the threat of small things: patterns of repression and
TRANSCRIPT
The Threat of Small Things: Patterns of Repression and Mobilization against Micro-Sized Groups in Indonesia
by
Jessica Soedirgo
A thesis submitted in conformity with the requirements for the degree Doctor of Philosophy,
Graduate Department of Political Science University of Toronto
© Copyright by Jessica Soedirgo 2020
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The Threat of Small Things: Patterns of Repression and
Mobilization against Micro-sized Groups in Indonesia
Jessica Soedirgo
Doctor of Philosophy
Department of Political Science University of Toronto
2020
Abstract
Why do very small groups become targets of mobilization and repression? Given their
economic and political insignificance, most theories of ethnic and religious conflict expect
groups that are less than 1 percent of the population—what I call micro-sized groups—to be
ignored. Yet, micro-sized groups like the Jehovah’s Witnesses in Eastern Europe and the Baha’i
in Iran have been targets of high levels of state repression and collective mobilization. I argue
that the threat of micro-sized groups is linked to fears about group boundaries in flux. When
micro-sized groups challenge the institutions, routines, and practices that form the foundations of
group belonging through the marking of public space (“visible constitutive threat”), it is seen as a
danger to the larger group’s continued existence. Micro-sized groups thus become seen as a
perceived threat to the larger ethnic, religious, or national group when: 1) they present a visible
constitutive threat; and 2) political entrepreneurs are incentivized to amplify these visible
constitutive threats for their own interests.
Using archival data, a geo-coded events dataset, and over 135 interviews collected over
17 months of fieldwork, I develop my argument through a study of the Ahmadiyah sect in
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Indonesia. I show that Ahmadis were a constitutive threat to Muslims in Indonesia because their
practices challenged those that allowed a diverse people to belong to a single category. However,
Ahmadis were only seen as threatening when these constitutive challenges were publicly visible.
When electoral reforms increased the relevance of local clientelist networks, political
entrepreneurs were incentivized to exploit and amplify the Ahmadiyah threat. Rates of anti-
Ahmadiyah activity consequently multiplied.
By identifying why and how micro-sized groups come to be seen as threats, my work
challenges longstanding assumptions about the necessary material dimensions of threat. It
instead suggests that threat construction and perception is not just driven by concerns around
access to resources, but is shaped by a group’s public visibility. Broadly, understanding how
visible constitutive threats operate can shed light on political phenomena that appear to be costly,
inefficient, and irrational. Finally, my work speaks to the burgeoning literature linking
clientelism to conflict.
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Acknowledgments
In the process of writing a dissertation, one incurs many debts of gratitude. I am no
exception to this rule. While the process of writing this dissertation was longer and more difficult
that I ever imagined, it has been a deeply rewarding experience due to the many people who
selflessly supported me along the way.
I am thankful, first and foremost, to the members of my dissertation for their unfailing
support throughout all these years. I came to the University of Toronto to work with Jacques
Bertrand, whose first book opened my eyes to the possibility of studying conflict in Indonesia.
Not only was Jacques a tremendous scholar, I found him to be a generous and trustworthy
mentor. With a deft combination of constructive criticism and steadfast encouragement, he
helped me to find my academic voice and challenged me to trust myself as a scholar. I will
always be grateful for the confidence that he placed in my abilities as a scholar and I have grown
so much as a researcher, writer, and teacher because of his investment in me.
I am also incredibly lucky to have counted Ruth Marshall, Edward Schatz, and the late
Lee Ann Fujii as members of my committee. Throughout the dissertation writing process, Ruth
always read my drafts with remarkable care. She encouraged me to read broadly across
disciplines, prompting important lines of inquiry. I am especially grateful for all the times where
she walked me through periods of self-doubt with much needed levity. Ed joined my committee
in the late stages of my dissertation, but I am so grateful he did. His incisive feedback has shaped
this project in important ways, prompting me to think more deeply about the broader
implications of my work. Ed has also been truly generous with his time, his reassurance, and his
encouragement, for which I am so appreciative. Finally, I also owe a great debt to Lee Ann, who
made an indelible impact on me as a scholar and as a person. Lee Ann was an exceptional
listener, an incredible thinker, and a fierce advocate. Some of my best memories in graduate
school were learning from and venting with Lee Ann over coffees and dinners. While she never
read this dissertation in full, her intellectual influence on the final product is undeniable.
I also would like to thank my internal reviewer, Courtney Jung, and my external
reviewer, Ed Aspinall, for their careful and thoughtful reading of my dissertation. I was buoyed
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by their praise and grateful by their kind critiques, which helped me identify solutions for pivotal
weaknesses in the argument. Their interventions will shape future iterations of this project and it
will be stronger for it.
I am very grateful for the graduate students, faculty, and staff at the Department of
Political Science and the Centre for Southeast Asian Studies at the University of Toronto. I
would especially like to acknowledge Nhung Tran, whose generosity is evidenced by her
mentorship of someone completely outside her department. I am grateful for her honesty, wit,
and wisdom. Carolynn Branton, Louis Tentsos, and Mary Alice Bailey guided me through the
bureaucratic red tape with skill, good humour, and patience. My time at the University of
Toronto was enriched by the friends I have made through this program. Shelly Bajaj, Janis Yi-
Chun Chien, Neekoo Collett, Marie Gagne, Anika Ganness, Aarie Glas, Emily Hertzman,
Carmen Ho, Jean Lachapelle, Lukas Ley, Steve Loleski, Marion Laurence, Heather Millar, Jen
McCann, Andrew McDougall, Luke Melchiorre, Lama Mourad, Abouzar Nasirzadeh, Milena
Pandy, Michael Pelz, Irene Poetranto, Alesha Porisky, Alexandre Paquin-Pelletier, Jelena
Popovic, Jerry Sabin, Nico Saldias, Emily Scott, Abe Singer, Tammara Soma, Paul Thomas,
Lahoma Thomas, Hamish van der Ven, Mark Winward, and Sarah Rich-Zendel all made, at one
time or another, this journey more memorable, enjoyable, and fulfilling. A special thanks to
Isabelle Cote and Ethel Tungohan, whose constant encouragement and wisdom helped me
muddle through the program.
Over the years, I have been very fortunate to have found welcoming homes in Southeast
Asia and Interpretivist Methods circles. I have been very fortunate to have received incredible
feedback from many outstanding scholars of Southeast Asia. I thank Ward Berenschot, Greg
Fealy, Kikue Hamayotsu, Allen Hicken, Rachel Jacobs, Sana Jaffrey, Diana Kim, Eric Kuhonta,
Evan Laksmana, Amy Liu, Eddy Malesky, Jeremy Menchik, Mary Anne Mendoza, Kai Ostwald,
Tom Pepinsky, Joel Selway, Dan Slater, Paul Schuler, Yuhki Tajima, Risa Toha, Gerry van
Klinken, Alex Arfianto and Wei-Ting Yen for their help and encouragement throughout the
years. I have also benefitted from conversations with Peri Schwartz-Shea, Dvora Yanow and
Nick Rush Smith on methods and fieldwork.
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This dissertation would have been impossible without the generosity of researchers,
interlocutors, and participants in Indonesia. My greatest debt is to the 135 people who took time
out of the daily rhythms of their lives to talk to me—often about moments that were deeply
painful, tinged with shame, or filled with regret. I thank them for allowing me to document their
stories. I have made a sincere effort to handle their stories with care and hope that this feeling is
shared by those whose stories are reflected in these pages. Numerous individuals in Indonesia
helped me move this project forward wisely and patiently. They include Andreas Harsono, Ali
Munhanif, Dadi Darmadi, Ismatu Ropi, Ayang Utriza Yakin, Ihsan Ali-Fauzi, Uwes Fatoni,
Kustini Kosasih, Sayidul Kohar, Rakeeman Jumaan, Wawan Gunawan, and Mohammad
Afdillah. The Centre for the Study of Islam and Society at Syarif Hidayatullah State Islamic
University Jakarta were my gracious academic host, providing a welcome place to debrief and
work through a plethora of fieldwork challenges. I also owe a great debt to my research
assistants, Maya Nuraini, Rully Edsapani, Syahar Banu and Rintis Mulya, Ibnu Budiman, and
Ela Persi, who all impressed me with their ability to handle the difficult tasks of logistics,
cultural translation, and data collection with great skill.
The emotional highs and lows of fieldwork would have been significantly more difficult
to manage without the presence of extended family and friends in Indonesia. I thank Rudy
Haposan, Prijana and Rohani Gunawan, Sonny and Arminta Therik, Anita Sutjipto, and Shelly
Febriani for their hospitality. My greatest hosts were the Handalis and Soedirgos in Indonesia. A
special thanks to Benjamin, Ai and Kara Handali for hosting me in Bintaro so often and letting
me come over for dinner whenever I was feeling lonely or overwhelmed during my stint in
Jakarta. Samuel, Febe, Melody and Paul Handali also provided a welcome respite during my
many weeks of language training in Jogjakarta. My grandma, Eliana Handali, and May Handali
allowed me to invade their home for several months in Bandung. I thank them both for enduring
my comings and goings with patience. I also thank my grandmother for inspiring me with her
independence and courage. At 19, my grandmother sailed alone from Makassar to Jakarta to
make a new life, only bringing with her a trunk and a phone number. I have always believed that
my sense of adventure and curiosity about the world comes from her.
This dissertation could not have been completed without the financial support of the
Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada (SSHRC) and the Ontario
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Government Scholarship Program (OGS). My ability to do many months of fieldwork and to
acquire the skills to do so was made possible by the Dr. David Chu Scholarship in Asia Pacific
Studies, the School of Graduate Studies travel grant, and the Faculty of Arts and Science Fund
for the Study of Less-Commonly-Taught-Languages for Research Purposes. I am also grateful to
the Southeast Asia Research Group (SEAREG) for funding my attendance for what is now my
favourite conference and for giving me the opportunity to present my work in front of such a
wonderful group of scholars as a fellow.
Attending graduate school in my hometown was one of the best decisions I made,
sustaining me through trying times. I am truly thankful for the life-giving friendship of Rebecca
Wong, Queenie Yoo, and Esther Lee. They have walked alongside me for close to twenty years
and I am grateful for our adventures both abroad and at home. I am also grateful to my friends at
Riverdale, who have provided both practical and emotional support when I truly needed it.
Thank you Michelle Wood, Claire Mollison, Sonia Hsiung, Matt Miles, Fiona Miles, Louise
Cortes, Mario Cortes, Kristen Bell, Shelley McNab, Audrey Yap, Adrian Nusaputra, Robin
Ellingwood, and Andrea Baumann.
My staunchest supporters have been my family. My parents, Benjamin and Lanny
Soedirgo, have been reservoirs of love and support for the throughout this process. Despite
having a complicated relationship with Indonesia due to the moments of political turmoil that
characterized their childhoods, my parents wholeheartedly supported my research endeavours.
They deployed Whatsapp group chats to find me places to stay and people to interview. I also
know they occasionally endured sleepless nights when I chose to traipse around with dubious
characters halfway around the world. They have tirelessly worked to give my siblings and me
every opportunity and I thank them for a lifetime of wisdom, love, and sacrifice. I also thank my
siblings, Jennifer and Jeremiah, for their support throughout the journey and for tolerating a
lifetime of unsolicited advice from their older sister. My sister was teaching at an international
school in Indonesia for a portion of my fieldwork and I am so grateful for those mundane, shared
moments of watching tv, shopping for clothes, and eating J.Co donuts. In the last few years,
though borne out of deeply trying circumstances, I have also come to be in awe of Jennifer’s
resilience, discipline, and quiet strength. Jeremiah has also been a tireless cheerleader and
provider of patient, practical support of all sorts—from snacks to tech advice. I am also thankful
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for his calm and steady nature, a balm for my occasionally frenetic anxiety. Keluarga, thank you
for everything.
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Table of Content
Table of Contents Acknowledgments ........................................................................................................................ iv
Table of Contents .................................................................................................................... iv
List of Figures .............................................................................................................................. xii
List of Tables .............................................................................................................................. xiii
List of Appendices ...................................................................................................................... xiv
Chapter 1 Introduction ................................................................................................................ 1 The Puzzle of Conflict Involving Micro-sized Groups ........................................................................ 2 The Argument ......................................................................................................................................... 4 Research Design and Methods ............................................................................................................... 8
Case Selection ...................................................................................................................................... 8 Data Collection Strategies .................................................................................................................. 11
Outline of the Dissertation ................................................................................................................... 12
Chapter 2 Explaining the Targeting of Micro-sized Groups .................................................. 15 Between Ideas and Incentives: A Survey of the Scholarship ............................................................ 16
Ideational Explanations ...................................................................................................................... 17 Instrumentalist Explanations .............................................................................................................. 20
Micro-sized Groups as Constitutive Threat ....................................................................................... 22 Laying out the Premises ..................................................................................................................... 22 Constitutive Threats and Group Preservation .................................................................................... 23 Public Visibility and Threat Resonance ............................................................................................. 26
Amplification and Incentives for Political Entrepreneurship .......................................................... 28 Bringing the Factors Together ............................................................................................................ 30 Conclusion ............................................................................................................................................. 31
Chapter 3 Mapping Trends of Anti-Ahmadiyah Conflict in Indonesia ................................ 32 Anti-Ahmadiyah Conflict in the 20th Century (1924-1998): Intermittent and Localized .............. 33 Conflict Trends in the Early Democratic Period (1998-2004): Emergent Targeting ..................... 38
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Conflict Trends after Decentralization (2005-2013): Escalation ...................................................... 40 Anti-Ahmadiyah Activity After 2013: Decline ................................................................................... 48 Conclusion ............................................................................................................................................. 52
Chapter 4 The Local Character of Anti-Ahmadiyah Conflict in the 20th Century .............. 53 Ahmadiyah as Visible Constitutive Threat ........................................................................................ 54
Islam in Indonesia .............................................................................................................................. 54 The Constitutive Challenge of the Ahmadiyah Community in Indonesia ......................................... 58
Public Visibility and the Ahmadiyah Threat in the 20th Century: A Local Story .......................... 62 The Ahmadiyah Community in Tasikmalaya, West Java .................................................................. 62 The Ahmadiyah Community in Bandung, West Java ........................................................................ 66 The Ahmadiyah Community in North Sumatra ................................................................................. 68 The Ahmadiyah Community in East Java .......................................................................................... 73
Political Disincentives for Amplification: Explaining the Localized Character of Anti-Ahmadiyah
Conflict in 20th Century Indonesia ...................................................................................................... 76 The Colonial Period ............................................................................................................................ 76 Sukarno’s Old Order (1949-1965) ..................................................................................................... 77 Suharto’s New Order (1965-1998) ..................................................................................................... 78
Conclusion ............................................................................................................................................. 81
Chapter 5 Democratization and New Incentives for Threat Amplification (1998-2005) ..... 83 Ahmadis as Visible Constitutive Threat: A Story of Continuity ...................................................... 84 Religious Outbidding and the Competition for Patronage: Incentives for Amplification ............. 88
LPPI: The Vanguard of the Hardliners ............................................................................................... 89 Maintaining Patronage Flows: MUI and its Defense of the Establishment ....................................... 94
Conclusion ........................................................................................................................................... 103
Chapter 6 Decentralization, Clientelism, and the Amplification of the Ahmadiyah Threat
..................................................................................................................................................... 105 Decentralization in Indonesia: New Incentives for Amplification ................................................. 106 Tasikmalaya District, West Java ....................................................................................................... 109 Bandung, West Java ........................................................................................................................... 117 East Java Province .............................................................................................................................. 123 North Sumatra Province .................................................................................................................... 130 Conclusion ........................................................................................................................................... 136
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Chapter 7 Threat Neutralized? The Decline of Anti-Ahmadiyah Persecution in Indonesia
..................................................................................................................................................... 138 Invisible Constitutive Threat: Ahmadi Withdrawal from Public Space ....................................... 139
The New Legal Context and (Forced) Compliance .......................................................................... 139 Self-censorship ................................................................................................................................. 146
Threat Neutralized: Declining Anti-Ahmadiyah Opposition ......................................................... 150 The Decline of Sectarianism in Tasikmalaya District ..................................................................... 155 Conclusion ........................................................................................................................................... 161
Chapter 8 Assessing Plausibility: Patterns of Anti-Shi’a Mobilization and Repression in
Indonesia .................................................................................................................................... 163 Anti-Shi’a Conflict Trends in Indonesia ........................................................................................... 165
Conflict Trends in the 20th Century (1924-1998) ............................................................................. 165 Conflict Trends in the Early Democratic Era (1998-2010) .............................................................. 167 The Anti-Shi’a Uptick (2011-2014) ................................................................................................. 169
Invisible Constitutive Threat? Shi’a Religious Practices in Indonesia .......................................... 172 Examining Patterns of Anti-Shi’a Mobilization and Repression in Four Cases in Indonesia .... 177
Pekalongan and Batang, Central Java .............................................................................................. 177 Bangil, Pasuruan District, East Java ................................................................................................. 181 Bandung, West Java ......................................................................................................................... 187 Sampang, Madura (East Java) .......................................................................................................... 194
Conclusion ........................................................................................................................................... 206
Chapter 9 Conclusion ............................................................................................................... 207 Summarizing the Argument .............................................................................................................. 207 Theoretical Implications .................................................................................................................... 211 Practical Implications ......................................................................................................................... 214
References .................................................................................................................................. 217
Appendix 1: Events Dataset Codebook ................................................................................... 245
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List of Figures
Figure 3.1 – Frequency of Anti-Ahmadiyah Events, 2000-2014.
Figure 3.2 – Diffusion of Anti-Ahmadiyah Activity, 2004-2011.
Figure 3.3 – Perpetrator Jurisdictional Level, 2004-2013.
Figure 3.4 – Anti-Ahmadiyah Events Disaggregated by Jurisdictional Level
Figure 3.5 – Frequency by Target Type
Figure 3.6 – Anti-Ahmadiyah Events Disaggregated by Jurisdictional Level, 2011-2013
Figure 3.7: State vs. Non State Actors Involved in Anti-Ahmadiyah Events, 2008-2015.
Figure 7.1: Masjid Baiturrahman in August 2015.
Figure 7.2: Mubarak Mosque in Padang in 2017.
Figure 8.1: Frequency of Anti-Shi’a Incidents in Indonesia, 2003-2015
Figure 8.2: Spatial Distribution of Anti-Shi’a Activity, 2011-2014
Figure 8.3: Jurisdictional Disaggregation of Anti-Shi’a Activity, 2008-2015.
Figure 8.4: State and Non-State Actor Involvement in Anti-Shi’a Repression and Mobilization,
2008-2015.
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List of Tables
Table 2.1: Targeting of Non-Sunni Muslim Sects in Indonesia between 2008-2010.
Table 2.2: Summary of the Theory
Table 3.1: Target of Anti-Ahmadiyah Activity, 1998-2004.
Table 3.2: Frequency of Anti-Ahmadiyah Activity, 2005-2013
Table 3.3: Anti-Minority Activity between 2008-2010.
Table 3.4: Proportion of Incidents by Actor Type
Table 3.5: Proportion of Incidents by Target Type, 2010-2015.
Table 3.6: Summary of Anti-Ahmadiyah Conflict Trends
Table 7.1: Frequency of Anti-Ahmadiyah Activity in Indonesia (2010-2015).
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List of Appendices
Appendix 1: Events Dataset Codebook
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Chapter 1 Introduction
On February 6th 2011, 1500 men armed with machetes, sticks and stones attacked the
Jemaah Ahmadiyah Indonesia (JAI) office in Cikeusik village, Pandeglang district, Banten
province. The unruly mob moved in to destroy the building and those inside. Although some of
the 22 Ahmadis tried to reason with the mob and stand their ground, they were quickly
overwhelmed. While some Ahmadi men escaped untouched, others were not so lucky. Those
captured were stripped naked and subsequently stabbed and beaten by their attackers.1 Three
Ahmadis were killed in the violence and six others were severely injured. The corpses of the men
killed were subsequently mutilated and desecrated by the mob (Burhani 2013, 297).
The perpetrators of this attack said that they were driven to violence because the
Ahmadiyah in Pandeglang would not stop their defamatory religious practices. A sect originating
in British Punjab, the Ahmadiyah sect is widely considered to be heterodox due to three issues:
the belief in the prophethood of their founder Mirza Ghulam Ahmad, his denial of the Prophet
Jesus’s death, and his conceptualization of jihad. The first issue is particularly controversial
because it is in direct contradiction to the mainstream doctrine of the seal of the prophet (khatam
al’nabiyyin), which states that Muhammad is the last prophet. The violence of February 2011
was considered the last attempt to expel the Ahmadis from the district or to force the sect’s local
leader, Suparman, to repent from his blasphemous ways (Panggabean et al. 2014, 68).
What is puzzling about the violence in Cikeusik, however, is why the Ahmadiyah were
considered a problem at all. The 1.14 million Sunni Muslims in Pandeglang vastly outnumbered
the 25 Ahmadis in Cikeusik village, who made up half of the entire Ahmadi population in the
district (Panggabean et al. 2014, 60-61). Why would more than a thousand people risk
prosecution, imprisonment, and public disapproval to attack a community of only 25 people?2
1 Ghulam, Ahmadi victim of the Cikeusik attack. Interview by author. Jakarta, 7 April 2014. 2 While the perpetrators received light sentences, 12 men still served prison time for their crimes. See Crouch (2012a).
2
This question can be asked not just of the Cikeusik violence, but the actions taken against the
Ahmadiyah community in Indonesia as a whole. While the Cikeusik attack was one of the more
violent episodes of mobilization, it certainly was not an isolated incident (see Zulkarnain 2005,
Platzdasch 2013, Menchik 2016). Despite making up just 0.1% of the population (Hicks 2014,
3),3 Ahmadis in Indonesia have been the targets of significant levels of repression and
mobilization over the last 15 years.
The Puzzle of Conflict Involving Micro-sized Groups
The Ahmadiyah in Indonesia are an example of what I call a micro-sized group.
Constituting less than 1% of the population, micro-sized groups are present in every state. They
are often so small that many states do not even bother counting them on the census. On every
materialist or rationalist indicator of threat, these micro-sized groups are insignificant. Their size
makes them unable to render any meaningful impact on electoral results and they are too small
for their identity to be used as a means of distributing state resources.
Given the absence of any credible security or material threat, most theories of intergroup
conflict consider micro-sized groups to be “least likely” targets of repression and mobilization.
Most scholars assume that minorities become targets because they pose some kind of challenge
to one’s access to physical security (Posen 1993, Wilkinson 2004, 24-25) or material resources
(Olzak 1992, Devotta 2004). Even scholars who examine non-material drivers of conflict, such
as group symbols or rituals, generally presuppose the existence of a material threat (Kaufman
2001, Ross 2007). In many cases, these theoretical expectations are fulfilled. The Quakers in the
US, the Twa in Rwanda, and the Cao Dai in Vietnam4 may experience varying degrees of social
discrimination, but they are not targets of repression or mobilization.
