closer to realization if the Acehnese were left alone to manage their society according to the dictates of Islam.

Unification of Aceh with North Sumatra was slated for late January 1951, but it remained uncertain whether the transition could be brought off without driving the PUSA establishment into hostile opposition. On January 22, Prime Minister Muhammad Natsir took his turn at persuading Teungku M. Daud Beureueh. It is fair to say that Natsir played every card he had and quite a few he did not have. Natsir*s cabinet had been shaky from the beginning, excluding not only the Indonesian Nationalist Party but important rival factions of his own Masjumi as well. Also Natsir's policy of seeking a peaceful accommodation with the Darul Islam rebels of 13 West Java left him vulnerable to criticism should he make concessions to the Acehnese. Natsir pledged his personal authority, which commanded great respect from PUSA ulamas, and Masjumi's power, which time would show was not that impressive, to press Aceh's claim for provincial status within the framework of an integrated Indonesian settlement. For his part, Teungku M. Daud Beureueh acceded to Natsir's request for compliance and, for the time being, withdrew the threat of large-scale resignations from government service. Thus with Natsir's intercession the year-old province was brought to a quiet end on January 25, 1951.14 PUSA leaders did not withdraw from government with one exception: although the central government appointed Teungku M. Daud Beureueh to a Home Affairs post in Jakarta, he instead returned to his village in Pidie.

From the perspective of the central leadership the Acehnese demand for a separate province was unacceptable for several reasons. In part a separate province was a victim of the unitarian movement of the first half of 1950, "a widely based and increasingly powerful demand for replacing the federal order, regarded as a tainted vestige of colonial control, by a unitarian system of government which would restore the revolutionary Republic to a position of dominance."15 Thus ethnicity was an extremely poor currency for bargaining at that time as it had been skillfully used by the Dutch. To acknowledge the Acehnese demand, national leaders argued, would have opened the center to other ethnically based demands, particularly from those areas the Dutch controlled during the revolution. In some measure, however, this argument was disingenuous for the central government was not so concerned about local elites of the "federal" states, pretty much discredited by this time, as they were about local élites in strongly Republican areas which had been almost completely autonomous during the revolution. There was little difference of opinion among various cabinets: national leaders desired at least some semblance of control over such autonomous regions before they moved on to the complicated problems of devolution and decentralization. Finally, perhaps least of all was Aceh a likely case for making exceptions inasmuch as the problem presented by Aceh, from the perspective of the center, was not the threat of ethnic separatism but rather the threat of allowing the consolidation of an Islamic stronghold under the sway of reformist ulamas with a markedly different view of what the ideological foundation of an independent Indonesia should be. Now PUSA leaders argued that they wanted a separate province within a unitary state; they were also singularly indifferent to the Jakarta commitment to solving the problems of devolution and decentralization in an "integrated" manner. To the minds of PUSA leaders, Aceh1s role during the revolution as daerah modal earned it the right of special consideration. They believed that Aceh's loyalty to the Republic had provided them with the trump card. They played this card and lost. That the loss mattered so much was what caused such apprehension at the center: PUSA leaders desired a separate province as a means of maintaining control over the system of values and symbols of Acehnese society and as a means of shaping that system in accord with the teachings of Islam.

The center was compelled to approach the problem of a separate province gingerly as the process of military reorganization, centralization and rationalization was barely underway in 1950. As Military Governor during the revolution, Teungku M. Daud Bèureueh had initiated the process by bringing about the integration of the different militias into the Republican army. But at the time that the issue of provincial status came to a head that army, much in the same form as the Military Governor had designed it, was still in Aceh. This state of affairs did not last much longer, however, as the central army leadership, through troop transfers and officer changes, attempted to break "the ties with the local environment formed by the Indonesian fighting forces during the revolution, in the interest of maximizing central control."16 The commander of the division in Aceh, Colonel Husin Yusuf, was transferred to a staff position in Jakarta. The army in Aceh was downgraded from a division to a brigade and placed directly below the commander of the first military territory in Medan. And thon in 1951 the Acehnese brigade, under the comnand of the PUSA sympathizing Major Hasballah Haji, was transferred to Tapanuli. In turn an ethnically non-Acehnese brigade from Tapanuli was moved to Aceh. The new brigade commander was Major M. Nazir, a Giyuguntrained officer from South Aceh; however, as he was seen to be secular and slightly leftist, he was a "native son" in no danger whatsoever of being co-opted by the PUSA establishment. Thus within a matter of months after Aceh joined North Sumatra, the central army leadership had accomplished its aims of removing higher ranking officers with local roots and PUSA connections. And the consequences of this policy became painfully apparent in August 1951 as Major M. Nazir arrested a number of PUSA activists on suspicion of harboring arms. The move against PUSA activists was part of a nationwide raid at the behest of the Sukiman cabinet. On Java the roundup was directed for the most part against Conmunist party members. In other regions, however, discretion was left to local commanders to arrest anyone considered a security risk. Those PUSA leaders who had been arrested were soon released, but the damage had been done and 19 the implication of the raid was clear for PUSA leaders.

Changes within the sphere of civil administration were not so drastic as those occurring within the military. Nonetheless the changes were locally interpreted as detrimental to Acehnese interests. For the most part, PUSA leaders who had moved into the pamong praja (territorial administration) as a result of the social revolution retained their posi20 tions until the beginning of the rebellion. PUSA dominance in the pamong praja was evident even in the one area, South Aceh, where it had not established deep roots. However, the transfer of Acehnese government servants to Medan, the provincial capital of North Sumatra, was seen as a ploy to split up the Acehnese leadership. And those sent to Medan believed they were unfairly discriminated against by Western-educated officials from other ethnic groups. Most particularly it was the influx into

Aceh of non-Acehnese employees of specialized government departmentsprimary school teachers, agricultural extension workers, public works technicians and the like-which created great discontent. Their presence combined with that of non-Acehnese army troops led to ulama protests that outsiders were causing a decline in morality. Ulamas found it increasingly difficult to control Acehnese values and mores in the towns. Complaints were made about tho increase in gambling and dancing, the public merchandising and consumption of alcohol, and the free and open association between men and women. Such developments greatly concerned the ulamas, but nothing much changed as a result of their protests. The conflict over mores soon gave rise to the popular saying: "Aceh is now colonized by the kafir (infidel)."21

PUSA leaders had feared that the demise of a separate Acehnese province would provide uleebalangs the opportunity to press their claims against the social revolutionaries. As early as 1950 a polemical exchange was underway with Teuku Teungoh Hanafiah, a relative of the late Teuku Nya' Arif, presenting the uleebalang case in the influential Jakarta newspaper Indonesia Raja and various PUSA publicists responding in Acehnese periodicals. For a while pro-Teuku Teungoh Hanafiah pamphlets were circulated, under the cover of night, in the vicinity of Langsa (East 22 Aceh). PUSA leaders in turn reminded their followers of past uleebalang depredation and warned of an imminent uleebalang comeback should vigilance not be maintained. In 1951 an above-ground organization, BKR (Badan Keinsyafan Rakyat, People's Awareness Body), emerged in Kutaradja to challenge PUSA. Basically an uleebalang-inspired organization, the BKR also attracted several conservative ulamas in Aceh Besar—the most important was Teungku Hasan Kreueng Kale—exemplifying the increasingly close relationship between some uleebalangs and conservative ulamas in opposition to the reformists. As had the Said Ali movement during the revolution, the BKR endeavored to involve the central government on its side. The BKR demanded that Majelis Penimbang decisions be revoked and that government officials identified with PUSA be dismissed since PUSA was working to undermine the center's authority in Aceh. The number of people involved in BKR was small: no attempt was made to recruit a following for the purpose was not to rally opinion in Aceh but rather to attract attention at the center. That the BKR demands were not realized did not alter the fact that PUSA leaders became extremely apprehensive over uleebalang attempts to involve the central government in the contentious matters of the social revolution.

For several reasons the social revolution legacy served to heighten tensions between the central government and PUSA leaders. First, emerging from the revolutionary experience in Aceh was a set of resonant symbols rooted in the social revolution. These symbols were not recognized by the center. Nor was the existence of legitimate revolutionary authority in Aceh sufficiently acknowledged, from the PUSA perspective, by the center.

The post-revolution national elite viewed the Acehnese social revolution as an anomalous episode in the course of the national revolution. An elite which owed its position to the failure of social revolutions elsewhere could scarcely fail to have reservations about the Acehnese example. That PUSA leadors had evidently been unable to settle satisfactorily the questions relating to confiscated uleebalang property was compelling evidence, as exiled uleebalangs in Jakarta and Medan argued, that the social revolutionaries were inherently incapable of assuming the mantle of governance. Also, the interests of the greater part of the national elite and the uleebalangs converged as both opposed attempts at implementing Islamic law in Aceh. The claims Acehnese ulamas were making on behalf of Islamic law were seen to undermine the position of national civil law proponents as well as that of uleebalangs. The Dutch-inspired adat ideology, with all of its particularisms, could mount little defense against the onslaught of the national civil law ideology. Proponents of Islamic law, however, claimed to possess a complete alternative to national civil law which the ulamas saw as "Western." Indeed, and probably not «incidentally, many of the Dutch-educated proponents of national civil law came from the class of hereditary rulers.

Nor were central government policies sufficiently supportive, from the PUSA perspective, of initiatives taken during the revolution to consolidate religious education and religious courts. Religious education was a particularly difficult issue. In 1952 the Ministry of Religion assumed responsibility for the more than two hundred madrasahs, recently renamed SRI (Sekolah Rakyat Islam, People's Islamic School). Nonetheless Acehnese believed their educational needs were ignored by the Ministry as the subsidies for the SRIs forthcoming from the center were insignificant. The problem was a distinctly Acehnese one: in no other region had there occurred such a "nationalization" of what had been private religious 25 schools. The SRI issue pointed up the fact that small, outer island Islamic organizations—such as PUSA—were given little attention by the conservative Nahdatul Ulama and reformist Muhammadiyah officials working in the Ministry of Religion. Nahdatul Ulama and Muhammadiyah were engaged in a struggle for control of the Ministry, a struggle from which Nahdatul Ulama emerged on top. Leaders of both organizations were either Javanese or long resident on Java, and the contentious issues were related either to Java or to Jakarta politics. As Lev asserts, "the ministry was vulnerable to the frequently justified charge that it was Java-centric." This charge was all the most justified, according to PUSA ulamas, since the Ministry of Religion failed to confirm the status of Islamic courts, Mahkamah Syariah, established during the revolution on foundations laid by the Japanese military administration. Opponents of Mahkamah Syariah argued that Governor Teuku Muhammad Hasan's directive of January 1947 was legally insufficient for the establishment of Islamic courts on Sumatra. PUSA ulamas were outraged that the Ministry readily acknowledged the status of Islamic courts established during the revolution in the Dutch27 backed federal state of East Sumatra. Acehnese ulamas persistently petitioned the Ministry to recognize their courts and to pay the courts'

judges. Lev argues that "Ministry officials may have worried about the budgetary difficulties of absorbing so many judges. Moreover, many of these judges were not old-line bureaucrats, but had moved into the courts laterally from the 'social revolution.'"28 Whatever the motives of Minis try officials, the reaction in Aceh was a sense of betrayal. This reaction was not simply disappointment on the part of a class of unpaid Lumpenulamas. Rather, the center's nonrecognition of Mahkamah Syariah, as had its indifference to religious education, was seen as a defeat for the Acehnese Islamic struggle, a rejection of the Acehnese revolutionary experience.

At the same time some regionalist protests against Jakarta were beginning to be heard from the outer islands. Acehnese leaders were no different than those of other regions in expressing disappointment over the level of central government allocations. There was a feeling that government spending was not evenly divided between Java and the rest of Indonesia. Given that the outer islands as exporters of commodities for the world market earned the bulk of Indonesia's foreign exchange, it was argued that they deserved more development funds than the center was allocating at that time. In Aceh disappointment over the level of developmental project allocations was all the stronger as Acehnese believed their region as the daerah modal during the revolution deserved special consideration. Far from receiving special consideration, the prospects of economic advancement were jolted in December 1951 when the central government ended the special foreign exchange arrangement whereby Acehnese merchants could import goods from Malaya and Singapore up to seventy percent of the value of their export earnings. With the change, Acehnese merchants came under the same trading and foreign exchange regulations as the rest of North Sumatra, regulations designed to keep'down the costs of imports to the detriment of exporters and export producers.29 This was done despite the government's admission that the new regulation caused a decline in Acehnese exports. An overvalued exchange rate plus depressed commodity prices following the Korea War boom devastated Acehnese export trade with Malaya and Singapore.30

By early 1953 an ever growing sense of alarm and desperation gripped the PUSA leaders. Representative in this respect was a PUSA ulama's analysis of changes in Aceh since independence:

. . . there began to enter a number of "excesses" which the Acehnese considered unacceptable and alien, "excesses" which the Acehnese considered to violate Islam and the basis for the independence struggle, namely martyrdom and the desire to defend Islam in a holy war against colonialism. Those "excesses" are:

The drinking of alcohol (beer and the like)—strongly forbidden according to the spirit of religious "fanaticism" in Aceh—was found everywhere, even at the smallest stalls in villages. Even young children boasted of drinking beer, which they called, in jest, "Jakarta lemonade."

Respect was no longer paid to religious customs and traditions. For example, a night fair (pasar malam) was held in Kutaradjaonthe eve of Hari Raja Hadji [a religious holiday celebrating the pilgrimage].... Actually this incident [the night fair] was in itself a small problem. But the word was spread around that during colonial times, with a foreign government, this would not have been allowed. Thus should it not be the same with our own government? But it was not the same . . . finally unknown persons burned the night fair down. . . .

Then came news of how the governrasnt provided assistance for the restoration of [ancient Javanese] tsmples but not for mosques. And so forth.

Dancing had already entered along with other forms of entertainment which were in conflict with the Acehnese spirit.

Day by day the number of non-Muslim officials increased.

The newspapers reported that the government provided several millions in subsidies for non-Islamic schools, whereas for Islamic schools subsidies came to less than one million. Moreover, it was known that national revenues came overwhelmingly from the Islamic community.

These were the changes within Acehnese society, and they could not be checked. Then one remembered: if Aceh were an "autonomous" region, surely we could stem unacceptable influences and customs. But since Aceh is a part of North Sumatra, all influences are free to enter. Finally, people concluded: if the current situation had been allowed to continue, in ten years the religious spirit would have disappeared from Aceh.

People began to praise openly the Dutch colonial government, saying that religion during the colonial period was better protected than during the independence period. The "self ruler" system was praised; if people complained to their uleebalang of gambling, adultery, robbery and the like in the village, the uleebalang immediately took strong measures so that the evil soon disappeared. But it is not the same now. .. . In this disquieting atmosphere, Islamic leaders advanced the idea of an Islamic State. They proposed that an Islamic State would be run according to God's law as revealed in the Koran and in the Hadiths.

The Acehnese people, known for their religious fanaticism, were enthusiastic; their hopes rested on the idea of the Islamic State. . . .

Advocates of autonomy for Aceh were unable to ignite the people's imagination; the people were unwilling to sacrifice themselves for an autonomy of uncertain character and extent. But once it was proposed to build an Islamic State, a State based on the Koran and the Hadiths, the response of the Acehnese was tumultuous . 01

The above passage shows that in the first instance the mounting alarm grew out of what was seen to be the deteriorating moral climate in Aceh. Yet the underlying cause of the deterioration was held not to lie within the confines of Acehnese society but rather to derive from the nature of national authority. The Indonesian state was Islamic neither in form nor in substance. Moreover, it was becoming clear that the prospects of remedying the situation were rapidly receding, an outcome PUSA ulamas were unwilling to accept. To understand why PUSA leaders were beset with such pessimism, attention should be turned to the national political scene.

The tenure of the Wilopo Cabinet (April 19S2 to June 1953) saw an increasing polarization between Masjumi, the Islamic party, and the PNI (Partai Nasionalis Indonesia, Indonesian Nationalist Party).32 In some measure the polarization came as the parliamentarian notables confronted the limitations to the number of possibilities available in the politics of cabinet formation. Left to their own devices, parliamentarians of different parties were quite willing to bargain with each other; indeed, threats to cabinet stability were as likely to come from factions within the prime minister's own party as from outside the party. However, the threat of elections, and efforts to postpone them, served to cramp the game of politics in Jakarta. Political discourse moved from the specifics of policy to the level of contending ideological visions. At dispute was the issue of whether Indonesia was a state based on Panca Sila, as propounded by Sukarno in 1945, or a state based on Islam.33 In search of a postrevolution ideology and in anticipation of elections, the Nationalist Party adopted Panca Sila as its own; accordingly, Panca Sila increasingly became a code word for the Javanese culture in opposition to reformist Islam. Each side believed that an affirmation of its vision for the Indonesian state would reinvigorate the public imagination and thereby overcome the postrevolution malaise.

The growing polarization in Jakarta spelled a decline in Masjumi's political fortunes. Masjumi's influence within the bureaucracy was small, its influence within the army was being reduced,34 and its relations with President Sukarno had never been close. Masjumi did have a relatively strong position in cabinet politics, based on a near unanimous assumption that elections would return more Masjumi representatives than were then sitting in the provisional parliament. Yet by 1953 developments had diminished Masjumi's standing in the parliamentary arena as well. A blow to Masjumi's claim to be the sole political representative of the ummat was the withdrawal from its ranks of the Java-based Nahdatul Ulama.35 The

AA4WOUUM .

reasons for the Nahdatul Ulama withdrawal were complex and doctrinally interesting, but a proximate cause was the inability of Nahdatul Ulama leaders to obtain cabinet posts from the reformist and Western-educated national leadership of Masjumi. At the other end of the political spectrum, the PKI (Partai Komunis Indonesia, Indonesian Communist Party) extended a hand of cooperation, asking little in return, to the PNI. This allowed the PNI to emerge as a balancing force between Masjumi and the PKI as PNI leaders could threaten to work with one to the detriment of the other. These developments increased the likelihood of establishing a cabinet excluding Masjumi representation all together, a most desirable outcome for PNI leaders who, in Feith's words, "tended to be overawed by " ' the power of political Islam."36 The presumed power of political Islam lay at the heart of the ongoing debate over elections: Masjumi leaders pressed for early elections to demonstrate their appeal, while Masjumi's opponents feared that early elections would lead to an Islamic state.37

Nahdatul Ulama, thereby turning the Aceh branch of Nahdatul Ulama into a party of notables.

Feith, The Decline of Constitutional Democracy, p. 243.

In his analysis of the reasons for delaying elections, Feith gives prominence to the fear that there would be a significant shift to Islamic parties which at the time controlled only one-quarter of the seats in the parliament: ". . . the Masjumi was generally expected to emerge as the strongest single party in national elections, and discussion of the likely outcome was chiefly about whether the Masjumi's plurality would be large enough to enable it to govern by itself and about which of the factions inside the Masjumi would have ascendency after the elections. Among members of non-Islamic parties the fear was widespread that elections would mean the end of the state based on the Pantja Sila and its replacement by an Islamic State. To a small number of persons of pragmatic orientation it seemed that this would mean merely a difference in the wording of the preamble to the constitution. But most saw the prospect as one of victory of one ideology over another. Some of these persons expressed fears that it would entail a major shift of power affecting the whole community, and especially the whole civil service." Ibid., p. 275

From Aceh the changing political cliaate of Jakarta was seen through locally tinted lenses. The commitment of PUSA leaders to Masjumi as a partisan linkage to Jakarta was strong for there was no other alternative. Yet the commitment to Masjumi remained conditional upon the fulfillment of expectations from a deadlocked system which was delivering precious little to anyone. At the very least PUSA leaders expected Masjumi to deliver a parliamentary election which they thought would establish the ideological hegemony of Islam; they saw in each postponement of elections a waning of Islamic strength at the center which, they believed, further endangered their hold over the Acehnese system of values and symbols. PUSA leaders had little appreciation of the constraints within which Masjumi national leaders were forced to operate, but the Acehnese thought they could count the votes as well as the leaders in Jakarta and, it was apparent, the votes simply were not there. In time the Acehnese no longer listened to the arguments of Masjumi leaders that a little more patience would reap great rewards. Very little in the way of moving Indonesia in the direction of becoming an Islamic state could be seen from it; quite the contrary, a great deal had been lost.

It was the perceived relationship between local moral climate and national political authority which set the tone of the mobilization campaign leading up to the Darul Islam rebellion. Teungku M. Daud Beureueh and other PUSA leaders believed they had a right, indeed a duty, to participate in the formulation of Indonesia's central symbols and institutions. This claim to the right to influence, in an autonomous manner, the values and symbols at the center, while doubtless considered presumptuous by the political elite in Jakarta, was based on the revolutionary legacy. As a reaction to the deteriorating moral climate in Aceh and to the waning Islamic influence at the center, this claim was taken up in earnest in early 1953. Teungku M. Daud Beureueh reemerged in public, going from village to village promoting the Islamic cause. Teuku A. Hasan, a bupati who joined the Darul Islam rebellion, provided a description of the PUSA leader in action: "The enthusiasm of the people was evident as thousands, men and women, attended meetings. Teungku M. Daud Beureueh, known as the Lion of the Podium, the orator of Aceh, a man far more influential than Sukarno, was accomplished at pumping a fiery spirit into the souls of the Acehnese—the spirit of holy war, the spirit of sacrifice, the spirit of struggle."38

The themes Teungku M. Daud Beureueh expounded in the villages were straightforward: it is the responsibility of the ummat to bring about an Islamic state; the current government of the Republic of Indonesia is not the government for which we fought during the revolution; the current government is anti-Islam; Sukarno wants to revive the Javanese-Hinduism of the classical kingdoms; money for Islamic causes is not available, but if one ear of a Buddha statue is broken then millions will be spent for its restoration; the Panca Sila government represses the Islamic community; atheistic Communists are supporting Sukarno; Panca Sila is a camouflage for Javanism and Marxism; Javanese and Bataks now govern Aceh; an army of ex-Dutch soldiers, an army of kafirs, now occupies Aceh.39 However localized their immediate concerns, PUSA leaders would not be denied their standing as heirs to the Indonesian revolution. They continually invoked the revolution and the Indonesian nation in their speeches. The target was sometimes the Republic of Indonesia, but more often it was the Panca Sila State. As Teungku M. Daud Beureueh put it: "The struggle of the Indonesian ummat to realize God's law in Indonesia, and especially in Aceh, as a replacement for man-created adat has been known throughout Indonesian history, and from the beginning this struggle has involved numerous sacrifices. The recent independence struggle of 1945 which gave rise to bloody incidents throughout Indonesia, including the well-known Cumbo' incident [the social revolution], was only one episode in the ongoing struggle of the Indonesian ummat."40

By the middle of 1953 PUSA leaders were making preparations for the rebellion. PUSA's auxiliary scouting organization—Pandu Islam-was rejuvenated; that so many of these "scouts" were grown men caused much comment. There was also a new veterans organization-Bekas Pejuang Aceh (Former Freedom Fighters of Aceh)-comprised of those who had been either in the army or in one of the militias during the revolution. The Bekas Pejuang Aceh chairman was Husin Yusuf, former commander of the TNI division in Aceh. Prior to and during the rebellion an appeal was made to those soldiers who had since the revolution been demobilized as the army high command attempted to "professionalize" the army. Veterans were called upon to remember what the "Panca Sila government" had done to them: during the struggle against the Dutch, freedom fighters had saved the

Republic; but once the struggle was won, only the leaders of the Republic enjoyed the fruits of independence, whereas freedom fighters were dismissed from the army for reasons of health, insufficient education, height requirement, for a "thousand and one reasons." While his lieutenants attempted to form some semblance of a military force, Teungku M. Daud Beureueh continued his speeches before mass audiences throughout Aceh. At the end of those speeches, Teuku A. Hasan wrote, "one could see a reflection on the faces of the multitude; it's as if the Islamic state already existed."42

Rebellion

On September 21, 1953 two pamphlets circulated throughout Aceh. One was Teungku M. Daud Beureueh's "Proclamation" that Aceh had become a part of the Negara Islam Indonesia (the Islamic State of Indonesia) which Kartosuwirdjo had established in August 1949.43 A second pamphlet, "Keterangan Politik" (Political Manifesto), presented the rebels' justification for turning against the Republic of Indonesia:

We are exasperated by developments in the Republic of Indonesia; how could it be otherwise for from the beginning we had hoped for a state based on Islam. But our hope has not been realized;

quite the contrary, it has become increasingly apparent to us that there are among the leaders of Indonesia those who are going in the wrong direction.