Contrary to theoretical expectations, however, many micro-sized groups are targets of
some level of mobilization or state repression. According to the Religion and State dataset, 93
3 Indonesia’s Ahmadiyah population is about 400,000 in contrast to the 200+ million Sunni Muslim in the country. 4 I thank Eddy Malesky for bringing this case to my attention.
3
religious micro-sized groups experienced repression and/or mobilization between 1990-2014.5
The Ahmadiyah in Indonesia, the Jehovah’s Witnesses in Kazakhstan and Russia,6 the Baha’i in
Iran,7 and the Nirankaris in Northwestern India are just some examples of micro-sized groups
that have been targets of high levels of state repression and collective mobilization.
Given their political and economic insignificance, why do some micro-sized groups
become targets of mobilization and repression? I explore this question through a study of anti-
Ahmadiyah mobilization and repression in Indonesia. A compelling answer must account for two
elements. First, a theory must be able to explain why political actors—both elites and non-
elites—would bother targeting micro-sized groups in the first place. Why would political elites
believe that acting against micro-sized groups would galvanize political support at all? Relatedly,
why would non-elites risk social censure, legal trouble, or even bodily harm to mobilize against
these very small groups? Second, the theory should be able to account for temporal and spatial
variation in the targeting of micro-sized groups. Why are micro-sized groups targets at some
times and not in others? Existing explanations of individual cases of conflict involving micro-
sized groups, while accounting for some aspects of these dimensions, are unable to account for
both. Scholars who attribute the persecution of micro-sized groups to ideas (e.g. Darmadi 2013;
Fox and Akbaba 2015, 1073) cannot explain why the same idea leads to mobilization and
repression at some times and places and not in others. On the other hand, instrumentalist
explanations, which see conflict as an outcome of political incentives (e.g. Buehler 2016), cannot
explain why ordinary people would believe the claim that micro-sized groups are threatening and
why elites would even choose to exploit the issue in the first place.
5 Jonathan Fox, Religion and State dataset, http://www.religionandstate.org. The dataset codes levels of religious discrimination for 771 religious minorities in 183 states. For every indicator, a value between 0-2 is assigned, with 2 representing high levels of social and/or state discrimination. I consider any micro-sized groups where the sum total valuations in a given year exceed 10 to have experienced repression and/or mobilization. 6 I thank Adam Casey for bringing this case to my attention. 7 I thank Neekoo Collett for bringing this case to my attention.
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The Argument
I theorize that micro-sized groups become targets of mobilization and state repression if
two conditions are fulfilled if: 1) the micro-sized group visibly challenges the constitutive
institutions, routines, and practices that reproduce the larger ethnic, religious, or national group
(“visible constitutive threat”) through the marking of public space and 2) political entrepreneurs
are incentivized to amplify this constitutive threat to members of the larger ethnic, religious, or
national group. The first condition determines whether the threat of the micro-sized group is
perceived as credible (i.e. believable). The second condition shapes the scale of the conflict:
whether members of the larger ethnic, religious or national community experience the threat. In
other words, while the fulfillment of the first condition alone can prompt local episodes of
opposition, micro-sized groups are only politically salient at the regional or national level if both
conditions are met.
My argument begins with the premise that groups are “constructed, contingent and
fluctuating” and are continually in a state of (re)production (Brubaker 2004, 8). Groups are
constituted—rendered concrete and taken-for-granted—by a shared set of institutions, schemas,
routines, practices, and social bonds. As the continued existence of groups are contingent on
these foundational components, a challenge to these constitutive elements of group can be
perceived as an attack to the group itself (Simmons 2016, 8). The controversy over veiling in
France is illustrative of this dynamic. Many French citizens consider the concept of laïcité to be
a core value of what it means to be French (Sommier 2017, 310). Acts that go against this
principle, such as the wearing of religious symbols in public, are therefore considered to be
challenges to the French nation and the continued existence of the French way of life. For this
reason, the simple act of veiling has attracted so much attention and why so many have allocated
significant resources to regulating the practice.
I argue that the threat posed by micro-sized groups is a constitutive one. A constitutive
threat is one that comes from challenges to the essential components of group belonging.
Because what is considered essential or foundational to group membership is negotiated,
competing visions of what elements are constitutive will always exist. However, so long as a
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substantial sub-set of the group shares an understanding of what counts as essential for its
continued existence, then challenges to these components can be perceived as existential threats.
Constitutive challenges are threatening for both material and non-material reasons. Group
hierarchies and the predictable distribution of state-provided resources are predicated on the
existence of discrete and coherent group entities. Perhaps more importantly, as the literature on
ontological security suggests, stable and continuous group identities are important preconditions
of agency (March and Olsen 1998, 951-952, Mitzen 2006). What an individual considers to be
appropriate action is shaped by how one sees oneself. In the absence of a stable group identity,
the capacity for individual action and choice is impacted.
If the constructed nature of groups means that challenges to group boundaries are
ongoing, when do constitutive challenges become perceived as threatening? I argue that
constitutive threats are only considered credible and salient when they are publicly visible. To
utilize the language of framing, public visibility contributes to the resonance of constitutive
threats (Benford and Snow 2000, 619-622). It is an important component of threat resonance for
at least two reasons. First, visibility matters because it makes challenges concrete and
undeniable. Seeing a threat to group boundaries and orders is an embodied process, which
powerfully cements the perceived threat. Second, public space is imbued with power relations.
The politicized nature of public space means that claims made in public are often perceived as
challenges to existing power arrangements. It is thus the capacity of micro-sized groups to
visibly undermine the constitutive elements of groups that makes them threatening, even in the
absence of a credible material threat.
In the Indonesia context, the Ahmadiyah were perceived as threatening because they
challenged the core criteria of Muslim group membership. They challenged group boundaries
due to practices that ran contra to a foundational tenet of mainstream orthodox Islam: that
Muhammad is the last prophet (khatam al’nabiyyin). When the religious practices (e.g.
proselytization or the building of separate mosques) that stemmed from this doctrinal belief were
carried out in public view, the Ahmadis were perceived as posing a constitutive threat to
Indonesian Muslims. This constitutive challenge was troubling due to the importance of religious
categories in Indonesia. While the country is not a Muslim state, religion is an ordering principle
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of Indonesian nationalism and full access to citizenship is linked to belonging in one of the
country’s state-sanctioned religions (Menchik 2016, 67).
While visibility makes the threat of a micro-sized group credible, the scale of conflict
will be shaped by the number of people who see and feel the threat. Political entrepreneurship is
the mechanism that transforms the constitutive threat of a micro-sized group from a local one to
a national one. Through actions such as organizing protests against space-claiming activities or
framing the group as threatening in press releases, political entrepreneurs can render the threat of
micro-sized groups visible at a larger level. I refer to this process of spotlighting the threat of
micro-sized groups to the larger ethnic, religious, or national group as amplification. When
political entrepreneurs engage in amplification, rates of anti-minority mobilization and
repression will multiply.
The decision of political entrepreneurs to exploit and amplify the threat of micro-sized
groups is driven by interests, which are shaped by institutional configurations. In Indonesia,
democratization and decentralization incentivized political entrepreneurs to target the
Ahmadiyah due to the increased relevance of local concerns. The implementation of
decentralization in Indonesia led to the introduction of direct elections and the devolution of
fiscal resources to the district level. These reforms meant that politicians increasingly had to rely
on local clientelist networks to win elections and that local groups had new opportunities to gain
patronage resources at the district level. Where Ahmadis posed a visible constitutive threat, the
issue was readily taken up and instrumentalized.
My work speaks to the scholarship on ethnic and religious conflict in a number of ways.
Studying a least likely target of repression and mobilization challenges longstanding assumptions
about the necessary material dimensions of threat perception. Despite dominant assumptions that
minorities become threatening due to the existence of a material or security threat, the targeting
of micro-sized groups suggests that neither are necessary preconditions of mobilization and
repression.
My work also highlights the centrality of public visibility in threat construction and threat
perception. While I agree with scholars that see the impulse to stabilize group boundaries as a
key pathway to ethnic and religious conflict, my study shows that constitutive threats only
7
resonate when they are visible in the public sphere. If even micro-sized groups can be seen as
threatening due to the ways they occupy public space, then visibility is likely an important
component of how threats are perceived more broadly—even if the threat is not solely a
constitutive one. Conflict, therefore, is not just driven by concerns about retaining privileged
access to resources, but is also shaped by elements such as representation in politics and the
media, the celebration of festivals and ceremonies, and the simple everyday marking of public
space through store signs, religious institutions, and even dress.
The concept of visible constitutive threat has applicability beyond micro-sized groups. It
can, I argue, shed light on political phenomena that appear to be costly, inefficient, and/or
irrational. There are many cases where actors invest seemingly disproportionate amounts of
attention or resources to seemingly trivial issues. Such examples may include the banning of
minarets in Switzerland; the ongoing debate in Quebec about niqabs; and the allocation of
resources to pave over graveyards in the midst of warfare in Bosnia and Croatia. Funneling
resources and energy into these seemingly unimportant issues may seem irrational if only the
material costs are considered. However, if one sees public visibility as crucial to the
(re)production of groups, then prioritizing the management of public space is only logical.
At the level of mechanisms, my discussion of the process of threat amplification in the
particular case of the Ahmadiyah in Indonesia contributes to an emerging body of work that
focuses on how clientelism shapes conflict (e.g. Berenschot 2011, Salehyan and Linebarger
2015). This emerging body of work makes clear that both formal and informal institutions work
together to shape the modalities of inter-group conflict.
Finally, for students of Indonesian politics, my work contributes to the vibrant literature
on religion and politics in the country. By highlighting the importance of public space in
Indonesia, I explain why state and non-state actors have dedicated so much energy to regulating
the construction of houses of worship and the ability of religious minorities to publicly
proselytize. Scholars of religion in Indonesia have studied conflict over these sites and practices
as forms of religious intolerance and conflict (e.g. Sidel 2006, Crouch 2014) and many scholars
have highlighted how the placement of churches and the ostentatious public displays of Christian
communities have prompted conflict in the past (e.g. Boland 1971, 230-231). Yet, no one has
8
systematically analyzed why particular behaviours and practices prompt responses by the
religious majority. As I argue in this dissertation, paying attention to the particular forms of
religious minority activity can shed light on why certain religious minorities are targeted more
frequently than others. Understanding how particular activities will be perceived can lead to
more informed strategy and greater preparedness for advocates of minority rights.
Research Design and Methods
Case Selection
To reiterate, conflicts involving micro-sized groups are least likely cases. As Flyvbjerg
(2006, 231) argues, least likely cases are particularly useful for assessing theories. Discussing
Michel’s (1962) classic study, he says: “By choosing a horizontally structured grassroots
organization with strong democratic ideals—…a type of organization with an especially low
probability of being oligarchical—Michels could test the universality of the oligarchy thesis.”
Because micro-sized groups do not pose a threat on any rationalist dimension of threat,
mobilization against these groups challenges the widespread assumption that material grievances
or security fears are necessary conditions of conflict. While I do not claim that materialist
explanations are unimportant, looking at least likely cases provides a unique opportunity to
interrogate assumptions about the constitutive elements of threat. By doing so, studies of least
likely cases also provide opportunities for theory building. Not only do cases of mobilization
against micro-sized groups suggest that material and security grievances are not necessary
components of conflict, it also suggests that the non-material elements of public visibility are
also important in cases where material endowments are central.
A case study approach is particularly well suited for theoretical innovation, the main
purpose of this dissertation. Because this type of inquiry is not as constrained by externally
imposed categories, it provides significant space for inductive theorizing (George and Bennett
2005, 20-22). In depth engagement with a single case also allows for the careful documentation
of complex dynamics at the meso- and micro- level (Parkinson 2013, 420). While this research
design foregoes sub- or cross- national hypothesis testing, the identification of new factors and
processes can help inform future research agendas.
9
Although micro-sized groups are persecuted in a wide range of countries, I have chosen
to investigate the puzzle using the case of the Ahmadiyah in Indonesia. This case provides
significant temporal and spatial variation in patterns of anti-Ahmadiyah mobilization and
repression. Temporally, the experience of Ahmadiyah communities in Indonesia can be divided
into four distinct periods: 1) Pre-1998, where episodes of contention were highly localized; 2)
1998-2004, where modalities of conflict began to shift; 3) 2005-2012, where the sect became
frequent targets of discriminatory legislation and collective action at the district, provincial, and
national level; and 3) Post-2012, where the frequency of conflict has declined.
There is also a lot of spatial variation in trends of anti-Ahmadiyah activity: while some
Ahmadi communities have experienced high levels of persecution, others have experienced very
little. In this dissertation, I focus on two sets of cases, chosen on the basis of patterns of anti-
Ahmadiyah mobilization and repression during the 2005-2013 period. The cases were chosen as
a nested strategy in order to explore the dynamics of amplification. I begin by comparing two
cases at the district (rural) or city (urban) level: Tasikmalaya district and Bandung city. Although
both are districts in the province of West Java, the province with the highest levels of religious
intolerance in Indonesia,8 Ahmadis in each respective case have had different experiences of
citizenship. Tasikmalaya’s Ahmadiyah communities have experienced some of the highest levels
of discrimination and violence in the country. In contrast, efforts at entrepreneurship on the
Ahmadiyah issue in Bandung largely failed. Choosing cases within a single province helps
control for national and provincial level factors.
I chose the specific cases from the dataset of anti-Ahmadiyah events I created. Because
part of the puzzle was to explain why the threat of micro-sized groups resonated with ordinary
people, I selected cases where there were clear attempts by political entrepreneurs to
instrumentalize the Ahmadiyah threat. Out of the 19 districts where non-state actors staged at
least one protest against the Ahmadis, protests fizzled out in three districts (Sumedang, Bandung
district, and Bandung city).9 From these three districts, the Bandung government was the only
8 Istman MP, “West Java Tops List for Religious Intolerance," Tempo, 23 February 2016, https://en.tempo.co/read/news/2016/02/23/307747607/West-Java-Tops-List-For-Religious-Intolerance, accessed 20 January 2018. 9 Author’s data.
10
case where the government made some effort to safeguard the Ahmadiyah community in their
jurisdiction. The Bandung case thus lies in polar opposite to the Tasikmalaya case. Contrasting
these two cases thus more starkly illuminates the causal processes at play (George and Bennett
2005, 32).
I chose two cases at the provincial level to explore processes of amplification. North
Sumatra and East Java provided important contrasts that would help me identify and document
the factors driving the uptake (or lack thereof) of the Ahmadiyah threat. As will be outlined in
Chapter 4, North Sumatra was a case primed for political entrepreneurship on the Ahmadiyah
issue. The province’s bureaucracy was one of only two actors that intervened on the Ahmadiyah
issue during the 20th Century. However, despite this historical precedent, the North Sumatra
government did not act on the issue. In contrast, although there was no historical precedent for
action in East Java, there was some political entrepreneurship on the Ahmadiyah issue as more
and more people began to experience the constitutive threat posed by the group. These sources of
variation allow me to identify and compare the unfolding of processes across different temporal
and spatial contexts.
To assess the plausibility of the theory I develop in this dissertation,10 I investigate the
shadow case of the Shi’a in Indonesia. While having a much larger global population than their
Ahmadiyah counterparts, the Shi’a community in Indonesia is similarly situated. Shi’as
constitute less than 1% of the population and are not economically, politically or socially
privileged. Like Ahmadis in Indonesia, many Indonesians also see Shi’a Muslims as undesirable
neighbors—an indicator of discriminatory social attitudes. A national survey carried out by the
Denny JA Foundation found that “47 percent of respondents disapproved of having Ahmadis as
neighbors; 42 percent said the same of Shi’as” (Fealy 2016, 119). While rates of anti-Shi’a
mobilization and repression did not nearly reach the levels experienced by their Ahmadi
counterparts, Shi’a communities were targeted 54 times between 2007 and 2015. The parallels
between these two micro-sized groups makes the Shi’a case a useful one for assessing the
potential generalizability of the theory presented here.
10 For a discussion on the uses of “plausibility probes,” see Eckstein (1975).
11
Data Collection Strategies
This dissertation draws on 17 months of field research carried out in Indonesia non-
consecutively in 2013, 2014, and 2015. My primary source of data were the 135 in-depth, semi-
structured interviews I conducted with religious minorities, politicians, local religious leaders,
bureaucrats, and individuals complicit in mobilizing against Ahmadis such as Islamic hardliner
groups. 11 Participants were recruited through snowballing, a form of non-probability sampling
that requires referrals from respondents previously interviewed. Snowballing is a particularly
useful sampling strategy for 1) finding “hidden populations” such as religious minorities and
members of hardliner groups (Tansey 2007, 770) and 2) cultivating the trust and credibility
needed to pursue sensitive topics such as violence. I carried out most of these interviews in
Bahasa Indonesia, the national language of Indonesia, although some individuals preferred to be
interviewed in English.
To navigate local gender norms and other dimensions of my positionality, I conducted
interviews with the help of a research assistant. I was especially concerned that my participants
would assume that I held views and prejudices stereotypically associated with those that shared
my Christian and Chinese-Indonesian identity. To cultivate better working relationships, I
employed a modified version of Cammett’s “proxy interviewing” strategy (Cammett 2013).
Specifically, I “matched” the religious identity of my participants to those of my research
assistants to signal my openness to cross-ethnic and cross-religious perspectives.12
Interviewing is a method that is especially well suited to my research question, which
explores the non-material elements of threat perception. Interviewing gives the researcher a
means to access how people understand and construct their worlds (Fujii 2017, 9). Immersion
also provided the context necessary for analyzing what Lee Ann Fujii calls the “meta-data” of an
interview, such as systematic silences and stock accounts. Meta-data is particularly useful when
investigating sensitive topics such as those related to violence (Fujii 2010). 11 While I strived to interview as many women as I could, there is admittedly a significant gender imbalance in my list of participants. Women remain woefully underrepresented in positions of leadership in politics and in religious institutions across the world. Indonesia is not an exception to this rule. 12 Admittedly, a lot of assumptions about my social location and its effects were baked into my interviewing strategy. For reflections on this point, see Soedirgo and Glas (forthcoming).
12
A major challenge of doing work on newly salient groups is the dearth of information on
local level histories of Ahmadi communities during the 20th Century. While the upsurge of anti-
Ahmadiyah repression and mobilization in 2005 led to a growing literature on the sect (see, for
example, Beck 2005, Burhani 2013, Menchik 2016, Hamayotsu 2017), much of this work
focuses on formal organizations at the national level. To reconstruct the local histories necessary
for process tracing, I consulted primary documents acquired from the library at JAI headquarters
in Parung, Bogor. In addition to collecting stories from their internal magazine, Sinar Islam, I
also relied on undergraduate theses from their religious college. All post-secondary students in
Indonesia write a skripsi and they are an “untapped mine of raw data for local history across
Indonesia” (Fogg 2012, 62). These theses tend to be written by cultural insiders and are largely
descriptive, making them a rich source of historical accounts.
Finally, to precisely understand the phenomenon under study, I had to systematically map
out patterns of violence and repression involving Ahmadi communities in Indonesia (see
Appendix I). I constructed an events dataset using reports from the Wahid Institute, an NGO
focused on religious freedom in Indonesia, and newspaper articles from the most widely-read
national newspapers: Kompas, Tempo, Jakarta Post, and Jakarta Globe.13 As Tarrow (1998)
notes, events analysis as a method is particularly useful for studying temporality. It is thus
appropriate for a project on the ebbs and flows of identity salience.
Outline of the Dissertation
Following greater elaboration of my theoretical argument in Chapter 2 and an outline of
empirical trends in Chapter 3, I present my arguments and findings in temporal order. I do so to
more clearly emphasize shifts in the incentive structures shaping the decision of political
entrepreneurs to amplify the constitutive threat of Ahmadiyah communities. The chapters are
organized as follows.
Chapter 4 analyzes why anti-Ahmadiyah mobilization was constrained to the village level
in the 20th Century. I use newly collected archival data to show that: 1) limited, mostly non-
13 See Appendix I for coding procedures.
13
violent mobilization against Ahmadi settlements did occur and that 2) the timing of oppositional
efforts were correlated with the space-claiming activities of the micro-group themselves. I show
how village- or neighborhood- level mobilization increased when Ahmadiyah communities
marked public space through the building of religious institutions (mosques or schools), through
proselytization efforts, or through public celebrations of religious holidays. These local
mobilization efforts subsided when space-claiming activities ceased.
Although local religious leaders and their constituents did ask the state to curb the ability
of Ahmadis to mark public space, actors beyond the village or neighborhood level generally
chose not to act. Regional and national actors chose to maintain the legislative status quo because
there were few incentives to alter it. During this period of time, local religious leaders were only
marginal actors in the networks of clientelism that traveled from the national level to the village
level. Politicians and bureaucrats at the district or provincial level were not reliant on the support
of local religious leaders for power as their appointments came from the regime. In fact, there
were disincentives to siding with local religious leaders as President Suharto perceived Islamic
organizations as the greatest threat to his power. Ultimately, both formal and informal networks
during the 20th Century worked to keep mobilization against micro-sized groups localized.
Chapter 5 tackles the immediate aftermath of democratization (1998-2005), the period
when Ahmadis started to become seen as threatening to Indonesia’s Muslim community as a
whole. I show how some Islamic organizations broadcasted episodes of contention over public
space in an effort to maintain or gain access to state patronage. By making local disruptions
visible at the national level, the understanding of Ahmadis as a threat to group coherence began
to circulate. These early efforts at entrepreneurship provided material for the subsequent efforts
that led Ahmadis to become seen as a threat to the broader collective.
Chapter 6, which focuses on the period between 2005-2013, seeks to understand why and
how the Ahmadiyah community came to be seen as a threat to the Indonesian Muslim
community as a whole. I argue that Indonesians came to see the Ahmadis as threatening because
they were repeatedly exposed to how Ahmadis challenged group coherence. The sustained
visibility of the Ahmadiyah threat made the group seem like a ubiquitous problem in urgent need
of addressing. The sustained process of threat amplification was possible between 2005 and
14
2013, because there was: 1) a visible constitutive threat and 2) incentives for political
entrepreneurs to transmit episodes of local contention to a broader audience. These incentives
were introduced by the implementation of decentralization in Indonesia, which opened up new
patronage streams at the district-level and introduced direct elections. Both changes increased the
political significance of local networks and the brokers that could deliver them. Where the most
important brokers in a given district were threatened by Ahmadis, political actors were
incentivized to broadcast and exploit the Ahmadiyah threat. As the threat was amplified, more
political entrepreneurs instrumentalized the issue.
Chapter 7 focuses on understanding the process behind the decline in rates of anti-
Ahmadiyah repression and mobilization. I argue that oppositional efforts began to subside
precisely because the threatened population were given tools by the state to address the root
causes of their anxieties. The passage and enforcement of new anti-Ahmadiyah legislation meant
that individuals had legal avenues to address the Ahmadiyah threat. Legislation that curbed
religious freedom ultimately contributed to the decline of anti-Ahmadiyah mobilization.