We now understand and are aware that the principles of the Republic do not guarantee religious freedom in the true sense of the word. In short, Islam, which covers all aspects of social life j , i s inseparable from what is called the "belief in Almighty God"«* in the Republic's statutes. Whereas [for the Republic's leaders] "belief in Almighty God" is nothing more than a political ploy, for us it is the source of social life. All of God's directives must be in force on Indonesian soil, it is not possible for part to be in force and another part not; this applies to criminal law as well as civil law, to religious obligation [ibadat] as well as to everyday life.

If God's criminal law is not in force, then this is a deviation from the principle of "belief in Almighty God."

If in reality the Republic's laws guaranteed religious freedom for Muslims, then religious law would already have been implemented in Aceh where one hundred per cent of the population is Islamic. .. .

We were stddsned to hear President Sukarno's statement that he wanted to found a. state on the principle of nationality (kebangsaan) alone since he feared that if the state were based on religion those who were not religious would secede. Now we are seceding from a state based on nationality, but we do this because we understand the true meaning of nation and religion. Those who think that religious people do not love their nation and their Indonesian birthplace do not understand Islam.

Feelings of sadness and despair have fostered our desire to form an Islamic state. If there are those who fault us, they should first place the blame on Sukarno's shoulders.

Our God said: "Anyone who does not implement the Law as decreed by God is included in the group of infidels."

The Republic of Indonesia government has "missed the train" in understanding the desires of the people of Aceh, the same Aceh which had earlier been the region of capital [daerah modal], but in time the Republic of Indonesia government forgot about the region of capital .. . not a single Acehnese request has been granted by the government.

Aceh has been prevented from standing on its own, from having its own province, even though it was stated that this would have been in the context of a unitary state. . . .

We do not want to separate ourselves from our brothers and sisters in other regions to whom we are bound by feelings of brotherhood and humanity, but at the same time we refuse to be treated as stepchildren or left to live like slaves. Our children have not had adequate opportunities for education and our people have not had sufficient opportunities in economic endeavors. . Before we stood shoulder to shoulder with other regions in defending the common interest, but this equality is clearly no longer reflected in the realities of daily life.

If we are now forming a state it does not mean forming a state within the state, for in our hearts and souls we had viewed the Republic as a golden bridge to realizing the true state for which we have longed from the beginning. It is now our view that this bridge is no longer a connection; quite the contrary, it has become an obstacle.45

During the first few days rebel forces concentrated their attacks on towns throughout Aceh in the hope of scoring an early victory over government forces. Darul Islam leaders also hoped to capture large stocks of armaments from military and police garrisons located in the towns. Rebels took several towns in East Aceh and the town of Seulimeum in Aceh Besar without meeting resistance. Elsewhere army and police forces put up a stout resistance. The result was a tremendous loss of life in some localities as waves of young men—armed with an array of knives and shouting in unison "God is Greaf'-charged well-armed government forces. Kutaradja was not taken; nor were the kabupaten capitals of Langsa (East Aceh), Lho' Seumawe (North Aceh), Sigli (Pidie) and Meulaboh (West Aceh) captured. The rebels did succeed in capturing the kabupaten capitals of Tapa' Tuan (South Aceh) and Takengon (Central Aceh), holding the former until early October and the latter until late November. At the same time rebel forces overran isolated military posts and police stations, destroyed rail lines and bridges, cut telephone lines and blocked roads. The outcome of this first wave of attacks was mixed. Rebel forces took fewer towns than their leaders had hoped; but that virtually every town in Aceh came under attack was a stunning start. Seizure of armaments fell below rebel expectations as well; but either through direct attacks or through police connivance, the rebels obtained sufficient armaments to stalemate the Indonesian army.

The Darul Islam leaders were initially a remarkably unified group, sharing as they did two decades of common endeavor—the reformist and revivalistic campaign of the 1930s, the founding of PUSA, the Japanese occupation, the social revolution, and the struggle for a separate province. Alongside Teungku M. Daud Beureueh, two leaders emerged to play prominent roles during the rebellion: Hasan Ali, the Pesindo leader in Pidie during the social revolution and later director of judicial affairs in Aceh, was the primary strategist and Prime Minister of the Nil (Negara Islam Indonesia, Islamic State of Indonesia) in Aceh; and Hasan Saleh, the highest ranking active TNI officer joining the rebellion, was the dominant military figure and commander of the Til (Tentara Islam Indonesia, Islamic Army of Indonesia) in Aceh. Also prominent in the leadership were Teungku Amir Husin al Mujahid, the social revolutionary and erstwhile TNI Major General; Husin Yusuf, commander of the army in Aceh during the revolution; Teuku M. Amin, secretary of PUSA and former Assistant Resident; A. Gani Mutiara, the Pandu Islam leader and PUSA journalist; and Said Abubakar, leader of Fujiwara-kikan at the time of the Japanese landing. Most of the PUSA activists still holding pamong praja positions went over to Teungku M. Daud Beureueh's side. The highest ranking administrative official in Aceh, Resident-Coordinator Teungku Sulaiman Daud, joined the rebellion, as did three of the seven bupatis—Teuku A. Hasan (Pidie), Zaini Bakri (East Aceh) and Muhammad Husin (Aceh Tengah),46

Virtually the entire pamong praja apparatus of Pidie sided with Darul Islam. Not surprisingly, the Office of Religious Affairs and the religious schools were depleted by defections. Locally prominent PUSA ulamas were represented: Teungku Mahmud Simpang Ulim in East Aceh; Teungku Syech Abdul Hamid in North Aceh; Teungku Ilyas Leube in Central Aceh; Teungku Daud Tangse and Teungku Umar Tiro in Pidie; Teungku Hasballah Indrapuri and Teungku Ahmad Padang in Aceh Besar; Teungku Hasan Hanafiah in West 47 Aceh; and Teungku Zamzami Jahja in South Aceh.

In a matter of weeks the rebellion took on the characteristics of protracted guerrilla warfare, with government troops occupying the towns and rebel forces controlling the countryside. With a stalemate, there were atrocities on both sides: rebels summarily executing those considered to be government informers and government troops, in their frustration, turning violently on villagers. Once government forces had pushed the rebels out of the towns, rebel leaders spread out to various parts of Aceh 49 to direct local guerrilla forces. For the most part Darul Islam rebels had no difficulty in obtaining support from villagers. And where support from villagers was not forthcoming, as in parts of South Aceh and West

Aceh, rebel leaders considered it not worth the trouble to seek complete domination. In the event, the primary rebel goal was to make its presence felt in the vicinity of Kutaradja and along the east coast road between Kutaradja and Medan. Even the government readily conceded that the Darul Islam rebels in Aceh, in contrast to those in West Java, made few direct attacks on the populace. It was hardly surprising that such direct attacks did not occur for in the early stages of the rebellion no distinction could be made between the populace and the rebels as tens of thousands of villagers had participated in the first wave of mass attacks on the towns. It soon became apparent, however, that little could be gained with tens of thousands of followers wandering about the mountains and villages. There was certainly little likelihood of obtaining arms for all these men. As money was in much shorter supply than manpower, Hasan Saleh requested large number of recruits to return to their villages so that they could contribute, and pressure others to contribute, a portion of their incomes to the rebel cause.51

The Ali Sastroamidjojo cabinet reacted to the rebellion by seeking a military solution, a policy which the cabinet essentially followed until its demise in July 1955. To rely on a military strategy to overcome the the Acehnese rebels would have been difficult in the best of circumstances; As it was, the cabinet was often in conflict with Colonel Simbolon, commander of the first military territory, who was responsible for operations against the rebels. Meanwhile Mr. S. M. Amin, who had been appointed Governor of North Sumatra soon after the rebellion began, was exchanging letters with rebel leaders in an effort to lay the basis for a negotiated settlement. Teungku M. Daud Beureueh and Hasan Ali informed Governor S. M. Amin that in principle they were willing to enter into negotiations with the government. But since the Governor was acting on his own, without support of either the cabinet or Colonel Simbolon, nothing came of this exchange of letters. Nor was much progress towards a negotiated settlement made during the tenure of the Masjumi-dominated Burhanuddin Harahap cabinet which assumed office in August 1955. At his juncture, Darul Islam leaders wanted to wait and see the outcome of the long-awaited parliamentary elections scheduled for late September 1955. As the election results were widely interpreted as a defeat for Masjumi and some of its coalition partners and as, consequently, the Burhanuddin

Harahap cabinet was not expected to survive much longer, continued government contacts with the Acehnese rebels provided inconclusive results.55

In the absence of any striking military advances, the central government and provincial government turned their attention to rebuilding some semblance of civil authority in Aceh which had collapsed as large numbers of government officials had either followed Teungku M. Daud Beureueh or fled to Medan. The government needed to fill the empty posts and to establish some countervailing force to the rebels' shadow government. Given the widespread support for the rebellion, only two alternatives were available to the government: uleebalangs, who remained socially isolated since the revolution, and conservative ulamas, who were for the most part regionally isolated on the west coast. Both groups were willing partners for the government since both had suffered from PUSA domination. Indeed, uleebalangs and conservative ulamas had in the past joined together to oppose PUSA leaders. Governor S. M. Amin in offact handed over the pamong praja apparatus to the uleebalangs.56 The Governor argued that he had little choice but to appoint uleebalangs for non-Acehnese government officials were, unwilling to accept postings in Aceh even with a higher salary. The three most prominent ulamas who had aligned themselves with

Perti—Teungku Hasan Kreueng Kale in Aceh Besar, Teungku Habib Muda in West Aceh and Teungku Muda Wali in South Aceh—came to the defense of the government by declaring the rebellion to be contrary to Islam. Teungku Hasan Kreueng Kale, being older and less politically active than the other two Perti ulamas, left his dayah in the countryside and moved to Kutaradja, thus refusing to contest Darul Islam forces for control of Aceh Besar. Teungku Muda Wali, however, stood his ground by instructing his followers to join the army in expelling Darul Islam forces from South Aceh towns. Consequently, local uleebalangs identified with Perti took over the local government replacing one-time Pesindo activists who had been in 59 control since the revolution. The appointment of uleebalangs to pamong praja positions gained little for the government in making headway against the rebellion; quite the contrary, it seemed to confirm the repeated warnings of PUSA leaders that the uleebalangs would attempt a comeback. If the support of Perti ulamas had little impact on the main focus of rebel activities on the east coast, it at least helped to deny the rebels parts of the west coast. Moreover, cooperation between conservative ulamas and the government established a practice that would prove useful to the central government in the years ahead, viz., playing off conservative ulamas against reformist ulamas.

The depth of the commitment to the idea of an Islamic state—such that thousands of men would fight for years on end and that those who remained in the villages would willingly, for the most part, provide the rebels sustenance-demands an explanation. The fact that so many people shared the same belief in the righteousness of the Darul Islam rebellion was just another chapter of the ongoing Islamic struggle in Aceh. Although the goal of the rebellion was an Islamic state, the idea of struggle (perjuangan) assumed value in its own right just as it had during the revolution. The themes of the rebellion repeated those of the revolution: first, the theme of moral equality of all believers and, second, the theme of transcending particularistic self-interest. It is only during the perjuangan that the ritualized egalitarian community of believers could be realized. Thus through the struggle the faithful could find both a vision of the future society to be brought about by an Islamic state and a link to the spontaneous revolutionary past.

Central to the Darul Islam rebellion was the conscious attempt to disassociate the revolutionary heritage from the present Republic of Indonesia. Teungku M. Daud Beureueh appealed to the revolutionary heritage which, he told his followers, the Republic had betrayed:

The present Republic of Indonesia government is not the one for which we fought in 1945. .. . In truth, the present government is a Hindu government in a Nationalist guise and it is strikingly similar to Communism. Clearly it is an anti-Islamic government, an anti-God government which is for the most part run by Dutch "running dogs."60

The characteristics attributed to the Republic-Hindu, Nationalist, Communist, and, to top it off, running dogs of the Dutch-are bewildering in their variety. The phrase "Panca Sila Republic" was commonly used to imply all of these characteristics. Yet as bitter as the attack on the Republic was, the ideas of an Indonesian nation and an Indonesian state were not, with few exceptions, drawn into question. The problem with the Panca Sila state was not that it was Indonesian but rather that it was not, and held little prospect of becoming, an Islamic state. This is not to say that the Darul Islam leaders did not share a "regionalist" perspective with local leadership groups in other parts of Indonesia: they stood for administrative decentralization and believed that "federalism" would solve at least some of the problems besetting Acehnese society. When Teungku M. Daud Beureueh said that the Panca Sila government was "despotic" and "criminal" it was not because the government was oppressing the Acehnese, although he believed this to be so, but rather because the government was attempting "to eliminate Islam from Indonesian soil" and "to paralyze the strength of the Indonesian Islamic community." No distinction was drawn between the Acehnese and the broader Indonesian Islamic community for an attack on one called into question the existence of the other. Clearly Darul Islam leaders thought of the Acehnese as the leading front in the struggle to implement the dictates of Islam in Indonesia.

The desire of rebel leaders not to limit their claims to Aceh alone, but to speak on behalf of the broader Indonesian community of the faithful, is exemplified by their relationship with the Java-based Darul Islam leader Kartosuwirdjo, an ambiguous relationship which had little impact on their actions, and by their efforts to establish a structure of government which paralleled almost exactly that of the Republic. From the beginning of the rebellion, Teungku M. Daud Beureueh declared that Aceh was a part of the Nil (Islamic State of Indonesia) founded by Kartosuwirdjo in 1949. Although little mention was made of Kartosuwirdjo over the next two years, and it thus remained unclear what it meant to be a part of the Islamic State of Indonesia, rebel leaders continued to use the Nil label. Governor S. M. Amin said of the Darul Islam government: "Basically it was no different from the Republic of Indonesia government, the only difference being that the rebels wanted to emphasize the Islamic character." In fact, a specifically "Islamic" organizational character, whatever they may have been, was lacking. There were Nil bupatis, Nil wedanas and Nil assistant wedanas to match those of the Republic. And in a throwback to the revolution, Teungku M. Daud Beureueh initially assumed the title of "Nil Military Governor for Aceh and surrounding regions." Likewise the Til (Islamic Army of Indonesia) replicated the structure of the Republic's army. In September 1955 rebel leaders issued a declaration clarifying the relationship of the Acehnese rebellion with Kartosuwirdjo's movement. The declaration had no substantive effect whatsoever on either the Acehnese or Kartosuwirdjo but it did serve to reaffirm the commitment to an Indonesia-wide Islamic struggle. Henceforth, according to the declaration, Aceh was a "Federal State" (Negara Bahagian) within the Islamic State of Indonesia, with Teungku M. Daud Beureueh as Wali Negara (Chief of State) of the "Federal State" and with a cabinet headed by Prime Minister Hasan Ali. The two year delay in explicating the nature of the relation with Kartosuwirdjo's movement was purposeful and attributable to the reluctance of some Acehnese Darul Islam leaders to identify too closely with a movement about which they had little knowledge. But as other leaders gave precedence to the Indonesia-wide claims of the rebellion, the compromise was to establish a "Federal State" within the Islamic State of Indonesia.

The focus on Indonesia was not limited to the ideological claims of the rebel leaders. From the beginning Darul Islam leaders knew that whatever happened in Aceh would not be sufficient, in itself, to bring about the replacement of the "Panca Sila" government by an "Islamic" government. Given that there were already sizeable Darul Islam movements in West Java and South Sulawesi, they hoped that an early and spectacular defeat of government forces in Aceh would precipitate other uprisings elsewhere in Indonesia. In the event, nothing of the sort happened. Rebel leaders were thus forced to wage a long-term guerrilla war: they came to believe that if they held out long enough developments elsewhere would prove to be favorable to their cause. The Acehnese guerrillas did hold out, but in the absence of any sizeable influx of armaments that is all they could do.

But that was more than enough for the central government which i*/three years of fighting was neither capable of making military headway against the rebels nor willing to negotiate with them. It is conceivable that this stalemate could have lasted for many more years had not the nature of central authority been transformed. In this regard, the Darul Islam leaders had been correct at the beginning: the end of the rebellion came from political changes outside of Aceh, although when they instigated the rebellion they had no way of predicting the nature of these changes.

CHAPTER EIGHT THE RESOLUTION OF THE REBELLION

From the beginning Darul Islam leaders had linked the success of the rebellion in Aceh to the potential for uprisings breaking out in other parts of Indonesia, the cumulative effect of which, they hoped, would be the transformation of central authority in Jakarta. The Darul Islam movement of Kartosuwirdjo, to which the Acehnese cause was tenuously linked, allowed the Acehnese rebellion to make its nationwide ideological claims, but it held little chance of toppling the postrevolution establishment in Jakarta. If for the most part their calculations on uprisings elsewhere proved in the end to be correct, their timing was clearly off. It would be three years after the beginning of the Darul Islam rebellion in Aceh before developments in other parts of Indonesia, beginning with anti-Jakarta movements led by regional army commanders, gave some substance to the earlier hopes of the Acehnese leaders. The various movements and rebellions directed against central authority during the late 1950s were collectively known as the "regionalist movement." In a sense, what happened in the late 1950s was a case of the sum being greater than its "regionalist" parts, the latter including a whole range of instrumental goals relating to ethnicity and autonomy. Certainly open expressions of ethnic-based demands were increasingly heard as time had eroded the one-time association between ethnic consciousness and Dutch colonial divide-and-rule tactics. Yet beyond specific regionalist grievances lay a pervasive sense of disenchantment with the postrevolutionary structure at the center. The "regionalist" challenge was just one of many which drew into question the power of the political parties at the center and the constitutional foundation underlying this power. The regionalist movement, Legge maintains, "did not necessarily point to a desire for greater independence from the center. That element was present. But more important was dissatisfaction with the government as a government." One reason the issue of "greater independence from the center" was not the sole purpose of the "regionalist" movement was that many of the civilian and military actors leading the movement were not in the first instance "regionalists" but rather men with national ambitions who used the issue of regional autonomy in an attempt to reverse the flow of events at the center. Ruth McVey provides this analysis with regard to the participation of regional army commanders in the regionalist movement: ".. . much was made by military as well as civilian leaders of ethnic identification, religion and ideological position in an effort to rally popular support for their claims to power. However, although the military protagonists were not without views on the issue—sometimes very strong ones—most of them did not lose sight of the fact that, for them, the issue was to determine who would control the high command and how much authority he would have over his fellow officers."

Parliamentary elections held in late 1955 represented a watershed in the collapse of the parliamentary political order. Expectations had been that the elections would redeem the promises of the revolutionary heritage arid provide some ideological direction to Indonesia's future. Far from breaking the political deadlock in Jakarta, election results served to reinforce political immobilisai. The Indonesian Nationalist Party (PNI) emerged as the largest party with 22.3 percent of the vote, a bare 1.4 percent ahead of the reformist Islamic party Masjumi. In early 1956 the Masjumi-dominated Burhanuddin Harahap cabinet gave way to Ali Sastroadmijojo's precarious coalition cabinet comprised of representatives from the Nationalist Party, Nahdatul Ulama, and Masjumi. The Ali Sastroamidjojo cabinet was a last-ditch effort on the part of the national political elite to maintain a semblance of authority for the party-based parliamentary order. Throughout 1956 various critics of and potential successors to the parliamentary order increasingly bypassed or purposefully undermined the cabinet's authority. While it was evident that the parliamentary system could not survive on its own, the outlines of a successor political order remained unclear. In Feith!s words: "there was a deadlock between a new pair of rivals to the existing political order, the Soekarno-Nasution alliance on the one hand (supported by the PKI) and the 4 regionalist movement on the other."

A clear-cut choice between the two rivals precipitated a split within the Darul Islam leadership in Aceh. Almost the entire Darul Islam cabinet except Teungku M. Daud Beureueh and Hasan Ali gradually put distance between themselves and the regionalist movement, opting instead for continued negotiations with the emerging Sukarno-Nasution alliance. In pursuing this strategy, Acehnese leaders were not any less suspicious of President Sukarno. Instead, they relied on General Nasution, who in October 1955 assumed the post of Army Chief-of-Staff for the second time. Nasution's drive to centralize army authority meant that a settlement of the Acehnese rebellion would be intertwined with internal army politics.

ET

General Nasution was representative of army officers whose natural suspicions of parliamentary democracy were in no way lessened as they came to perceive civilian political leaders as inherently incapable of dealing with the many problems besetting Indonesia. In any event, the presumed predominance of civilian leadership had never been completely accepted by army leaders, believing as they did that their role in the revolution entitled them to a special political position in the postrevolutionary order. But if army leaders agreed on a special role for the army, the fissiparous tendencies within the army had precluded its realization. It was in some measure Nasution's moves to overcome disunity in army circles that precipitated the regionalist challenge to central authority and determined the nature of the regional movements in the early stages. To Nasution's mind, unity was to be achieved through a strengthening of army headquarters vis-à-vis the seven territorial commanders. Nasution's proposal for instituting a regular transfers policy which would undercut the power base of the territorial commanders prompted immediate resistance from the regions. The dissident army officers turned to local civilian leaders for political allies in their struggle against the imposition of central authority. Local civilian leaders, in turn, relied on army officers to back up their regionalist demands. By mid-1956 several army commanders were conducting smuggling operations out of their regions in open defiance of the central government.