In Chapter 8, I use process tracing to assess the plausibility of my theory through a study
of the Shi’a community in Indonesia. I show how public challenges to group boundaries by Shi’a
communities raised the group’s threat profile, prompting organized opposition by members of
the majority group. These conflicts were constrained to the village- or neighborhood- level in the
absence of institutional incentives for amplification by political entrepreneurs. The Shi’a case
thus supports the central assertions of this dissertation.
I conclude, in Chapter 9, by summarizing my findings and considering the theoretical and
policy implications of my argument in greater detail. Specifically, I contextualize my arguments
in the literature on intergroup conflict and anti-minority mobilization. I also consider the
implications of my findings for policymakers and minority groups grappling with issues of anti-
minority mobilization, religious intolerance, and religious freedom.
15
Chapter 2 Explaining the Targeting of Micro-sized Groups
The Amish in the US and the Ahmadiyah in Indonesia share several characteristics. Both
groups make up a miniscule proportion of their country’s population, with the Amish making up
0.08% of the American population and Ahmadis making up 0.17% of the Indonesian population.
Due to their size and their dispersed settlement patterns, both groups have a limited impact on
elections. Members of both groups mainly come from the dominant ethnic or racial group.
Neither group is a target of economic resentment as they are not economically privileged.
Finally, both groups adhere to pacifist ideologies and therefore do not pose a security risk. Yet,
while the Amish are left alone, Indonesia’s Ahmadis have—in recent years—been targets of high
levels of repression and mobilization. Why do some micro-sized groups become targets, while
others do not?
In this chapter, I theorize the conditions under which micro-sized groups become targets
of mobilization and repression. Micro-sized groups become targets if the group 1) is perceived to
present a visible constitutive threat and 2) political entrepreneurs have incentives to exploit and
amplify the threat to a larger audience. The first condition determines whether the threat of
micro-sized groups is credible and salient. The second condition shapes the scale of the conflict:
whether members of the larger ethnic, religious or national community experience the threat. While the fulfillment of the first condition alone can prompt local episodes of opposition, micro-
sized groups can only become politically salient at the regional or national level if both
conditions are met.
This chapter is divided into two parts. I begin with an overview of the literature,
highlighting how existing explanations on the targeting of micro-sized groups cannot explain
important elements of the puzzle. The latter half of the chapter focuses on my own theoretical
argument. More specifically, I discuss and define how micro-sized groups present what I call a
“visible constitutive threat” and how political entrepreneurship transforms the threat of micro-
sized groups from a local one to a regional or national one.
16
Between Ideas and Incentives: A Survey of the Scholarship
Conflict involving micro-sized groups is generally overlooked in the literature on ethnic
and religious conflict. This oversight is arguably a result of the security and materialist
assumptions that undergird the vast majority of the conflict literature. Most explanations of anti-
minority mobilization assume that minorities become targets of mobilization and repression
because they pose some kind of challenge to one’s access to physical security (Posen 1993,
Wilkinson 2004, 24-25) or economic opportunities (Olzak 1992, Devotta 2004). Even scholars
who examine non-material drivers of conflict, such as group symbols or rituals, often presuppose
the existence of a material threat (Kaufman 2001, Ross 2007). These embedded assumptions
about the necessary security or material dimensions of threat means that most arguments about
intergroup conflict cannot account for the targeting of these “least likely” targets of mobilization
and repression.
The one body of work that has explicitly acknowledged the targeting of micro-sized
groups is the literature on scapegoating. Drawn from frustration-aggression theory, scapegoating
refers to the irrational process where small, weak groups are targeted because the original source
of frustration is “too remote, too inaccessible, or too powerful” (Horowitz 1985, 136). While the
targeting of micro-sized groups is at least acknowledged by these works, the scapegoating
literature has limited explanatory power because they are unable to precisely explain target
selection. Under scapegoating explanations, micro-sized groups are not seen as threats
themselves, but targets of convenience. In fact, as targets of displaced rage, Peterson (2002, 19)
even states that the selection of scapegoats is inherently “imprecise.” Scapegoating explanations
thus cannot explain why particular small and weak groups are targeted, while others are not.
While the targeting of micro-sized groups has either been ignored or sidestepped in the
literature on ethnic and religious conflict, some scholars have explored particular cases of
conflict involving micro-sized groups. These cases include the targeting of the Ahmadiyah and
Shi’a in Indonesia (e.g. Burhani 2014, Formichi 2014, Menchik 2016, Fealy 2016), the Bah’ai in
Iran (Sanasarian 2000), and Mormons and Jehovah’s Witnesses in the United States (Smith
17
2015). Two factors are commonly highlighted in these studies: ideas and incentive structures.14
While certainly strong starting points, these works either have difficulty explaining 1) temporal
and spatial variation in the occurrence of intergroup conflict or 2) the credibility or resonance of
the threat of micro-sized groups. Following scholars like Posner (2005), I argue that a
compelling theory of conflict involving micro-sized groups needs to explain both these
dimensions.
Ideational Explanations
Ideational arguments attribute the persecution of micro-sized groups to ideas and
attitudes. The work of Fox and Akbaba (2015) on religious discrimination, for example, is
illustrative of arguments in this vein. They contend that differences in religious doctrines at least
partially shape the ability of religious minorities to access their rights. Muslims, for example,
give greater rights to “peoples of the book” minorities like Jews and Christians in comparison to
more heterodox sects. While Jews and Christians are seen as occupying a subordinate position,
the Quran notes that these groups are entitled to tolerance and legal status due to their
monotheistic orientation and their belief in Holy Scriptures. In contrast, heretical sects like the
Baha’i are not entitled to tolerance and are thus generally faced with much higher restrictions to
their citizenship (1073). While Fox and Akbaba do not argue that doctrine is the only factor that
matters, they see it as an influential force shaping the experience of religious minorities around
the world.
Scholars have also approached the puzzle of conflict involving Indonesia’s Ahmadiyah
and Shi’a communities through the ideational lens. Explanations in this category see the impact
of religious ideas in two distinct, but overlapping, ways: 1) explanations that emphasize religious
heterodoxy and 2) explanations that emphasize elite ideational consensus. Scholars in the first
category argue that Ahmadis—and, to a lesser extent, Shi’as—have been targeted due to the
content of their religious teachings. Disagreements with important elements of Sunni religious
doctrine have left both groups vulnerable to accusations of heresy, a problem so inherently
14 The one exception is Smith (2015), who argues that states persecute religious minorities if they pose a threat to political (i.e. state imposed) order.
18
troubling to religious groups that it requires management. Burhani (2013, 1), for example,
observes that the persecution of heretics begins with the passage of a religious edict (fatwa) by a
religious authority that deems them as such. This act of labeling serves as a “justification for
opposing and persecuting the allegedly heretical group” (Ibid). Darmadi (2013, 24) similarly
argues that the contemporary persecution of the Ahmadiyah in Indonesia is rooted in the issuance
and dissemination of the World Muslim League’s 1974 fatwa on the Ahmadiyah, which was
replicated by the Indonesia Ulama Council (Majelis Ulama Indonesia, MUI) in 1984.
While still emphasizing the importance of ideas, scholars in the second category argue
that what matters is not the content of ideas, but whether there is elite consensus around them.
Elite ideational consensus matters because it increases the instrumental value of the issue in the
pursuit of individual or organizational interests. Menchik (2016, 73-79), for example, argues that
the Ahmadiyah became a salient issue because it was one of the few areas that the country’s
three major Islamic organizations—Nahdlatul Ulama (NU), Muhammadiyah, and Persatuan
Islam (Persis)—agreed upon. This common ground was emphasized in order to facilitate much
needed inter-organizational cooperation, a process that Menchik calls “productive intolerance.”
Fealy (2016) also argues that ideational consensus amongst elites explains why Ahmadi and
Shi’a Muslims have experienced differing levels of mobilization. While a similar percentage of
Indonesian Muslims hold prejudicial views against Ahmadis and Shi’as,15 religious elites of
mainstream organizations view these sects quite differently. Fealy contends that it is the views of
mainstream religious elites, not the views of ordinary Indonesians, which are most influential to
trajectories of religious intolerance.
While these two sets of arguments do not see religious ideas operating in the same way,
they are central to the explanation. These explanations view concerns about heterodoxy as
drivers of mobilization, whether it is because heterodoxy is inherently threatening or whether it
is an issue with widespread consensus. By doing so, these scholars can explain why political
actors would even bother targeting micro-sized groups.
15 Polling done by the Denny JA Foundation indicated that 47% of Indonesian Muslims would not want to have an Ahmadi neighbor, while 42% said the same of having a Shi’a neighbor (Fealy 2016, 119).
19
Both sets of arguments, however, cannot capture the precise reasons why heterodoxy is
threatening. Scholars like Burhani (2013) and Darmadi (2013) do not unpack why and when
heterodoxy is threatening, taking heretical ideas as inherently dangerous. On the other hand,
Menchik (2016) and Fealy (2016) arguably conflate prejudicial views with threat perception. It is
possible to strongly dislike a group without seeing them as threatening. The Twa in Rwanda and
Burundi are subjects of prejudicial and discriminatory views, but are not seen as threatening by
the broader population (Thomson 2009, 315). Just because elites agree that they dislike a group
does not mean that the target resonates with the broader community. Without a sense of threat, it
is difficult to understand why ordinary people would engage in risky behavior against the sect.
Why would non-elites follow the directives of elites if nothing were at risk?
Both sets of ideational explanations also have difficulty explaining at least some forms of
variation. If heretical ideas are in themselves threatening, why do they prompt mobilization at
some times and in some places, but not in others? After all, both Ahmadis and Shi’a have long
been considered heretical. Since the 1920s, religious leaders in both Sumatra and Java have
repeatedly denounced the teachings of the Ahmadiyah (Hamka 1982, 137-141, Menchik 2016,
73-79). Furthermore, publications warning of the religious deviancy of Shi’ism were widely
distributed in the 1980s by a variety of religious groups (Formichi 2014). Yet, this understanding
of the Ahmadiyah—and to a lesser extent, the Shi’a—as heretical did not always lead to
mobilization. Some JAI branches were left alone, while others were not. Even those branches
that experienced higher levels of mobilization experienced ebbs and flows of persecution; they
were not always under attack. Finally, not all heretical sects experience the same levels of
persecution. In addition to the fatwas labeling the Ahmadiyah Qadian as a deviant sect (aliran
sesat), MUI has also labeled the Al Qiyadah Al Islamiyyah, Darul Arqam, Islam Jama’ah and
Inkaaru As Sunnah sects as deviant (MUI 2011). Yet, these sects have had drastically different
experiences than their Ahmadiyah counterparts. As Table 2.1 illustrates, between 2008-2010,
Ahmadi Muslims in Indonesia experienced significantly more incidents than any other non-
Sunni Muslim sect in Indonesia. Target Group Number of Incidents Ahmadiyah 75 Shi’a 5 Wahabbis 4 Satrio Pinginit Weteng Buwono 4 Surga Eden 4
20
Millah Ibrahim 4 Other Non-Sunni Muslim Sects (Aggregate of 30 other groups)
78
Table 2.1: Targeting of Non-Sunni Muslim Sects in Indonesia between 2008-2010. Source: Wahid Institute
Data, 2008-2010
Explanations that emphasize elite ideational consensus are better able to account for
temporal variation than their counterparts. Yet, Menchik (2016) and Fealy (2016) still fall short
on the question of sub-national variation. If consensus on the part of religious elites is the main
reason why the Ahmadiyah issue became salient, then why have some communities experienced
much less mobilization than others? East Java presents a particularly puzzling case, as its
Ahmadiyah community has faced very little mobilization by non-state actors,16 while the Shi’a
community has faced comparatively high levels of mobilization.17 If there is a consensus that
Ahmadiyah teachings are heretical and no consensus that Shi’a teachings are, what explains the
trends of persecution in the East Java case? Overall, while this literature highlights that
heterodoxy is important, the explanations do not delve into why heterodoxy is threatening. Along
the same lines, these ideational explanations also have difficulty explaining temporal and spatial
variation in intergroup conflict.
Instrumentalist Explanations
Instrumentalist explanations see the targeting of micro-sized groups as a way for elites to
fulfill their interests. Unlike early instrumentalist accounts of ethnic violence (e.g. Brass 1997),
most scholars see political behavior as shaped and constrained by institutional incentive
structures. A well-known example in this vein is Wilkinson’s (2004) explanation of Hindu-
Muslim riots in India. He argues that the decision of governments to allow or stop ethnic
violence depends on electoral calculations. These calculations are primarily shaped by
demographics and party systems, which determine whether minority support is necessary for
political victory. When the support of minority groups is not necessary, riots will occur
unimpeded, with politicians from hardline parties exploiting group fears to gain support.
16 Budi, JAI Surabaya. Interview by author, Surabaya, East Java, 31 October 2014. 17 Said, IJABI Leader. Interview by author, Bandung, West Java, 24 September 2014.
21
However, when minority support is needed for electoral victory, states will make an effort to
stop violence. While Wilkinson’s argument does not apply to conflict involving micro-sized
groups due to their electoral insignificance, his argument usefully identifies how political
entrepreneurs can use intergroup conflict to meet their interests.
Much of the scholarship on anti-minority mobilization in Indonesia has focused on the
influence of institutional incentives on conflict. Hicks (2014), for example, argues that the anti-
Ahmadiyah issue was used by religious bureaucratic bodies to shore up their declining religious
authority in the newly competitive space of democracy. Under Suharto’s New Order regime,
religious organizations had been extensively regulated: conservative Muslim groups were
repressed and moderate organizations had little autonomy. Democratization removed these limits
and allowed for the expression of conservative groups in the public sphere. As a result, it also
increased the competition for religious authority. Scholars such as Buehler (2016) and Afdillah
(2016) have shown how electoral rules incentivized anti-Ahmadiyah and anti-Shi’a mobilization.
Looking at the passage of shari’a in Indonesia, including anti-Ahmadiyah legislation, Buehler
(2016, 3) argues that religious regulations were passed to gain the support of Islamic hardliner
groups due to the mobilization resources they could provide. Afdillah (2016) makes a similar
argument, documenting how elections played an important role in the eruption of anti-Shi’a
mobilization and repression in East Java.
A key strength of institutional explanations is their ability to explain spatial and temporal
variation. By looking at institutional change, one can explain the timing of behavioral change.
Looking at particular institutional configurations at the local level can likewise explain why
conflict occurs in some parts and not others. Due to the approach’s ability to explain temporal
and spatial variation, the theory I advance incorporates institutional incentive structures into the
explanation.
Still, for its strengths in accounting for variation, instrumentalist approaches cannot
explain why the threat of micro-sized groups would even be considered a political issue to begin
with. While most explanations locate the origins of threat resonance to state configurations (Jung
2000, Smith 2003, Posner 2005), most micro-sized groups are not even counted on the census,
much less used as a basis for the distribution of state resources. Certainly, the benefits of
22
scapegoating a micro-sized group are obvious: their economic and political insignificance means
that backlash will be minimal. Nonetheless, why would political elites believe that acting against
micro-sized groups would galvanize political support at all? Relatedly, why do ordinary people
even believe what elites are saying about the threat of micro-sized groups? Why would some
even go so far as to carry out activities that transgress social norms and could lead to legal
troubles or physical injury? In short, instrumentalist arguments sidestep the central puzzle of this
dissertation: why the Ahmadiyah—given their miniscule size and lack of resources—would be
seen as threatening.
Micro-sized Groups as Constitutive Threat
Laying out the Premises
My theoretical argument rests on the premise that groups are “constructed, contingent
and fluctuating” (Brubaker 2004, 8). While the idea that groups are socially constructed is now
widely accepted (Wimmer 2013, 2), taking the premise seriously means looking at group making
as a continual process of re-production. In short, groups are not simply bounded entities that—
once created—act as discrete and coherent units, but are inherently unstable groupings of diverse
peoples.18
Groups are continually (re)constituted—rendered concrete and taken-for-granted—by a
set of institutions, scripts, routines, practices, and social bonds (Butler 1990, Brubaker 2004,
ch.1, Wimmer 2013, 64-66). These foundational elements are understood by at least some
members of the in-group and out-group as key markers of group membership. Religious
communities, for example, are produced and sustained by a set of shared religious rituals,
practices, institutions, and symbols. In many contexts, to ‘be’ Catholic is not only to believe in
Catholic theology, but also to partake in the communal rites of communion, confession and
liturgy.
18 For a critique of the continued tendency of scholars to study groups as discrete entities and agents, see Brubaker (2004).
23
What elements are considered constitutive of groups are context-specific and are
necessarily imbued with meaning. Just as a blink and a wink signify very different things (Geertz
1973), the same institution, practice or routine can be a marker of inclusion (or exclusion) in one
context and politically irrelevant in another. Irrigation practices, which Simmons (2016, ch.2)
sees as constitutive of regional identities in Bolivia, may simply be an errand in another context.
Similarly, while hairdos may be a signifier of belonging for Mru men in the Cittagong Hills
(Wimmer 2013, 66), the same hairstyle on a man in another context may be simply a preference.
Because groups are dynamic and contingent, boundaries are always open to
(re)negotiation. Consequently, competing visions of the constitutive elements of group will
always exist. There will never be a group-wide consensus on what comprises the essential
institutions, practices and bonds of group membership. What is important, however, is that a
significant subset of the group shares an understanding of what counts as foundational to the
continuity of the group itself.
In sum, the foundational premise of this theoretical framework is that groups of all sorts
are socially constructed and are in a constant state of reproduction and negotiation. We can only
understand why some micro-sized groups are seen as threatening at some times and in some
places if we take group boundaries as unstable.
Constitutive Threats and Group Preservation
I argue that the threat of micro-sized groups is linked to fears about group boundaries in
flux. If the continued existence of groups are contingent on a set of institutions, scripts, routines,
practices, and social bonds, then challenges to these constitutive elements of group can evoke a
sense of threat about the group’s continued future (Simmons 2016, 8). A constitutive threat is
therefore one that arises from challenges to the essential components of group belonging and is
perceived as an attack on the continued existence of said group (18).
Religious groups, for example, might perceive themselves to be at risk when there is a
challenge to the religious rituals, practices, institutions, and symbols that tie together community.
For example, points of consensus around theology and religious practice allow disparate
individuals to come together under a singular category like ‘Christian,’ ‘Buddhist,’ or ‘Muslim.’
24
If praying five times a day at specific times19 is one of the few elements that bind Muslims
together, then deviations from this ritual can be seen as destabilizing for the continuity of Islam
as a category. Seen in this light, it might explain why sects like the Welu Telu in Lombok—a
syncretic sect of Islam that prays only three times a day—have been targets of attacks
(Budiwanti 2000, ch.6). Along the same lines, if the collective and choreographed practice of
prayer is perceived as foundational to the category of Muslim, then a Shi’a placing their
foreheads on a turba and not on the carpet can be threatening to a Sunni Muslim.
It is important to emphasize that not all innovations on group institutions, scripts,
routines, and practices are necessarily constitutive threats. For an action to be perceived as such,
the element that is being challenged needs to be considered pivotal to the continued existence of
the group by a sub-set of group members. To use the example in the opening of this chapter, the
Amish’s stance on technology, dress, and community are distinct from the majority of people
who identify as Protestant or American. Yet, because technology and dress are not essential
determinants of belonging in Christianity or the American nation, the Amish are not
considered—at least in this contemporary period—a constitutive threat.
Constitutive challenges to groups are threatening for both material and non-material
reasons. One’s access to political, economic, and social resources is shaped by the existence of
group hierarchies. Membership in the dominant group means privileged access to the distribution
of state resources, economic opportunities, and more (Appadurai 1998, 908-909). It also provides
privileged access to non-material resources that are so often denied to subordinate groups such as
dignity (Wood 2003) and social status (Wilson 2014). Group hierarchies and the predictable
distribution of these social and material goods are predicated on the existence of discrete and
coherent group entities. Consequently, any threat to the stability of the group itself can be
perceived as a threat to existing hierarchies and one’s access to resources.
In addition to shaping one’s access to material and social resources, the literature on
ontological security suggests that stable and continuous group identities are central for agency.
March and Olsen (1998, 952) argue that behavior is driven by particular concepts of self and the 19 The five obligatory prayers in Islam are carried out at dawn (subh), noon (zuhr), in the afternoon (asr), after sunset (maghrib) and at night (isha).
25
“socially constructed, publicly known, anticipated, and accepted” rules and practices that emerge
from the meanings of those particular identities. In the absence of a stabilized sense of self, then,
the capacity for individual action and choice is impacted (Mitzen 2006, 344). As identity is
fundamentally shaped by the groups in which one belongs, stable and coherent groups undergird
agency.
Given the importance of stabilized groupings, group members will often attempt to re-
stabilize group boundaries when faced with a constitutive threat. Mobilization and repression are
two strategies that can reestablish group boundaries. In fact, several scholars have argued that
violent conflict is an outcome of blurred group boundaries, deployed in order to clarify and
solidify who does and does not belong. Arjun Appadurai (1998, 911), for example, has argued
that ethnic violence is a physical and embodied act of desecrating the other, leading to an
elimination of uncertainty over who is outside the category of ‘us.’ Along the same lines, John
Sidel (2006, 13) argues that religious violence in Indonesia “erupts amid heightened states of
uncertainty and anxiety as to religious identities and their boundaries” and that violence was a
way to redefine “the self and the (re)articulations of claims of authority.” Through violence—
whether the physical destruction of bodies or property—the line between groups is clearly
demarcated.
Legal repression is another tool that can help groups defend themselves from constitutive
threats. This tool allows groups to reassert and reestablish group coherence. The state can utilize
the legal apparatus to prevent the undermining of the constitutive elements of group. For
example, as Sarkissian (2015) observes, states commonly engage in religious repression by
policing the kinds of religious expressions that can take place. Malaysia’s strategy for policing
religious and ethnic groups is illustrative. In the country, religious identity is constitutive of
ethnic identity. To be Malay means to be Muslim, for example. A Malay Christian, then,
unsettles group boundaries. The Malay state thus prevents activities that could undermine a key
foundation of ethnic groups. For example, the state restricts the distribution of Bibles in the
Malay language (Sarkissian 2015, 36). Repression is a powerful way to render group boundaries
starkly evident, therefore defusing constitutive threats.
26
Public Visibility and Threat Resonance
When does a constitutive threat become perceived as resonant? After all, the constructed
and fluid nature of groups means that challenges to group boundaries are ongoing. I argue that
challenges to the constitutive elements of group are only seen as threatening when they occur in
public space. Challenges that occur away from public view or in what James Scott (1990, 27)
calls the “hidden transcript” are less potent. As Scott writes: the status quo can “accommodate a
reasonably high level of practical resistance so long as that resistance is not publicly and
unambiguously acknowledged” (56-57). Once challenges become publicly visible, the semblance
of group coherence and stability becomes difficult to maintain. In these circumstances,
constitutive threats will gain resonance as a credible threat to members of the majority group.