As army officers in the Outer Islands were resisting Nasution's centralizing efforts, in April 1956 army headquarters sent Major Sjammaun Gaharu to Aceh as regimental commander serving under Colonel Simbolon, commander of the first territorial command (Tentara dan Territorium I). Army headquarters had two distinct purposes in appointing an anak daerah ("native son") to head the regiment in Aceh. First, as the various cabinets had been unable to formulate or implement a policy on the resolution of insurgencies, the appointment of Sjammaun Gaharu signalled General Nasution's intention of moving into the vacuum by establishing and pursuing security policies which virtually bypassed the cabinet. A second and more immediate purpose of the appointment was to place in Aceh an officer whose own interest and what he perceived to be the interests of Aceh would compel him to side with army headquarters in opposition to Colonel Simbolon, his immediate superior. Colonel Simbolon, the territorial commander based in Medan, had emerged as a leading "regionalist"

opposed to General Nasution, and, as such, nicely exemplified the ambiguity of "regionalist" opposition to the center: as a Batak originating from the area of his command he could easily call forth local grievances to Jakarta, but in the first instance, his cause was not those grievances as such but rather control of army headquarters at the center.

With regard to the purpose of resolving the rebellion, it was assumed that an Acehnese as local military commander would be needed should any negotiations with the rebels materialize. In this respect, the appointment of Sjammaun Gaharu was a calculated risk. Although Gaharu was an anak daerah, his overthrow by the social revolutionaries in 1946 precluded any possibility of his being won over by the Darul Islam forces. The question was whether the bitterness growing out of the revolution would preclude an accommodation between the rebels and the new regimental commander. Gaharu believed that progress towards the resolution of the rebellion could be made only when the central government entrusted greater responsibility to Acehnese army officers and administrators. One necessary measure, he argued, was the granting of provincial status to Aceh. Noting that reliance on a military solution alone would further antagonize the populace and thereby solidify general support for the rebellion, Gaharu nonetheless maintained that an overly generous amnesty proposal would only encourage the Darul Islam leaders in their resistance. At the most, amnesty offers should be used selectively to encourage splits within the Darul Islam movement.

Sjammaun Gaharu confronted a daunting military challenge. An estimated 10,000-15,000 rebel troops continued to control Aceh save for the towns. Even the countryside a few kilometers from the residency capital of Kutaradja was undisputed Darul Islam territory. Thus in 1956 the prospects for the government forcing a military resolution to the rebellion remained as remote as ever. In the meantime, the foundation was being laid to encourage the Darul Islam leaders to come to an accommodation with the government. Acehnese army officers were being returned to Aceh to serve under Gaharu. A number of respected PUSA ulamas, who had been captured during the early days of the rebellion, were returned to positions in the religious judiciary and in the religious education bureaucracy. At the end of 1956, the central government took the step long considered to be a necessary though not sufficient condition for resolving the rebellion, viz., the granting of provincial status to Aceh. A. Hasjmy, the Pesindo leader during the revolution, was appointed Governor of Aceh effective January 1957. Also, a provincial representative assembly was established in accord with the 1955 election results: Masjumi held twentythree of the thirty seats in the assembly.

Provincial status was granted just as the crisis precipitated by the challenge of regional army commanders to central authority was coming to a head. By late 1956 the initiative lay with the army commanders in the Outer Islands as the regional challenge had increasingly put the Ali Sastroamidjojo cabinet on the defensive. In December 1956 army-led regional councils in several regions of thj Outer Islands launched coups directed against the central government and army headquarters. Regional army commanders stated that they wsre assuming control of local governments and would no longer recognize the cabinet's authority.9 The North Sumatra coup was engineered by Colonel Simbolon. Without hesitation Gaharu severed connections with Simbolon's territorial command and pledged loyalty to Army Chief-of-Staff Nasution. Gaharu announced that as of December 22, 1956, the regimental command was transformed into the Military Area Command for Aceh (KDMA) directly below the Army Chief-of-Staff.10 Gaharu sided with army headquarters not because he was in any sense less regionalist than his dissident colleagues in other parts of Indonesia. Rather, Simbolon's coup presented the opportunity for realizing Gaharu's goal of anak daerah implementing pacification policy in Aceh. Both Gaharu and Governor A, Hasjmy held strongly to the belief that only if anak daerah were in control of their region could progress be made towards a resolution of the rebellion. They saw a separate military command for Aceh as a major breakthrough in the right direction.11 Also, the breakaway from Simbolon's command nicely suited General Nasution, who saw smaller commands as a necessary antidote to the power that could be concentrated in larger territorial commands.

The affirmation of central authority, and particularly that of army headquarters, came at a critical juncture. Just at the time when regional army officers elsewhere on Sumatra were mobilizing the support of local civilian leaders to challenge Jakarta, Acehnese officers and civil servants were moving in the opposite direction. The timing was of great

-•"«Tntil.ifïi u r *

importance to the mind of one high-ranking Acehnese official:

The question was which course of action would most likely benefit Aceh. We thought it was the right time to return Aceh to the Republican fold given disturbances in other parts of Indonesia. This could work to the benefit of Aceh. The only problem was to convince our Darul Islam friends that this was the correct course of action.12

This approach characterized negotiations for a peace settlement over the next several years—that is, Aceh enjoyed greater leverage with Jakarta because of the center's preoccupation with growing dissidence elsewhere. And, as the above quote indicates, the problem was to convince Darul Islam leaders that a timely settlement would better ensure the achievement of their goals than holding out hope for the success of rebellions in other parts of Indonesia.

In January 1957 General Nasution instructed Gaharu to enter into discussions with the Darul Islam leaders in order to expedite a resolution of the rebellion and to minimize casualties. Nasution's instructions to Gaharu pointed up a certain paradox in the Army Chief-of-Staff's role at that time. His appointment as Chief-of-Staff was in some measure responsible for the regional crisis coming to a head in late 1956. His firm commitment to strengthen the authority of army headquarters prompted his major rivals within the army, most particularly Colonel Simbolon of North - Sumatra, to mobilize regionalist sentiment against the center. In order to defeat his regionally based opponents, Nasution entered into an alliance with President Sukarno, who, in the eyes of the dissidents on the

Outer Islands, had come to represent Javanese domination. Yet in practice the Army Chief-of-Staff proved to be most conciliatory towards Outer Island groups in opposition to the center as long as the authority of army headquarters was not called into question. Also as Nasution assumed greater responsibilities for managing regional dissidence, he brought to bear policies which differentiated the bases of dissidence from one region to another, a marked departure from the "integrated" approach propounded by the succession of parliamentary cabinets. It was this differentiated approach which would prove effective in resolving the Darul Islam rebellion in Aceh.

The first breakthrough in resolving the Acehnese rebellion—a ceasefire—came on the heels of the collapse of the Ali Sastroamidjojo cabinet. Efforts to reconstitute a party-based coalition cabinet proved unsuccessful. President Sukarno and General Nasution moved into the vacuum created by the demise of the last parliamentary cabinet. Their combined efforts laid the basis for the political system known as "Guided Democracy." President Sukarno formed a "business cabinet" freed from the control of political parties. More importantly for the tone of authority over the next several years was the declaration in April 1957 of martial law throughout Indonesia, a step which strengthened the position of Nasution and army headquarters vis-à-vis both recalcitrant military commanders in the regions and political party leaders at the center.14

The cease-fire in Aceh was achieved in a meeting held in April 1957 between representatives of the government—Sjammaun Gaharu and Governor

A. Hasjmy--and representatives of Darul Islam—Prime Minister Hasan Ali and Army Chief-of-Staff Hasan Saleh. On the occasion of the cease-fire the two sides agreed to endeavor to advance Islam, to develop Aceh, and to bring prosperity and welfare to the Acehnese people. The principles agreed upon were innocuous and general enough; little more could be expected at that time. Yet -.he principles pointed to a strand which would continue to characterize negotiations between the two sides: an emphasis on Aceh in an attempt to exclude or evade the broader question of the ideological foundation of the Indonesian state.

The cease-fire was of course contingent. As the Darul Islam army leader stated the issue before a crowd of 15,000 in May 1957:

As of now our struggle is not yet finished for we have not yet realized our ideas; but it is like a man who had undertaken a long journey and must rest in order to restore his strength. We have reached the stage of a cease-fire with the Government of the Republic of Indonesia; but it is like a trader who wants to sell his merchandise. If the price is not right, then the struggle will be continued.16

Negotiations on the major substantive issue crucial to an overall resolution of the Darul Islam rebellion in Aceh were for the time being deferred, viz., the Darul Islam demand that a resolution be based on the recognition of Aceh as a "Federal State" within the Republic of Indonesia, a status comparable to that Aceh enjoyed on paper within Kartosuwirdj o's Islamic State of Indonesia.

From the perspective of the center, the significance of the ceasefire was that Aceh was virtually neutralized as the deadlocked conflict between Jakarta and dissident conmanders in the regions persisted throughout 1957. Developments during the course of 1957 brought the simmering conflict into open rebellion in early 1958. Following the collapse of the last parliamentary cabinet and the declaration of martial law, President Sukarno's determination to reorient Indonesian political life was becoming increasingly clear. Sukarno's "Guided Democracy" did not bode well for the reformist Islamic party Masjumi. Most particularly, the President's proposal to include in the government the Communist Party (PKI) along with the Indonesian Nationalist Party, the Nahdatul Ulama (the Java-based conservative Islamic party), and Masjumi aroused profound concern. As Barbara Harvey argues: "Masjumi, the party which drew most of its electoral support from Outer Indonesia and which was most sympathetic to the demands of the regions, was unalterably opposed to the inclusion of the PKI in the Cabinet. If the government were based on all four major parties, Masjumi would be the outsider, as it had been in the 1955 election campaign." Nor did the ongoing Constituent Assembly debates on the ideological foundations of the Indonesian state hold out much hope for the Islamic reformists.

In December 1957, three prominent Masjumi leaders—Nat sir, Burhanuddin Harahap, and Sjafruddin Prawiranegara-left Jakarta to join forces with the regionalist officers in West Sumatra. The coalition of the regional ist army officers and the Islamic reformist faction of the Jakarta political elite issued a three point ultimatum to the central government:

that the Djuanda cabinet step aside; that either former Vice President Hatta or the Sultan of Jogjakarta head a business cabinet; and that the role of President Sukarno be in accord with the provisions of the Constitution. Following Jakarta's rejection of the ultimatum the dissidents announced on February 15, 1958 the establishment of the Revolutionary Government of the Republic of Indonesia (PRRI: Pemerintah Revolusioner Republik Indonesia) with the Masjumi leader Sjafruddin Prawiranegara as Prime Minister.

The strength of the PRII was limited to Central Sumatra, Tapanuli residency in North Sumatra, and North Sulawesi. PRRI leaders were hoping to subsume ongoing insurgencies under their banner and appealed to Darul Islam leaders to join a united front against Jakarta. The proclamation of the PRRI represented for some Darul Islam leaders the breakthrough against Jakarta that they had counted on at the beginning of their own rebellion. Coming when it did, however, the PRRI rebellion proved to be not the vehicle of victory but rather the catalyst of divisiveness among Darul Islam leaders: the PRRI confronted them with the choice of breaking the 19 cease-fire or of continuing negotiations with the government. The internal split focused on Teungku M. Daud Beureueh, on the one hand, and the Darul Islam military leader Hasan Saleh, on the other. One question giving rise to conflict within Darul Islam circles was whether PRRI had any hope of making a successful drive against Jakarta. Early on there was

February 16, 19S8.

reason for some optimism: the PRRI leadership included several of the most senior Indonesian army officers and there was evidence indicating that the United States would covertly provide armaments and, more importantly, air cover. Some armaments did filter through to the PRRI and air cover was initially provided in North Sulawesi, but the central government moved quickly and effectively to force the issue through arms. In a matter of six months the PRRI had been forced out of the major towns originally held and reduced to guerrilla resistance. With the quick reversal of PRRI's military fortunes, covert assistance from the United States upon which the rebel leaders had counted so heavily was withdrawn. For those Darul Islam leaders reluctantly moving into opposition to Teungku M. Daud Beureueh the alternative of linking up with PRRI forces disappeared with central government military advances against the rebels. As one of the pro-negotiations leaders put the issue: "I was surprised that PRRI collapsed so quickly. Once again the alternatives were to begin fighting again or to negotiate with the government. I told Teungku Daud Beureueh that it was suicidal to begin fighting again, that we could not win and that the result would be the destruction of Aceh. He was extremely angry to hear 20 me say this."

Whatever the PRRI reverses on the battlefield, Teungku M. Daud Beureueh found reason for encouragement as he saw the PRRI rebellion as a vindication of his own rebellion. Yet he held back from a full commitment to PRRI because of its ideological diffuseness. As Feith and Lev noted: "The most striking point about the rebellion's internal politics is that it suffered from the same affliction which had eaten away at the nation since independence—a lack of consensus and purpose. Many of the divisions which had characterized national politics in earlier years appeared rapidly among the rebels, and the number of small cliques was almost as great in the ranks of rebel leadership as in Djakarta." Certainly the prominent role of Masjumi stalwarts in the rebellion was viewed from Aceh as a promising development. Moreover, one of the themes Teungku M. Daud Beureueh had propounded over the last several years—that the Javanese world-view and left-wing ideology as represented by Sukarno were winning the day in Jakarta—was central to the PRRI cause. On the other side, however, was the fact that the Sulawesi wing of PRRI was Christian and the fact that the Sumatran wing was beset by conflicts between Islamic leaders and Christian Bataks. Thus to the mind of Teungku M. Daud Beureueh the existence of PRRI justified holding fast in anticipation of a favorable turn of events even if its ideological diffuseness precluded a formal alliance. Those Darul Islam leaders in favor of pursuing negotiations with the government were certainly aware that with Sukarno's Guided Democracy the political shift against reformist Islam was even more pronounced in 1958 than it had been in 1953. But they were also aware that whatever the political drift in Jakarta, army headquarters under Nasution was concentrating sufficient power to offer a negotiated settlement.

Divergent perspectives within the Darul Islam leadership on the viability of Outer Island-based resistance movements and on the nature of central authority produced two contending courses of action. Teungku M. Daud Beureueh insisted that the struggle must be continued. He still maintained that only an Islamic state established throughout Indonesia

_ J

Indonesia could ensure the survival of the true religion in Aceh. But Hasan Saleh, with a different definition of the situation, was picking up increasing support from the ranks of Darul Islam. He argued that the game was up in the regions and that prolonged.fighting would not lead to the long-awaited breakthrough against the center. Hasan Saleh was persuasive by regionalizing the problem in two ways. First, he drew attention to the possible devastation to Aceh that might result from unremitting resistance and to the potential for development should peace be achieved. Secondly, he argued that although the Islamic goals of the rebellion clearly could not be achieved in their entirety, the greatest progress in this direction would come from disassociating these goals from the ongoing debate concerning the ideological foundations of the Indonesian state and instead concentrating on what concessions could be won from the center to ensure the role of Islam in Acehnese society. In negotiations with the center, timing was of great importance. Since the cease-fire in Aceh had held at the time of the PRRI rebellion, those who favored a negotiated settlement calculated that the time was propitious to gain maximum benefit for the Acehnese.

By the end of 1958 the split within Darul Islam was complete. Hasan Saleh had been holding discussions with the government and felt he had sufficient assurances to justify an open break with Teungku M. Daud Beureueh. On March 15, 1959, Hasan Saleh announced that he was relieving Teungku M. Daud Beureueh of leadership and was establishing a Revolutionary Council (Dewan Repolusi) as the official body for the Federal State of Aceh of the Islamic State of Indonesia.22 A. Gani Usman, the Darul Islam deputy prime minister, was appointed chairman of the Revolutionary Coun23 cil. Virtually all of the prominent Darul Islam leaders deserted Teungku M. Daud Beureueh to join Hasan Saleh and A. Gani Usman on the Revolutionary Council: Teungku Amir Husin al Mudjahid (formerly the chairman of the Darul Islam Madjelis Sjura); A. Gani Mutyara (Minister of Information); T. M. Amin (Minister of Economic Affairs); T. A. Hasan (Minister of Finance and Minister of Health); Husin Jusuf (one-time Minister of Defense); Ishak Amin (bupati for Aceh Besar); and M. Saleh Kapa 24 (bupati for Aceh Selatan). The most important leader staying with Teungku M. Daud Beureueh was Prime Minister Hasan Ali. The Revolutionary Council succeeded in attracting approximately three-fourths of the active Darul Islam fighting forces to its side. The defections were particularly heavy in Aceh Besar and Pidie, thus limiting Teungku M. Daud Beureueh's 25 military strength to East, North, and Central Aceh. The establishment of the Revolutionary Council represented a commitment to seeking a peaceful solution; as Teungku Amir Husin al Mudjahid put it:

The take over of NBA-Nil leadership is not in the least based on disrespect for Teungku M. Daud Beureueh personally, but rather is the outgrowth of a collective responsibility for the welfare of two million Acehnese believers and for the happiness and glory of the younger generation's future; in sum, it should be emphasized, it is based on the desire to achieve the goals of the Islamic community in the proper manner. The NBA-Nil Revolutionary Council will continue discussions with the Government of the Republic of

Daud Beureueh.

Indonesia as a matter of principle and not simply as a tactical movo. Negotiations involve a discussion of problems through diplomatic means and should not be confused with "surrender."26

For Teungku M. Daud Beureueh the Revolutionary Council's action

amounted to treason. Moreover, the Revolutionary Council leaders were

traitors not only to Aceh but also to the broader Indonesian struggle:

A return to the Republic of Indonesia means surrender and treason. . . . Remember the fate of our like-minded comrades-in-arms in West Java, Sulawesi, Kalimantan, Central Sumatra, and South Sumatra who stand firm in carrying out their sacred task of opposing the power of the despotic Sukarno clique. . . . Aceh must not separate itself from national solidarity, from those regions in Indonesia now fighting. Any attempt to separate ourselves from the revolutionary movement throughout Indonesia at this time will throw us and the Acehnese people into the depths of destruction. Furthermore any endeavor which is provincial in the sense of live and let live at this time of upheaval in Indonesia will destroy Aceh from within. In order to preserve Acehnese unity and realize peace in Aceh in the present circumstances, it is necessary to focus the attention of the Acehnese on the larger problems and movements of all of Indonesia.27

Formal negotiations between the Republic and the Revolutionary Council took place in late May 1959 when First Deputy Prime Minister Mr. Hardi and Deputy Army Chief-of-Staff Gatot Subroto led a mission to Aceh for a final round of discussions. 8 There were two unresolved problems upon which a final settlement between the government and the Revolutionary Council depended. The first problem involved the future of the Darul Islam troops Hasan Saleh had brought down from the mountains. Revolutionary Council leaders had requested the direct integration of all of their troops into the Indonesian National Army. Moreover, they requested that the Darul Islam forces retain their separate identity in six battalions. Instead Army Chief-of-Staff offered to absorb the Darul Islam soldiers into an auxiliary militia under the command of Hasan Saleh who was, in turn, responsible to the commander of the Military Area Command for Aceh (KDMA). After a period of training, those Darul Islam soldiers deemed acceptable would be recruited into the Indonesian National Army while those to be demobilized would be provided with assistance for inte29 gration into society.

The second problem involved in negotiations between the government and the Revolutionary Council was the status of Aceh within the Republic of Indonesia. For the Revolutionary Council leaders the resolution of this problem would be an indication of the center's willingness to accord centrality to Aceh. As such, the pivotal issue was the role of Islam in state and society. The granting of provincial status was clearly insufficient in this respect. Initially, Hasan Saleh and his colleagues had hoped to gain a formal status comparable to that of the "Federal State of Aceh" (Negara Bahagian Aceh) enjoyed as part of the Islamic State of Indonesia. Early on in the discussions, however, the government indicated that a status as explicitly federalist as Negara Bahagian Aceh was not negotiable. As a compromise Sjammaun Gaharu and A. Hasjmy pressed the central government to designate Aceh as a "Special Region" (Daerah

Interview, May 6, 1976.