Public visibility is an important component of threat resonance for at least two reasons.
First, visibility matters because it makes challenges concrete and undeniable. To quote Richard
Delgado and Jean Stefancic: “[T]angible symbols have a quality that words—at least of the
spoken variety—do not: They are enduring….A flag [or a] monument…is always there to
remind members of the group it spotlights of its unsolicited message” (Delgado and Stefancic
2004, 142 in Waldron 2012, 72). In this digital age, even ephemeral moments like speeches and
ceremonies can be enduring as long as they are recorded and uploaded into virtual public space
to be experienced by multitudes.
Part of what ties visibility to threat resonance is that it makes the moment of exposure an
embodied and visceral process (Fujii 2018).20 For example, a Catholic in Northern Ireland who
sees and hears a loyalist parade pass her neighborhood experiences the threat in its sensory
fullness: the sights, the sounds, the smells. The sensory experience adds to the potency of the
memory, emotions, and experience (Herz and Schooler 2002), thereby cementing the threat.
While visual representations can never replicate the potency of direct experience, images still
have the power to evoke visceral emotions, particularly those around fear and threat perception
(Diemer et al. 2015). Visible threats, in other words, are arguably more potent.
20 I also thank Lahoma Thomas for this point.
27
Second, and arguably most importantly, public visibility matters because public space is
imbued with power. Opportunities for groups to occupy public space are uneven precisely
because molding public space requires power (Savage 1994, 135). As Scott (1990, 4) writes:
while “the dominant never control the [public] stage absolutely…their wishes normally prevail.”
In fact, in her writings on the role of symbolic displays in Syria, Wedeen (1999, 21) argues that
public displays are substantiations of power. Spectacles, she notes, make power palpable due to
its visibility.
Maintaining control over public space is thus a way to maintain the status quo—both in
terms of group boundaries and group orders. Seen in this light, it becomes understandable why
dominant groups are so invested in managing public space and acquiring the tools to do so. It
explains, for instance, why individuals invest their efforts into seemingly “unimportant matters”
like statues and flags (Ross 2007, 15) or the building of houses of worship (Eade 1996). The
centrality of public space to the reproduction of groups makes these entities worthy of defense
and mobilization.
The politicized nature of public space means that claims made in public are often
perceived as challenges to existing power arrangements. While public spaces can work to
reinforce the status quo (Mitchell 1996, 27), they are also sites where group boundaries and
orders can be renegotiated. As Waldron (2012, 82) observes, political aesthetics (i.e. how a
society looks) are key components of setting up expectations and assurances about how the
world works. Alterations in political aesthetics, then, shape expectations and behavior.
Space-claiming activities can be intentionally political. The act of making entities or
processes visible—what Pachirat (2013) calls the politics of sight—can be deployed for the
purposes of political transformation. For example, the Irish-American LGBT community
purposely marched in the Irish American parades in New York City to make themselves visible
members of that community to renegotiate parameters of belonging (Guss 2000, 11). By making
a claim to inclusion, members of the Irish American LGBT community were asserting their
entitlement to the benefits of membership.
While some groups may purposely disrupt public space to challenge group boundaries or
group orders, actions do not have to be intentional to be read as threatening by members of the
28
majority. For example, when Muslims in East London built a mosque, it is likely that they
simply wanted to have a place to gather and worship. Yet, while the community did not
necessarily intend to unsettle the category of ‘British’, this is how the project was interpreted by
Londoners in the 1980s (Eade 1996). Regardless of intentions, what is perceived as threatening is
the public nature of these activities.
Ultimately, it is the capacity of micro-sized groups to visibly undermine the constitutive
elements of groups that makes them threatening, even in the absence of a credible material
threat. A group does not have to be particularly large to stage a religious procession through the
streets or distribute religious pamphlets in front of a public mosque. That being said, the mere
existence of a visible constitutive threat is not enough for a micro-sized group to be seen as a
threat to the larger ethnic, religious, or national group. After all, most groups—especially those
as small as micro-sized groups—can rarely project presence beyond a small area.
Amplification and Incentives for Political Entrepreneurship
If visibility is key to making the constitutive threat of micro-sized groups credible, then
members of the larger ethnic, religious, or national group must be able to see and feel the threat.
Political entrepreneurship is the mechanism by which micro-level threats become threatening to
the larger collective. I call the process of transforming the threat of micro-sized groups from a
local threat to a regional or national one “amplification.” In this process of amplification, more
and more people are exposed to the threat presented by the micro-sized group. As a consequence,
rates of anti-minority mobilization and repression multiply.
Political entrepreneurs can amplify the threat of micro-sized groups in a variety of ways.
Political entrepreneurs cannot build threats out of thin air. They require micro-sized groups to
engage in space-claiming activities for the threat to have some level of resonance. However, they
can use a variety of tactics to make the threat of micro-sized groups visible to the larger ethnic,
national, or religious group. The simplest way is to draw attention to and reinterpret the space-
claiming activities of micro-sized groups. For example, civil society groups can organize protests
against space-claiming activities and disseminate audio-visual representations of these activities
through the media. Political entrepreneurs can also imbue these space-claiming activities with
29
meaning by framing symbols and events in particular ways (Tarrow 1998). In the case of the
Jehovah’s Witnesses in the US, the American Legion lobbied politicians to pass legislation that
would criminalize Witnesses’ refusal to salute the flag, interpreting this behavior as anti-
American (Smith 2015, 116-118). Through speeches, the passing of legislation, and the carrying
out of protests, political entrepreneurs can clarify precisely why and how these groups present a
threat to the broader collective. In short, micro-sized groups are not the only agent of visibility,
political entrepreneurs are as well.
The debates over the 2009 ban on minarets in Switzerland is illustrative of the importance
of political entrepreneurship in the threat amplification process. Ultimately, 57.5% of Swiss
voters supported a ban on the building of new minarets. Fears about Islam in Switzerland were
certainly not new. The four minarets in Switzerland were occasionally viewed as visible
constitutive threats by locals, but these conflicts did not reach the national level until 2005
(Mayer 2011, 14). Up until this point, most Swiss likely did not encounter the Islamic “threat”
embodied by the minarets. The situation changed when political entrepreneurs from the Swiss
People’s Party and the Federal Democratic Party of Switzerland took advantage of a conflict
over the building of a minaret in Wangen municipality. In 2007, these actors launched a popular
initiative to implement a constitutional amendment disallowing the construction of minarets in
Switzerland (15). Proponents of the ban drew attention to the ways that Muslims claimed public
space, such as their building of minarets and how Muslim women veiled. These entrepreneurs
also imbued these activities with meaning, framing these space-claiming activities as
undermining the Christian foundations of Swiss national identity (17-19). Through these
activities, a majority of Swiss voters came to understand Islam as a constitutive threat and
accordingly acted by deploying the state to neutralize the threat. In the absence of
entrepreneurship, the conflict over the building of a minaret in Wangen would have remained a
local concern.
The degree to which the constitutive threat of micro-sized groups becomes resonant to
the larger religious, ethnic, or national group is shaped by the number of political entrepreneurs
engaged in amplification. A single transmission of a visible constitutive threat is not enough to
render a micro-sized group threatening to the national community, as it will register as a blip on
the radar for most individuals. However, if multiple actors engage in amplification, the threat of
30
micro-sized groups will become seemingly ever present and difficult to deny, thus becoming
more credible and increasing the issue’s political utility.
While political entrepreneurs may genuinely believe in the existence of the threat, they
choose to participate in amplification to meet their own interests. In patronage democracies like
Indonesia or India (Chandra 2004), these interests will often be accessing power and patronage
in the form of elected office, a job in the bureaucracy, or vote buying funds. The appeal and
benefit of targeting micro-sized groups over other larger minorities is perhaps obvious. Targeting
a micro-sized group means that any backlash to this targeting will have a minimal impact.
If targeting micro-sized groups can be a beneficial strategy, why is it not always
employed? Political entrepreneurs will exploit and amplify the threat of micro-sized groups if the
issue appeals to important constituencies. Whether or not this issue is appealing to these
constituencies is shaped by whether or not the micro-sized group is publicly visible and whether
institutional configurations make these constituents relevant for the gaining of political power. If
both conditions are present, then political entrepreneurs will render the space-claiming activities
of a micro-sized group visible, thereby increasing rates of anti-minority mobilization and
repression.
Bringing the Factors Together
The factors of visible constitutive threat and incentives for political entrepreneurship
interact to produce different conflict pathways. The predicted outcomes are illustrated by Table
2.2. Micro-sized groups are perceived as threatening to the regional or even national community
when 1) they present a visible constitutive threat and 2) when political entrepreneurs are
incentivized to amplify the threat. In the absence of political incentives for amplification, conflict
involving micro-sized groups will remain highly localized because the threat is only seen by
those in close proximity. Where visible constitutive threats are not present, micro-sized groups
will not be targets of mobilization or repression because the threat does not resonate.
31
Incentives for Political Entrepreneurship
No Incentives for Political Entrepreneurship
Visible Constitutive Threat Conflict at the Regional or National Level
Conflict remains highly localized
No Visible Constitutive Threat No conflict No conflict
Table 2.2: Summary of the Theory
Conclusion
In this chapter, I develop a theory explaining the targeting of micro-sized groups. This
theory focuses on explaining two dimensions of conflict: 1) threat resonance and 2) temporal and
spatial variation. I argue that the threat of micro-sized groups is linked to fears about group
boundaries in flux. Micro-sized groups become perceived as threatening to a larger ethnic,
religious, or national group when they challenge the institutions, routines, and practices that form
the core of group membership through the marking of public space. These visible constitutive
threats are seen as a danger to the continued existence of these larger groups. When political
entrepreneurs choose to broadcast these visible constitutive threats to a larger audience—a
decision shaped by formal and informal institutional configurations—the micro-sized group can
be seen as a threat to the larger collective. In the remainder of the dissertation, I develop this
theory through the case of the Ahmadiyah community in Indonesia, before assessing its
plausibility through the similarly situated case of the Shi’a community in Indonesia.
32
Chapter 3 Mapping Trends of Anti-Ahmadiyah Conflict in Indonesia
While many scholars of religion in Indonesia have observed how the targeting of
Ahmadiyah communities has escalated in recent years (e.g. Hicks 2014, Burhani 2014, Menchik
2016, ch. 4), few—if any—have systematically mapped out the full variance of anti-Ahmadiyah
conflict in Indonesia. This chapter seeks to remedy this empirical lacuna by providing a general,
high-level overview of the empirical trends of anti-Ahmadiyah activity in Indonesia. Through
this systematic documentation of conflict trends, I clarify and unpack the empirical puzzle that is
at the heart of this dissertation, thereby setting the stage for the rest of the analysis.
Trends of anti-Ahmadiyah activity can be organized into four periods. I temporalize these
periods by assessing variation on three indicators: 1) frequency and spatial distribution of
incidents; 2) the scale of conflict; and 3) the specific targets of mobilization and repression. By
scale I mean the arena within which incidents took place (i.e. at the village level, district level,
provincial level or national level). Relatedly, the targets of mobilization and repression are
important because they suggest what precisely is angering perpetrators and driving them to act
against Ahmadiyah communities.
The first period consists of the years between 1924-1998, which cuts across the colonial
era and the end of Suharto’s authoritarian New Order regime. Ahmadiyah communities during
this time were targets of occasional mobilization, but episodes were generally constrained to the
local level. The second period consists of the early years of democracy (1998-2004). While the
frequency of anti-Ahmadiyah episodes was similarly intermittent, the scale of conflict moved to
the district level in this second period. The third period is between 2005-2012, which was the
height of the anti-Ahmadiyah conflict. The last period spans the years after 2012, when the
frequency of anti-Ahmadiyah conflict declined.
33
Anti-Ahmadiyah Conflict in the 20th Century (1924-1998): Intermittent and Localized
Indonesia’s Ahmadiyah community can be traced to the arrival of missionaries
(mubaligh) in 1925.21 Led by a man named Maulaw Rahmat Ali and a handful of Indonesian
students who had pursued higher education in British Punjab, the mubalighs landed in the village
of Tapaktuan in Southwest Aceh (Blood 1974, 19). After converting several Tapaktuan Muslims
to the sect, Rahmat Ali travelled south, proselytizing through North Sumatra and West Sumatra,
establishing small communities along the way (Asa and Karma 21 September 1974). Eventually,
after conflicting with religious leaders in Sumatra, Ali left for the colonial capital, Batavia (now
Jakarta), located on the island of Java (Hamka 1982, 137-141). Like in Sumatra, Ali began
proselytizing and established small Ahmadiyah communities—particularly on West Java. When
Ali eventually returned to India in May 1950 (Burhani 2013, 83), his converts took his place and
engaged in proselytization efforts themselves.
The proselytization patterns of Ali and his followers meant that Indonesia’s Ahmadiyah
community is geographically widespread. The group has been able to penetrate a large number
of villages and cities. This scattered pattern of settlement is indicated by the number of JAI
branches in Indonesia, which allow smaller communities to be incorporated into the larger body
of the JAI. Branches were often quite small, formalized even if membership consisted of a few
families.22 Despite the small size of each individual branch, the aggregate total of JAI branches
is substantial numerically. In 1964, Ahmadis had established 60 branches of the sect. By 1989,
there were 150 branches. Finally, by 1999 this figure had grown to 228 (Platzdasch 2013, 224).
Before outlining the character of anti-Ahmadiyah activity between 1924 and 1998, it is
important to emphasize that I exclusively rely on qualitative data for this section. As Indonesia’s 21 This chapter focuses on the Qadian Ahmadiyah sect. There is another sect of the Ahmadiyah known as the Lahore sect. Lahore Ahmadis only view Mirza Ghulam Ahmad as a renewer of the faith and reject any claims to his prophethood. In Indonesia, the Lahore Ahmadis are organized under the organization Gerakan Ahmadiyah Indonesia (GAI) and are largely isolated to a handful of cities in Central Java. They do not appear to have engaged in significant proselytization and are oriented inwardly. For more information about the Lahore, see Beck (2005). 22 Uwes Fatoni, Professor at UIN Sunan Gunung Djati. Interview by author, Bandung, West Java, 9 September 2014.
34
Ahmadiyah communities were not politically salient, the sect received little media coverage.23
As a result, periodicals were not a useful source of information. I thus draw from interviews
carried out with members of the Ahmadiyah community (n=36) and archival data collected at the
JAI headquarters in Parung, Bogor to understand patterns of anti-Ahmadiyah activity during this
time.
Frequency of Incidents: Incidents of organized anti-Ahmadiyah opposition did occur throughout
the 20th Century, though only intermittently. For example, Budi,24 an older Ahmadi told me
about an incident of vandalism that had taken place during the New Order era in Garut district,
West Java:
The arrival of the Ahmadiyah congregation in Garut…certainly brought about a reaction. Opposition. In the city itself…[this opposition] did not occur directly….My parents were once blocked when trying to go to prayers—this was closer to the village. But in the city, it was not like that. In the city, there was sometimes vandalism. This was during the New Order and before the New Order it was the same. But there was one incident. In Samarang…a mosque was destroyed. That was when I was in high school, in the late 1980s.25
Budi’s friend Acep, who grew up in the neighboring district of Tasikmalaya, similarly recalled
that an Ahmadiyah gathering was also cancelled in the 1980s.26 Similarly, Yendra—a senior
citizen in her 90s—recalled an incident in Asahan district in North Sumatra where an angry mob
threatened to kill an Ahmadi mubaligh after he staged a proselytization meeting in the 1980s.27
As will be discussed in Chapter 4, these three incidents were not the only ones that occurred
during this period.
23 There were some exceptions. See, for example, Syu'bah Asa and DS Karma, "Ahmadiyah, Sebuah Titik Yang Dilupa [Ahmadiyah, a point that has been forgotten]" Tempo 21 September 1974, 44-50. However, as suggested by the title of the article, the sect was little known. 24 All names have been changed to protect the anonymity of my participants. 25 Ery, JAI Tasikmalaya member. Interview by author, Tasikmalaya, West Java, 19 October 2014. 26 Acep, JAI Singaparna member. Interview by author, Tasikmalaya, West Java, 19 October 2014. 27 Yendra, JAI Medan member. Interview by author, Medan, North Sumatra, 9 December 2014.
35
Although incidents of organized opposition to the Ahmadiyah certainly occurred, it was
uncommon. When I asked about anti-Ahmadiyah incidents that took place before
democratization (Reformasi), most Ahmadis could think of one, maybe two, examples. In
addition, most anecdotes involved more subtle manifestations of intergroup conflict. Yendra, for
example, recalled how non-Ahmadi members of the community did not accept invitations to
celebrate religious ceremonies with them, stating: “they isolated us.”28 Similarly, Raslan, an
Ahmadi who grew up in the Tasikmalaya sub-district of Singaparna, noted that his parents
discouraged him from pursuing a career as a bureaucrat because they believed that he would face
a glass ceiling.29
With the exception of Ahmadis in North Sumatra,30 most Ahmadis I interviewed noted that
relations with their Sunni neighbors were qualitatively better during the 20th Century compared
to the Reformasi era (1998-2011). For example, when I asked Acep, another middle aged man
who grew up in Singaparna about Sunni-Ahmadi relations in the village, he observed: “As far as
what I experienced in Singaparna, there was never a similar concentration of people that
mobilized or attacked our places. It’s different from now [i.e. 2014].”31 Similarly, a refugee of
the anti-Ahmadiyah violence in Pancor, East Lombok stated that relations had been fine prior to
1998. He acknowledged that “there were a few individuals who did not like the Ahmadiyah,” but
that the situation was “still safe.”32 Suhardi, a member of JAI Sidoarjo conveyed similar
sentiments about his experiences growing up in Salatiga, Central Java and his wife’s experience
28 Ibid. 29 Raslan, JAI Bandung member. Interview by author, Bandung, West Java, 9 September 2014. 30 Ahmadis living in Medan note that the persecution they experienced during the 20th Century was worse than what the community experienced from the 1990s onwards. Azhar, JAI Medan member. Interview by author, Medan, North Sumatra, 29 April 2014; Yendra, JAI Medan member. Interview by author, Medan, North Sumatra, 9 December 2014. 31 Interview by author, Tasikmalaya, West Java, 19 October 2014. 32 Umayah, Ahmadi Refugee. Interview by author, Mataram, Lombok, Nusa Tenggara Barat, 2 June 2014.
36
in Sidoarjo, East Java.33 The experience of these three participants was not unique amongst the
Ahmadis that I interviewed.
To summarize, Ahmadis were targets of mobilization and state repression between 1924
and 1998. However, organized anti-Ahmadiyah activity occurred infrequently. Instead, tensions
tended to manifest themselves in everyday interactions.
Scale of Conflict: When organized opposition to the Ahmadiyah did occur, conflict remained
largely constrained to the village-level. By this I mean that organized opposition was planned
and organized by village-level actors that were unaffiliated with the state: local religious leaders
and neighbors. For example, the previously mentioned attack on the mubaligh in Asahan, North
Sumatra was carried out by local villagers.34 In rare cases—some of which are mentioned in
Chapter 4—local police were drawn into the conflict at the behest of local leaders. Regardless,
the vast majority of anti-Ahmadiyah episodes were carried out by those in close physical
proximity to Ahmadiyah communities.
It is important to acknowledge that there were exceptions to this general trend of localized
conflict. To my knowledge, there were five moments over these seventy years where actors
beyond the village level became concerned about the sect. In the early 1930s, Muslim
organizations NU, Muhammadiyah, and Persis began discussions over whether or not the
Ahmadiyah sect was deviant (Menchik 2016, ch. 4). All three organizations arrived at a
consensus in the affirmative. The issue re-emerged in the mid- to late- 1970s, when sectarian
violence in Pakistan led the World Muslim League to issue a fatwa in 1974. Efforts to
marginalize the sect from the mainstream Muslim community at the international level led to a
re-affirmation of the sect’s heretical status by MUI, who issued a fatwa in 1980 that labeled the
sect as outside the boundaries of Islam (Darmadi 2013). The provincial branch of MUI in North
Sumatra reiterated their agreement with this fatwa in 1982.35
33 Suhardi, JAI Sidoarjo. Interview by author, Surabaya, East Java, 5 November 2014. 34 Yendra, JAI member living in Medan. Interview by author, Medan, North Sumatra, 9 December 2014. 35 “Ahmadiyah di Mata Jaksa dan Hakim [Ahmadiyah in the Eyes of the Prosecutor and Judge],” Forum Keadilan, 31 March 1994, vol.2, no.25, p.28.
37
In addition to the three times that religious actors at the national and provincial level
labeled the Ahmadiyah sect as deviant, state actors intervened on the Ahmadiyah issue twice. In
November 1983, the district head (bupati) of East Lombok and the Attorney General of the sub-
district (kecamatan) of Selong issued decrees that placed heavy limitations on the sect’s ability to
worship (Anam 2011, 87, Burhani 2013, 285-286). These government bodies intervened after
Sunni villagers attacked their Ahmadi neighbors in the village of Pancor (Anam 2011, 87). The
second incident occurred in North Sumatra and was raised to the provincial level by the Medan
branch of the JAI. Angered by the Tanjungpura sub-district government’s decision to ban
Ahmadis from proselytizing, JAI Medan sued the government in 1991. They argued that the
directive was a violation of article 29.2 of the constitution, which legally guarantees religious
freedoms.36 Although the judge ruled in favor of the Ahmadis, fragments of the state refused to
adhere to the decision. Specifically, the North Sumatra Department of Religion and the police
refused to accept the court’s decision and refused to withdraw the ban.37
As shown, district, provincial, and national elites only got involved in the Ahmadiyah
issue five times over the span of 73 years. In other words, Sunni-Ahmadi tensions during this
period was primarily a local phenomenon.
Targets of Mobilization and Repression: Most of the incidents referred to thus far were carried
out in response to three types of activities: 1) building Ahmadiyah institutions; 2) the staging of
religious events in public; and 3) public proselytization. The abovementioned vandalism of the
Garut mosque is just one case where the building of Ahmadi mosques, musallas (mushollah), and
schools prompted mobilization against the sect. Religious events—those celebrated exclusively
by Ahmadiyah communities and those also practiced by Sunni Muslims—would prompt similar
responses. Finally, public proselytization—such as public debates or sermons—would also lead
to episodes of organized opposition.
36 "Menuntut Hak Percaya [Demanding the Right to Freedom of Conscience and Religion]," Tempo, 27 June 1992, vol. 17, no. 22, pp. 80. 37 Ahmadiyah di Mata Jaksa dan Hakim [Ahmadiyah in the Eyes of the Prosecutor and Judge],” Forum Keadilan, 31 March 1994, vol.2, no.25, p.28.
38
All of the activities mentioned above are space-claiming and are publicly visible. The
targets of opposition, therefore, suggest that people who mobilized against Ahmadiyah
communities were particularly concerned about the public nature of Ahmadiyah practices. I will
show in the rest of the chapter that while there was much variation on the first two dimensions of
conflict, the targets of anti-Ahmadiyah mobilization and repression remained largely the same
across all four periods of time.
Conflict Trends in the Early Democratic Period (1998-2004): Emergent Targeting
While Indonesia’s transition to democracy led to the violent targeting of other ethnic and
religious minorities (Bertrand 2004, Sidel 2006, Van Klinken 2007, Tajima 2014), few
Ahmadiyah communities were targeted during this time. The early democratic period was one
where the Ahmadiyah threat was beginning to get the attention of some actors beyond the village
level. Ultimately, the events of the early democratic period set the stage for the subsequent
upsurge of anti-Ahmadiyah mobilization and repression in 2005.
Frequency of Incidents: A pattern of sporadic anti-Ahmadiyah mobilization characterized the
early democratic period. Between 2001 and 2004, 18 anti-Ahmadiyah incidents were reported in
the national press. While the frequency of the incidents was higher compared to the previous
period, they were concentrated in two areas: 1) Manis Lor village in Kuningan district, West
Java and 2) East and North Lombok. It is possible that the number of Ahmadiyah incidents
during the 2001-2004 period is underreported. However, interview data also supports the
assertion that levels of conflict were not high during this time. When asked to provide his
evaluation of conflict across different time periods, Raslan, an Ahmadi from Bandung said: “In
1998, there was no conflict yet. In 2000, Gus Dur [was the President] and he was a pluralist.
There were small, local conflicts in the early 2000s. In 2002, Pancor and Manis Lor began to
heat up. In 2003 and 2004, however, it was quiet.”38 In sum, the frequency of incidents did not
increase significantly between periods 1 (1925-1998) and 2 (1998-2004).
38 Raslan, JAI Bandung member. Interview by author, Bandung, 22 April 2014.
39
Scale of Conflict: The period between 1998-2004 did differ from the previous period due to the
actors that began to get involved. The first key difference was the new involvement of district
governments in regulating the activities of Ahmadiyah communities. With the exception of the
East Lombok government in 1983 and the North Sumatra Department of Religion in 1991, few
state bodies intervened in the Ahmadiyah issue during the 20th Century. This trend began to
change in the early democratic period. In response to anti-Ahmadiyah mobilization in their
district or in surrounding ones, the district governments of West Lombok,39 East Lombok,40 and
Kuningan41 passed legislation that restricted the ability of Ahmadis in these areas to practice.
These governments would be the first in a long line of districts that would pass similar pieces of
legislation after 2005.
In addition to the new involvement of district governments in the Ahmadiyah issue, the
conservative hardliner group Institute of Islamic Studies and Research (Lembaga Pengkajian dan
Penelitian Islam, LPPI) also took up the issue during this period. The LPPI’s increasing profile
as an opponent of heterodoxy not only helped bring the Ahmadiyah issue from the village to the
national stage, their repertoire became an example for other hardliner groups that would later
lead the charge against the Ahmadiyah community.
Targets of Mobilization and Repression: Similar to the incidents that led opponents to mobilize
against the Ahmadiyah, the targets of anti-Ahmadiyah mobilization and repression tended to be
buildings (10 incidents) or blanket bans on public proselytization (6 incidents). Details for the
anti-Ahmadiyah episodes in Lombok and Kuningan are discussed in Chapter 5.
39 "Pemkab Lobar Larang Ahmadiyah [West Lombok Government Bans Ahmadiyah]" Lombok Post, 7 February 2005. 40 Komnas Perempuan. “Peremupan dan Anak Ahmadiyah: Korban Diskrimnasi Berlapis. Appendix 1,” http://www.komnasperempuan.or.id/wp-content/uploads/2014/01/laporan-kondisi-mutakhir-ham-perempuan-ahmadiyah-komnas-perempuan-22-mei-2008.pdf, accessed 7 August 2017. 41 “Polisi Amankan Ahmadiyah Kalau Berpotensi Rusuh [Police Guard Ahmadiyah if there is Conflict Potential," Tempo 3 March 2011, http://nasional.tempo.co/read/news/2011/03/03/078317274/polisi-amankan-ahmadiyah-kalau-berpotensi-rusuh, accessed 7 August 2017.
40
Target Type Number of Incidents Place of worship/school 8
All Religious Activities (i.e. Blanket ban) Ban)
6
Individuals 2
Houses 2
Table 3.1: Target of Anti-Ahmadiyah Activity, 1998-2004. Source: Author’s Data.
Conflict Trends after Decentralization (2005-2013): Escalation
The majority of Ahmadis I interviewed identify 2005 as the year that anti-Ahmadiyah
conflict changed for the worse.42 When asked about the experience of the Sukatali branch of the
JAI, Yousef stated: “Generally, the congregation at Sukatali—like most Ahmadiyah branches [in
Indonesia]—was safe before 2005. However, after 2005, after the attack on Parung and the 2008
Law…those had an impact on the congregations in the rural areas.”43 Ghulam, who was
seriously injured in the 2011 attack in Cikeusik also placed the starting point in 2005. When I
asked him when the persecution of the Ahmadiyah began, he replied: “It’s been a long time,
beginning in 2005 with the Parung attack. That was the first real attack. There were incidents
before that, during the Suharto era, but those were not that significant.”44 As this section seeks to
show, Yousef’s and Ghulam’s observations are supported by the events data, which shows that
on all three indicators, the targeting of Ahmadiyah communities escalated during this period. The
uniqueness of this period makes it worthy of study.
Frequency of Incidents: Between 2005 and 2013, there was a significant increase in the
frequency of anti-Ahmadiyah events (see Table 3.2). Recall that between 1998-2004, a seven-
year period, there were 18 incidents of anti-Ahmadiyah mobilization and repression. In contrast,
between 2005-2013—a 9 year period—there were 246 anti-Ahmadiyah incidents that took place. 42 The exceptions are the interviews conducted with the Ahmadis in the Transito refugee camp in Mataram. As Umaiyah, an Ahmadi who had been displaced by anti-Ahmadiyah violence, stated: “Before 1998, it was fine, we had integrated.” Interview by author, Mataram, West Nusa Tenggara, 2 June 2014. 43 Yousef, JAI Sukatali member. Interview by author, Bandung, West Java, 28 September 2014. 44 Ghulam, Ahmadi victim of the Cikeusik attack. Interview by author. Jakarta, 7 April 2014.
41
If one only looks at the frequency between the equivalent seven-year period (2005-2011), the
number of anti-Ahmadiyah incidents increased 10 fold compared to the previous seven-year
period (1998-2004). These temporal shifts are graphically represented in Table 3.2.
Year Frequency 2005 30 2006 10 2007 9 2008 42 2009 14 2010 28 2011 54 2012 21 2013 38
Table 3.2: Frequency of anti-Ahmadiyah Activity, 2005-2013. Source: Author’s Database.
Figure 3.1 – Frequency of Anti-Ahmadiyah Events, 2000-2014. Source: Author’s Database.
The frequency of anti-Ahmadiyah activity was not simply due to a trend of anti-minority
action more broadly. Ahmadis experienced very high levels of mobilization and repression
compared to other religious minorities in Indonesia (Table 3.3). Between 2008 and 2010,
Ahmadis experienced the same number of anti-minority incidents as Christians. This is
42
astonishing given that religious conflict between Muslims and Christians have a long history in
Indonesia and that conflict was at its peak just a few years prior to this period (Bertrand 2004,
Sidel 2006, Van Klinken 2007). Furthermore, the population of the Ahmadiyah community in
Indonesia is 300,000 while the population of the Christian community is 17, 954, 977 (8.92
percent of the population) (Suryadinata, Arifin, and Ananta 2003, 105). Furthermore, as
elaborated by Sidel (2006) and Bertrand (2004), Christians have long been targets of
mobilization and repression throughout the Old and New Order periods.
As another point of comparison, the Shi’a—a group similar in size and geographic
dispersal to the Ahmadiyah—only experienced 5 instances of anti-Shi’a mobilization. It is
important to acknowledge that Ahmadis were the targets of fewer incidents compared to those in
the “Other Non-Sunni Muslim Sects category.” However, this column is an aggregate of
incidents against 30+ Muslim sects, with only the Wahabbis, the Satrio Pinginigit Weteng
Buwono, Surga Eden, and the Millah Ibrahim sects being the targets of—at most—four
incidents. The other sects included in this category were targets of less than four incidents. In
other words, the sharp increase in anti-minority activity is a trend unique to the Ahmadiyah.
Target Group Number of Incidents Ahmadiyah 75 Shi’a 5 Other Non-Sunni Muslim Sects 94 Christian 74 Table 3.3: Anti-Minority Activity between 2008-2010. Source: Wahid Institute Data, 2008-2010.
The increase in the sum of anti-Ahmadiyah incidents between 2005 and 2013 (n=246) did
not come from high levels of contention in a small number of villages. While there were
certainly districts with higher levels of contention than others, anti-Ahmadiyah activity was
widely dispersed geographically. In the early phase of diffusion, anti-Ahmadiyah activity by both
state and non-state actors occurred in areas with longstanding sectarian tensions. In 2005, for
example, non-state actors mobilized against Ahmadiyah mosques in the West Java districts of
Bogor (Parung), Kuningan, Garut, and Majalengka. Mayors and bupatis passed legal restrictions
on Ahmadiyah activity in the West Java districts of Tasikmalaya (Kota and Kabupaten), Garut,
and Cianjur as well as the West Kalimantan district of Sintang. By 2011, even jurisdictions that
had no significant Ahmadiyah-Sunni tensions (e.g. East Java, South Sulawesi) had passed
43
legislation circumscribing the ability of Ahmadis to gather and worship. Figure 3.2 illustrates
how contention around the Ahmadiyah issue spread spatially during this period.
Ultimately, the quantitative and qualitative data suggest that the experience of the
Ahmadis worsened in the period between 2005 and 2013. Ahmadis became more frequent targets
of mobilization and this frequency is a unique feature of the 2005-2013 period.
Scale of Conflict: In contrast to earlier periods, a significant portion of anti-Ahmadiyah activity
between 2005-2013 was carried out by actors beyond the village level (see Figure 3.3). As the
graph illustrates, villagers continued to mobilize against Ahmadiyah communities at
comparatively consistent levels between 2000-2014. However, actors beyond the village level
(e.g. hardliner groups, MUI, religious regulatory bodies like Bakorpakem, district heads, and
governors) acted against Ahmadis with increased frequency beginning in 2005. The involvement
2011 2008
2004 2005
. Figure 3.2: Diffusion of Anti-Ahmadiyah Activity
44
of actors beyond the village level suggests that the sect were perceived as a threat to the larger
Indonesian Muslim community after 2005.
Figure 3.3 – Perpetrator Jurisdictional Level, 2004-2013.
It is important to highlight who began engaging in the Ahmadiyah issue. Between 2005-
2013, state actors became complicit in the repression of Ahmadiyah communities. Two sets of
actors in particular drastically increased their rates of participation in anti-Ahmadiyah activity:
district heads (known as bupati for kabupaten and walikota for a city) and Islamic hardliner
groups (Table 3.4).
Actor Type Proportion of Incidents Perpetrated Hardliner Group 29% Villagers 25% MUI 5% District Head (Bupati/Walikota) 19% Governor 3% Police 5% Religious Regulatory Body 7% Other 7% Table 3.4: Proportion of Incidents by Actor Type
When the data is disaggregated by jurisdictional level (e.g. whether the perpetrator were
district-, provincial- or national- level actors), several trends can be observed (Figure 3.4). The
initial uptick in anti-Ahmadiyah activity in 2005 was driven by actions carried out by state and
non-state actors at the district level. Such incidents include the passage of district-level
45
legislation (peraturan daerah, perda) and mobilization against Ahmadiyah houses of worship.
Actors at the national level carried out a handful of actions in 2005, including the passage of a
fatwa by MUI that rearticulated the contents of their 1980 fatwa against the Ahmadiyah sect.45
More generally, however, national organizations do not act on the issue in the early years. This
data point suggests that understanding why the Ahmadiyah became seen as threatening requires
an investigation of district-level politics.
Figure 3.4 – Anti-Ahmadiyah Events Disaggregated by Jurisdictional Level
By 2008, the Ahmadiyah issue was solidly on the national agenda, a result of the anti-
Ahmadiyah trends that unfolded the previous three years. At this point in time, hardliner groups
like the Islamic Defender’s Front (Front Pembela Islam, FPI) and the Muslim People’s Forum
(Forum Umat Islam, FUI) staged a number of protests in front of government offices in
Jakarta.46 The Ministries of Religious Affairs, Internal Affairs and the Attorney General
eventually passed a joint regulation (SKB No. 3/2008) that placed significant restrictions on the
45 Arifin, MUI Fatwa Commission Secretariat. Interview by author, Jakarta, 19 September 2014.
46 E.g. "FUI Temui Jaksa, Ingatkan Soal Ahmadiyah [FUI Meets with Attorney General, Reminder Made about Ahmadiyah Issue]," Kompas, 4 January 2008, https://megapolitan.kompas.com/read/2008/04/29/18191977/fui.datangi.mk.diskusi.soal.ahmadiyah; "Thousands demand Ahmadiyah Disband," Jakarta Post, 21 April 2008, http://www.theDKI Jakartapost.com/news/2008/04/20/thousands-demand-ahmadiyah-disband.html, accessed 7 July 2016.
46
activities of Ahmadiyah communities in Indonesia.47 Interestingly, 2008 and 2009 are the only
two years where district-level actors carried out fewer anti-Ahmadiyah incidents than their
national counterparts. During these two years, national level actors were the primary drivers of
conflict. 2008 is also the year where provincial actors became involved in managing the
Ahmadiyah threat.
The height of anti-Ahmadiyah mobilization and repression took place in 2011, when
actors at the district, provincial, and the village level carried out a comparatively high number of
episodes. While the district remained the main arena for the targeting of Ahmadiyah
communities, the provinces also got involved during this time. Provincial intervention largely
occurred after the Cikeusik episode, with five of the eight provincial bans passed within a few
weeks of the attack.
Targets of Mobilization and Repression: Although the frequency of anti-Ahmadiyah activity and
the involvement of actors beyond the village level distinguishes the 2005-2013 period from those
that precede and follow, the targets of anti-Ahmadiyah action remain remarkably similar. As
Figure 3.5 illustrates, mosques, houses, schools, and religious events continued to be targeted by
state and non-state actors—with the “general community activity” category encompassing
blanket bans on activities such as proselytization and the holding of religious events.
47 Mahmoed, former Head of the Office of Research and Development at the Ministry of Religious Affairs. Interview by author, Jakarta, 3 April 2014.
47
Figure 3.5 – Frequency by Target Type, 2005-2013.
The majority of the incidents involving non-state actors (i.e. hardliner groups and
villagers) were attempts to close down or destroy Ahmadiyah mosques. The August 2010 protest
in Surabaya is illustrative of the centrality of public space in conflict involving the Ahmadiyah
sect. In this case, the FPI and the United Muslims Movement (Gerakan Umat Islam Bersatu,
GUIB) went to the Ahmadiyah mosque in Surabaya only to take down the mosque’s placard.48
Similarly, in January 2011, the Makassar branch of the FPI went to their local Ahmadiyah
mosque to also remove the sign.49
A significant portion of state actions also involved managing places of worship. For
example, state bodies closed down Ahmadiyah mosques to prevent protests from arising. State
actors also passed legislation that regulated the religious activities of Ahmadis. Between 2000-
2014, district heads and governors passed 34 pieces of legislation on the Ahmadiyah issue and
48 "Massa FPI dan GUIB Surabaya Serang Masjid Ahmadiyah [FPI and GUIB Surabaya attack an Ahmadiyah Mosque]," Tempo, 10 August 2010, http://www.tempo.co/read/news/2010/08/10/180270279/Massa-FPI-dan-GUIB-, accessed 22 August 2017. 49 “Ahmadiyah Demo [Ahmadiyah Protest],” Antara News, 29 January 2011, https://makassar.antaranews.com/berita/87964/demo-ahmadiyah, accessed 28 February 2018.
48
the national government passed a similar decree in 2008. These laws were broad, regulating a
wide range of religious activities (e.g. proselytization). It is important to note, however, that
many of these regulations were concerned about managing the public presence of the Ahmadiyah
community. The 2008 regulation states that Ahmadis in Indonesia are forbidden to propagate
deviant teachings or carry out deviant religious practices “in front of the public” (di muka umum)
(Badan Litbang dan Diklat Kementrian Agama RI 2008, 5). Other laws sought to manage public
space more explicitly. For example, the East Java Governor’s Decree (SK Gubernur Jatim
Nomor 188/94/KPTS/013/2011) specifically does not allow the JAI to place its name in public
spaces, which includes putting its brand on mosques, prayer rooms, schools, and more.50 Similar
articles can be found in a number of other anti-Ahmadiyah legislation.51
Anti-Ahmadiyah Activity After 2013: Decline
The target on the Ahmadiyah community subsided almost as quickly as it had emerged
just a few years prior. By 2014, the frequency and scale of conflict had generally returned to pre-
2005 levels.
Frequency: The decline in the frequency of anti-Ahmadiyah repression and mobilization began
in 2012 (Figure 3.1). Although there was a momentary uptick in the number of incidents in
2013—likely driven by the run up to that year’s district and provincial elections—anti-
Ahmadiyah incidents were relatively infrequent by 2014.
Just like the pre-2005 periods, anti-Ahmadiyah incidents did continue to occur
intermittently in the years after 2013. In May 2018, for example, a mob attacked the Ahmadiyah
50 “Pemerintah Jatim Resmi Larang Kegiatan Ahmadiyah [East Java Government Formally Bans Ahmadi Activities],” Suara Nahdlatul Ulama, 28 February 2011, http://www.nu.or.id/post/read/27070/pemerintah-jatim-resmi-larang-kegiatan-ahmadiyah, accessed 18 May 2018. 51 E.g. Peraturan Gubernur Jawa Barat No. 12/2011 and the Kota Tasikmalaya Joint Decree towards the Ahmadiyah (450/Kep 72/Kesbang/2007).
49
community in Greneng village, East Lombok.52 The attackers destroyed four houses and after
they were expelled, the Ahmadis had to seek refuge at a nearby police station.53 Yet, these
incidents have become increasingly rare. Only three anti-Ahmadiyah incidents occurred in the
entirety of 2017: the closure of Ahmadiyah mosques by authorities in Depok city54 and Jambi
city,55 as well as the continued refusal of Kuningan district authorities to issue government IDs
to Ahmadis.56 As shown, while the occasional event does occur, they are far less frequent
compared to the 2005-2011 period.
Ahmadis generally perceive conflict to have declined, echoing the trends identified in the
aggregated events data. A national JAI leader observed in 2014 that the conflict was not as bad
as it used to be and that recent attempts to mobilize on the issue were ineffective.57 Speaking
about the Ahmadiyah experience as a whole in Indonesia, an Ahmadi from Medan stated:
“Lately, [the conflict] has not really occurred. It’s safe now.”58 Even a victim of the Cikeusik
attack admitted that things were getting better in Jakarta, though discrimination still occurred in
52 Julnis M Firmansyah, “50 Involved in Attacks on Ahmadis’ Homes in NTB: Police,” Tempo, 21 May 2018, https://en.tempo.co/read/918630/50-involved-in-attacks-on-ahmadis-homes-in-ntb-police, accessed 20 September 2018. 53 Panca Nugraha, “East Lombok Ahmadiyah Followers still seeking refuge at Police HQ,” The Jakarta Post, 21 May 2018, http://www.thejakartapost.com/news/2018/05/21/east-lombok-ahmadiyah-followers-still-seeking-refuge-in-police-hq.html, accessed 20 September 2018. 54 “Greater Jakarta: Authorities Seal Ahmadiyah Mosque,” The Jakarta Post, 5 June 2017, http://www.thejakartapost.com/news/2017/06/05/greater-jakarta-authorities-seal-ahmadiyah-mosque.html, accessed 20 September 2018. 55 “Island Focus: Ahmadiyah Mosque Sealed in Jambi,” The Jakarta Post, 23 December 2017, http://www.thejakartapost.com/news/2017/12/23/island-focus-ahmadiyah-mosque-sealed-jambi.html, accessed 20 September 2018. 56 Margareth S. Aritonang, “Ahmadis report local administration over alleged discrimination, again,” The Jakarta Post, 25 July 2017, http://www.thejakartapost.com/news/2017/07/25/ahmadis-report-local-administration-over-alleged-discrimination-again.html, accessed 20 September 2018. 57 Asghar, JAI Indonesia Leader. Interview by author, Parung, West Java, 10 March 2014. 58 Mirza Rafi, JAI Medan member. Interview by author, Medan, North Sumatra, 29 April 2014.
50
areas like Cianjur and Tasikmalaya.59 In other words, Ahmadis recognize that rates of overt
conflict has declined.
Scale of conflict: After 2013, the locus of anti-Ahmadiyah conflict reverted back to the district-
and village-level (Figure 3.6). This trend is due to the actions of district governments: during
this period, they consistently repressed Ahmadiyah activities. Before 2011, incidents carried out
by non-state actors outnumbered those carried out by state actors. After 2013, however, this was
no longer the case (see Figure 3.7). In other words, the targeting of Indonesia’s Ahmadiyah
community has been institutionalized.
Figure 3.6 – Anti-Ahmadiyah Events Disaggregated by Jurisdictional Level, 2011-2013
59 Ghulam, Ahmadi victim of the Cikuesik attack. Interview by author, Jakarta, 4 April 2015.
51
Figure 3.7: State vs. Non State Actors Involvement in Anti-Ahmadiyah Events, 2008-2015.
Targets of Mobilization and Repression: The vast majority of anti-Ahmadiyah incidents
continued to revolve around the sect’s public displays and practices (Table 3.5). Many of these
incidents were centered around houses of worship, religious events, and community practices.
When describing tensions about the Ahmadi community in Cianjur, Ghulam—a victim of the
Cikeusik attacks—noted that, “It’s about the mosque. Every month, the mosque is closed again
[by members of the community]. We open it, they close it, we open it, they close it.”60 This
pattern suggests that the refusal of Cianjur’s Ahmadiyah community to stop gathering publicly is
at the root of intergroup conflict.
Target Type Proportion of Incidents Place of Worship 48% Community Activities 24% Homes 4% Events 2% Individuals 22%
Table 3.5: Proportion of Incidents by Target Type, 2010-2015.
60 Ibid.
52
Conclusion
Through the use of events data and interviews, this chapter seeks to precisely identify the
nature of anti-Ahmadiyah activity in Indonesia across time. I show how anti-Ahmadiyah conflict
can be divided into four periods of time, summarized in Table 3.6. Each period differed across
the indicators of frequency and scale, but the targets of mobilization and repression largely
remained the same across all four periods. This systematic documentation of conflict trends
highlights the phenomenon that is the focus of this dissertation.