Istimewa), a designation which would allow for some measure of autonomy in, inter alia, religious affairs.31 By the end of 1958, the central government agreed in principle to the Daerah Istimewa proposal which would allow for "extensive" (seluas-luasnia) autonomy in the fields of religion, education, and customary law (peradatan) within the limitations established by the constitution and relevant statutes.32 Once the central government made this concession, Hasan Saleh reluctantly accepted the Daerah Istimewa proposal even though it was less than he had hoped. Hasan Saleh informed Nasution: "It has been difficult for us to accept the [Daerah Istimewa] proposal particularly since Teungku M. Daud Beureueh refused to hear of it. But those of us from the progressive-minded Younger Generation within the Islamic Army of Indonesia have decided, after considerable thought, to accept the Daerah Istimewa status even without Teungku M. Daud Beureueh's approval."33

The formal negotiations of May 1959 between the Hardi Mission and the Revolutionary Council came just as the long-standing ideological debate was being played out at the center. In an effort to gain some concreteness from the vague offer of "extensive" autonomy in the field of religion, Revolutionary Council leaders attempted to tie the Daerah Istimewa proposal to the issue of requiring that Muslims practice Islamic law (sjari'at). The introduction of the sjari'at issue in this particular form into the negotiations was related to the debate over the Jakarta Charter, a pr'eindependence document drafted in June 1945. The Jakarta Charter included the phrase "with the obligation for adherents of Islam to practice Islamic law." In 1945 Islamic leaders had proposed the Jakarta Charter as the preamble to the Republic's constitution. Secular nationalist leaders successfully blocked the Jakarta Charter, and, in any event, the 1945 constitution providing for presidential government was replaced by a provisional constitution providing for parliamentary government. When in the late 1950s President Sukarno and General Nasution proposed returning to the 1945 constitution, the Islamic parties revived the proposal to establish the Jakarta Charter as the preamble to that constitution. Revolutionary Council leaders in Aceh stated that in their view the Jakarta Charter was the "crowning glory" of the Indonesian struggle 34 for independence. But the Revolutionary Council's demand for a linkage between "extensive" autonomy in the field of religion and the imperative of the Jakarta Charter was not met by the government. First Deputy Prime Minister Hardi said that the Jakarta Charter was a "constitutional" issue to be settled by the Constituent Assembly. But Hardi indicated that within the framework of autonomy provided by the Daerah Istimewa proposal, the region could pursue policies relating to Islamic law.36

On May 26, 1959, following formal negotiations between the Hardi Mission and the Revolutionary Council, Aceh was decreed to be a Daerah Istimewa. The official decision indicated that although Aceh would enjoy "extensive" autonomy in religion, education, and customary law, it would nonetheless be subject to the same statutes as other provinces.37 Despite some reservations, Revolutionary Council leaders accepted the government's offer and returned to the Republican fold.38

What Daerah Istimewa status meant, if it meant anything at all, remains, as we shall see later, a contentious issue. For some, the change of status was indicative of a remarkably conciliatory attitude on the part of the government. For others, however, the formulation was remarkably vague; as such, it remained a hopeful promise upon which the central government could renege once Aceh was completely pacified. If later developments perhaps confirmed the prediction of the skeptics, attention should nonetheless be drawn to the fact that, however ambiguous the government's offer may have been, of all the rebellious regions throughout Indonesia only Aceh won Daerah Istimewa status. That this should have been so is in some measure attributable to the parallel strategies pursued by Acehnese government officials—army commander Sjamaaun Gaharu and Governor A. Hasjmy—and those Darul Islam leaders who sided with Hasan Saleh. That is, with the collapse of the parliamentary system, the two sides made a commitment to the Sukarno-Nasution alliance at the center, Nasution in fact being the key, in preference to responding to the overtures of the PRRI leaders. The timely commitment unquestionably increased Aceh's leverage with the center. However ambiguous the outcome, the very mention of "autonomy" in relation to religious affairs accorded "centrality" to the goals of the Acehnese. That the concession came in mid-1959 was paradoxical for, in Lev's words, "the attack of Guided Democracy on the ideological party system was also an attack on Islamic ideology, which after a few years of apparent strength was succumbing to the real strength 39 of other trends." It could plausibly be argued, however, that the collapse of the political challenge presented by reformist Islam was a necessary if not sufficient condition for making concessions to the Darul Islam rebels in Aceh. Revolutionary Council leaders were probably not surprised by the reverses reformist Islam had suffered at the center. They had long ago abandoned hope that Masjumi within the framework of parliamentary democracy could protect their interests. Instead they placed their hopes on a negotiated settlement backed by army headquarters. If their hopes were not completely disappointed, a price nonetheless had to be paid: the outcome of the granting of Daerah Istimewa status was to

"regionalize" the claims of Islamic leaders in Aceh, to separate them from the broader Indonesian ideological debate. Thus the Daerah Istimewa concession cut two ways: on the one hand, it represented a granting of "centrality" to the goals of Acehnese Islam, but, on the other, the act of making Aceh "special" was intended to limit the reach of these goals.

There was still a certain disquiet among Revolutionary Council members. Several months after the settlement, a Revolutionary Council ula ^ stated: "the 'capital' for the Acehnese struggle belongs to the peoplerice, fish, meat, salted eggs, emping chips, and the like. The Acehnese people are asking whether there are any gains made from their capital. But we cannot say that Islamic law functions in Aceh."40

Teungku M. Daud Beureueh remained convinced that the settlement based on the Daerah Istimewa formula would not result in the implementation of the sjari'at. His opposition to the Republic was rendered all the more implacable by what he took to be the betrayal of his subordinates. For Teungku M. Daud Beureueh, the cease-fire agreed to in April 1957 no longer held: by late 1959 his remaining forces were launching attacks on government posts. As open conflict was renewed, Teungku M. Daud Beureueh chose to realign his movement away from S. M. Kartosuwirdjo•s Islamic State toward the PRRI. The leadership of the PRRI had been attempting to broaden its base in order to sustain the status of PRRI as a contending national government. PRRI overtures to the remnants of the Darul Islam rebellion in Aceh had not produced agreement on a formal arrangement between the two movements as Teungku M. Daud Beureueh had insisted that the cause of the Islamic state must take precedence over all other considerations. In an effort to subsume the cause of the Darul Islam rebellion in Aceh as well as those of insurgencies elsewhere in Indonesia, in February 1960 the PRRI leadership proclaimed the establishment of the Republik Persatuan Indonesia (United Republic of Indonesia), a loose federalist structure which allowed each of ten constituent states to 41 choose its own ideology. Teungku M. Daud Beureueh's movement was thereby transformed into the Islamic Republic of Aceh of the United Republic of Indonesia. The relationship between the Acehnese rebellion and the United Republic of Indonesia was loose and vague, such as had been the relationship with Kartosuwirdjo's Islamic State. Even though the ideological congruence had been more evident in the case of Kartosuwirdjo's rebellion its degeneration into banditry rendered it an increasingly embarrassing association for the Acehnese. As in the past, Teungku M. Daud Beureueh deemed it important to maintain a connection with a supraregional movement claiming to represent all of Indonesia, believing as he did that only an Indonesian Islamic state could guarantee the well-being of the faithful in Aceh. Yet if the association with the United Republic of Indonesia allowed Teungku M. Daud Beureueh to maintain the supraregional linkage, the very diversity of the movement served to "regionalize" the claims of Islam, much in the same way that acceptance of the Daerah Istimewa formula separated Aceh from the broader Indonesian ideological debate.

As Teungku M. Daud Beureueh's forces returned to battie, Colonel Sjammaun Gaharu responded in kind with an operation designed to defeat

42 the rebels. But the Indonesian army's military operation prompted a reaction in Aceh Besar: A. Wahab Ibrahim, one-time commander of the Islamic Army of Indonesia regiment for Aceh Besar, disassociated himself from the Revolutionary Council and returned with his men to the mountains surrounding Kutaradja. The Aceh Besar rebels split off from the Revolutionary Council on the grounds that a settlement with the government which excluded Teungku M. Daud Beureueh was no resolution at all and that the government's promises on the sjari'at were so vague as to be virtually 43 meaningless.

The military move against Teungku M. Daud Beureueh was never consummated: although perhaps tactically feasible, a military resolution would have been politically most problematical.44 Accordingly, Nasution decided in 1960 to replace Sjammaun Gaharu as Commander of the Military Area Command for Aceh (KDMA) with Colonel M. Jasin.45 The main responsibility of the new commander would be to win the return of Teungku M. Daud Beureueh

to the Republican fold. It turned out to be a time-consuming responsiOn this operation, called the Octopus Operation, see Dua Windhu bility for Colonel Jasin, but, as rebel movements in other parts of Indonesia were coming to terms with the central government, time was on his side.

By early 1961 Colonel M. Jasin and Teungku M. Daud Beureueh were exchanging letters and emissaries in a preliminary statement of their respective positions. At the same time, Teungku M. Daud Beureueh was losing the national framework for his movement as the PRI (United Republic of Indonesia) was collapsing. On August 17, 1961, PRI Prime Minister Sjafruddin Prawiranegara announced the cessation of opposition to the government of the Republic of Indonesia. Teungku M. Daud Beureueh disassociated himself from the PRI with the announcement that "the struggle to establish Islamic law in Aceh, in particular, and in Indonesia, in general, will continue in accord with the letter and the spirit of the 46 Proclamation of September 21, 1953." But an increasing number of Teungku M. Daud Beureueh's followers were no longer willing to continue the "struggle" in the mountains: in October 1961 Hasan Ali, prime minister of the rebel movement, returned to the Republic. There was also a shift in Teungku M. Daud Beureueh's statements indicating a scaling-down of his expectations: in his demand for implementation of the sjari'at, he now

made a distinction between Aceh, in particular, and Indonesia, in general. officials, army officers, ulamas, and former Darul Islam leaders—who came

In November 1961 Colonel Jasin went to Teungku M. Daud Beureueh's headquarters in the mountains of East Aceh to make a personal appeal for the ulama's return. Jasin was one of a string of visitors—government to urge an end to the rebellion. The arguments presented to Teungku M. Daud Beureueh were twofold: first, that the time had come to focus attention on the development and wolfare of Aceh, and that only he had the personal authority to lead the people in this direction; and, secondly, that the increasing political power of the Indonesian Communist Party demanded a unified Aceh and a reliance on the army to deter what was seen to be the left-wing threat to Islam. Teungku M. Daud Beureueh readily acknowledged that he was persuaded by these arguments and would be willing to cease his resistance on one condition, viz., that the government make a statement that provided for the implementation of Islamic law in Aceh. He had persistently called on the government to observe the imperative of the Jakarta Charter. But now the focus was solely on Aceh. In a statement issued "in the name of the Acehnese people," Teungku M. Daud Beureueh demanded that "Islamic law be practiced in Aceh, so that thereby the Acehnese, God willing, would be in a better position to contribute to the Republic of Indonesia." In late 1961, Chief-of-Staff Nasution informed an emissary from Teungku M. Daud Beureueh that the Daerah Istimewa formula provided the framework for realizing the practice of the sjari'at in Aceh and that any impediments in implementation were attributable more to the absence of peaceful conditions in Aceh than to bad faith on the government's part. Such reassurances were not sufficient for Teungku M. Daud Beureueh.

There the matter stood for some months. Teungku M. Daud Beureueh would not relent in his demand for an explicit and substantive statement on Islamic law. The central government was understandably wary of issuing a decree that would give hope to Islamic leaders throughout Indonesia. It was thus decided that Colonel Jasin, in his capacity as regional martial law administrator, would make a statement on the applicability of Islamic law in Aceh. On April 7, 1962, Jasin issued an official decree providing for "the orderly and proper implementation of elements of Islamic law for adherents of Islam in the Special Region of Aceh with consideration being given to extant national statutes and regulations." Jasin also stated that further specification as to the meaning and intent of the decree would be the responsibility of the government of the Special Region of Aceh.49

Left unresolved was the question of the regional government's competence in the religious field, in the absence of an explicit devolution of power by the central government. The wording of the decree with regard to "implementation" was purposefully ambiguous. Also, the decree did not point up what the proponents of the sjari'at saw to be its expansive applicability: only undetermined "elements" would be implemented. Nonetheless it was Jasin's formulation which finally brought Teungku M. Daud

Beureueh and his followers down from the mountains. In response Teungku M. Daud Beureueh issued a statement summarizing his own expansive vision of the applicability of the sjari'at to all aspects of human endeavor.51 With that gesture he brought his rebellion to an end after almost nine years of resistance. The settlement was a compromise: Teungku M. Daud Beureueh had succeeded in impressing upon the center the distinctive aspirations of the Acehnese, but he had not realized his hope of changing the nature of central authority. The ambiguity of the settlement was illustrated by different reactions to Teungku M. Daud Beureueh's return. From the perspective of one high-ranking army officer who had proposed a final military move against the remaining rebels following the settlement with the Revolutionary Council, "it was a capitulation on the part of the Republic. Teungku M. Daud Beureueh returned as if he had won."52 But one Darul Islam leader who stayed with Teungku M. Daud Beureueh until the end saw it differently: "We were greeted with great rejoicing. Colonel Jasin had forbidden the word 'surrender' to be used. We were simply 'returning,' it was said, but in our hearts we knew that we had surrendered."53

CHAPTER NINE ACEH UNDER THE NEW ORDER (I): THE ELEMENTS OF RULE AND THE IDEOLOGY OF DEVELOPMENT

Transition to the New Order

The working out of the implications of the settlement ending the rebellion in Aceh did not come until after the violent transition in 1965 and 1966 from Guided Democracy, the increasingly uneasy alliance between the army and President Sukarno, to the New Order, the army-dominated government led by General Suharto. Attention is often focused on the fundamental political change following the September 30, 1965 abortive coup which army leaders attributed to the workings of the Indonesian Communist Party. Yet the army that emerged supreme from the collapse of Sukarno had been instrumental in establishing and supporting Guided Democracy in the first place. Moreover, the army leadership made important political and economic gains during Guided Democracy. Thus, attention should also be focused on continuity. As Crouch notes, "the army had not gained control of the government by means of a Nasserite coup in which an 'outside' reforming elite overthrew a reactionary and incompetent establishment. The army had already become part of the ruling elite under Guided Democracy. Its rise to a position of dominance did not follow the elimination of the old elite, but rather strengthened one section of it at the expense of other parts." The establishment of the New Order came with the destruction of the Indonesian Communist Party in a bloodbath that claimed the lives of hundreds of thousands of its supporters. Once the threat on the left had been eliminated, the army was free to create a new political balance of forces ensuring its hegemony.

Initially, Islamic leaders in Aceh perceived the transition to the New Order as a favorable development, for Sukarno's tilt towards the left had strengthened the political force, the Communist Party, seen to constitute the greatest threat to Islam. But. as will be shown below, the hopes the Acehnese held for a resurgence of Islam's political power in Indonesia did not last long. The Communist Party had not been a threat locally in Aceh, the party's minimal support coming for the most part from nonAcehnese plantation and railway workers. But to the minds of Acehnese leaders, Sukarno's opening to the left in an attempt to balance the army's growing power confirmed their worst suspicions of the center. Their suspicions of the left had played a role in the settlement of the rebellion-that is, army officers persuaded rebel leaders that it was necessary to return to the Republican fold to strengthen the anti-left forces. During the early 1960s a partnership had developed between strongly antiCommunist army commanders-first M. Jasin and then Ishak Djuarsa-and Acehnese civilian leaders, a partnership that was effective in limiting the Communist Party leadership's activities.2 The army in Aceh was generally successful in deflecting the radical thrust of Sukarno's policies; this remained the case even after the army's martial law authority was rescinded in 1963. Leftwing pressures at the center for the replacement of Governor A. Hasjmy, identified with Partai Sjarikat Islam Indonesia (PSII), and of a virulent anti-Communist regent (bupati), identified with the banned Masjumi, had unintended consequences: both were replaced but with anti-left army officers. Thus the leftward trend at the center only served to strengthen the army's control in Aceh.

In Aceh, as elsewhere throughout Indonesia, the crushing of the Communist Party came at the hands of Islamic youth groups with the scarcely veiled encouragement and assistance of the army. Brigadier General Ishak Djuarsa, the army commander in Aceh, openly encouraged Islamic groups to destroy the Communists. Estimates of the number of alleged Communists killed in Aceh range from 2,000 to 6,000 persons. As elsewhere in Indonesia, the suspected Communists offered no resistance. Even those who were directly involved in the killings readily concede that only a small number of those killed were "conscious" (sadar) in the sense of understanding the tenets of the Communist Party. Nonetheless the massacre of those who were not sadar was justified on the grounds that the threat from the left had to be completely rooted out. And the bloodbath received the religious sanction of a holy war against an infidel determined to destroy Islam. The abortive coup, according to Teungku

Abdullah Udjong Rimba, "served as a torch to shed light on those who were true Muslims defending the Faith with their lives and property, and those hypocrites who were intent on selling our country and millions of Muslims to an atheistic infidel. (The abortive coup) was a test of faith for religious persons in general and for Muslims in particular; a test from which we gained a righteous victory with the Almighty's help, without which Indonesia would surely have become an ocean of blood dominated by the cruel infidel."6

The violent events of 1965 and 1966 called forth a new generation of fiemuda (youth), who consciously thought of themselves as successors to the revolutionary pemuda of 1945. Following the lead of youth leaders in Jakarta, Acehnese youth formed themselves into two action fronts: KAMI (the Indonesian Student Action Front) for university students and KAPPI (the Indonesian Student and Youth Action Front) for high school students and other youths. Both action fronts were coalitions of various preexisting youth groups, for the most part auxiliary groups of political parties, but the dominant force in both cases was an Islamic group: HMI (Himpunan Mahasiswa Islam, Islamic Student Association) dominated KAMI and PII (Peladjar Islam Indonesia, Islamic Students of Indonesia) dominated KAPPI. Once the Communists had been eliminated, the action fronts turned on the ethnic Chinese and the Indonesian Nationalist Party.

The move against the Chinese was fueled by the accusation that the People's Republic of China had been implicated in the abortive coup, an accusation which focused attention on the many Chinese who, in the absence of Indonesian nationality, were nominally RPC citizens and, thereby, considered to be Communists. But widespread resentment against the pivotal role of the Chinese in the economy aroused emotions against Indonesian citizens of Chinese origin as well. The most dramatic event came in April 1966 when KAPPI activists attacked Chinese stores and residencies throughout North Aceh. Thousands of Chinese, even Indonesian citizens, were forced to flee to the neighboring province of North Sumatra. In other parts of Aceh, non-Indonesian Chinese joined the exodus to North Sumatra.

The action groups then turned their attention to the Indonesian Nationalist Party which had been closely identified with President Sukarno and the "Old Order." With encouragement from General Ishak Djuarsa, KAPPI leaders in Aceh mounted demonstrations calling for the banning of the Nationalist Party, a demand which he then met in late 1967. Even after army officers, under pressure from Jakarta, withdrew their support from anti-Nationalist Party activities, youth activists, supported by Islamic political party leaders, continued their demonstrations. Youth leaders began to complain that their erstwhile ally, the army, was constraining the action fronts: "Now if KAPPI attempts to act officials caution patience; they argue that present conditions do not allow for direct action as before, that demonstrations disturb 'political stability.'" A KAMI leader attributed Aceh's problems to older leaders, "who fight for personal advantage, for group interest; who are always on the lookout for lucrative positions." The culmination came in 1970 when, after demonstrations in Banda Aceh that prevented the installation of National Party officers for Aceh, the army arrested a number of KAPPI/PII leaders. With these arrests, organized pemuda activities growing out of the events of 1965 and 1966 came to a halt. In the event, the momentum of the pemuda had pretty much ended as the more prominent leaders had moved on to various niches in the New Order hierarchy and as senior army officers sympathetic to the pemuda had been transferred out of Aceh.

With the consolidation of the army-dominated New Order, the nature of central authority had changed. We have noted above that although the postcolonial center following the Revolution was successor to and derivative of the Netherlands East Indies, it in fact possessed much less power than its predecessor. It was, however, to be a new and different center, for its very emergence had depended on the mobilization of popular support for the revolutionary cause, and the appearance of local leaders who could deliver that support, against colonial domination. Although the transition to the New Order was presented by its proponents as a second beginning that would turn Indonesia away from the chaos of Guided Democracy, the postcoup center was predicated on quite different assumptions than those of the postrevolutionary center. Unquestionably the overthrow of Guided Democracy called forth some measure of popular support; this was certainly the case in Aceh. But whereas postrevolutionary central governments had found it necessary to allow for popular participation, the postcoup government was intent on controlling those political forces unleashed by participation. The New Order Government came to possess both coercive force and resources in a measure that had been unavailable before. Despite internal factionalism that continued to color politics at the center, the army was a far more centralized and integrated institution than in the past, and one capable of exerting much greater control over the outer regions. The foundation for this control had been laid in the late 1950s when the army, under its martial law authority, took possession of nationalized Dutch-owned companies, plantations, and mining concerns. Following the successful economic stabilization program of the late 1960s, even more resources became available: substantial foreign aid, significant foreign investment, and dramatic oil price increases. Thus the center was in a much strengthened position vis-â-vis the regions.

Two particular themes characterized the New Order: economic development and political stability. The army leadership maintained that only its conception of political stability would engender the requisite conditions for economic development. There was a purposeful attempt to depoliticize Indonesian life. We have seen how during the 1950s, the army, in alliance with Sukarno, had turned against the political parties and parliamentary government. Yet as long as Sukarno maintained his position, Indonesian political life retained an inclusive quality, as epitomized by the concept of Nasakom, the ideological lynchpin of Guided Democracy, which in theory, if not always in practice, allowed for the participation of nationalist, religious, and communist groups. In contrast to Sukarno's inclusive approach, army leaders aimed for the exclusion of divisive ideological issues which they saw as leading to political conflict and chaos. In time, those compelling issues which had once captured the

Indonesian political imagination were eliminated from public forums such as representative assemblies and the media. And, as a corollary, open criticism of government policies and practices was sacrificed in the interests of political stability. Once the left had been removed, depoliticization was directed against what was perceived to be the threat of political Islam. The army leadership's attempt to contain Islam predictably turned most Acehnese leaders against the center. But the unity and coherence of the response was diminished by the emergence of a contending group of local leaders who presented a different definition of Aceh's situation and priorities.

The Technocratic Vision: Marginality and Development

With the advent of the New Order government, Acehnese leaders turned their attention to economic development. The major constraint on development was the degeneration of the infrastructure that had occurred since the colonial period. In the 1970s, port facilities that once had received regular freighter service were idle, railway services that once had connected Banda Aceh with East Sumatra were virtually nonexistent, and roads that once had facilitated the movement of Aceh's agriculture surplus out of the region were in disrepair. During the last years of Guided Democracy resources were not available to maintain and improve existing facilities.12

The degree to which Aceh in the 1970s was in better or worse condition economically than other regions of Indonesia was very much a matter of interpretation. And it was precisely the interpretation of Aceh's position that, for a new group of Acehnese leaders, defined the nature of center-region relations. In most respects, Aceh's economy still reflected the dualism established during the colonial period, viz., a separation, geographically and structurally, between a capital-intensive sector geared towards foreign export and a labor intensive sector based in the villages. Prior to exploitation of massive natural gas deposits in North Aceh, the capital intensive sector was concentrated on the ethnically mixed borders of the provinces: oil and estates in East Aceh and timber exploitation in the district of Singkel in South Aceh. Although oil, estate commodities, and timber contributed significantly to Aceh's gross domestic product, they had minimal impact on the Acehnese populace at large. The oil wells in East Aceh accounted for approximately fifty percent of the total Indonesian production of the state oil company, Pertamina. However, Pertamina' s direct oil production accounted for only a small proportion of oil exploitation in Indonesia. Most of Pertamina's funds came from joint production contracts with foreign oil companies. Thus, by Pertamina's standards oil revenues from Aceh were not substantial, but from the perspective of Aceh the amount involved seemed incredibly large: it was estimated that in the mid-1970s the gross value of Aceh's oil was one-half the non-oil regional income of the province.

That the province received no share of revenue from oil produced in Aceh was obviously a sore point, rendered all the more so by the discovery of natural gas reserves there of immeasurably greater value than the oil deposits. The East Aceh estate economy, which produced rubber and oil palm, was oriented towards export through Madan and, thus, had little bearing on the economic situation in the rest of Aceh. The value of estate rubber exports had declined markedly. This decline led to diversification of estates from rubber to palm oils. By the mid-1970s, timber exploitation accounted for roughly half of the total value of exports from Aceh. Although the provincial government generated some revenue from taxes on timber exploitation, the area of exploitation was so isolated as to preclude any direct impact on Aceh's development.