Period Frequency Conflict Scale Target
Intermittent and Localized Conflict in the 20th Century (1924-1998)
Intermittent Village Property, Public proselytization, Events
Emergent Conflict in Early Democracy (1998-2004)
Intermittent Village and District Property, Public proselytization,
Escalation After Decentralization (2005-2012)
Frequent Village, District, Provincial and National
Property, Public proselytization, Events
Conflict Decline after 2012 Intermittent Village Property, Public proselytization, Events
Table 3.6 – Summary of Anti-Ahmadiyah Conflict Trends Across Time
53
Chapter 4 The Local Character of Anti-Ahmadiyah Conflict in the 20th
Century
“[My uncle] came to my house, saying ‘Later when the militia comes, don’t tell them that you are Ahmadi.’ I asked, ‘Why uncle?’ He responded, ‘They are looking for information.
Don’t give it to them.’…Ten days later, they came. They said, ‘I heard you are a Qadian.’ I said, ‘I am Indonesian. Qadian is the name of a region right? But if you are asking whether I am an Ahmadi, then yes.’ They forced me to sign a piece of paper with my confession. My uncle was trembling…They said to me, ‘Anyone can kill an Ahmadi, it is a way to Mecca. The spilling of
their blood is lawful.’” - Yendra, Medan, 2014
The epigraph above was shared with me during an interview with Yendra, a ninety-
something Ahmadi from Medan. Over tea and cake in front of the local Ahmadiyah mosque,
Yendra told me about the instances of persecution and social isolation that she experienced over
the years due to her affiliation with the Ahmadiyah sect. Still agile in her old age—she hitched a
ride on a motorcycle after the interview was over—Yendra recounted a handful of painful
memories reaching back to the colonial era. Her stories illustrate that the conflict been Sunni
Muslims and Ahmadi Muslims in Indonesia have long roots.
Yet, although anti-Ahmadiyah activity did occur throughout the 20th Century, the nature
of the conflict was different than the conflict that took place between 2005-2013. Episodes of
organized opposition occurred only intermittently and remained locally constrained. News of
Ahmadi-Sunni tensions generally did not travel outside village boundaries and the presence of
Ahmadiyah communities in Indonesia were largely unknown during this time. In fact, Tempo
news magazine published an article about the sect in 1974, entitled: “Ahmadiyah, a point now
forgotten” (Asa and Karma 21 September 1974). In other words, only local actors—those in
proximate distance to Ahmadiyah communities—mobilized against the sect.
Why was conflict involving the Ahmadiyah highly localized during the 20th Century?
Why was mobilization against the sect carried out by proximate actors, but not actors in the
wider Indonesian Muslim community? I argue that local episodes of mobilization occurred when
the constitutive threat posed by Ahmadiyah communities were visible in the public sphere.
However, political entrepreneurs beyond the village level did not get involved because the
54
institutional configurations did not incentivize them to do so. Because Ahmadiyah communities
were both small and geographically dispersed, the threat they posed was only visible at the hyper
local level. Institutions throughout the 20th Century were arranged in such a way that politicians
were not too reliant on local constituents. As a consequence, local concerns were not considered
pressing by political elites.
This chapter is organized into three sections. In the first section, I outline how and why
Ahmadiyah communities posed constitutive threats to the category of Muslim in Indonesia and
the ways that these threats became publicly visible. In the second section, I use new archival data
and interviews to show how Ahmadis in Bandung, Tasikmalaya, North Sumatra, and East
Java—at different times and in different places—were visible constitutive threats throughout the
20th century. I close by showing how institutional configurations under colonialism, the Old
Order and the New Order did not incentivize the amplification of the Ahmadiyah threat. Because
political entrepreneurs did not amplify the constitutive threat posed by the Ahmadiyah, people
who did not live near Ahmadiyah settlements did not experience the threat themselves. As a
result, the challenge posed by Ahmadis to Muslim group boundaries did not become politically
relevant at the district, provincial, or national level.
Ahmadiyah as Visible Constitutive Threat
In this section, I outline why and how Indonesia’s Ahmadiyah community became seen
as threatening. I begin by discussing how the Muslim category became cemented in the 20th
century as a key organizing principle of Indonesia. Islam is central to how many Indonesians
understand themselves and the identity mediates one’s access to resources. After discussing the
place and characteristics of Islam in Indonesian politics, I explain why and how the Ahmadiyah
are perceived as a constitutive threat.
Islam in Indonesia
While Indonesia is not a Muslim state, religion is an ordering principle of Indonesian
nationalism. An example of what Menchik (2016, 67) calls “godly nationalism,” full access to
citizenship in Indonesia is linked to membership in one of the state sanctioned religions: Islam,
55
Christianity (i.e. Protestantism), Catholicism, Hinduism, Buddhism, and Confucianism.61
Religious identity in Indonesia is thus highly salient.
The salience of religious identity can be traced to the colonial era. Islam as a political
category was formed in opposition to the Christian and Catholic identities privileged under
Dutch colonial rule (Sidel 2006, 36-40). At the height of Dutch colonialism, “the boundaries of
Islam were incredibly flexible, including a broad range of syncretic, mystical and communal
activities in addition to the orthodox rituals associated with the Islamic scriptural tradition”
(Fogg 2012, 22). Muslims were largely defined by what the group was not: affiliated with, or
benefitting from, the colonial administration. There was a tendency, for example, to label any
anti-colonial idea or activity “with Islam, regardless of their connection to the Islamic tradition in
the strictest sense” (Fogg 2012, 22).
Islamic nationalists played a significant role in the fight for independence and their
involvement shaped the debate about Islam’s place in the post-independence era. There were two
competing visions of the political collective in Indonesia, which would come to the fore during
constitutional negotiations. In the first camp were the secular nationalists, who sought a
separation between church and state. In the second were the Islamic nationalists, who wanted
Islam to be a foundational component of governance. Both camps were willing to compromise.
Sukarno—the first President of Indonesia—was a secular nationalist and proposed Pancasila, a
set of five principles that would serve as the underlying ideology of Indonesia. The most
pertinent and controversial principle was that Indonesia as a nation was built upon a “belief in
God” (Ketuhanan) (Hefner 2000, 41-42). Islamic nationalists, however, were not satisfied with
Pancasila as it did not explicitly recognize Islam as the religion of the state. This group proposed
what is known as the ‘Jakarta Charter,’ which revised the principle of belief in the divine to:
“belief in God with an obligation to follow Islamic shari’a for its believers” (Ke-Tuhanan dengan
kewajiban menjalankan syariat Islam bagi pemeluk-pemeluknya). For Islamic nationalists, this
clause left space for religious minorities to be governed by their own beliefs, while still serving
as a clear and public signal of Islam’s special status (Fogg 2012, 69-70). 61 It is important to note that between 1979-2006, Confucianism was de-recognized by the Indonesian government as part of Suharto’s anti-Chinese assimilation efforts. During this period, only five religions were recognized by the state.
56
While the Jakarta Charter was initially included in the draft of the constitution, Sukarno
and Hatta eliminated all Islamic provisions mere hours before the 1945 constitution was
promulgated. They did so due to fears that Christian-majority regions would refuse to join a
country where Islam was explicitly privileged (Boland 1971, 35-36). The Jakarta Charter was
replaced with a generalized principle of monotheism: “belief in the one true God” (Ketuhanan
yang Maha Esa). While more specific than Sukarno’s initial articulation, the principle did not
accord a superior position to Islam.
The specific articulation of Pancasila in the 1945 constitution had long lasting
implications for the place of Islam in Indonesia. First, the principle of monotheism reinforced the
relevance of religious identity, which became a key organizing principle for politics in the
country. Islamic parties won 45% of the seats in the first election and despite the repression of
Political Islam under Suharto’s new Order regime, the amalgamated United Development Party
(Partai Persatuan Pembangunan, PPP) remained politically relevant. Religious identity and
networks were key mechanisms of resource allocation. For example, the Ministry of Religion
became a source of patronage for Muslims. It was an important employer (Fogg 2012, 113) and
it also provided funding for the expansion of Muslim institutions such as schools, mosques, and
publishing houses (Boland 1971, 108-109), which mediated daily life. These factors worked
together to make religious identity highly salient and important to understandings of self.
Second, the 1945 constitution did not establish a religious hierarchy. Pancasila
constitutionally placed Islam on equal footing with the country’s other official religions. While
their overwhelming numerical advantage would seem to guarantee superiority, this was not
always the case. For example, during Suharto’s New Order regime, Protestants and Catholics
were disproportionately represented in all segments of government (Bertrand 2004, 81-82).
Muslims were also marginalized from the regime. Similarly, in 1973, Suharto weakened Islamic
political parties by forcing them to amalgamate into the PPP, which led to in-fighting and the
weakening of Islamic interests (Hefner 2000, 100). Given historical experience, religious orders
in Indonesia were seen as insecure and open to negotiation.
Finally, the institutional configurations established in the country’s outset made the
boundaries of Islam particularly elastic—especially in comparison to their Christian
57
counterparts. The transplanting of religious pillarization (verzuiling) from the Netherlands to the
colonies (Sidel 2006, 48) meant that Protestants (“Christians”) and Catholics were recognized as
separate religions in the constitution. In contrast, all Muslims were grouped into a single
category.
Because all Muslims fell under the same umbrella, the group was highly diverse. If one
starts off with Geertz’s (1976, 5-6) classic (albeit contested) categorization of Javanese Muslims,
then one can divide the Muslims of Indonesia’s largest ethnic group into three categories:
abangan, priyayi, and santri. Both priyayi and abangan Muslims are those that follow a syncretic
form of Islam, while santri Muslims are more orthodox. The category of santri can be further
subdivided into traditionalist and modernist camps (Mujiburrahman 2008, 17). The traditionalist
community tended to revolve around rural Islamic schools known as pesantren (Bertrand 2004,
74) and focused on the mastery of traditional religious skills like memorizing the Qur’an (Hefner
2000, 36). Modernists, on the other hand, followed Muslim reformist thinkers based in the
Middle East and embraced formal education, technology and science (Hefner 2000, 40). The
curriculum at modernist schools, known as madrasah, tended to reflect this embrace. Mass
organizations, the primary means through which Islam is organized in Indonesia, are similarly
diverse. While Muhammadiyah and Persis are both Java-based modernist organizations, the
former tends to hold more tolerant attitudes towards religious minorities compared to the latter
(Menchik 2016, 30). The fragmented, disparate state of community meant that group boundaries
were expansive and fluid.
There were several attempts by Muslim groups to render group boundaries concrete and
coherent. In 1954, the Ministry established the Supervision of Faith Movements in Society
(pakem) office. Pakem would monitor and address “heterodox, heretical, and apostate faiths”
(Menchik 2016, 78)—groups that could disrupt the fiction of group unity. A little over ten years
later, on 27 January 1965, Sukarno passed Presidential Order No.1/1965, also known as the
blasphemy law. Islamic organizations had campaigned for the criminalization of blasphemy and
heresy and they considered this law to be an important win (79). The decree states that:
Every person is forbidden from deliberately and publicly telling, encouraging or soliciting public support for the purposes of interpreting or carrying out an activity of a
58
religion that is followed in Indonesia that is deviant from the foundational teachings of that religion.62
With the passage of the 1965 blasphemy law, religious leaders could channel state power to
address any beliefs or practices that undermined the unity of any official religion in Indonesia.
To summarize, in the 20th Century and beyond, the position of Islam in the religious order
was open to contestation and the boundaries of the group itself were fluid. There were attempts
by Muslim leaders to make these orders and boundaries concrete. Yet, these efforts to stabilize
the religious hierarchy and Muslim group borders were only partially successful. In other words,
challenges to religious orders and to the constitutive elements of the Muslim category could be
perceived as threatening.
The Constitutive Challenge of the Ahmadiyah Community in Indonesia
The threat the Ahmadiyah posed to Indonesia’s Muslim community stem from distinctive
religious practices that emerge from different theological interpretations. Founded by Mirza
Ghulam Ahmad in British Punjab in 1890, the sect was almost immediately the subject of
controversy due to three theological positions. These controversial tenets were the sect’s
positions on the Prophet Jesus; conceptions on jihad; and the reinterpretation of the seal of the
prophets doctrine (khatam al’nabiyyin). For most Muslims today, it is the latter tenet that is of
greatest concern.
First, many Sunni Muslims opposed the Ahmadiyah sect because of their narratives
around the Prophet Jesus (Nabi Isa). According to the teachings of mainstream Islam, Jesus was
not killed by the Jewish people, but supernaturally ascended into heaven. He will one day return
as a witness to the followers of monotheistic Abrahamic religions. As a fierce opponent of
Christian missionaries, Ghulam Ahmad sought to counter the deity of Jesus by arguing that he
died a natural death in Kashmir, after narrowly escaping death from crucifixion. His
62 “Penetapan Presiden Republik Indonesia No. 1/PNPS 1965 tentang Penyalahgunaan dan/atau Penodaan Agama [Prevention of the Misuse and/or Insulting of a Religion.” https://kemenag.go.id/file/dokumen/UU1PNPS65.pdf.
59
reinterpretation of the narrative of Jesus led to accusations by other Muslim leaders that he was
corrupting the Quran (Beck 2005, 217-218).
The second controversial teaching of the Ahmadiyah sect was Ghulam Ahmad’s distinct
interpretation of the concept of jihad. Jihad (“struggle”) encompasses a wide range of activities
such as spiritual betterment or proselytization. While not a synonym for war, the concept does
include the use of force under certain circumstances. Ghulam Ahmad, on the other hand, argued
that jihad was about spiritual warfare and rejected the use of violence. This statement was
particularly controversial due to the context; his position of non-violence was seen as support for
the British Empire. (Beck 2005, 219)
While the teachings listed above were controversial at the time, the key point of
contention in Indonesia and beyond is the Ahmadiyah’s position on the khatam al’nabiyyin. The
seal of the prophets is the belief that the Prophet Mohammad is the last prophet (thus, “the seal”).
Ghulam Ahmad, however, argued that passages in the Quran about the finality of prophethood
had been misinterpreted. He argued that there were different types of prophets—some who had
the power to add to shari’a (Islamic law) and those who would help the Muslim community
move forward spiritually. He believed that the khatam al’nabiyyin only referred to the finality of
prophets who could add to Islamic law. Although Ghulam Ahmad initially rejected any claims to
prophethood in his early writings, merely claiming himself to be a muhaddath (renewer of the
faith), he eventually claimed the mantle of prophethood in 1902. Ghulam Ahmad did not see
himself as a prophet of equal importance to Muhammad, nor did he see himself as a prophet
capable of legislating Islamic law. He saw himself as a prophet who would move the religion of
Islam forward. Despite these caveats, it was this claim of prophethood that ultimately led
orthodox Muslims to label the sect as blasphemous (Beck 2005, 219). 63
These distinct interpretations of the Quran and the Hadith had implications for
Ahmadiyah religious practices. The first was public proselytization to Sunni Muslim audiences.
Ghulam Ahmad was a gifted speaker and he often engaged in public debates with Christian
63 Ghulam Ahmad’s claims to prophethood also led to an internal split within the Ahmadi community in 1914. The splinter group, the Lahore Ahmadiyah, rejected Ghulam Ahmad’s claims to prophethood but still received him as a renewer of the faith.
60
missionaries and Sunni ulama to gain new followers (Saeed 2010, 119). Those who discovered
the “truth” of Ahmad’s teachings would convert to the sect through a process known as bay’at,
where followers would pledge allegiance to him and the broader Ahmadiyah community (121).
For Ghulam Ahmad, proselytization was not merely a marginal component of religious practice,
but central to his conception of jihad (Burhani 2013, 83).
Ahmadi missionaries in Indonesia too consider proselytization an important element of
religious practice, which was perceived as a constitutive threat. Speaking to both Muslims and
non- Muslims, Ahmadi missionaries worked to convince their audiences that Mirza Ghulam
Ahmad was the messiah and that Jesus died a natural death—teachings that challenged core
teachings of mainstream Islam (Burhani 2013, 84). It was not the mere holding of different
beliefs that made Ahmadis threatening, but their active attempts to convince other Muslims that
their understanding of foundational beliefs was incorrect that made them so.64 The actual rate of
conversion did not matter. The mere act of proselytization undermined the constitutive elements
of groupness.
Proselytization efforts carried out by Ahmadis were often carried out publicly, making
them visible constitutive threats. Following Ghulam Ahmad’s example, the staging of public
lectures and debates with other Muslim leaders was an important component of the
proselytization repertoire (Burhani 2013, 86). They also would often distribute books and
pamphlets containing Ahmadiyah teachings in public places (89). Describing the characteristics
of the Ahmadiyah community in the 20th Century, journalists from Tempo magazine wrote the
following:
Like the leaders of the Ahmadis say themselves, those that take the bay’at and join the organization are committed and ready to spread the teachings. This preaching is carried out whole-heartedly and frequently – though we cannot say that they do so more than the gusto of the Christians. They attack ideas: they give out brochures or hold debates. Even though the majority of the people…will not change their thinking. (Asa and Karma 21 September 1974)
64 Mahmoed. Former Head of the Research Directorate of the Ministry of Religious Affairs. Interview by author, Jakarta, 21 March 2014.
61
In other words, Ahmadiyah communities did not propagate their teachings in private, but were
upfront about their claims.
There are many examples to support the broad characterization of Ahmadis as public
proselytizers. In fact, days after his arrival in Indonesia from Pakistan, Rahmat Ali—the first
Ahmadi missionary in Indonesia—gave several public speeches, translated by the Indonesian
students who had accompanied him on his journey (Hamka 1982, 139). Ali spoke about how
Nabi Isa had died a natural death and that Mirza Ghulam Ahmad was a prophet (140). These
debates deeply angered local religious leaders in Tapaktuan village, where Ali had landed
(Hamka 1982, 141). Despite negative responses to his proselytization efforts in Tapaktuan, Ali
continued to stage public debates throughout his tenure as a missionary in Indonesia in places
such as West Sumatra, Garut, Tasikmalaya, Bandung and Batavia (Burhani 2013, 86-88). New
converts to the Ahmadiyah sect followed Ali’s example, staging their own public debates in
places such as Padang (Subagio 2004, 50), Bandung (Menchik 2016, 74), Garut, and
Tasikmalaya (Rahim 2004, Sofianto 2014).
Everyday Ahmadiyah practices also disrupt Muslim group boundaries. Because Ahmadis
are prohibited from praying under a non-Ahmadi imam and from marrying non-Ahmadis
(Burhani 2013, 147), they build and maintain their own mosques and live amongst other
Ahmadis (Budiwanti 2009, 17-18). These separate mushollahs and mosques also serve practical
purposes, providing Ahmadi missionaries (mubaligh) a place to live.65 These places of worship
were also the offices of local branches of the Indonesia Ahmadiyah Congregation (Jemaah
Ahmadiyah Indonesia, JAI), the religious body representing the Qadiani community in
Indonesia.66 In short, Ahmadiyah communities were visible as they were accompanied by the
building of religious infrastructure.
The building of distinct Ahmadiyah communities was viewed as a constitutive threat
because they unsettled elements that bond Muslims together and enable them to see themselves
as a community. While both Ahmadi and Sunni Muslims pray five times a day and attend Friday
65 I thank Basma Ahmed for this point. 66 The JAI was legally recognized by the state in March 1953.
62
prayers, the refusal of Ahmadis to do so alongside their Sunni counterparts challenges the idea
that the two sects belong in the same group. If Ahmadis claim themselves to be Muslim, but
refuse to practice with other Muslims because they do not believe in the prophethood of Ghulam
Ahmad, what is a necessary requirement for group belonging? Consequently, the refusal to
worship with non-Ahmadi Muslims highlights difference and renders the boundaries of the
Muslim category uncertain.
Overall, Ahmadiyah communities around Indonesia engaged in practices that were seen
as threatening to the constitutive foundations of the category of Muslim in Indonesia. These
practices stemmed from theological distinctions, but it was how these beliefs manifested
themselves in practice that shaped opposition to the sect. The next section outlines, using
evidence from particular cases, how visible constitutive threats at the local level were seen as
threats in need of management during the 20th Century.
Public Visibility and the Ahmadiyah Threat in the 20th Century: A Local Story
Ahmadiyah communities across Indonesia often engaged in public practices that were
seen as threatening to the category of Muslim. As the case studies of Bandung, Tasikmalaya,
North Sumatra and East Java will illustrate, the extent to which Ahmadiyah communities
engaged in space-claiming practices varied across time and space. While Ahmadis in all the
cases were—at one point or another—publicly visible, there were also times when the respective
communities withdrew from public space. At times when they were publicly visible, Sunni
Muslims in close proximity would organize in opposition to their efforts. At times when they
were not, the Ahmadis would largely be left alone.
The Ahmadiyah Community in Tasikmalaya, West Java
The Ahmadiyah community in Tasikmalaya, West Java has long been considered one of
the country’s most robust.67 Equipped with determined and engaged proselytizers and a
67 Uwes Fatoni, Professor at UIN Sunan Gunung Djati. Interview by author, Bandung, West Java, 9 September 2014.
63
willingness to establish new branches across the district, the presence of Ahmadiyah
communities in Tasikmalaya were palpable. As a consequence, though locally constrained,
tensions between Tasikmalaya’s Ahmadiyah population and their Sunni neighbors were quite
significant during the 20th Century.
The Ahmadiyah community in Tasikmalaya was publicly visible even at their founding.
The community in the district can be traced to the conversion of two men, Enggit Syarif and
Surjah,68 after they met with Ahmadi missionary Entoy Tayyib in the neighboring district of
Garut in 1934 (Sofianto 2014, 128). Imbued with the zeal of the newly converted, Surjah
convinced Syarif to set up a branch of the JAI in Tasikmalaya city69 and immediately launched
proselytization efforts to help bring his goal to life. These efforts were quite visible. For
example, Surjah made up pamphlets with the short phrase: “The Imam Mahdi70 has come.” He
distributed the pamphlets at markets in the city and plastered them in the streets. With the
support of Tayyib, who travelled from Garut to Tasikmalaya frequently, the two men also began
staging public debates with Sunni ulama and Christian pastors. Over the next seven years, these
intense proselytization efforts led to the conversion of five families to the sect. While still a small
community, the families were able to build an Ahmadiyah mosque in 1941. (Murtolo 1976, 24-
25)
Despite the small number of converts, the assertive nature of Ahmadi proselytization was
not well received by those in Tasikmalaya city. According to Ahmadi historian Murtolo (1976,
25), Surjah’s pamphleteering caused an “uproar” amongst the people of Tasikmalaya, with local
ulama from the area actively disseminating information identifying the sect as heretical. Locals
gave a false denunciation to Japanese colonial authorities, stating that the Ahmadis were
organizing against them. Consequently, in 1944, 14 Ahmadis were held by the Japanese colonial
government. (Ibid)
68 Indonesians do not always have surnames. 69 Today, Tasikmalaya consists of two districts: Kabupaten Tasikmalaya and Kota Tasikmalaya. The latter became its own autonomous entity in 2001. 70 The Imam Mahdi is the eschatological redeemer of Islam.