The village economy was based on the production of rice with secondary food crop and livestock activities to supplement diet and income. There were pockets of small-holder production—rubber in West Aceh, coffee in Central Aceh and, increasingly, cloves throughout the province—but rice remained at the center of the village economy. And the Acehnese peasantry applied itself to rice cultivation in such a way that Aceh was, on the basis of population, the most productive region in the country. In 1972 per capita padi production in Aceh was estimated to be 411 kilograms or more than double the national average of 195 kilograms. In terms of milled rice, Aceh's per capita production was 197 kilograms or 84 percent higher than the national average of 107 kilograms. Aceh accounted for approximately 3.5 percent of total national rice production as against 1.7 percent of the total population. But only a portion of the surplus was marketed outside the province. Instead, this high per capita production led to relatively high per capita consumption, about 60 percent more than per capita consumption for the whole country. Even after this high level of consumption, Aceh's rice surplus averaged some 100,000 tons per year between 1966 and 1975. Without high losses due to inadequate processing and storage facilities, the surplus would have been even greater. Also, the extremely high costs of transportation due to a deteriorating infrastructure represented a disincentive to increased production. As Ibrahim Hasan, one of Aceh's leading technocrats, commented: "While rice production in Aceh seems to have been increasing almost naturally without any of the massive efforts as in Java, there is neither internal pressure nor capacity to launch a large scale rice intensification program. Any choice to designate Aceh a major national rice supplier must be up to the central government, and would have to be based on substantial investments for irrigation, roads and other facilities."

Acehnese did not suffer the extreme poverty of their compatriots in Java and East Indonesia. However, in the opinion of Acehnese leaders, the Acehnese economy did suffer from stagnation. These leaders argued for greater investment in Aceh's development to overcome the stagnation. It was this desire for pembangunan (development) that laid the foundation for a "technocratic development" linkage between a segment of the Acehnese leadership and the New Order center. But this vertical linkage between center and periphery did not allow for elite unity within Aceh. In part this was so because the center needed a local leadership group dedicated to its development ideology in competition with the Islamic claims of the ulama, and in part because the "new elite" of Aceh elaborated a definition cf the situation that favored region over religion. It was clearly in the center's interest to seek out, relate to, and reinforce a strategically useful component of the Acehnese leadership and thereby reduce its coherence. And it was also in the interest of those leaders who came to control the flow of resources from the center to the region to maintain that their position was derived from presumed expertise.

On the Acehnese side of the "technocratic development" linkage between center and periphery there was, in the words of A. Madjid Ibrahim, "an effective, development-oriented leadership through the alliance of the army, the provincial government and the university." This local coalition was a variatioa on a broader pattern characteristic of the New Order; in the words of one observer: "Economists as policy-makers, soldiers as stabilizers, bureaucrats as implementers—these are the three main ingredients in what has now become the quasi-official formula for the optimal development strategy in Indonesia." The army in Aceh was for the most part Acehnese: although the army commander in the mid-1970s was not Acehnese, the second echelon of officers was comprised of Acehnese. It seemed to be a purposeful policy to preclude people from drawing the impression that Aceh was occupied by a "foreign" army. This was not accomplished without difficulties: during the late 1960s and early 1970s several senior Acehnese officers were transferred out of Aceh as they were seen to be too close to Islamic and youth leaders. Territorial administrators were initially all "native sons" but were mixed in terms of military/civilian status: the Governor, after 1968, was a civilian, the majority of the eight district administrators (bupati) were military officers, and almost all of the more than one hundred subdistrict chiefs (camat) were civilians. What made Aceh particularly distinctive was the presence of those whose claim to leadership was based on secular higher education, gained, for the initial few, at universities in Java followed by advanced study in the United States or Europe, and for the succeeding generation, at Syiah Kuala University in Aceh. The most prominent members of this segment of Acehnese leadership, economists for the most part, liked to call themselves "technocrats" after the economists in Jakarta who emerged as New Order cabinet ministers in charge of development policy. The base for this new elite was Syiah Kuala University which was founded in 1961.23 The two men who held the position of university rector from the mid-1960s to the mid-1970s—A. Madjid Ibrahim and Ibrahim Hasan—also served as chairman of the provincial government planning board. That in 1978 A. Madjid Ibrahim was appointed Governor of Aceh, one of the few civilian governors in New Order Indonesia, pointed up the pivotal intermediary role the technocrats had assumed in Aceh.

Although emphasis is rightly given to the pivotal role of the technocrats in having defined the nature of center-periphery relations, this should not disguise the reality that the mechanisms of control remained firmly in army hands. As noted earlier, the New Order Government—which is to say, the army—possessed coercive force and resources in a measure that had been unavailable to central governments before. This enhanced central capacity was a function of the army's increasing wealth, centralized command, relative unity, and technical skills. Consequently, the terms of exchange between center and periphery had shifted in favor of the former.

Army dominance in the local politics of Aceh did not start with the New Order; its antecedents can be traced to the late 1950s when, under martial law authority, army commanders were the preeminent power in Aceh. Even after the end of martial law in 1963, the army in Aceh maintained its power. But this power was as often as not used to deflect central directives. The difference was that with the consolidation of New Order rule, the presence of an integrated and centralized command permitted a more effective and thorough penetration of the periphery than had been the case before. This increased penetration, however, was not sinply a matter of more of the same, for the New Order Government set about to reorient Indonesian political life. If during Guided Democracy, and even during the early days of the New Order, the army had acted as an arbitrator of conflicts among different political groups, the New Order government was intent on removing those conflicts from the political agenda and driving the various groups out of the political arena. Its effectiveness in doing so rested in part on the threat of force, and the army gave priority to strengthening its anti-insurgency capacity. Yet, in the first instance, control was maintained through the deployment of an elaborate apparatus of intelligence operatives who sought out potential dissent. Internal security bodies such as Kopkamtib (an acronym for the Operations Command to Restore Security and Order) and Laksus (an acronym for Special Operations) came to characterize New Order governance. It was not so much a government of military force as one of military intelligence.

As evident as army power was, it was in a sense a "constant." The face of army power presented itself in Aceh in much the same way as in other provinces. What was unique about Aceh was the purposeful nurturing and emergence of a new leadership group which came to assume a far more prominent role than was the case for civilian groups in other regions. That this group moved so quickly to prominence was due to the absence of an indigenous gentry class which would have been the natural coalition partner for the army in opposition to the claims of the ulamas. Even with their defeat in the Darul Islam rebellion, reformist ulamas had maintained their position of ideological hegemony. There was initially no indigenous group available to enter the field against the ulamas. Much as the Dutch, following the Aceh War, had found it necessary to create a native ruling class from uleebalangs, the New order center moved, under the rubric of development, to buttress the technocrats against the ulamas.

The socioeconomic background of the technocrats was diverse. It was, in its formative stage, a relatively open class. The backgrounds of the four successive deans of the university's economics faculty illustrated the diversity: the first was the son of an Aceh Besar ulama; the second was the son of a small tailor who had migrated from Pidie to East Aceh; the third was the son of a Pidie uleebalang who had been killed during the social revolution; and the fourth was the son of a Pidie villager. Even though many of those who received a higher secular education were of the village, once they had taken their place in the development bureaucracy they were no longer of the village. Similar to the cultural divide created within Acehnese society during the colonial period, when only uleebalangs gained access to Dutch education, the new elite was being distanced from society by an essentially Western education. While this education was certainly not seen as intrinsically wrong, it did give rise to concerns that some Acehnese leaders were becoming acculturated to the center—in a word, secularized. Moreover, the ready willingness of the leading technocrats to come to terms with a central government seen to be unsympathetic to the Islamic cause was taken as evidence that the process of secularization was already underway. The comparison often made between the colonial period and the New Order period was not lost on the technocrats, although they argued that, in contrast to the Dutch period, access to advanced education no longer depended on ascriptive criteria. As one technocrat stated the issue: "We are the new uleebalangs."24 And in an increasingly depoliticized atmosphere, the prominent role of Westerneducated leaders, whose authority was derived not from popular support t.1— J M .».» I . M . M . , „,..>..i—...»..—^..- . ^ ........... --"ffti irMri'iiïiTnr -\w

but rather from central backing, bore a resemblance to the practice of indirect rule during the colonial period.

The technocrats, in alliance with army officers and bureaucrats, elaborated a new set of identity symbols designed to convey a focused definition of the Acehnese situation that stood in strong contrast to that provided by the ulamas. By elaborating a new definition of the situation, the new elite also attempted to provide different criteria by which to judge whether the central government recognized the value of Acehnese identity symbols. The strategy of the dominant leadership was to redefine Aceh as a disadvantaged and marginal ethnic minority in need of capital and expertise for development. By emphasizing the regional issue, they implicitly denied the ulama vision. The problem confronting the Acehnese was not that they confronted a center that had betrayed the revolutionary heritage by preventing the realization of Islamic goals, but rather that the Acehnese had been relegated to the marginal periphery unable to control the resources needed for overcoming a position of subordination. One step in overcoming marginality, for some, was the abnegation of Islamic ideology. As one technocrat stated:

Although I had been a member of HMI [Himpunan Mahasiswa Indonesia, Islamic Student Association], I decided not to join an Islamic political party because I saw that the parties lacked a concrete concept of development. I saw that the government side was more progressive, more secular, and more concerned with economic issues. The parties are too ideological. I think we need to get away from ideologies. Also, outsiders laugh at Acehnese for being so "fanatical" about religion. How can we attract foreign investment to Aceh if we are seen to be "fanatical"?25

In the view of technocrats there were two elements of Aceh's marginality: the exploitative nature of central authority and the isolated character of the region itself. Central exploitation of Aceh's resources was a recurrent theme, focusing specifically on the small return received from revenues earned from Aceh's oil and natural gas fields. The charge was made that other parts of Indonesia were developed with funds from Acehnese oil and natural gas while Aceh itself continued to stagnate. As one technocrat said:

Everyone knows that the center controls our wealth. But we have no decent ports, our roads are in terrible shape, and the railway no longer runs. But maybe someday the central government will help. We can wait. We Acehnese know how to wait. Waiting is one of our main activities. If not this generation, then maybe the next generation.26

The other side of Aceh's position as part of the marginal periphery

Aceh:

was the isolation of the region. The technocrats were intent, in the

words of Ibrahim Hasan, on "breaking the circle of isolation" effecting

Aceh is a region which is isolated from other regions. This isolation derives from a social formation whose world-view, attitudes, and social structure have neither developed nor moved in a dynamic fashion. Isolation has a negative impact on our political life, society, and economy. These three factors have an influence on maintaining the attitude and outlook of the Acehnese. . . . Because there is a correlation between economic development and politics, development policies which fail have a negative influence on political attitudes. The attitude of the people develops in such a way as if they no longer trust the regional leaders' capabilities. Government authority fails in the eyes of the people. All of this contributes to turning people to negative politics. Past experiences have given rise to frustration and despair will lead to negativism. This negativism which has beset the Acehnese people for years on end will only serve to strengthen regional isolation. The primary cause of societal tensions is a stagnating economy; it has nothing to do with religious^ cultural or racial issues.27

While little exception was taken to the emphasis on the exploitative center, although in time this was not stated openly, the technocrats' emphasis on the isolated character of Acehnese society provoked strong disagreement. The technocratic assumption was that since the center would not change on its own, the periphery must somehow change. It was as if the fault of backwardness were being laid on the Acehnese community whatever the mitigating circumstances. From the perspective of religious leaders, this was simply an unacceptable proposition, for it denigrated the role of Islam in defining the nature of Acehnese society. It gave no credit to revivalistic ulamas who had attempted to transform Acehnese society through religious regeneration. The Acehnese community was no longer valued as the elected bearer of God's truth; rather, it was simply another marginal group which, in the process of breaking what the technocrats called the "circle of isolation," would become more like the corrupted center and thereby lose its intrinsic worth.

The definition of the Acehnese situation professed by the technocrats could lead either to dissidence directed against the center or to an alliance with the center in hopes of capturing greater resources. At the beginning of the New Order, dissidence temporarily set the tone as KAMI student leaders focused on the issue of oil revenues. In 1967 a delegation of Acehnese leaders, headed by Governor Nja' Adam Kamil, went to Jakarta with a list of demands, the most important of which was the demand that ten percent of foreign exchange earned from oil wells in Aceh be returned to the province. The response from Jakarta was evasive, but in the end the upshot was negative. For allowing the issue to come to a head, Governor Nja' Adam Kamil, an army brigadier general, was eased out of his position. Fully realizing that Aceh would not get one percent of earned foreign exchange for its oil, much less the ten percent demanded in the Jakarta meetings, the regional assembly then went on record demanding a twenty percent return.29 Youth leaders made threats to cut the pipeline running from East Aceh to a refinery in North Sumatra. One KAMI leader argued: "Some say that cutting the pipeline would only hurt the Acehnese people themselves, but I question how this would be any worse than the present plunder of our wealth; moreover, the sense of loss in Aceh is aggravated by the fact that treachery and plunder are carried out in front of our very eyes."

While the debate over oil revenues was proceeding, the leading technocrats, in alliance with Acehnese army officers, bureaucrats, and businessmen, formulated a strategy that would move Aceh away from confrontation and towards accommodation with the center. Least of all, they reasoned, could headway be made by directly confronting the state oil company, an army sacred cow. As one technocrat stated the issue:

We knew that the central government would not return funds directly to Aceh. We also knew that not much could be done to raise funds locally. Rather, the thing to do was to request special projects funded from the central government's development budeetprojects such as the East Coast road, port facilities, and irrigation. But we knew that if the Acehnese continued to make trouble, then we would have difficulty in persuading the central government to help us. Political stability was crucial to our plan. If the people made trouble, then Aceh would not develop 3*

Interview, March 18, 1976.

The turning point in realizing the strategy of establishing a vertical linkage with the center came in May 1968 with the selection of a civilian governor, A. Muzakkir Walad, who had no political past to speak of and who eagerly embraced the technocratic vision of development in 32 Aceh. There was something of a surprise in the gubernatorial selection for A. Muzakkir Walad was chosen with the backing of Brigadier General Teuku Hamzah, army commander for Aceh, in preference to an active army officer, Colonel Hasbi Wahidy, who had been serving as Acting Governor. It was an exceptional case in New Order Indonesia where a military officer with claims to the job was passed over in favor of a civilian. But Colonel Hasbi Wahidy was seen by the center to be too supportive of the student movement and, because of his PUSA past, too closely aligned with 34 Islamic leaders.

Governor A. Muzakkir Walad relied almost solely on the technocrats for advice and appointed many of them to the highest positions in the provincial government. The tone of his administration was set by his installation speech in which he repeated the technocratic proposition that the basic problem was the region's "isolation." Moreover, he stated, efforts must be made to dispel the impression that the Acehnese were always going their own way without paying attention to policies and guidelines from the center.35 Thus, the new governor founded an administration in line with the technocratic perspective. One of the governor's closest advisers said of the shift:

We realized that if we quarrel with Jakarta we will get no help. But if we cooperate, we can get help. For the sake of Aceh, we had to cooperate with the center. Essentially, it has worked. The central government's attitude towards us has changed completely. Aceh is no longer a problem. Our mission has been fulfilled.00

The vertical linkage with the center remained crucial, for however much the government spoke of local initiative and decentralized planning, the purse strings were held tightly at the center. Two sources of revenues provided funds for development: projects funded from the central government's budget (usually accounting for two-thirds of Aceh's development expenditures), and a number of central government subsidies to regional governments earmarked, for the most part, for specific projects.37 Acehnese technocrats could point to a quadruple increase in development funds available to the provincial government from fiscal year 1969/1970 to fiscal year 1976/1977. But Aceh did not stand out as being exceptionally favored in relation to other provinces: Aceh ranked eleventh on a per capita basis (out of twenty-five provinces) in fiscal year 1975/1976 and thirteenth in fiscal year 1976/1977 in terms of expenditures for development projects funded from the central government's development budget; the per capita rankings for Aceh in terms of central government subsidies to regional governments were thirteenth in fiscal year 1975/1976 and tenth in fiscal year 1976/1977.38

Being at the median of the distribution of development funds might have been an ambiguous enough outcome save for the fact that the marginality ideology propounded by the technocrats also defined an objective standard by which to judge whether central government policies represented appropriate recognition of the periphery. And, by this standard, Jakarta had not accorded Aceh sufficient centrality. That Aceh had not received a greater proportion of central government development expenditures, critics attributed to the failure of the technocratic strategy. For their part, the technocrats argued that more time was needed before the strategy would pay full dividends. But by the mid-1970s the issue of exploitation had been broached again with the discovery of natural gas fields in North Aceh. As natural gas promised to be a far more lucrative foreign exchange earner than the East Aceh oil fields, the standard by which to judge 39 central government policies was drastically altered.

Also, critics began to charge that the benefits from development were flowing disproportionally to members of the ruling coalition—technocrats, bureaucrats, and army officers—who enjoyed an increasing number of privileges and opportunities, including free housing, vehicles, multiple salaries, and outside business interests. Moreover, members of the ruling coalition were freed from open criticism as the clamp down on the local press and political parties took hold. From the perspective of critics, the new elite came to confuse its own well-being and security with the interests of the province. Islamic leaders spoke of increasing corruption and the threat to morality that change was engendering, concerns that technocrats attributed to the innervait traditional and antidevelopaent character of the ulamas. As one ulama argued:

The technocrats believe that first we must be concerned about economic development and then later we can worry about what they call "spiritual development." But they do not understand spiritual development; they think it means building more mo;;ques and giving money to Islamic schools at election time. But for us the spiritual side of development also means wiping out corruption and controlling cultural change. The technocrats do not understand that later will be too late—society will already be in disorder with raging corruption and declining morals. There must be a balance. Of course, the technocrats call us "old fashioned." And now it is risky politically to say too auch about this.40

The way in which technocrats attempted to define Aceh's situation did not receive wide acceptance: many Acehnese rejected the proposition that Aceh was simply another marginal region. The original rationale for the technocratic development linkage with the center had been to overcome what the technocrats believed to be Aceh's marginal position; but as resources tended to gravitate to them and as they were perceived as having abandoned the Islamic struggle, they were increasingly forced, in the absence of popular support, to rely on central power to defend their position in society. In turn, leading technocrats found it increasingly difficult to keep the political support of a succeeding generation of university educated professionals who saw the accommodation with the center to be inherently compromising in view of the restraints placed on open political activities. An ironic twist was that the emphasis on Aceh's marginality and development had not in fact served to bring center

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and periphery closer together; rather, it had laid the basis for true regionalist sentiment that the national fight for independence and the struggle for an Islamic state had in the past overshadowed.

CHAPTER TEN ACEH UNDER THE NEW ORDER (II) : ISLAM AND OPPOSITION

The Islamic Vision: Sjari'at and the Community

Acehnese Islam did not fare well under the New Order government. Yet the hope of reforming the Acehnese community according to what the ulamas perceive to be the dictates of Islam as embodied in the sjari'at (Islamic law) remained alive. This hope, after all, had been the defining characteristic of the Islamic ideology propounded by the ulamas. That such a reformation was problematical was succinctly stated almost a century ago by Snouck Hurgronje: "Judged by their own standard the only programme that they [the ulamas] are able to adopt grows constantly less and less capable of realization in practice . . . they proceed to demand what is admittedly impossible, namely that mankind should conform to a law, most of whose first principles held their own for some few decades in a small community of Arabs."

Following the establishment of the New Order, Teungku M. Daud Beureueh warned his followers that change in regime in itself meant very little in terms of realizing the goals of Islam:

The responsibility of the Islamic community is to "Islamicize" the state. The purpose of the New Order cannot be achieved without Islam. And whoever thinks otherwise is not a true Muslim. For the time being it is not our intention to implement Islamic law in other regions; first it must be done in our own region where it has been announced that elements of Islamic law can be implemented. But should our intention not be realized here then we have failed completely, for the purpose of our struggle, which has claimed so many lives, has been none other than to realize the obligations of Islam.2

And early on Teungku M. Daud Beureueh attacked the technocrats' marginalist/development ideology:

Recently we have heard that development is hindered by the fanatical nature of Indonesian Islam. This issue is purposefully being propagated by a secular, intellectual group which wants to see religion pushed to the side. . . .

I pray to God that I shall always try to follow His commands and that I shall always try to be more "fanatical" still, for fanaticism is a reflection of deep faith.

This Westernized intellectual group forgets that up until the present all it can do is make plans on paper. And they also pretend not to know that the primary reason the economy is in shambles is because leaders and power-holders have failed to follow God's message and failed to follow the people's message. Islamic teachings forbid such actions as corruption, gambling, adulter)', and the like. But the intellectuals and power-holders, who are lacking in faith and knowledge about Islam, permit such actions and even encourage them under the guiso of development. They argue that development can only be achieved by changing religious norms; and should we Muslims oppose their evil action, we are accused of being fanatics.2

The desire to regenerate the Acehnese people spiritually remained the paramount goal. But how in fact the regeneration could be brought about was, as had been the case in the past, problematical. As he had before, Teungku M. Daud Beureueh relied in the first instance on suasory means. "The establishment of the Kingdom of God will not be achieved through the force of arms," he said, "but will come about when each individual follows God's commands so that all aspects of an individual's life will be a reflection of a society in accord with Islamic law." Teungku

M. Daud Beureueh's statement pointed up, as we have seen before, an unresolved tensions between an essentially asocial emphasis on individual righteousness leading automatically to the reform of society, on the one hand, and a pessimism that a unified and harmonious community of the faithful can be maintained over the long run, since hawa nafsu (passion) is an innate characteristic of human nature. What is seemingly a contradiction between an idealized vision of community and a pessimistic view of human nature is recognized not as a contradiction but, rather, as a tension central to the Islamic faith. The tension is held in suspension through the major rituals of Islam. But the attempt is always made to go beyond ritual to application to everyday life. And it is in this attempted application that the issue of Islamic law perpetually emerges. It was in the attempted application to everyday life that the issue of an Islamic state was made the rallying cry during the 1950s. It was also in the attempted application to everyday life that the Daerah Istimewa formula with the promise of "extensive" autonomy in religion and education assumed significance in the late 1960s.

The Daerah Istiaewa formula had been the basis for agreement between the central government and Hasan Saleh*s Revolutionary Council in 1959. It had taken an official decree in 1962 from the army commander, Colonel M. Jasin, providing for the "implementation of elements of Islamic law" to win the return of Teungku M. Daud Beureueh to the Republic. Jasin had indicated that further specification of the implementation of Islamic law was to be the responsibility of the government of the Special Region of Aceh, with the obvious caveat that any measures taken must not be in conflict with extant national statutes and regulations. During the late 1960s

Islamic leaders made two attempts to realize the Daerah Istimewa formula. The first was the attempt of the regional representative assembly, by means of legislation, to give some substance to the earlier promise that elements of Islamic law could be implemented in Aceh. Second was an attempt to develop a plan for the integration of two distinct streamsreligious and secular—of primary education in Aceh.