64
The Ahmadiyah proselytization trail radiated haphazardly from Tasikmalaya city, leading
to settlements in Indihiang (1935), Singaparna (1938), Sukapura (1939), and Tenjowaringin
(1949) (Sofianto 2014, 131-135). The latter site would eventually establish four additional sites
in surrounding villages (Sofianto 2014, 136). The proselytization strategies carried out in
Tasikmalaya city were replicated at these new sites. Public proselytization, mosques, mission
houses, and schools made the JAI’s public presence clear in these communities. For example, on
an official visit from Ahmadiyah international headquarters in Pakistan in 1963, Mirza Mubarak
Ahmad officiated the opening of a mosque in Singaparna (Ahmad 1964, 63). In the 1980s, the
JAI also built Ahmadiyah schools in Singaparna and Tenjowaringin (Zulkarnain 2005, 287-288).
In short, it was difficult to miss the Ahmadiyah community in the various villages in
Tasikmalaya where they settled.
Opposition by local religious leaders and their constituents often accompanied the space-
claiming activities of various Ahmadiyah communities. The majority of these incidents were
non-violent. For example, after Tayyib and his fellow missionaries began actively proselytizing
in Singaparna, a local kyai forbade his students from having any contact with them. Other
kyais—particularly from NU—joined his oppositional efforts after the JAI staged a public debate
in 1940, reporting the Ahmadis to the state apparatus (Murtolo 1976, 26). In response to
proselytization efforts by the newly established branch of JAI Sukasari, traditionalist and
modernist ulama in the surrounding areas worked together to prevent the JAI from gaining a
foothold in their territory (Rahim 2004, 58-59). Finally, in the 1980s, an annual Ahmadiyah
gathering (known as jalsah salanah) was cancelled just hours before it was to begin. Acep, an
Ahmadi who had travelled from Singaparna to Tenjowaringin to attend the get together, told me:
“We had already prepared everything, but suddenly when the event was about to begin, [it] was
not allowed to go on. We had set up the tent and stage, even killed the cow [for a sacrifice],
when it was stopped by the police, on behalf of the ulama.”71
The only reported incidents of violence—beyond the odd occurrences of petty vandalism
(Wahyudi 2015, 121)—against members of the Ahmadiyah community took place during the
Darul Islam (DI) rebellion (1949-1962). Fought against the Dutch colonial state and then the
71 Acep, JAI Singaparna member. Interview by author, Tasikmalaya, West Java, 19 October 2014.
65
Indonesian Republic,72 the protracted conflict provided opportunities for local religious leaders
to mobilize against their Ahmadi rivals. Some episodes happened in Tenjowaringin village,
occurring a few short years after the branch was established. The following is a report by Mirza
Mubarak Ahmad, a delegate who visited the Indonesia branch of the JAI in 1963 from the
organization’s headquarters in Pakistan. This is what he said happened:
The next community I inspected was the one at Tedjowarangan. This community has had to pass through a severe ordeal, of which I desire here to give a rather detailed account. After the war of liberation in Indonesia, an organization was formed here under the name of Darul Islam….Whereas on one side, this Movement was opposed to the established Government in Indonesia at the time, on the other, violently ill-disposed towards the Ahmadiyya Movement. The centre, the nucleus of this organization was in Tedjowarangan, and the surrounding area. Under the leadership of one of its men, this organization, one night, made a sudden attack on a village of which the inhabitants were Ahmadis, caught some of our youngmen, and shot them dead. (Ahmad 1964, 61-62)
Beyond these reported killings, the home of the village’s most active missionary—Muhamad
Ejen—was razed to the ground sometime between 1952-1957 by DI supporters. According to
Ahmadi villagers, he was targeted due to his “tenacity” in his proselytization efforts (dakwah)
(Rahim 2004, 47). The targeting of Ahmadis by DI supporters may not have been isolated to
Tenjowaringin. For example, an interviewee told me that his uncle in Sukapura had been targeted
by DI supporters during this time, though he found safety after fleeing the village.73 The
targeting of these individuals suggests that enmity between the Ahmadiyah and their Sunni
neighbors was high.
The absence of fine-grained historical data across all Ahmadiyah branches in
Tasikmalaya admittedly means that it is difficult to show how public visibility prompted
organized opposition by the sect’s neighbors. What I have sought to show in this section,
however, is the correlation between the sect’s high levels of public visibility and the presence of
high levels of anti-Ahmadiyah opposition carried out by those living near Ahmadiyah
settlements. The tendency of Tasikmalaya’s Ahmadiyah communities to engage in public
proselytization and their frequent building of schools and mosques meant that they were publicly
72 For more on the Darul Islam rebellions, see van Dijk (1981) and Formichi (2012) 73 Raslan, JAI Bandung member. Interview by author, Bandung, West Java, 9 September 2014.
66
visible to their neighbors. Those who were physically located near Ahmadiyah settlements
mobilized in order to neutralize the constitutive challenge posed to the Muslim category by this
micro-sized group.
The Ahmadiyah Community in Bandung, West Java
Compared to their counterparts in Tasikmalaya, the Ahmadiyah community in Bandung
was less engaged in space-claiming activity. As a consequence, the community experienced
fewer episodes of opposition throughout the 20th Century. However, their neighbors did organize
against Ahmadiyah communities whenever members of JAI Bandung did engage in space-
claiming activities.
The first episode of organized resistance to the Ahmadiyah in Bandung took place soon
after Rahmat Ali arrived in nearby Batavia (now Jakarta) from West Sumatra in 1930 (Hamka
1982, 141). It does not appear that Ali proselytized in Bandung. Instead, he choose to focus his
energies on creating JAI branches in Jakarta and Bogor (Murtolo 1976, 19). Yet, in response to
Ali’s encroachment into West Java, Persis organized two public debates between Ahmadi leaders
and the Chairperson of Persis, Ahmad Hassan. The first debate, held in April 1933, took place in
Bandung; the second debate took place in Jakarta in November 1934 (Menchik 2016, 74). While
the 1933 debate took place in Bandung, it was an isolated incident of opposition, as the
Ahmadiyah community had not yet been established in the city.
The Ahmadiyah community in Bandung did not start to develop until 1938,74 when the
Ahmadi missionary Abdul Wahid migrated to the city from the district of Garut. There were
some episodes of visibility during the early years of the community. About a month after Wahid
arrived in Bandung, he and his family found a house and placed a sign with the JAI logo on it.
His house functioned as the office of the JAI in Bandung. After temporarily fleeing Bandung
during Japanese colonialism and its politically contentious aftermath, most members of the JAI
returned in 1948. Their return was accompanied by the building of the first Ahmadiyah mosque
in Bandung, which was finished in 1950. In celebration of the finished mosque, JAI Bandung
74 There was apparently a single Ahmadi family in Bandung as early as 1934, but they did not engage in any proselytization efforts and did not hold their own worship services (Sofianto 2014, 143).
67
hosted the organization’s second jalsah salanah. In short, the establishment of the Ahmadiyah
community in Bandung was physically embodied. (Murtolo 1976, 27)
Little data is admittedly available on the reaction—or lack thereof—of those in close
proximity to Wahid’s house or to the newly built mosque. This lack of information about these
particular decades makes it difficult to assess whether or not the JAI’s public visibility prompted
their neighbors to organize against them. That being said, there is some evidence to suggest that
Bandung’s Ahmadiyah community did have some enemies. In the early days of Japanese
colonialism, the head of JAI Bandung—Ajusar Gelar Sutan Palindih—was arrested and held for
82 days. According to the JAI, his arrest was prompted after a false denunciation by someone
who “was anti-Ahmadiyah” (Murtolo 1976, 27). In short, the available data suggests that
opposition to JAI Bandung was present in their early, visible years.
Beyond the construction of the mosque and the hosting of the jalsah salanah, the
Ahmadiyah community in Bandung maintained an inward orientation during the 1950s. Wahid
and his constituents did not immediately engage in public proselytization. Instead, Ahmadis in
Bandung focused on adequate preparation for eventual missionizing, training in terms of
religious texts and learning how to answer difficult questions (Sofianto 2014, 144). It appears
that the Ahmadis in Bandung were consequently left alone during this decade of public
invisibility.
JAI Bandung had a more outward posture in the 1960s and 1970s. In 1960, 1963, and
1965, the branch played host to the jalsah salanah, meaning that hundreds of Ahmadis from
across the country gathered at their mosque (Wahyudi 2015, 121-122). After nearly a decade of
training, proselytization efforts also resumed in earnest at this time (Sofianto 2014, 149). In
1969, for example, members of JAI Bandung staged a debate attended by over a thousand people
in the city’s famous Salman mosque (Sofianto 2014, 245n358). Furthermore, between 1960 and
1979, the Bandung branch established offshoots in Bandung’s peri-urban neighborhoods
(Sofianto 2014, 149).
The physical expansion of the JAI into Bandung’s peri-urban areas were met with
resistance. In Majalaya, where a new branch of the JAI was opened in 1963, local ulama began
to disseminate information that framed the Ahmadiyah sect as a “very dangerous” sect that
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polluted the teachings of Islam (Ahmad 2004, 76). This messaging increased when the
Ahmadiyah community began to build their mosque (Ibid). When the local Ahmadiyah
community refused to submit to local pressures to cease construction, they started receiving
threats that the mosque would be razed to the ground (79). While the mosque was never
destroyed, these threats are an indicator of the anxieties around physical manifestations of the
perceived Ahmadiyah threat.
Similar dynamics were present in Banjaran, where a new JAI branch was established in
1979. Attempts to build a mosque by Ahmadis were also hindered by local ulama mobilization
(Ahmad 2004, 65). In the Banjaran case, the local religious establishment made several appeals
to state bodies to limit the expansion of the Ahmadiyah sect. In one case, the kepala desa (village
head) forbade the Ahmadis from holding pengajian (religious study groups) without the explicit
permission of the Office of Religious Affairs (KUA) at the sub-district level. As the sub-district
was dominated by members of Persis, the likelihood of receiving the permission of state officials
to hold pengajians was extremely low (55). Ahmadis in Banjaran were also subject to visits by
members of the security apparatus. After the opening ceremony of the Banjaran branch, JAI
leaders were called to the local police station and to a military base on the basis of community
pressure (89). Attempts to get the state involved by local community members suggest that there
were tensions between Ahmadis and Sunni Muslims in this Bandung suburb.
As this historical overview of the Bandung case shows, tensions between the Ahmadiyah
and their Sunni neighbors did exist, though they remained highly localized. Opposition to the
Ahmadiyah community seems to have been concentrated at times when the group was more
outwardly oriented—especially at moments when the group ramped up their public
proselytization. In short, Bandung’s Ahmadiyah community was seen as a concern when they
posed a visible constitutive threat.
The Ahmadiyah Community in North Sumatra
The Ahmadiyah community in Medan, the capital city of North Sumatra, is the largest
outside of Java (Badan Litbang dan Diklat Kementrian Agama RI 2008). Founded in 1931 with
the arrival of Ahmadi missionary Mohammad Sadiq, the Ahmadiyah community is also one of
69
the oldest in Indonesia (Murtolo 1976, 21). As this section will show, Ahmadiyah communities
in North Sumatra more broadly were amongst some of the most visible during the 20th Century,
leading to comparatively high levels of local opposition.
The Ahmadiyah community in North Sumatra was publicly visible at the outset. Sadiq
and his new converts quickly and earnestly began proselytizing in the capital city of Medan and
the surrounding areas, such as in the neighboring town of Tebing Tinggi. These efforts were
particularly vigorous in these early years. In addition to smaller meetings, Sadiq staged a large
open-air debate in the 1930s, where he invited important ulama from across North Sumatra to
attend and debate him (Suriadi 2005, 25). The Ahmadiyah community also circulated magazines
and religious tracts detailing information about the sect’s teachings.75
The publicly visible efforts at proselytization alarmed the local religious establishment.
Local Sunni ulama began organizing to address the threat posed by the sect. The Muhammadiyah
branch of Tebing Tinggi invited ulama Sheik Muhammad Jambil Jambek from Bukit Tinggi
(West Sumatra) to critique the teachings of the Ahmadiyah in a sermon. Similarly, Al
Washliyah, the largest traditionalist organization in North Sumatra, held a seminar with the
purpose of highlighting the heresy of Ahmadiyah teachings. Their opposition efforts culminated
in the formation of the Comite Pembanteras I’Tikad Ahmadijah Qadian (Committee for the
Elimination of Ahmadiyah) in October 1935 (Suriadi 2005, 27), which was formed in response
to the public debate staged by Sadiq (25). The committee issued a fatwa, which was signed by 52
ulama from Medan and its surrounding areas such as Berastagi. The fatwa identified elements of
Ahmadiyah teachings that were misaligned with mainstream teachings and stated that the
Ahmadis were engaging in unfair proselytization practices by targeting those who had little
religious knowledge (30). This justification suggests that it was public proselytization that
prompted action on the part of the ulama.
The 1935 fatwa is relevant because it articulated the constitutive challenge that the
Ahmadiyah presented to Islam. It highlighted how Mirza Ghulam Ahmad and his followers go
75 Komite Islam - Medan. Peringatan Penting dari Komite Islam Medan [An Important Reminder by the Islam Committee Medan], 24 December 1955. Fatwa. From Library of Jemaah Ahmadiyah Indonesia.
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against the seal of the prophets and are therefore kafir and outside the fold of Islam. The fatwa
indicts the Ahmadis further, stating:
Their [i.e. Ahmadis] avowal that they are Muslim, followers of the Prophet Muhammad and our holy book, is not right and full of empty words used to deceive the Muslim umma and entangle us in their nets. All of the sweet words that come out from their mouths or are written in their magazines and newsletters saying that they are under the umbrella of Islam and are followers of the Prophet Muhammad are blasphemous and are lies.76
After delineating exclusionary boundaries for who could be labeled a Muslim, the ulama outlined
the practical implications of the fatwa. Because the Ahmadiyah are excluded from the Muslim
category, they are also excluded from carrying out practices that bond the group. Specifically,
the ulama stated that Ahmadis were not to be buried in Muslim graveyards; that a marriage
between a Sunni and an Ahmadi was illegitimate because they would be interreligious in nature;
that meat prepared by an Ahmadi was not halal; and that greetings from Ahmadis did not have to
be returned.77 By excluding Ahmadis from the practices that (re)produce groupness, the 1935
fatwa cultivated boundaries between the two groups. In other words, the fatwa re-stabilized the
Muslim category.
Ulama used the fatwa to persuade state actors to participate in efforts to reduce the
Ahmadiyah threat to group boundaries. Although the authoritarian context meant that religious
elites did not have the political leverage they do under democracies, they did have links to
fragments of the state. Specifically, the ulama were able to leverage their links to the agencies
responsible for religious affairs. For example, the Religious Affairs office was responsible for
marriage—an area covered in the fatwa—and Ahmadis had difficulties getting marriage licenses
because the office of marriage in Medan would not issue them (Menchik 2016, 75). In some
cases, the office of marriage not only refused to issue marriage licenses, they intimidated
Ahmadis who were already married. Yendra, whose story opened this chapter, experienced a
highly traumatic event at the hands of the Office of Religion in Tebing Tinggi. These officials
forced her to annul her marriage with her Sunni husband, because they found out that she was an
76 Ibid. 77 Ibid.
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Ahmadi. They argued that this meant her marriage was invalid as interfaith marriage was not
permissible.78
In the immediate aftermath of the fatwa, Ahmadis had difficulties engaging in public
religious practice. For example, Ahmadiyah missionaries in Medan had difficulties engaging in
public proselytization (Suriadi 2005, 32). Furthermore, sensitized to misalignments in their
beliefs and practices, Sunni Muslims in Medan maintained clear boundaries between the two
groups. For example, the local community refused to let Ahmadis bury their dead in the Muslim
cemetery. On one occasion, a parent was forced to exhume his child’s body and move it to
another site for burial (32). In other words, the immediate decade or so after the fatwa was one
where the Ahmadiyah community had difficulty laying claim to the category of Muslim and
were also forced into an inward orientation (32).
After about a decade of quiescence, the Ahmadiyah community in Medan began to
venture into the public sphere once more. Like in the past, these episodes of public visibility led
to mobilization by Sunni Muslims in close proximity to the sect. The first disruption of public
space occurred in 1956, when JAI headquarters planned to host the organization’s National
Congress in Medan. In the lead up to the event, Medan’s Ahmadis put up banners and posters in
the community. In response, local ulama reissued the 1935 fatwa. Political tensions eventually
led the JAI to move the event from Medan to Jakarta. (Suriadi 2005, 54-55)
The second episode took place a few years later, in the early 1960s, when JAI Medan
decided that it was time to build the city’s first Ahmadiyah mosque. In 1963, after an Ahmadi
willed a piece of land to the organization in 1960, construction began in earnest. The group
obtained the necessary permits from the government. Soon after, however, members of a number
of Muslim organizations (e.g. NU) staged a protest against the mosque’s construction. The
protestors occupied the partially built structure and construction materials began to disappear
from the site to stop the mosque from being built.79 After a number of brawls between the
conflicting parties, the municipal government stepped in. Although the state had previously
78 Yendra, JAI Medan member. Interview by author. Medan, North Sumatra, 9 December 2014. 79 Ibid.
72
approved the project, it eventually relented to public pressure and issued a directive that put the
construction project on hold (Suriadi 2005, 57). Once construction was halted, locals ceased their
protests. Opposition only ratcheted up again when the Ahmadis defied municipal orders and
clandestinely resumed their work on the mosque in 1979. Once the local community discovered
their secret, they were faced with a new wave of resistance, culminating with the passing of yet
another fatwa by the North Sumatra branch of MUI.80
Opposition against the presence of the Ahmadiyah community did not just occur in
Medan. One significant case took place in the village of Paluhbulu, located about 60 km from
Medan. Under pressure from the citizens of neighboring Pematangcengal village, Tanjungpura’s
leadership (musyawarah pimpinan kecamatan, muspika) issued a directive that banned the
activities of the Ahmadiyah in the sub-district, thereby limiting the ability of the group to
expand.81 Considered the representative of North Sumatra, JAI Medan took the state to court
(Pengadilan Tata Usaha Negara, PTUN) in 1991, claiming that the directive was a violation of
article 29.2 of the constitution, which legally guarantees religious freedoms.82 Although the
courts initially ruled in favor of the Ahmadis, fragments of the state refused to accept the
decision. Specifically, the North Sumatra Department of Religion and the police partnered in
circumscribing the activities of the Ahmadiyah community in the province. On appeal, the
government won and the North Sumatra High Court sided with the government. In their ruling,
the Court stated that a ban on Ahmadiyah communities was an acceptable infringement on
religious freedom.83 A spokesperson of the Department of Religion stated: “This ban is a
reminder, so that those who have already strayed can return and those that have not will stay
uninfluenced.”84
80 “Ahmadiyah di Mata Jaksa dan Hakim [Ahmadiyah in the Eyes of the Prosecutor and Judge],” Forum Keadilan, 31 March 1994, vol.2, no.25, p.28. 81 Ibid. 82 "Menuntut Hak Percaya [Demanding the Right to Freedom of Conscience and Religion]," Tempo, 27 June 1992, vol. 17, no. 22, pp. 80. 83 “Ahmadiyah di Mata Jaksa dan Hakim [Ahmadiyah in the Eyes of the Prosecutor and Judge],” Forum Keadilan, 31 March 1994, vol.2, no.25, p.28. 84 “Menuntut Hak Percaya.”
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The High Court’s ruling on the constitutionality of the Ahmadiyah ban had a significant
impact on the ability of Ahmadis in North Sumatra to engage in proselytization. As Suriadi
(2005, 67) noted in the case of Medan, “Since the North Sumatra High Court banned the
Ahmadiyah in North Sumatra from carrying out any activities, the Medan branch has frequently
received notices forbidding them from engaging in proselytization.” While the Medan branch did
proselytize, they did so in ways that were less visible. For example, they materially supported the
proselytization efforts of branches outside of Medan; they held parties to celebrate non-religious
holidays (e.g. Indonesian Independence Day) to cultivate personal bonds with the local
community; and visited non-Ahmadiyah mosques to help improve their image (68). Given their
less visible ways of proselytization, their Sunni neighbors did not organize against them in the
years after the courts intervened in the matter.
What does the experience of the Ahmadiyah community in North Sumatra demonstrate?
During periods when the community was engaged in publicly visible activities, Sunni Muslims
in close proximity to the group saw them as a constitutive threat. At times when the group did
not, or were unable to, engage in space claiming activity, opposition to the sect declined. In fact,
even when Ahmadis did engage in proselytization, they were left alone as long as their efforts
were hidden away from public view.
The Ahmadiyah Community in East Java
If one placed different Ahmadiyah communities on a spectrum in accordance to levels of
visibility, Ahmadiyah communities in East Java would be on the end of invisibility. Though it is
one of the oldest in Indonesia, the Ahmadiyah community in East Java largely abstained from
space-claiming activities with some notable exceptions. As a consequence, there are few
instances of organized opposition against the sect in this area of the country.
The Ahmadiyah community in East Java originated with the arrival of a Pakistani
Ahmadi immigrant named M. Abdul Ghafoor in the early 1930s (Murtolo 1976, 34). The first
branch was established in the city of Surabaya in 1938, formed when 2 men—and presumably,
their families—moved from West Java (Ibid). While new Ahmadiyah communities were
74
eventually also established in Madiun in 1971 (Wahyudi 2015, 123) and Sidoarjo in 1990,85 the
East Java Ahmadiyah community remained small—especially in comparison to those in other
provinces. Ahmadi historian Murtolo (1976, 34) described the Surabaya branch—the largest in
East Java—as “perceiving itself as weak both in its membership size and capability.”
East Java’s JAI branches, on the whole, abstained from space-claiming activities during
the 20th Century. With notable exceptions, there are few accounts of public proselytization
efforts carried out by Surabaya’s Ahmadiyah communities. The community’s abstinence from
space-claiming activities arguably stems from two sources. First, with some exceptions, the
leadership did not actively support activities that would make the group publicly visible. The
mubalighs sent to lead and support the Ahmadiyah community in East Java seemed to be
disinterested in, or did not have the capacity to support, an active roster of religious activities.
For example, Malik Aziz Ahmad Khan, who was sent to Surabaya for a few months in 1954, was
of poor health (Mubasyir 2004, 24). Similarly, Mahmud Ahmad Cheema—stationed in Surabaya
in 1969—was unable to speak Bahasa Indonesia and required significant support communicating
(26-27). In fact, exceptionally and unusually for JAI branches in Indonesia, there were several
periods of time where JAI headquarters did not assign a mubaligh to the Surabaya branch at all
(24-28).