The push for implementing elements of Islamic law in Aceh was accompanied by a demand for adherence to the principle of the Jakarta Charter which would obligate Muslims throughout Indonesia to follow Islamic law. In June 1968 a mass rally was held in Banda Aceh to celebrate the twentythird anniversary of the Jakarta Charter. One ulama proclaimed: "For the Islamic community, the Jakarta Charter is a matter of principle and not just simply a political ploy to increase our bargaining power. The Jakarta Charter constitutes a sincere, heart-felt demand of the Indonesian Islamic community." But the Acehnese Muslims knew that for the time being the Jakarta Charter was a lost cause. Indeed, implicit in the settlement of the rebellion was an emphasis on Aceh in an attempt to evade the broader issue of the ideological foundation of the Indonesian state. Thus the most they could hope for was a substantive statement on the applicability of Islamic law to Acehnese society that would be acceptable to the central government.

As had been the case in the past, proponents of Islamic law made great claims on behalf of its expansive applicability. Representative of this mode of analysis was former Governor A. Hasjmy's argument: "God has affirmed that the Koran must be the basic guide for Muslims not only with regard to personal matters but also with regard to matters of state and society. This means that the Koran contains every guide, directive, and regulation mankind needs for all human activity."6 But there was a sense in which the claims for the expansive applicability of Islamic law were misleading guides to the intent of its proponents. All of the specific legal prescriptions of Islam did not add up to the transcendent appeal that the idea of implementing Islamic law has for its advocates. The appeal was rather based on the idea that government should be centrally concerned with the tension between an optimistic ideal of community and a pessimistic view of human nature such that it would define and promote those tenets of the Faith that would motivate believers to base their actions on a higher principle than self-interest.

The compelling question for Islamic law advocates was thus not one of institutions, but rather one of how public authority could be used to maintain a unified community of the faithful. It was in this spirit that the regional representative assembly in November 1968 passed Regional Regulation No. 6/1968 on the implementation of elements of Islamic law in Aceh. The Regulation set forth a number of general imperatives for the faithful to follow and a number of measures incumbent upon the regional government, assisted by the Majelis Ulama (Council of Ulamas),8 designed to protect and promote Islam. Acehnese Muslims were required to apply Islamic faith and doctrine ('aqidah/keimanan) in individual, family, and societal affairs. The regional government was called upon to cultivate love for Islam and to oppose all manifestations of atheism. All Muslims were obligated to practice the ibadat, which means, generally, the duties of the faithful towards God, and, specifically, the "five pillars of Islam": profession of faith; five daily ritual prayers; observance of the fasting month; payment of religious tax (zakat); and, if a believer is capable physically and financially, the pilgrimage to Mecca. In turn, the government was obliged to encourage the practice of the ibadat. One of the more concrete prescriptions concerned morals (achlag): the regional government was to supervise women's clothing, reading materials, art, movies, and dancing to maintain moral standards. The Regulation stipulated that education and culture must be in accord with the principles of Islam. Regional authorities were charged with the establishment of a Bait al-Mal as a treasury for funds from properties and taxes set aside for religious purposes. The government was called upon to create the conditions for realizing the true Islamic community (uchuwah Islamijah) in Acehnese society. One striking feature of the Regulation was the lack of specificity with regard to the broad range of human activities Islamic law proponents claimed it covers: under the category of mu'amalah (temporal matters) the government was merely requested to see that Islamic princi9 pies are maintained in civil transactions.

The Regulation was a general document. It was anticipated that further specification would be in the form of subsequent legislation.10 No mention was made of the applicability of Islamic principles to criminal law and only the vaguest reference was made to civil law. In part this was doubtless an attempt to avert any difficulties with the center over possible conflict between the regulation and extant national statutes. But more important, I believe, the regulation reflected lack of concern with institutions and positive law. The significance of the regulation was to focus attention on the close connection between moral rectitude and piety, on the one hand, and a sense of community and purpose, on the other. Thus, the significance of implementing Islamic law was that public authority should be employed to maintain a unified Islamic community. The focus was on society not the state. During this timo, various local initiatives taken in the name of "implementation of elements of Islamic law" pointed up the concern with moral rectitude and piety. The efforts of the b u P a t i o f Ä'est Aceh to build prayer-houses were characterized as a contribution to implementing Islamic law.11 The camat (subdistrict officer) of Samalanga, North Aceh issued a directive stipulating proper attire for school girls. A proposal was made that bus drivers be required to stop their vehicles at the times of the five daily prayers. The bupati of East Aceh reportedly issued a decree forbidding the wearing of tight pants and miniskirts; moreover, he banned the screening of two films—"The Bible" and "Passion in the Mud"~in the cause of implementing Islamic law.

Regional Regulation No. 6/1968 required the approval of the central government. In principle, the issue was to be resolved in Jakarta within six months after the regulation was passed by the regional representative assembly. The approval never came. Nor was the regional representative assembly ever formally informed that the regulation had been rejected. Periodic calls for central approval of Regional Regulation No. 6/1968 were made over the next several years, but the issue was never resolved publicly. Instead, word came down that the center deemed it inappropriate that the regional representative assembly should have passed the regulation and that any steps to implement Islamic law should be taken by the Governor. But the administration of Governor A. Muzakkir Walad knew that the center wanted to hear no more from Aceh on the issue of Islamic law, and, in any event, based as it was on the technocratic development ideology, it was not inclined to pursue the matter. The Governor did issue a decree on the collection and administration of zakat (religious taxes).

But an indication of the Governor's intentions came when a position in the Governor's Office—the Bureau for the Implementation of Elements of Islamic Law—was quietly allowed to lapse when the incumbent head retired in 1970.18

By the mid-1970s public forums no longer existed for proponents of Islamic law to give expression to their demands. Even sermons at the Friday mosque meetings were inhibited by the fear of detention. As one Islamic political party leader stated the matter:

We cannot discuss the Islamic law issues openly now. The central government says it is not a relevant issue. We have no choice. It would be suicidal if we raised the issue now.19

Another Islamic politician stated:

The basic problem is whether the government is sufficiently devout. Why did the central government object to Regional Regulation No. 6/1968? This is the difficult question. What is the situation in Jakarta such that the government would do this? Acehnese villagers did not know much about the regulation. The regulation itself was not so important; it was just a tool. But since the government opposed the regulation, we concluded that the Government is anti-Islam. And then we wondered: what is the difference between the Old Order and the New Order?20

The second local initiative taken to give some substance to the

Daerah Istimewa formula involved primary education in Aceh. This initiative was an attempt to ensure a proper Islamic education for Acehnese children. The heart of the matter was the position of the Islamic primary school, the madrasah, in relation to the "general" public school. As we have seen, the madrasah movement of the 1930s represented a reorientation of religious education in that the madrasah, with the introduction of "general" subjects and classes, attempted to render comprehensible what had always been held to be esoteric in the traditional Islamic schools (dayah). For PUSA leaders the madrasah had been the cornerstone of the struggle for independence: the madrasah was the source of the reformist and revivalistic themes which provided an ideological orientation for the pemuda, who played such an important role during the Revolution and the Darul Islu« rebellion. During the Revolution PUSA leaders "nationalized" the madrasah (now renamed Sekolah Rak j at Islam—People's Islamic School), the upshot being that the Ministry of Religion reluctantly assumed financial responsibility for the schools. In the early 1960s the name Sekolah Rakjat Islam was changed to Madrasah Ibtidaiyah Negeri MIN), and the schools' seven year curriculum was set at sixty-eight percent "general" subjects and thirty-two percent "religious" subjects. In the early 1970s there were slightly over 200 MINs with almost 100,000 pupils.21 Over the years private madrasahs had sprung up with community funding, but the Ministry of Religion provided only small subsidies to these schools without absorbing them into the Ministry's educational administration. Meanwhile the "general" primary schools (sekolah dasar, SD), under the Department of Education and Culture, had outstripped the MINs in terms of number of schools (slightly over 800 in the early 1970s), number of pupils

(almost 170,000 in the early 1970s), and funding. But the SD curriculum provided for only eight percent religious instruction.23

In the late 1960s an attempt was made to overcome the increasing dualism in primary education in Aceh. A major concern was to prevent the emergence of two distinct leadership groups based on different education streams, as had happened during the colonial period when uleebalang children had access to Dutch education while the alternative for other children, above the three years of village school, was the madrasah. The issue was starkly drawn. One MIN advocate believed that the only way to overcome the dualism was a complete return to the madrasah model:

Religious instruction in the state primary schools is next to nothing—it was better during Dutch times. And what they call religious instruction is only the teaching of a few moral precepts. If we were to surrender by agreeing to the proposal that all MINs become SDs, it would be the end of religious education. Initially, the central government would say that religious instruction would continue to be provided, but in time this would be forgotten.

The Acehnese are convinced that the MINs must survive. We will not back down on this. If I were to say to my friends that we can do without MINs, they would call me an infidel. The MINs have been the true nationalist schools because pupils learned the spirit of struggle—this has been its strength.*4

But a technocratic advocate of the state primary schools, an official of

the Department of Education and Culture, presented a contrasting view:

The main problem with primary education in Aceh is the religious schools. The purpose of MINs is to study religion only. Almost all MIN instruction is in practice religious. Those statistics about sixty or seventy percent of the MIN curriculum being "general" are nonsense. MINs are a waste of time. They don't focus on Indonesia; for example, MIN teachers still give lessons on the history of Saudi Arabia. The MINs are hopeless.25

These two statements pointed up the cultural divide separating the two sides. In an attempt to overcome the dualism, and to claim the "autonomy" promised by the Daerah Istimewa formula, Acehnese leaders began to elaborate plans for some form of integration of the two streams. The driving forces behind the move for integration were faculty members of the State Islamic Instituts (Institut Agama Islam Negeri, IAIN), who had been part of the madrasah movement, and lecturers of the Syiah Kuala University education faculty, who, although they had received secular education, maintained their Islamic commitment through membership in Islamic political parties (PSII for the most part) or in the reformist socioeducational Muhammadiyah. The combination of the two groups soon attracted support for the cause of integration from almost all interested parties. It was seen to be a distinctly Acehnese cause.

Early on it was realized that the approach to integration would have to be gradual since all substantive matters relating to both streams were controlled by the central government—the Department of Religion controlled MINs and the Department of Education and Culture controlled SDs. Thus attention was turned to "integration of curriculum." Two committees were established to make proposed curriculum changes for the respective streams. The SD committee proposed a six-year curriculum providing seventy-five percent "general" instruction and twenty-five percent "religious" instruction. The MIN committee proposed a seven-year curriculum providing seventy percent "general" instruction and thirty percent "religious" instruction. There was a clear consensus that the proposed curriculums would provide a reasonably comparable education to pupils in each stream, and permit transfers back and forth, such that dualism would be overcome. The integrated curriculum was seen to be a distinctly Acehnese proposal, a reflection of Islamic principles and a natural outgrowth of the Daerah Istimewa formula. But approval of the proposal lay with the two different departments of the central government that had control over the curriculum of the two streams. Approval, however, entailed more than just curriculum, as implementation of the proposal would have called for a higher level of funding and staffing. In the event, as had been the case with the Islamic law proposal, the official response from the center was not outright rejection but silence. The Department of Education and Culture was unwilling to approve such a drastic revamping of the SD curriculum in favor of Islam. The Department of Religion, essentially a Javanese preserve, was not particularly interested in problems relating to the MIN, for the most part a peculiarly Acehnese situation. The regional government did establish two experimental schools in which the two proposals would be applied and "studied."27 It was, in fact, a dead issue, and the madrasah proponents saw it as a major set-back for the Islamic cause.

Defeat on the two issues of Islamic law and curriculum integration spelled the failure of the Daerah Istimewa formula. There was to be no "autonomy" in religion and education. In 1969 an editorialist commented on the tenth anniversary of the agreement between the central government

and the Revolutionary Council:

Ten years after Aceh won the status of Daerah Istimewa, we still do not see any substantive realization of the granting of extensive autonomy in the fields of religion, education, and customary law. The reality is quite the opposite: with regard to primary education, the only realm of autonomy for the regional government is to build and repair schoolhouses; all matters relating to middle school education and religious education are completely in the hands of the central government. In the field of higher education, the region has been given autonomy only in the field of "self-help" [gotong-royong] —that is "self-help" in constructing buildings, in buying equipment, in buying and maintaining vehicles, and in paying all the bills. . . .

It is apparent that the central government still has a negative view of the Regional Regulation on the implementation of Islamic law. . . .

If we were asked to evaluate the autonomy given to Aceh, we can honestly say that it has yet to be realized in the form promised by the Prime Minister ten years ago.

In our opinion, this outcome is attributable to two factors: a) there are still people in Jakarta who are overly concerned with the center's power and who are anti-Islamic;

b) there is still a small group of people in Aceh feeding false information to the central government.28

The Acehnese response to the failure of the Daerah Istimewa formula — i n a sense the failure of the Islamic cause—was not one of increasing "solidarity," of political escalation and mobilization. In part this was so because the New Order center was able to bring to bear rewards and sanctions that influenced the situation in Aceh. But also the coherence of the ideology professed by the ulamas had been waning. This is not to say that the compelling certainties of the ideology were abandoned, but rather that, in defeat, some of the exuberance had been lost and, thereby its potency in confronting an increasingly confident center was uncertain.

One element in the waning of the coherence in the ulama vision was the split between conservatives and reformists. The passing of the two leading conservative ulamas-Teungku Hasan Krueng Kale and Teungku Muda Wali-had not seen replacements who claimed followers throughout Aceh. Rather the conservative movement became more localized, but also, in the form of mystical groups, it had something of a comeback.29 The mystical resurgence came on the heels of the Darul Islam rebellion and, while it clearly remained a minority movement, reformist leaders were sharp in their condemnation of it.30 Also, the conflicting interpretations over the sources of Islamic law-reformists relying solely on the Koran and the Tradition with conservatives relying on those two sources plus the Sjafie madzab-remained evident.31 The political manifestation of these differences was demonstrated in the ease with which the army ccmmand was able to use Perti, the conservative Islamic political party, against the reformists during the late 1960s and early 1970s.

More important than long-standing differences between conservatives and reformists for understanding the position of ulamas in Acehnese society was a distinction, cutting across the conservative-reformist divide, between those who had latched on to specific institutional interests and those who sustained the broader ideological claims of Islam. It has been argued above that a striking characteristic of the Islamic state ideology had been an absence of concern with institutions. The result was an ideology always much clearer about its purposes than about its method, about its goals than about its approach. This indeterminate relationship gave a distinctive cast to political conflict—that is, ulamas readily used political means to achieve religious goals. They were not necessarily struggling to gain some form of institutional power because their goals did not define "winning" in such conventional terms. But following the Darul Islam rebellion, and following the failure of the Daerah Istimewa formula, an increasing number of religious leaders came to terms with external political realities. In the process of coming to terms, the goals of religious reform had been changed. This is not to say that the goal of achieving a revived and unified Islamic community had any less appeal for Acehnese religious leaders, but rather, with the collapse of political Islam, attention had been turned to ways of protecting specific institutional interests. They were seeking to find a place in a nonIslamic, if not anti-Islamic, state that would provide an institutional pocket for Islam.

In a sense, the institutionalist role was negative—that is, from their institutional base, religious leaders attempted to throw up obstacles to any policies they believed to be a threat to Islamic principles. For the reformists, the important institutional pockets were the Department of Religion bureaucracy, the Islamic State Institute, the MINs, the religious judiciary, and the Majelis Ulama. For the conservative ulamas, the institution was the dayah (traditional religious schools). The

Islamic institutionalists were uneasily absorbed into the New Order's ideological framework under the rubric of "spiritual development," which, New Order apologists maintained, was the complement to economic or "material" development. The concept of "spiritual development" cut two ways: while it represented an attempt on the part of the government to reach out and absorb Islamic leaders into the New Order, at the same time it was a limiting of Islam, a clear demarking of what came under the religious domain, which, in practice, seemed to amount to little more than the building of mosques and prayer houses.

There were those who refused to accept either the meager institutional pockets grudgingly conceded by the government or the limits which "spiritual development" placed on the Islamic vision.. The more resolute religious leaders were reaffirmed in their conviction that the Islamic struggle could not be confined to Aceh but must encompass all of Indonesia —this had been commonly agreed to before, but the Acehnese had been diverted by promises that a regional settlement would allow for the local implementation of Islamic law. Once it was evident that these promises would not be fulfilled, the center was in a sufficiently strong position to make its decisions stick. From the perspective of the center, even minor concessions to the Islamic cause in Aceh were precluded by the fear that the precedent could not be limited to Aceh, that the stream of Islamic fervor could easily overflow its Acehnese banks. For the Acehnese Islamic leaders, the struggle might be temporarily suspended or only intermittently prosecuted, but it could never be renounced. What was needed to bring about victory, in the view of these leaders, was a more determined adherence to the Law and, above all, a recommitment to total obedience to the will of God.

As in the past, it was Teungku M. Daud Beureueh who singularly exemplified the commitment to the Islamic vision. Following his descent from the mountains in 1962, he declined the government's ofier of a house in 3anda Aceh and instead returned to his village in Pidie. During the first few years of the New Order, Teungku M. Daud Beureueh travelled around Aceh giving speeches on the goals of Islam. His travels attracted great crowds and always received press coverage. By the 1970s, however, there was virtually no independent press left to report Teungku M. Daud Beureueh's activities, and, in any event, the government, through indirect pressure, made it increasingly difficult for him to make speaking appear32 ances. Acehnese often said that the main responsibility of the army commander in Aceh was to contain the famed ulama. On occasion he would send letters to President Suharto expressing his dissatisfaction with the New Order:

There is only one goal for the Islamic community, nothing more and nothing less: complete submission to God, to follow all His commandments and to avoid all of His prohibitions. Should any obstacles be met in performing his responsibilities towards God, then a true Muslim must fight to remove those obstacles. It is a great sin to allow such obstacles to remain, not to mention purposefully creating them. The struggle of the Islamic community in 194S to free itself and its country from the grip of colonialism was basically a struggle to do away with these obstacles once and for all. Although Indonesia has been liberated from colonial control, at great cost to the Islamic community, it is now clear that obstacles in following God's commands still exist; the result is that the Islamic community within the Republic of Indonesia has yet to enjoy true independence.33

For the most part, Teungku M. Daud Beureueh was to be found at the village mosque, forty yards from Aceh's main road, a symbol of defiance whose voice had been virtually silenced but the echoes of which continued to cause authorities endless apprehension. Periodically he ventured forth to lead the villagers of Pidie in gotong royonz (self-help) projects to build new irrigation channels or to repair damaged roads and bridges. He called on distant villagers whose welfare would not be affected one way or the other, and they would come believing that, under the ulama's guidance, they were transcending particularistic self-interest for the greater good of the community. He demanded that everyone, whatever their social status or economic position, join in manual labor, and they would, believing that the moral equality of each individual was somehow temporarily realized in the effort. This was, after all, what the struggle of the last several decades had been all about.

Episodes of Protest: Two Elections and One Separatist Movement

The two New Order elections, for national, provincial, and kabupaten representative assemblies held in 1971 and 1977, served to bring into sharp contrast the two contending ideologies-developmental and Islamicadvocated by technocrats and religious leaders respectively. The question of what the significance of elections might be in an authoritarian military system naturally arises. New Order advocates hoped the elections would legitimize the system, garner support for its development goals, and, in the process, undermine support for the political parties which, they argued, proposed ideologies that were divisive and thus not conducive to development. Deployed in the government's defense was an organization,

Golkar, best described as a quasi-party, which had its antecedents in the army's attempt during Guided Democracy to bypass the political parties through functional representation. It is fair to say that Golkar had virtually no function aside from an electoral role in presenting the government's "programmatic" platform, in contrast to those of the "ideological" parties.

The purpose of the elections certainly was not to maximize political participation as usually conceived; quite the contrary. Support for Golkar in the elections was intended to be, in effect, a mass ritualized abjuration of political participation. Uncertainty over the prospects of achieving this outcome during the first years of the New Order led the army to resist pressure for holding elections. The problem was, in short, the political parties. An early election would doubtless have resulted in a victory for the parties. In the interim, political life during the late 1960s followed the pattern established during Guided Democracy: under army supervision, politicians at various levels of the system engaged in elaborate competition, quite divorced from public participation, with little or no impact on policy outcomes. Also, in the interim, the army was able to use the tools of co-optation and manipulation in intervening directly in the internal affairs of the various political parties. In no case was army intervention more apparent than in that of Partai Muslimin Indonesia

(Parmusi), the Islamic party established in 1968.36 Parmusi was originally concei/ed as a successor to the reformist Masjumi, banned in 1960, but, following army intervention to produce a pliable leadership, it was a mere shadow of the original conception.

Army pressure was heavy to deliver the vote for Golkar during both campaigns in Aceh. The tone of the New Order campaigns was best exemplified by the "four don'ts" issued in 1977 by the commander of Kopkamtib (Operations Command to Restore Security and Order): "don't intimidate your opponents; don't offend the dignity of the government and its officials; don't disrupt national unity; and don't criticize the policies of the government." In 1971 the campaign was marked by detentions of political party leaders, prosecution of some of those detained;40 and cancellation of their campaign rallies. Those arrested became known as korban Pemilu —General Election Victims—a badge of pride for party politicians. An extra touch was the government's decision to send Teungku M. Daud Beureueh on a world tour during the campaign. The four Islamic parties standing in opposition to Golkar—Parmusi and PSII on the reformist side, Nahdatul Ulama in the middle (at least in Aceh), and Perti on the conservative—had not entered the campaign in harmony. But the repression which affected all four brought about a sense of unity. The tactics used during the 1971 campaign led a technocrat, who also campaigned for Golkar, to conclude:

The 1971 election results cannot be taken as an indicator of much of anything other than the pressure the army put on people to vote for Golkar. The army can force you to vote and the army can change your vote. We went along with this. Why? If the Acehnese voted for Parmusi, what would we get? Nothing. So we worked for Golkar.42

Given the restraints on campaigning laid down by the center, and given the varied application in practice of these restraints by local authorities, the main issue of the campaign for the four Islamic parties was the conduct of the campaign itself. But however rough the going was on the hustings in 1971, the significance of the election was the imposed realignment of civil servants away from the political parties into Golkar. It had been the goal of the New Order to deprive political parties of influence within government bureaucracies. One consequence, and it was an intended consequence, of the government's push for "monoloyalty" was a polarization of the Acehnese elite, to get Acehnese leaders lined up on one side or the other so that it was perfectly clear where everyone stood. One of the things at stake was a formal alignment with the New Order's development ideology in opposition to Islamic goals. For many it was a most difficult choice. The switch to Golkar covered the range from village headmen to the highest provincial officers. A threat often employed was that reluctance to go along with Golkar would result in a posting to an isolated part of South Aceh. In the interests of preserving an institutional pocket for Islam, a number of religious leaders also came to terms with Golkar.

One particular target of the government's campaign was a group of leaders with university degrees—lecturers at the university for the most part—who had aligned themselves in the late 1960s with PSII. Not only were they pressured to quite PSII, but they were also compelled to drop out of Muhammadiyah, a reformist socioeducational organization. The importance of the university-educated PSII/Muhammadiyah group was the embarrassment to the government that its members could match the technocrats in educational qualifications, yet they preferred the professed Islamic goals of a political party over the marginalist/development ideology of the technocrats. Those who refused were blocked from gaining important positions or playing a policy role. For those who came to terms before, or shortly after, the 1971 election, the rewards were great: the head of the Aceh office of the Department of Education and Culture, the director of the Bureau for Development in the Governor's Office, and the dean of the university's education faculty gained their positions by leaving PSII for Golkar.

The result of the 1971 election was a virtual dead-heat in Aceh. Golkar won 49.7 percent of the vote compared to the four Islamic parties' 48.9 percent. The national total for Golkar was 62.8 percent and for the Islamic parties 27.1 percent. Aceh was one of three provinces, out of a total of twenty-five, where Golkar failed to win an absolute majority. Of the four Islamic parties, the reformist Parmusi (18.8 percent of the vote)

and the conservative Perti (13.2 percent) emerged as the strongest opposition parties. Parmusi did well in Aceh Besar, Pidie, and North Aceh. Indeed, Pidie was the only kabupaten in all of Indonesia where Parmusi won 43 a plurality over Golkar. There was a noticeable divide in the distribution of the vote within Aceh: in the three kabupaten of Aceh Besar, Pidie, and North Aceh—which constitute the heartland of Acehnese culture—the four Islamic parties won 65.5 percent of the vote compared to 34.1 percent for Golkar. The vote against Golkar in these three kabupaten was counterbalanced by strong Golkar returns in the other kabupaten. Most particularly in the isolated regions of South Aceh and Southeast Aceh, where official intimidation was most effective, did Golkar pile up huge majorities.

By the time of the 1977 election the process of co-opting various secular and religious leaders into Golkar had advanced further. This was not because a greater number of leaders were persuaded that the government was working to bring about development that would benefit the Acehnese— indeed, such a believer was increasingly difficult to find—but simply because the system of rewards and sanctions was more apparent. On the one hand, there were rewards of the patronage system for those who would give speeches lauding the development goals of Golkar. On the other hand, there were innumerable disincentives for dissenters as the clamp down on political activity had increased since 1971. But in fact the government did not even have the loyalty of those for whom the development ideology was supposed to have its greatest appeal. The voting district of Kopelma

Darussalam—the residential area of university lecturers who also manned the planning agency, the Governor's Office, and other government bureaucracies—went for the Islamic party over Golkar by 82.1 percent to 16.3 percent.

The Islamic opposition in the 1977 election presented a new organizational face. In 1973 the government had pressured all of the political parties to dissolve themselves into two new parties: the Development Unity Party (Partai Persatuan Pembangunan, PPP) absorbed the four Islamic parties, and the Indonesian Democratic Party (Partai Demokrasi Indonesia, PDI) absorbed the former nationalist and Christian parties. There was little choice involved in the fusion of the parties. In time, however, Islamic politicians in Aceh came to believe that the fusion provided for the unity of purpose on the Islamic side that had initially been lacking in 1971. The name Partai Persatuan Pembangunan gave no hint of the new party's Islamic base, but, after some hesitation, the government allowed the party to use the image of the Ka'abah (the holy shrine in Mecca) as its campaign symbol.

Golkar leaders continued to campaign on the theme that only the government could provide development and that PPP could deliver nothing. Privately the leading technocrats were apprehensive that a PPP victory in Aceh would create a negative response in Jakarta by drawing attention to the fact that, in their own conception, Aceh remained "isolated." They feared that their strategy for capturing central government development funds would be jeopardized. On occasions their apprehensions were made public: one Golkar leader threatened that if Golkar lost in Aceh, the n i i [ i nifW^.jM^M^JJttttJV^mh^Vini^.^.1*^ j.jia».*H* ^^in^^^^h,^. ^.^-LH^A..^, ni^-^^J^;

central government would stop development aid.

As had been the case in 1971, a central issue of the campaign for Islamic opposition leaders was the conduct of the campaign itself; discussion of substantive policy issues was pretty much precluded by government's "four don'ts." For example, one PPP leader reportedly spoke "at length" before a crowd of 50,000 on the array of government regulations that guaranteed freedom of choice in the election. The pressure brought to bear in 1977 by the army to deliver the vote for Golkar varied regiüually. In some of the more isolated regions, particularly South Aceh, PPP was allowed to hold a few campaign rallies where none had been held in 1971. A striking contrast in approach was found in the two adjacent kabupatens of Aceh Besar and Pidie. It was as if the army were conducting an experiment to determine whether co-optation or coercion would prove most efficacious in delivering the vote. Before the 1977 election, the government had appointed as bupati of Aceh Besar a lecturer from the university's law faculty who had been a Nahdatul Ulama leader and who had himself been detained for several days during the 1971 campaign. The campaign in Aceh Besar proceeded smoothly without arrests or disruptions. In Pidie, by contrast, the pressure was on from the beginning. The government was intent on preventing a recurrence of Golkar's 1971 defeat in Pidie. During the "quiet week" before election day, dozens of PPP activists were rounded up and detained on suspicion of being members of the extremist 46 Komando Jihad (Holy War Command). The outcome was an increase in the

Golkar vote in Pidie and a drop in Aceh Besar.

A clear picture of the direction of the 1977 campaign emerged during one week in late March when two national politicians campaigned simultaneously in Aceh: Foreign Minister Adam Malik for Golkar and Saifuddin Zuhri, a Nahdatul Ulama Minister of Religion during Sukarno's time, for PPP. Saifuddin Zuhri repeatedly outdrew Adam Malik in numbers and in enthusiasm of the crowds even though PPP was denied the use of centrally located fields where Golkar rallies were held. The interesting thing about the enthusiasm was that the name of Saifuddin Zuhri was simply not well-known in Aceh. In fact, Saifuddin Zuhri's past as one of Sukarno's leading Islamic apologists during the Guided Democracy period would seemingly have hardly commended him to the Acehnese. Two events marked Adam Malik's campaign trip to Aceh. First, the Foreign Minister was accompanied throughout by an influential contractor o£ Acehnese descent, Teuku 47 Markam, whose company had recently won contracts for road-building projects in North Aceh and South Aceh. Teuku Markam openly stated in a speech during one of Adam Malik's campaign appearances that his support for Golkar was the reason that he had won the road-building contracts.48 This revelation came as no great surprise to anyone, but it brought out into the open what the opposition had been forbidden to state explicitly, viz., that development as defined by the technocrats in the first instance seemed to serve no other purpose than to encourage self-interest at the expense of the broader community. The second event was the failure of an attempt to bring about a meeting between Adam Malik and Teungku M. Daud Beureueh. Since the motorcade of Adam Malik was scheduled to pass by Teungku M. Daud Beureueh's mosque in Pidie, the latter had agreed to be available to receive the Foreign Minister. But when the motorcade stopped in front of the mosque, the chairman of Golkar in Aceh—an army colonelinformed Adam Malik that the army commander had forbidden the meeting, and, after some disputation, the motorcade sped off. In a matter of days the story had spread throughout Aceh how Golkar had insulted Aceh's leading ulama. One Golkar leader was quoted as saying that the aborted 49 meeting had "fatal consequences" for Golkar. A few days after the departure of the two national leaders from Aceh, the PPP newspaper Pelita provided readers with this vignette:

Foreign Minister Adam Malik and Saifuddin Zuhri are two contestants in the election. One from Golkar and the other from PPP, they came to Aceh at the same time to campaign. The two leaders visited the same towns.

Foreign Minister Adam Malik was accompanied by Cosmos Batubara (a Golkar leader) and a retinue of between ten to twenty others, while Saifuddin Zuhri, who is not a minister, came alone.

On a Friday in late March, the two contestants came to the mosque in Banda Aceh for prayers. Foreign Minister Adam Malik came in a motorcade with all the officials of Aceh. Saifuddin Zuhri arrived with only one other person. . . . Foreign Minister Adam Malik was seated in the front row along with the high officials, while Saifuddin Zuhri was at the back, on the open and hot floor, with the people.

After the Friday prayers were finished, people surrounded Saifuddin Zuhri to shake his hand; all the while they boisterously shouted, "Long live the Ka'abah. ... " Foreign Minister Adam Malik had left the mosque by another door.50

This terse account provides an insight into the meaning of the 1977 campaign in Aceh. The campaign was not about whether the government or PPP could build more roads; the issue was never in question. PPP could promise nothing, for everyone knew it had nothing concrete to deliver. The appeal of the PPP, in the face of strong army pressure, was based on a ritualized abeyance of normal social life, an abjuration of the inequities that divide men in their daily lives, a renunciation of self-interest. Kessler had observed the phenomenon in Kelatan, Malaysia where voters turned to an Islamic party and voted against what outsiders took to be their objective interests: "Like the fast and pilgrimage festival, elections entail a suspension of the normal social order and facilitate the partial, anticipatory enactment of another antithetical to it: the political equality of each vote, like a moral equality of obligation, adumbrates the egalitarian ideal." We have seen how in the past Islamic leaders attempted to extend the principle of moral egalitarianism of all believers before God beyond the major rituals of Islam to everyday life. What the Acehnese found striking about Adam Malik's appearance at the mosque—and this was seen to epitomize the whole Golkar campaign—was that instead of attempting to apply the promise of moral egalitarianism to social life, the exact reverse took place; the inequalities and particularisms that divide men in everyday life were brought to the very sanctuary where, through ritual, men came to transcend these inequalities and particularisms. When Teuku Markam stated openly that he had won road-building contracts through his support for Golkar—and this was seen to epitomize the course of "development" in Aceh—few were convinced by his example that it in one's self-interest to vote for Golkar; by voting PPP, Acehnese were voting against the type of self-interest which prevents the emergence of a just and harmonious community of the faithful.

The national vote totals for 1977 were a virtual replication of 1971: Golkar, 62.1 percent; PPP, 29.3 percent; and PDI, 8.6 percent. In Aceh, however, there was a major shift in the vote. Only Aceh and Jakarta, out of twenty-six provinces, voted against Golkar. The vote for Golkar in Aceh dropped from 49.7 percent in 1971 to 41.2 percent in 1977. PPP captured 57.3 percent of the vote against 48.9 percent won by the four Islamic parties in 1971. There was a seventeen point turn around in the vote from Golkar to the Islamic side. The three core kabupaten of Aceh Besar, Pidie and North Aceh went for PPP by 66.5 percent to 32.4 percent for Golkar. The three kabupaten total for 1977 would doubtless have been higher had it not been for last-minute pressure in Pidie, the one kabupaten where Golkar showed gains, up from 28.4 percent to 40.7 percent. The shift in the vote came in West Aceh (Golkar dropped from 63.2 percent to 42.9 percent) and South Aceh (Golkar dropped from 77.7 percent to 42.6 percent). One of the most remarkable shifts came on the isolated island of Simeulue, off the west coast, where the Golkar vote dropped from 88.5 percent to 43 percent. The small-holder clove producers of Simeulue decided that "development" was no longer for them when a provincial decree stipulated that their produce could be sold to only one trading company.

As it happened, the trading company, which was thus able to establish a monopoly and drop the price paid for cloves, was owned by several prominent technocrats and Golkar leaders.

The staying power of the Islamic parties was attributable in some measure to the institutional basis of religious education. There was for both 1971 and 1977 a direct relationship between the Islamic vote and the number of students enrolled in either state or private madrasahs (MIN and MIS). Of the 129 kecamatan (subdistricts) in Aceh, 62 had either a madrasah enrollment greater than that of the state primary schools or a madrasah enrollment of at least five percent of the total population. Of these 62 subdistricts, the Islamic parties gained a majority of the 1971 vote in 42 cases. In the 67 subdistricts where madrasah enrollment was low, Golkar won the majority in 48 cases. Most of the 19 cases where madrasah enrollment was low but the Islamic party nonetheless won were areas where conservative ulamas had remained influential. Thus, the relationship in 1971 was balanced: in almost seven out of ten cases where madrasah enrollment was high, the Islamic parties gained a majority; in seven out of ten cases where madrasah enrollment was low, Golkar won. With the even stronger PPP showing in the 1977 election, the relationship between madrasah enrollment and voter preference was in one sense strengthened and in another sense rendered diffuse. The relationship was strengthened in that of the 62 subdistricts with high madrasah enrollment, PPP won a majority in 50. It was rendered diffuse, however, in that, unlike 1971, subdistricts with low madrasah enrollment were as likely to vote for PPP (33 subdistricts) as for Golkar (34 subdistricts). At the same time, three out of four of Golkar's victories came in subdistricts with low madrasah enrollment.

Immediately following the 1977 election, a separatist movement emerged in Aceh that claimed much attention but only a limited number of 52 active participants. In May 1977 Hasan Muhammad di Tiro issued a declaration of independence of Negara Aceh Merdeka (Independent State of Aceh) and announced the establishment of the National Liberation Front of Aceh. Pamphlets issued by the Aceh Merdeka movement made a straightforward ethnic appeal to rise up against Javanese colonialism. Attention was focused on Aceh's natural wealth. Islamic appeals were noticeable by their absence. In a sense, the Aceh Merdeka movement was a logical extension of the assumptions underlying the technocrats' marginalist ideology.

As it happened, one of the leaders of the Aceh Merdeka movement gave me several months' notice that a declaration of independence was forthcoming. I was nonetheless surprised by the widespread attention and sympathy the movement evoked once the declaration was made public. Pamphlets were spread around Aceh and an occasional Aceh Merdeka flag would make an inexplicable appearance in the middle of a rice field. One striking development was that several young Acehnese doctors and engineers, resident in Medan, found the ethnic separatist appeal attractive and joined the handful of Aceh Merdeka activists in the mountains. But interviews with active participants and sympathizers revealed an inherent instability in the ethnic separatist position. When asked if they were given a choice between an independent Aceh and an Indonesia which was truly based on the dictates of Islam, most replied that what they really wanted was an Islamic Indonesia. Others, after holding forth on the inevitability of Acehnese independence, would add that the real purpose of the Aceh Merdeka movement was to achieve some sort of "federalist" solution. The situation was much the same as it had been twenty-five years before when a Darul Islam leader commented: "Advocates of autonomy for Aceh were unable to ignite the people's imagination; the people were unwilling to sacrifice themselves for an autonomy of uncertain character 54 and extent." Save for some younger Acehnese—who originally accepted the assumptions of the technocratic representation of Aceh's marginality but then rejected its limited and compromising goals—the Aceh Merdeka ideology of ethnic separatism was not a call which could rally the Acehnese populace. The Aceh Merdeka movement continued beyond the time of my field research in Aceh; small groups under the Aceh Merdeka banner continued to attract sympathy, but its leadership and ideology limited widespread active participation. The army's response was increasing repression and it may have been the case that the Aceh Merdeka movement was used as a pretext to move against Islamic activists not connected to the movement.

The measure of the Acehnese was not, after all, their isolation, their marginality, or their backwardness as the technocrats would have it. Rather the meaningful ideal which had mobilized the Acehnese into political action was the hope of realizing Islamic goals in this life. This ideal has been the defining characteristic of Aceh within the Indonesian nation-state, to which Acehnese have maintained a commitment and by which they are yet disappointed. A leading ulama expressed the disappointment in this way:

Until today we have still not realized our original goals in defending Indonesia against the Dutch. Moreover the repression of our religion now is much worse than before. Islam is cornered now, much more so now that during Dutch times. That shows how evil this government is. Islamic law is not allowed to be implemented. Education also; it's the center's education that is implemented. We are not allowed to have our own education. None of the promises made by the government—promises made to me personally—have been fulfilled.

No, we are not allowed to implement Islamic law. Today in Indonesia there are only laws for the people at the bottom, the people on top do not need laws. There are laws for corruption— people at the bottom cannot be corrupt; those on top can. Only those on top enjoy independence. The people still do not feel independent; thirty years later, they still do not feel it.55

Following the failure of the Daerah Istimewa formula, which was to have established a modus vivendi between center and periphery, some of the coherence of the Islamic movement in Aceh was lost. One result was that religious leaders began to turn to institutional pockets from which Islam could be defended, but this has remained pretty much a negative strategy. But on occasion, as during the election campaign, the ideal of realizing a revived and unified Islamic community appeared again and, thereby, the vision was kept alive.

Interview, December 6, 1976.

CHAPTER ELEVEN CONCLUSION

A narrative history of Acehnese leadership groups has been presented in this dissertation as a means of exploring the shifting bases for conflict and cooperation between center and periphery. It is a history seen from the perspective of the periphery, a history in search of an explanation as to why the Acehnese have so often assumed a dissident stance in the face of central authority.

Two contending models from social science theory—the national integration model and the internal colonialism model—have often been invoked as explanations of center-periphery relations. National integration theorists invariably place the burden of guilt for problems between center and periphery on the latter. They almost always speak in pejorative terms of ethnic and regional loyalties. The concept of "periphery" in this model allows for little variation; the periphery remains recalcitrant and unchanging, more acted upon than acting. An analysis that involves "tradition" and "primordial sentiments" as constants is unable to explain variations in regional and ethnic reactions to central authority.

The internal colonialism model stands the national integration model on its head by granting the legitimacy of the periphery's priorities in the face of an exploitative center. But the predictive power of the model is limited. It is assumed that the inequitable distribution of resources between the core region and marginal regions will lead to peripheral dissidence. It is further stipulated that many movements aimed at rectifying such maldistribution are based on ethnicity. But the relationship remains indeterminate. This means that explanations as to why ethnic and regional movements emerge are necessarily post facto. If ethnic or regional dissidence appears, one can often identify an imbalance in the distribution or resources; this identification is then put forward as the "cause" of the dissidence. But not all exploited regions can mobilize dissidence movements. Nor are regions that sustain dissidence necessarily the more exploited and marginal ones. Although the internal colonialism model is instructive in highlighting the plight of the periphery, it is unable to predict variations in political behavior on the periphery.

The theme of this dissertation is that it is necessary to interpret the concepts "center" and "periphery" in such a way that they are variables assuming different values and characteristics. Attention needs to be focused on the changing nature of both the center and the periphery, and the relations between the two, in order to explain different political outcomes over time. To accentuate the variation of the concepts, it is first necessary to look at the range and complexity of the region's identity symbols, to examine how a group conceives and represents itself in symbols. It is then necessary to determine in what measure an encompassing center accords recognition and legitimacy to the region's symbol system. The combination and interplay of these two variables—the group's identity symbols and the center's policies—allow for various outcomes. First, in relation to two regions the center may apply comparable policies; if one region rebels and the other does not, it is to variation in the identity symbols of the two regions we must look for an explanation.

Second, if there is regional or ethnic dissidence in the absence of any change on the part of the center, we can assume a change in the symbolic structure of the group. Third, if central policies change—that is, "relative centrality" of the group is downgraded-dissidence may result even without change in the group's identity symbols.

What remains unclear from the level of abstraction discussed above is how mechanisms of relations between center and periphery actually work. We must study who formulates identity symbols and who mobilizes a group on the basis of this identity. In examining the emergence, maintenance and transformation of ethnic and regional identity symbols, attention must be focused on leadership groups who define the symbols. The important question is how one set of leaders rather than another comes to articulate the region's symbolic representation of itself. The plurality of leadership groups providing contending definitions of the region is a factor that determines the nature of the relationship with central authority. The center will naturally seek out and attempt to reinforce a strategically useful group of regional leaders in an endeavor to reduce the coherence of the region. But central intervention can also produce political escalation and mobilization on the periphery. .

It is thus in continuity and change of Acehnese leadership groups during the twentieth century that an explanation of the variable nature of center-periphery relations has been sought. Leadership groups with contending definitions of Aceh have interpreted differently the degree to which central authority has accorded legitimacy to those values considered to be quintessentially Acehnese. It has, of course, been in the center's interest to maintain those leadership groups who provided a definition of the situation by which central policies are positively evaluated.

The case of Aceh is instructive because there have been changes both in the structure of local leadership groups and in the nature of central authority. The problem presented by Aceh for the center has been the consistent desire of the ulamas to reform the Acehnese community according to the dictates of Islam. The colonial center and the New Order center offered strangely parallel approaches in attempting to overcome—or, at least, counterbalance—the ideological hegemony of the ulamas. Both found it necessary to seek out and reinforce a strategically useful group of regional leaders as a foil to the potential for ulama-led resistance. And both had the advantage of attempting to establish a contending group of leaders at a time when the coherence of the ulama response was at a lowpoint—in the first instance, due to the devastation following the defeat in the Aceh War, and, in the second, due to the uncertainties following the failure of the Daerah Istimewa formula.

If both centers derived some short-term satisfaction in establishing a contending group of leaders, they also had to live with certain contradictions inherent in their policies. Uleebalangs were the cornerstone of Dutch colonial policy in Aceh, but there was a contradiction in this policy. On the one hand, uleebalangs were seen as adat rulers. As such, they represented the continuity of "real" Acehnese tradition, in opposition to the aspirations of the ulamas. On the other hand, the Dutch clearly felt that colonial governance demanded incorporation of the uleebalangs, into a rationalized native administration. The intensity of the postcolonial reaction against uleebalangs was the result not only of their role as tools of the colonial power, but also, and more important, of the contradictory character of their position within Acehnese society. As adat leaders, the uleebalangs—firmly established in a position of "traditional superiority" as the Dutch would have it—represented the particularism of their many territories. As members of a nascent administrative class, the more prominent Dutch-educated uleebalangs were becoming acculturated as they looked beyond their region to identify with the values of a secular elite emerging throughout the Netherlands East Indies. Both manifestations of uleebalang rule came to be seen as contrary to the ulama vision of a revived and unified Islamic community.

It was the New Order's emphasis on economic development that laid the basis for a linkage between a new group of Acehnese leaders and the center. Central to the new elite were Acehnese technocrats whose positions in the government were based on receiving higher secular education. The technocrats elaborated a new set of identity symbols which stood in strong contrast to those provided by the ulamas. The idea was to downplay the Islamic issue by redefining Aceh as a disadvantaged and marginal region in need of capital and expertise for development. The problem, however, was that the marginality ideology propounded by the technocrats defined an objective standard by which to judge whether the center's policies represented appropriate recognition of the periphery. An ironic twist was that the emphasis on Aceh's marginality and development did not in the end serve to bring center and periphery closer together. Rather, it laid the basis for true regionalist sentiment which the national fight for independence and the struggle for an Islamic state had in the past overshadowed.

Although the parallels between the colonial center and the New Order center were revealing, the two were by no means identical. For one thing,

Acehnese Islam changed during the colonial period. Those ulamas who emerged as the leaders of change linked their cause to the reformist movement found throughout the Islamic world in the early twentieth century. They attempted to engender a new Acehnese Islamic identity that transcended kinship, village and territorial ties. In the process, the position of the ulama in Acehnese society was transformed. The elimination of the uleebalangs during the social revolution served to confirm and consolidate the position of reformist ulamas as the popular leaders of Aceh.

A second crucial difference resulted from the widespread expectation that an independent, postcolonial center was to be of a qualitatively different nature. Attention must be drawn to how strong and widespread the commitment to an Indonesian center was. The issue was not whether there should be an Indonesian center but whether, in the first instance, the center was truly representative of the revolutionary heritage. However localized their immediate concerns may have been, Acehnese reformist leaders would not be denied their standing as heirs to the Indonesian revolution. Even in rebellion, they consistently invoked the revolution and the Indonesian nation. They were intent on making a contribution to the national ideological debate, on reaffirming their conviction that the Koranic law contained all the necessary elements for the functioning of a modern state.

The problem of Aceh, from the perspective of the postcolonial center, was thus not the threat of ethnic separatism but rather the danger of allowing the consolidation of an Islamic stronghold in the hands of local leaders with a divergent view of what the ideological foundations of an independent Indonesia should be. Leaders at the center feared that should such a consolidation be allowed to take place, Islamic forces in other regions could take heart from the Acehnese example and press similar claims as well.

By the late 1970s, the New Order center had seemingly gained the upper hand in Aceh. This was made evident by the fact that the leader of Aceh, Teungku M. Daud Beureueh, was held under virtual house arrest in Jakarta. If the Islamic activists found that circumstances allowed for only intermittent prosecution of their claims, they were still unwilling to renounce their struggle. And, on occasion, the Acehnese would give expression, if only indirectly, to their support for the struggle. In the 1982 election, for example, Aceh gave 59 percent of its vote to the Islamic party and 37 percent to the Government party. Seemingly voting against their own self-interest by standing virtually alone in dissidence, the Acehnese were in fact attempting, even if only sporadically, to sustain a cause that they believed would lead to the emergence of a just and harmonious community of the faithful.

Acehnese Islamic leaders have pointed to the failure of the center to adhere to the dictates of Islam. They have said that their goals must be realized throughout Indonesia. If the themes of the Islamic leaders had been consistent, their actuitl political behavior has varied over time according to the degree to which the center has accorded relative centrality to these goals, the presence or absence of other local leadership groups with outside support, and the degree to which they can sustain the coherence of their ideology. But the prospects for accommodation between center and periphery are rendered problematical inasmuch as the Islamic identity symbols of the Acehnese can be granted sufficient legitimacy only if central authority itself is transformed. Thus, from the perspective of the far periphery, the problem clearly lies at the center.

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mda ^^LS^; 3 ^ ^ KUtaradJa: Sedjarah Militer **»" - Keban « o e " a " 12ÎS*. L "O. 61 IbrfSnuïr/di938T* "ISlam to P0Utik-" . "IslaH dan Politik." Kebangoenan Islam. 1, no. 3 (March 1948). Encyclopaedia van Nederlandsen-Tnrii«. s•Gravenhage: Martinus Nijhoff, Federspiel, Howard M. Persatuan Islam: Islamic Reform in TVentietti Century Indonesia. Ithaca: Cornell Modern Indonesia Project, 1970. Feith " " ert ; The Decline of Constitutional Democracy in Indonggia. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1962" " C0Tn° U M ° nlka^roiêcr!^"6 " 1011 3 °f ^ " ^ der n Ind ° ' d - Feith ' p "^r t LeV ' « anie l S- ' ^ 4 « End of the ^donesian Rebellion." Pacific Affairs. 36, no. 1 (Spril 1963). Gaharu, Sjammaun. "Beberapa Catatan Tentang Perjuangan Menegakkan Kemer- ^ . l A 5 e i l S ? Ja k Proklamasi Sampai Dengan Pengakuan Kemerdekaan T Republik Indonesia." Revised version of a paper presented at Seminar Perjuangan Aceh Sejak Tahun 1873 s/d. Kemerdekaan Republik Indonesia, Medan 1976. . "Memorandum Penjelesaian Keamanan Atjeh." Typescript, 1958. Geertz Clifford. Agricultural Involution: The Processes of Ecological Change in Indonesia, berkeley: University of California Press, —• "The Integrative Revolution-Primordial Sentiments and Civil NeW States-" w î: A'I X ^ l In Old Societies and New States. Edited by Clifford Geertz. New York: The Free Press of Glencoe, "T' J*1 ** Observed: Religious Development in Morocco and Indonesia. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1968. ~ The Religion of Java. New York: The Free Press, 1960. Gelanggang, A. H. [Teuku A. Hasan]. Rahasia Pemberontakan Atieh dan Kegagalan Politik Mr. S. M. Amin. Km-a^H-j» • „ r io«

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Hasjmy, A. "Al Quran Sebagai Undang2 Dasar Negara." Sinar Darussalam. 1 no. 1 (March 1968). ;' ' — . "3ahasa Indonesia disekolah-sekolah agama." Penjoeloeh. 2 no 3 (January 1941). * ' ' — . "Dari Lembaran Revolusi: Pangkalan Lhoknga Yang Bersejarah." Sinar Darussalam. 62 (July 1975). • îskandar Muda Meukuta Alam. Jakarta: Bulan Bintang, 1975. — . "Keboedajaan Atjeh di Zaman Baroe." In Mimami. Medan: n.p.. 1943. r ' —-. "Pendidikan Islam Di Aceh Dalam Perjalanan Sejarah." Sinar Darussalam. 63 (August/September 1975). -—. "Prinsip-Prinsip Lamteh." In Lahirnja Konsepsi Prinsipiel Bidjaksana dan Prinsip2 Lamteh. Kutaradja: Penad KDMA Iskandarmuda, 'Teungku Abdulwahab Seuleumeum." Sinar Darussalam. 70 (July 1976). Hechter, Michael. Internal Colonialism: The Celtic Fringe in British National Development, 1536-1966. Berkeley: Ihw^it v „t gälUornia "xcsSj iy/j, Huntington Samuel P. Political Order in Changing Societies. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1968. — Hussain, Abdullah. Terjebak. Kuala Lumpur: Pustaka Antara, 1965. Ibnaha. "Sekitar Propinsi Atj eh." Bebas: Madjalah Merdeka Untuk Rakiat. 1, 10 (August 12, 1950). — «— ' Ibrahim, A. Madjid. "Roles of Universities in Regional Development." r Typescript, 1973. Ibrahim, M. Joesoef. "Pemodea tanah Rentjong . . . insjaflah." Penjoeloeh, 2, 12 (October 1941). i — Indonesia, Kementrian Penerangan. Propinsi Sumatera Utara. Jakarta: Kementrian Penerangan, 1954. ~ — Indonesia, Perdana Menteri. Keterangan dan Djawaban Pemerintah Tentang Peristiwa Daud BeureuehT Jakarta: n.p., 1953. • "Insider" [S. M. Amin]. Atjeh Sepintas Lalu. Djakarta: Archapada, 1950. Iskandar, T. "Aceh Dalam Lintasan Sejarah: Suatu Tinjauan Kebudayaan." Sinar Darussalam, 46 (March 1973).

IS31Uha ( A P riî U îin)^ d * Rahraa n MeUnaSa h Meu t^P- M Sinar Darussalam. 33 Sepuluh Tahun Darussa2am dan Hari Pendidi* ™- I ' ^BlanSroeeut ^ '"""" 1 " ° ^ Atlah. 3' 7- 8 (A"priïP"?eSo".di Atjeh Dalam 10 Tah0en-" S Ä no- Johns, A. H. "Islam in Southeast Asia: Problems of Perspective." In Southeast Asian History and Historiography: Essays Presented to cn£:^\? Cai „ e a by C- D- Cowa" ""d °- W- Wolters. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1976. Jongejans J Land en Volk van Atjeh Vroeger en Nu. s'Gravenhage: Hollandia Drukkerij N.V. Baarn, 1939. Junus, Mahmud Sedjarah Pendidikan Islam di Indonesia. Djakarta: Pustaka Mahmudiah, 1960. ' Kahin, Audrey "Japan's Occupation of Sumatra: Pattern of Diversity." Unpublished paper, 1980. ' MT^J.-^" 1 ? f0r Inde P endence : West Sumatra in the Indonesian tl0n: 1945- versie ltV 7T 1950-" Ph.D. dissertation, Cornell UniKahin'EditInn 0ne MCh:"ln Si*-" ^ ^J°r Governments of A.^a. Second t r y ge McT- "ess i 9 6 " Kah^- Ithaca: Cornell University u^verl^efnit^ 2 ^ " TMnuMli. Ithaca: Cornell Kantor^ayah^DepartemennPerdagangan Daerah Istimewa Aceh. Laporan Tahun Kathirithamby-Wells, J. "Aeehnese Control over West Sumatra up to the II.S(I960?! Journal of Southeast Asian History. 10, "Kepada Congres 'Poesa.'" Sinar, 3, no. 7-8 (April 15, 1940). " KePOeTy^escriidang94adan Pekerdja Dewan Perwakilan Atjeh, 27-7-1948." "Kepoetoesan Sidang Badan Pekerdja Dewan Perwakilan Atjeh, 2S November 1948, no. 41." Typescript, 1948.

"Keputusan Perdana Menteri Republik Indonesia No. l/Missi/19S9 " Typescript, 1959. '* Kern, R. A. "Onderzoek Atjeh-MOORDEN, Adviz aan G.G., 16 December 1921 bijbehorende stukken, tab." Selection of important documents belonging to the Collection KERN and GOBEE, in the possession of the Royal Institute of Linguistics, Geography and Ethnology, The Hague. Fi^m 617, no. 159, Wason Collection, Cornell University Library. Kessler, Clive S. Islam and Politics in a Malay State: Kelantan. 1838- 1969. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1978. "Komunike Dewan Repolusi NBA No. 2: Pemjataan Wali Negara NBA-Nil " Typescript, 1959. Kreemer, J. Atjeh. Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1922. Ladner, Gerhart B. The Idea of Reform: Its Impact on Christian Thought and Action in the Age of the Fathers. Revised Edition.—New YorkHarper and Row, 1967. Langhout, Joh. The Economic Conquest of Acheen by the Dutch. The HagueW. P. van Stockum, 1924. ' Legge, J. D. Central Authority and Regional Autonomy in Indonesia. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1961. Lev, Daniel. Islamic Courts in Indonesia. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1972. • The Transition to Guided Democracy: Indonesian Politics, 1957- l 959 -Ithaca: Cornell Modern Indonesia Project, 1966. Liddle, R. William. "Evolution from Above: National Leadership and Local Development in Indonesia." Journal of Asian Studies, 32, no. 2 (February 1973). ~ "Indonesia 1977: The New Order's Second Parliamentary Election." Asian Survey. 18, no. 2 (February 1978). Lombard, Denys. Le Sultanat d'Atjeh au temps d'Iskandar Muda (1607-1636). Publications de l'Ecole Française d'Extrême-Orient, vol. 61. Paris : Ecole Française d'Extrême-Orient, 1967. Manan, A. "Pendjelasan MKN/KASAD tgl. 21 November 1961." Typescript, Marsden, William. The History of Sumatra. Third Edition. London: Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme and Brown, 1811.

McVey Ruth T. -Nationalism, Islam, and Marxism: The Management of Ideological Conflict in Indonesia." An introduction to Seokamo Project T9JO MarXiSm' IthaCa: C0rne U Modern I"d°»«iâ TranSf0lmati0n 0f the Indonesia" Army.' 5iiÄ WÇKTft»? Meuraxa Dada Atjeh 1000 tahun dan peristiwa Daud Beureueh es. Medan: Mutyara, A. G. "Kebangoenan Deradjat Baroe di Atjeh." In Mimami. Medan: • Peristiwa Atjeh. Bireuen: n.p., 1946. NeWani3N3(Octob'Ira5,A^3e5)dengan POeaSa Ramadlan'" S' ™ Kita- V n ° ' Sîîi- NiShihroaj;BM S5 Go ^ » »"d the Indonesian Elections of 1971. Ithaca: Cornell Modern Indonesia Project, 1976. ' " "Notulen Rapat Gaboengan dari Dewan Pertahanan Daerah, Badan Pekerdja Dewan Perwakilan Atjeh, Wakil2 Partai serta Wakil Tentera, Polisi, Kedjaksaan dan Kehakiaian, 21 April 1947." Typescript, 1947. "Notulen Rapat Gaboengan Dewan Pertahanan Daerah, Badan Pekerdja DP A serta oendangan, 19 Djoeni, 1947." Typescript, 1947. ° ,Malls£,a!^liiU? i' "Indonesia in the Great Depression: A Study of East Ph' uSersiS? S'? rta ln the 1930S-" D' dissertation. Cornell Ong, Poh Kee 'Trade of Penang with Atjeh, 194S-19SS." Honours thesis University of Malaya, Singapore, 1956. tnesis, Pendapat Pemerintah Mengenai Laporan Panitya DPR-RI Tentang KeaHaan di Atjjh. Djakarta: Kementerian Penerangan Republik Indonesia, 1954. "Penetapan^eri^rusan^Perang NBA tentang Pengambilan Alihan Pimpinan " Sipil " Peneta ^ HP a v 8 i iaia n Milite r NBA tentan* P«nj«ahan Kekuasaan NBA Kepada Ketua Dewan Repolusi." Typescript, 1959. "Pengumuman Konsepsi Hasil P.S. dan Pembagian Kursi Pertama D.P.R. Sumatera Utara." Mimeograph, 1955. "Pernjataan Missi Pemerintah Pusat." Typescript, 1959. "Pernjataan^Penguasa^Perang Daerah Swatantra Tingkat I Atjeh No. PP/626/2/

The Indonesian National Revolution 1945-1950. Hawthorn Victoria: Longman, 1974 —-. "The Japanese and Rival Indonesian Elites: Sumatra in 1942 Journal of Asian Studies. 35, no. 1 (November 1975).

"Pernjataan Wali Negara/Panglima Tentera dan Territorium Tgk. Tjhik di Tiro Tentera Islam Indonesia." Typescript, 1961.

"Petikan dari Kepoetoesan Badan Pekerdja Dewan Perwakilan Atieh 4 December 1947, no. 36." Typescript 1947.

Piekaar A. J. "Atjeh." The Encyclopaedia of Islam. New Edition. Leiden: E. J. Brill, i960.

~ ' Atjeh en de Oorlog met Japan. 's-Gravenhage and Bandung: W. van Hoeve, 1949. ———^ — s

Polera, T. M. A. Panglima. Memoir (TiatatanK Banda Aceh: Alhambra, 1972.

Raliby i94irn " MMaSjarakat Atjeh bar °e." Penjoeloeh. 2, no. 12 (October

"Rantjangan Leerplan boeat sekolah2 agama rendah diseluruh Atjeh " Penjoeloeh, 2, no. 10 (August 1940).

Reid' ^cîober 1971} "* * °f ^ Republi c in Sun^tra." Indonesia. 12

Bl0 ° ~ : The „ d o f the People: Revolution and the End of Traditional gule in Northern Sumatra. Kuala Lumpur; 6xg5r3 Giîîvërîlty Pre;;,— 1979.

The Contest for North Sumatra: Atieh. the Netherlands and Britain, 1858-1898.London: Oxford University Press, 1969!

"Habib Abdur-Rahman az-Zahir (1833-1896)." Indonesia. 13 (April 1972).

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Rodinson, Maxime Islam and Capitalism. Translated by Brian Pearce. New York: Pantheon, 1973.

Said, Mohammed. "What was the 'Social Revolution of 1946' in East Sumatra?" Translated by Benedict Anderson and Toenggoel Siagian. Indonesia. IS (April 1973).

Saleh, Hasan. Revolusi Islam di Indonesia. Darussalam: n.p., 19S6.

^ St,ldieS Part0ne r i 1 ^ g :^ara#i5 ^ - - ^ «ague and SekitaN ^ P e 2 0 iSti oîi^f 1CU DaUdB r r, ' R h Kroni k - ^"teria n Penerangan K No. 20. Djakarta: Bagian Dokumentasi, Kementerian Penerangan, 1955. Secretaria t DPRn.GR Propins i Daera h Istimew a Atje h Notulen . h ewan ng ?nrong Roi° , S^TTJ ^ rr . P^P^ ^ "!ü...Ü!? !^.JT. Wtt ' f t " R^t angan Peraturan Daerah tentanV j^entuan. HOKOK Pelaksanaan Unsur2 Sia^'a, ,«,.,, •,-._,- ft ^ Seksi Penerangan Dewan Repolusi. Menempuh Zaman Baru: Pidato Radio idr A Gani Usman fAvah Gani) KetuaTewan Renol,"T^gf »^"J ^ I^Lüääg.tanggal 30 Mei 1959. KutaradjL Pertjetaka£ Kempen R?i., Seksi ^"^^/^umentas i Komite Musjawarah Angkatan 45 Daerah Istimewa tjeft- Atjeh. Modal Revolusi 45. Kutaradja, n.p., i960. Shils, Edward. "Centre and Periphery." In The Logic of Personal Knowl ssL ï:iz\nrnted to MirhaH Ld ° " : »°"t™d8sShlrai A « „ Raya " " A h " unde r th e J«m**9 Occupation: Rival Leaders in J A Internationa l ' theSiS ' " i S aSSoîfJSt' M - Christian'un'erSiegel prj"? S G0 Berkele ROp e 1969. - °* -- y = diversit y of California Smith, Anthony D. Theories of Nationalism. London : Du ckworth ) 1971 . in uodm Historv " prin— >«*<*«>» - "^^^^^'r^^^,^^ ^ * A - ? » -"-an . — "Islam." In Selected Works of C. Snouck Hawrm u Edited bv G. H. Bousquet and J. Schacht. Leiden: E. J. Brill , 1957. * A * egras i SOela ^didikl i S " - T "ï n *"« » «IN dan SD: Sebuah Problema I t S £ K o" ^aag» i MIN dan SD di Propinsi Daerah Istimewa Atjeh Sebuah Panel Discussion. gTTj November 1967. Banda SS j institu t Keguruan dan Ilmu Pendidikan Bandung Tjabang Ban<il Atjeh, m b arua n Aeaa SOeyat pr; S e„ted a a a n / aha a P ? » j d * P«*»" » Aceh Besar." Paper sssi? issu sr™ mtvk *»«—«» "-s » &>.u.

Sulaiman M Isa "Beberapa Aspek Pengaruh Pesantren Darussalam Labuhan Haji Terhadap Perkembangan Keagamaan di Aceh Selatan, 1945-1975 » Sarjana skripsi, Universitas Syiah Kuala, 1976. Peran g PUaa t N ° - "^"TJSS^/SM! " KPts/Perperpu/0575/1958." at0ea n d i At ^ Taib' ^roary'S ^ '*" pe " h -" Penjoeloeh. 2, no. 4 TalSyaAJfh1" 1 nU v BaSJah ; Sed J ara h d*n Dokumen-Dokumen Pemberontak d i Atjeh. Djakarta: Kesuma, 195ÏT " — -^=- ^roeeS^rm9?erah IStimeWa At1eh- Banda AtJeh: Pustaka Tarrow Sidney Between Center and Periphery: Grassroot Politicians in Italy and France. New Hav»n- YaîeïinlvSril^ Pre;;, 1377. •Tindjauan Redaksi: 10 Tahun Daerah Istimewa Atjeh." Sinar Darussalam. £, no. o (.May 1969). T30el0?Septemoe0r SCttSg ? " "Peristi » a At ^ - " keruan Kita, 1, „o. 8 . "Peristiwa Atjeh." Seruan Kita. 1, no. 10 (September 20, 1939). Udjong Rimba, Teungku Abdullah. Ilmu Tharikat dan Hakikat. Medan: Sederhana, 1975. — Z'i i'Sff*?™ Pad a Mus J awara h A1in Ulama se-Daerah Istimewa Atjeh tgl. 17-18 Desember 1965." Typescript, 1965. van de Koppel, C. "Eenige Statistische Gegevens over de Landbouw in FH?? ^ rhe; Indie*" In gS Landbouw in den Indischen Arehinei. I. ÎÏÏ Soeve, i946.Van Hal i » d ^ ^ de Koppel. 's-GravenLge: van Gelder, A. "Bevolkingsrubbercultuur." In De Landbouw in den Indischen Archipel. Edited by C. J. J. van Hall and C. van de Koppel. 's-Gravenhage: W. van Hoeve, 1946. van Leeuwen Robert• "Central Government Subsidies for Regional Developmg"j- Bulletin of Indonesian Economic Studies. 11, no. 1 (March V a n '^UtT'ioS1* D e AtJ«h-°orlog. Amsterdam: Uitgeverij De ArbeidersP**r5j ïyoy. "Verslag Tablegh Akbar di Loeboek, III Mks. Keureukon dan Pertemoean Oelama-Oelama di Koetaradja, 1-2 October 1936." N.p.: n.p., 1937.

""ivS , 0™*'(Ä «7o;'R " «aasa ssasiaisa -n - 35

" r J'c^; 1 ,rir;;£.:!^"[!'i^:"- 1 '"°w i ith"*:

Newspapers and Periodicals

TTie dates given are those for which the periodical was cited.

Api Pantjasila (Banda Aceh), 1966-1968, 1971.

Asia Raja (Jakarta), 1942.

Atjeh Post (Banda Aceh), 1977.

Berdjuang (Banda Aceh), 1970.

Käppi Berdjuanfr (Banda Aceh), 1968.

Mercu Suar (Medan), 1977.

Merdeka (Jakarta), 1954.

Minguuan Angkatan Bersendjata, Edisi Atjeh (Banda Aceh), 1968.

Mingguan Kami (Banda Aceh), 1968.

Mingguan Nusantara (Banda Aceh), 1967.

Nusantara Baru (Banda Aceh), 1969, 1971.

Pelita (Jakarta), 1977.

Pewarta Deli (Medan), 1939.

Seruan Kita (Medan), 1939-1940.

Sinar Harapan (Jakarta), 1977.

Taufa n (Banda Aceh), 1968, 1970-1971.

Warisan Baru (Banda Aceh), 1969-1970.

Waspada (Medan), 19S3.

Archival Materials

of «toAÎ&'AÏÏÏA Î 2*"m - ? » «M«. 1». colonial „rohiv. Ä z% ? SE^SSHMVUSSS - -