Second, internal conflict amongst Ahmadis in Surabaya seems to have influenced the
site’s programming. In a 2004 interview, a former mubaligh responsible for the East Java Region
described intra-site tensions in the following way:
Q: So…I heard that amongst the leadership in Surabaya, there are some disharmonious relations. Would you be able to clarify?
A: I don’t know precisely what the issue is, because it has been happening for a long time. From what I have heard from other mubalighs that have been placed here, it has been like this for a long time. So…yes, there is somewhat tension and small conflicts, but as a mubaligh, I have to try and manage the two sides. So there is one side that is difficult
85 Suhardi. JAI Sidoarjo member. Interview by author, Surabaya, East Java, 31 September 2014.
75
to manage, so instead of getting a headache over it, it would be better to just continue to operate.86
Internal disagreements amongst the leadership meant that energies tended to be allocated inwards
instead of outwards as in other JAI branches.
Despite the branch’s general tendency towards invisibility, there were some exceptions.
One key exceptional period was in the early 1950s, under the leadership of Mohammad Zuhdi
Fadli (Mubasyir 2004, 23). Fadli was an active proselytizer who would travel “door to door,
village to village” in Surabaya, but also to other villages in East Java such as Malang and Batu
(23-24). The first Ahmadiyah mosque in Surabaya was opened during his tenure, in 1952
(Murtolo 1976, 34). At the mosque’s grand opening, Fadli staged a press conference—a national
first for the JAI—where he told journalists about the life of Mirza Ghulam Ahmed and the sect’s
theology. The press conference was covered in the local newspaper, Harian Surabaya (Mubasyir
2004, 33-34). In addition to these space-claiming activities, the Surabaya branch also played host
to the organization’s jalsah salanah in 1954, 1964, and 1973 (Murtolo 1976, 34).
Because East Java’s Ahmadiyah communities largely abstained from space-claiming
activity, there were few reports of opposition against the sect. Certainly, there were exceptions.
NU, a traditionalist Islamic organization based in East Java, learned of the Ahmadiyah sect from
other mass organizations in Indonesia. In 1927 and 1928—before the first Ahmadiyah
community had even been established in the region—NU argued that Ahmadis denied important
tenets of Islam and made a joint statement with Muhammadiyah to stop the spread of the sect’s
teachings (Menchik 2011, 90). There was also evidence of local tensions in the 1950s, likely due
to the group’s increased visibility during this period of time. Namely, the Anti-Communist Front
(Front Anti-Komunis, FAK) began efforts to oppose the sect due to their beliefs in Mirza Ghulam
Ahmad. These efforts included challenging the Ahmadis in Surabaya to a public debate in 1956.
Although the debate never took place due to disagreements over the moderator role, their
challenge suggests that tensions—though minimal—did exist due to the constitutive challenge
posed by the Ahmadiyah community (Mubasyir 2004, 45).
86 Basuki Ahmad. Mubaligh, JAI East Java. Interview by Abdul Haq Mubasyir, Surabaya, March 2004. See appendix of Mubasyir (2004) for interview transcript.
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The comparative absence of opposition to East Java’s Ahmadiyah communities is, I
contend, a product of their abstinence from space-claiming activities. Opposition to the
Ahmadiyah community was largely isolated to the 1950s, a period where the group engaged in
an unusual amount of public activity. In short, East Java’s Ahmadiyah communities were
primarily seen as a concern when they posed a visible constitutive threat.
Political Disincentives for Amplification: Explaining the Localized Character of Anti-Ahmadiyah Conflict in 20th Century Indonesia
The historical account of anti-Ahmadiyah activity in Bandung, Tasikmalaya, North
Sumatra and East Java demonstrates that sectarian tensions are not unique to the contemporary
era. Conflict—from vandalism to targeted killings—between Sunni and Ahmadiyah Muslims has
been occurring for decades, intensifying at moments when Ahmadiyah public presence was
particularly palpable. Yet, despite the existence of these tensions, conflict remained hyper-local,
failing to become politically relevant beyond the confines of the village or neighborhood. Why
did conflict involving the Ahmadiyah remain highly localized throughout the 20th century?
Although a visible constitutive threat did exist at some times and in some places, political
entrepreneurs either did not have the institutional incentives or the space to exploit and amplify
the perceived threat. This was the case despite the distinct institutional arrangements of the
colonial era (Pre-1949), Sukarno’s Old Order (1949-1965), and Suharto’s New Order (1965-
1998).
The Colonial Period
Although the Ahmadiyah community did establish themselves during the late colonial
era, there was predictably little space for political entrepreneurship. Colonial regimes were
generally unmoved and unconcerned about local grievances, such as those revolving around the
Ahmadiyah community. As long as Islam did not enter the political sphere, Dutch colonial
authorities did not intervene (Pringle 2010, ch. 2). Intervention only happened when local
conflicts threatened political order. Such occurrences were extremely rare, such as the incident in
77
Aceh, where Rahmat Ali was apparently asked to leave after his missionizing efforts angered
local Islamic leaders.87
Similarly, Japanese colonial rule was deeply repressive. In fact, not only was there little
room for political entrepreneurship, Ahmadiyah communities were driven underground. As
Murtolo (1976, 25) described in the case of Tasikmalaya, the restrictive environment of the
Japanese colonial era meant that Ahmadiyah communities only practiced in secret and their
proselytization efforts shifted to one-on-one meetings. In addition, under the rule of both colonial
entities, there was little space for political organization by Indonesian Muslims and therefore
very little capacity for entrepreneurship.
Sukarno’s Old Order (1949-1965)
While the institutional configurations of the newly independent Indonesian state differed
from colonial ones, they also worked to disincentivize political entrepreneurship on the
Ahmadiyah issue. There was certainly the potential for sectarian cleavages to become politically
relevant beyond the village level; as established above, Ahmadiyah communities in places such
as Medan, Surabaya, and Tasikmalaya did pose visible constitutive threats in the 1950s. Yet, the
institutional arrangements of Sukarno’s Old Order—both during the period of liberal democracy
(1949-1959) and the authoritarian “Guided Democracy” period (1959-1965)—did not lend itself
to the airing of village- or neighborhood- level concerns. As such, the localized nature of the
Ahmadiyah threat remained constrained to the village level.
Indonesia was established as a highly centralized unitary state, with decision making
powers concentrated in the hands of the Jakarta elite (Feith 2007, 87, 108).88 The centralized
nature of the state had implications for resource distribution and political campaigning. In terms
of resource distribution, the allocation of patronage positions was the responsibility of the
national elite. In the early days of state building, appointments in the civil service were given to
87 “Sejarah Ahmadiyah di Aceh [The History of Ahmadiyah in Aceh],” Ahmadiyah Indonesia, http://ahmadiyah.id/ahmadiyah/sejarah-ahmadiyah-aceh, accessed 11 April 2017. 88 In fact, in the late 1950s, regional rebellions broke out in response to these centralizing tendencies. See Bertrand (2004, 36).
78
those in Vice President Hatta’s circle—specifically those who had supported the independence
movement from its base in Jogjakarta (83). The bureaucracy grew even more politicized in the
1950s. By this point: “most civil servants, especially in non-technical ministries, became more
dependent on top level party politics” (372). For example, positions in the Ministry of Religious
Affairs were largely under the purview of the national leaders of NU (368). Gaining access to
patronage goods, therefore, meant incorporation into national level networks, led by national
elites.
National networks also shaped political competition and, therefore, what issues became
politically relevant. Although national political parties did campaign at the village level in the
run up to the first parliamentary elections in 1955, Jakarta-centric issues were most salient. As
Feith (2007, 354) notes: “The issues of Djakarta politics were of great importance everywhere;
for they set a framework within which village campaigning was contained.” These national-level
cleavages centered on disagreements about the ideological principles on which Indonesian
nationhood would rest: nationalism, Islamism, or communism.89 Although the Cold War context
shaped what debates were occurring at the national level, the institutional design of the Old
Order only served to bolster these ideological divides.
Together, the centralizing tendencies of the Old Order—which only intensified as the
regime shifted into authoritarianism (Bertrand 2004, 37)—meant that political entrepreneurs
were incentivized to engage with national concerns. For example, mobilization by Islamic
groups—such as the Darul Islam rebellion—centered around questions of nationhood. Thus,
even when citizens did have political space to make claims, a spotlight was not shone on the
Ahmadiyah threat, due to the issue’s deeply localized roots.
Suharto’s New Order (1965-1998)
Suharto’s seizure of power and the establishment of his New Order regime did not
drastically alter the lived experience of Ahmadis in Indonesia. Politicians in the New Order era
were not reliant on popular support and thus did not have to be responsive to local
89 See Hefner (2000, ch. 3) for an overview of the cleavages that animated political competition during the Old Order.
79
constituencies. Along the same lines, there was little political space for Islamic groups to
mobilize. Together, both these factors worked to disincentivize political entrepreneurship on the
Ahmadiyah issue. Consequently, the threat posed by Ahmadiyah communities during the New
Order era was experienced only by those who were in the position to directly experience the
visible constitutive threat.
With the exception of the East Lombok government,90 politicians did not act on the
Ahmadiyah issue because they did not have the incentives to do so. For members of the
executive and the legislature, power was awarded by Suharto and elites from the Golongan
Karya (Golkar) party.91 Popular support was not a requirement of power. Patronage positions
were used to coopt and maintain the political support needed for governance, with Suharto using
civil service positions as a means of domesticating opposition (Hefner 2000, 92). Clientelist
systems under authoritarian regimes leave little space for clients to make demands of their
patrons, as clients have very little leverage (Hicken 2011, 297). The absence of institutionalized
accountability to local constituencies meant that there was no reason for politicians to respond to
local concerns, such as the Ahmadiyah threat.
The only state actors that local religious leaders were able to pressure were local
fragments of the state bureaucracy—and even these actors only intervened in rare occasions. As
described in the first part of this chapter, local police and courts did—at times—respond to
complaints levied against nearby Ahmadiyah communities by villagers and/or religious leaders.
These interventions took the form of piecemeal actions such as withdrawing building permits in
the Medan case or cancelling religious events in the Tasikmalaya case. Beyond law enforcement,
the embeddedness of local religious leaders in offices of the Department of Religious Affairs and
MUI after 1975 (Hefner 2000, 86) meant that these bodies were occasionally deployed to address
the Ahmadiyah threat. Generally speaking, however, these interventions were rare and confined
to the sub-district level.
90 As discussed in Chapter 3, the district head (bupati) of East Lombok and the Attorney General of Selong kecamatan issued decrees that placed heavy limitations on the Ahmadi sect’s ability to worship in November 1983 (Anam 2011, 87, Burhani 2013, 285-286). 91 Golkar literally means “functional groups.”
80
The one exception to the local character of anti-Ahmadiyah opposition was the passing of
the 1980 fatwa by MUI, which labeled the Ahmadiyah Qadian sect as blasphemous and outside
of Islam. As Darmadi (2013) argues, however, this fatwa was essentially a replica of the one
issued by the World Muslim League in Mecca just two years prior. It did not have much of an
impact on the Ahmadiyah experience, as it did not lead to an upsurge of anti-Ahmadiyah
incidents.92 That it was not picked up and amplified by political entrepreneurs elsewhere in
Indonesia is tied to the institutional configurations of the New Order period.
If politicians did not have the incentives to exploit and amplify the Ahmadiyah threat,
then Islamic groups did not have the political space to do so. Suharto feared the potent power of
political Islam and put policies in place to weaken Islamic groups across the ideological
spectrum (Bertrand 2004, 75). In 1973, for example, Suharto weakened Islamic political parties
by forcing unification. NU, Parmusi (Muslim Party of Indonesia)—the vehicle of former
Masjumi members—and other Islamic parties were amalgamated under the United Development
Party (Partai Persatuan Pembangunan, PPP) (75). The merger of different parties with varying
interests led to in-fighting and the weakening of Islamic interests (Hefner 2000, 100). Like other
Muslim-majority authoritarian states, 93 Suharto also used patronage to coopt elite interests in
order to 1) prevent challenges to their rule and 2) legitimize controversial government decisions
(Nielsen 2017, 59-60). As long as moderate organizations like NU and Muhammadiyah did not
criticize the regime, they were able to access positions in government (or government sponsored)
agencies. When the chairmen of NU and Muhammadiyah—Gus Dur and Amien Rais—became
critical of Suharto, the New Order government utilized patronage as a disciplinary tool (Hefner
2000, 162). In the 1970s, for example, NU loss its control over the Ministry of Religious Affairs
due to its critical view of the regime. As a result, they lost access to vast patronage resources
(Sidel 2006, 51). In short, mainstream Muslim organizations were straightjacketed during this
time.
92 Author’s data. 93 The Suharto regime’s strategy for domesticating political Islam resembles those carried out in countries like Egypt (Zeghal 1999, 373-374) and Jordan (Wiktorowicz 2001, ch. 2).
81
The New Order regime took an even more repressive position against the conservative
groups that were the progenitors of today’s Islamic hardliner groups.94 The regime, for example,
easily eliminated those they deemed “subversive.” Many of these subversives were Islamic
extremists and fundamentalists. One such case was Irfan Awaas Suryahardy, one of the leaders
of the Majelis Mujahidin (MMI) and the younger brother of notorious terrorist Abu Jibril. The
editor of an Islamist newsletter in the 1980s, Suryahardy was charged with subversion for
disseminating militant literature and served nine years in prison (Bertrand and Soedirgo 2016, 2).
The inability for Islamic groups to mobilize on religious issues meant that it was highly unlikely
for the Ahmadiyah threat to become relevant beyond village boundaries.
Overall, the institutional configurations of the New Order explains why conflict involving
the Ahmadiyah retained a localized character. As argued in this section, political entrepreneurs at
the state and non-state level had neither the incentives or the space for political entrepreneurship.
Therefore, despite having a wholly different set of institutional arrangements compared to the
colonial era and the New Order, the experience of Ahmadis during this period was quite similar.
Conclusion
To summarize, this chapter makes three points. First, it outlines why and how
Ahmadiyah communities posed constitutive threats to the category of Muslim in Indonesia since
the sect’s arrival in the 1920s. The main reason why the Ahmadiyah were seen as constitutive
threats is their belief in the prophethood of the sect’s founder, Mirza Ghulam Ahmed. This belief
contradicts a core tenet of orthodox Islam: that there can be no prophet after Muhammad. It is the
Ahmadis’ insistence on remaining in the Muslim category despite these foundational differences
that makes the sect a threat to Indonesian Muslims. When Ahmadis practice in public ways, thus
making these disruptions impossible to deny, the constitutive threat became credible for those
who were in the position to experience it.
The second part of the chapter demonstrates how public visibility historically shaped
patterns of anti-Ahmadiyah opposition in Indonesia, using the case studies of JAI communities in
94 On this point, see Temby (2010) and Solahudin (2013).
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Bandung, Tasikmalaya, East Java and North Sumatra. Using archival and interview data, this
chapter shows that Indonesia’s Ahmadis have long been targets of discrimination and violence.
Ahmadiyah communities were not only subject to verbal taunts and other forms of everyday
hostility, but were hassled by state officials and targets of physical violence. These episodes of
opposition would emerge in response to public proselytization or the building of mosques and
schools by Ahmadiyah communities. In short, these episodes of mobilization would occur in
response to the visible constitutive threat posed by Ahmadis.
Yet, as I show in the last section, despite the existence of anti-Ahmadiyah opposition, the
conflict generally remained localized to the village- and neighborhood- level. This localization, I
argue, is attributable to the fact that members of the larger Muslim community did not see or
experience the constitutive threat because political entrepreneurs did not have a reason to
amplify it. Despite the distinctiveness of institutional arrangements under colonialism, Sukarno’s
Old Order, and Suharto’s New Order, these periods all had an incentive structure that did not
favor the airing of local concerns such as the Ahmadiyah threat.
The absence of incentives for political entrepreneurship had real implications for the
lived experience of Ahmadi Muslims in Indonesia. It meant that fewer actors were involved in
mobilizing against the sect. Consequently, while the sect did experience persecution, these
episodes were limited. This state of affairs would change with the onset of democratization and
especially with the onset of decentralization. It is to these periods we now turn.
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Chapter 5 Democratization and New Incentives for Threat Amplification
(1998-2005)
On June 8th 2008, thousands of people dressed in white—the uniform of the FPI—
crowded in front of the Presidential Palace. In the sweltering heat, the hardliners held up banners
and shouted their demand: that President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono ban the Ahmadiyah sect.95
While uniquely large in size, the protest was an episode in a broader trend: since 2005, hardliner
groups like the FPI have been involved in at least 77 anti-Ahmadiyah protests in Indonesia.96
However, in the early days of democracy—just a few years prior—the FPI did not focus on the
Ahmadiyah at all. Instead, they focused on eradicating centers of vice (maksiat), such as
gambling dens and brothels, in order to raise their social status and gain access to rents (Wilson
2014, 258-262).
The FPI’s programmatic shift into exploiting and amplifying the constitutive threat of the
Ahmadiyah began in the early years of liberal democracy, which is the subject of this chapter.
The onset of Reformasi in 1998 introduced limited incentives for the exploitation and
amplification of the visible constitutive threat of the Ahmadiyah community. However, it was
not politicians that jumpstarted the process, but members of the religious bureaucracy and
hardliner groups. These actors had incentives to use the Ahmadiyah threat for their own interests.
Religious actors used the Ahmadiyah issue to gain or maintain access to patronage streams.
These early efforts at anti-Ahmadiyah entrepreneurship began the process of transforming the
micro-sized group from a local threat to a national one.
This chapter is divided into two parts. I begin by showing how Ahmadiyah communities
did not alter their practices in any significant way. In some cases—such as that of Tasikmalaya—
communities continued to engage in space-claiming activities, prompting local opposition. In
95 “Muslims rally to ban sect in Indonesia,” Reuters, 9 June 2008, https://in.reuters.com/article/idINIndia-33975020080609, accessed 15 May 2019. 96 Author’s data.
84
other cases, like Bandung and Surabaya, Ahmadiyah communities took on an inward orientation
during this period. In the second part of the chapter, I show how the Institute of Islamic Studies
and Research (Lembaga Pengkajian dan Penelitian Islam, LPPI) and the Indonesian Ulama
Council (MUI) exploited the Ahmadiyah issue and jumpstarted the amplification process.
Ahmadis as Visible Constitutive Threat: A Story of Continuity
Although participants of anti-Ahmadiyah mobilization have argued that they were
responding to Ahmadiyah expansionism, 97 there is little evidence to support this claim. The JAI
leadership did indeed seize the opportunity provided by the election of the famously tolerant
Abdurrahman Wahid (popularly known as Gus Dur) as President to invite the Fourth Caliph of
the Ahmadiyah from international headquarters in June 2000.98 Yet, beyond this incident,
democratization did not seem to have a significant effect on patterns of JAI behavior.99 In most
cases, communities behaved in ways consistent with prior trends.
JAI communities that had been visible constitutive threats in the past tended to continue
to engage in space-claiming activities. The case of JAI Tasikmalaya is illustrative. As discussed
in Chapter 4, Ahmadis in Tasikmalaya were amongst the most visible in Indonesia, frequently
engaging in public proselytization and erecting mosques, mission houses and schools (Sofianto
2014, 133-136). Ahmadiyah communities continued their space-claiming activity into the early
democratic period. For example, the Wanasigra branch of JAI Tasikmalaya built a second
mission house in 1999 (Rahim 2004, 51), the Citeguh branch similarly finished a new mosque in
1999 (56), and the Ahmadiyah high school was formally recognized by the Ministry of
Education (74). Many of these new space-claiming activities were not prompted by regime
change. For example, building permits for the Citeguh mosque were attained in 1997, before
97 Mahmoed, Former Head of the Research Directorate of the Ministry of Religious Affairs. Interview by author, Jakarta, 3 April 2014; Husein, Member of FPI Leadership. Interview by author, Depok, 25 September 2018. 98 Rudy, JAI Leader. Interview by author, Parung, West Java, 10 March 2014.
99 The number of JAI branches in Indonesia at a macro-level did increase from 150 branches to 300 branches between 1989 to 2008 (Platzdasch 2013, 224). However, this figure cannot be disaggregated in terms of the branches established before May 1998 and those established after.
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Suharto’s fall (56). Similarly, the idea for the building of the high school came out of
conversations that also occurred in 1997 (73).
In alignment with the theory’s predictions, these episodes of public visibility led to
village-level conflict in Tasikmalaya. In April 2003, for instance, a group of local kyai asked the
district government to ban the sect after an Ahmadiyah mosque was attacked for holding a
religious event. However, the request made by the kyais was essentially ignored (Mudzakkir
2011, 15-16). The institutional context meant that the district government had little incentive to
exploit the threat posed by the Ahmadiyah. Political power—particularly at the local level—was
not contingent on gaining the support of the masses. For example, in the early days of
democracy, the position of district head was determined by members of the district legislature
and not by district residents. The mechanism for distributing patronage was also, at this time,
centralized. Consequently, gaining access to political power and resultant material goods
required cultivating and maintaining relations with elites at the national and regional level. The
absence of incentives for political entrepreneurship meant that patterns of conflict in
Tasikmalaya in the early democratic period resembled those in the 20th Century.
Like JAI Tasikmalaya, JAI Bandung and JAI East Java also continued prior trends of
space claiming. In these two cases, however, the two branches continued to refrain from
activities that would make them publicly visible. While the Bandung Ahmadiyah community
was highly visible in the past, they did not appear to engage in space-claiming activities in the
early democratic period. They did not build new mosques, nor did they host the Ahmadiyah
annual meeting.100 The Bandung city branch of the JAI did have close connections with the JAI
branch in Banjaran, located in a neighbouring district, which was visible during this time. While
local opposition did occur in Banjaran,101 the branch in the city of Bandung was left alone due to
its inward orientation between 1998-2005.
100 After hosting the jalsah salanah in 1981 (Wahyudi 2015, 126), the next time the Bandung branch hosted the jalsah salanah was in 2017. 101 For example, the Bandung city branch of the JAI initiated plans to build two new mosques in the suburb of Arjasari in Bandung district in the early democratic period. Construction of the first mosque began in 2002. Soon after construction began, residents mobilized against the project and pressured the local mubaligh to halt construction. While the mubaligh capitulated to these demands in a community meeting, the agreement failed to assuage concerns. A few days after the community meeting was held, a
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The trajectory of Ahmadiyah communities in East Java is similar to their counterparts in
Bandung. Since the 1990s, congregations in the province did not engage in much public activity
(Mubasyir 2004, 3). Basuki Ahmad, the then-mubaligh of JAI East Java, stated in a 2004
interview that JAI congregations in the area needed to proselytize more. He said: we need to
“begin missionizing to the outside…[right now] our activities are very minimal and the
congregation’s participation and attendance [at these activities] is still very low…Maybe it’s the
city environment, because our congregants are so busy.”102 Interestingly, some members of East
Java’s Ahmadiyah community did not want to proselytize in a visible, public way, as doing so
could have negative consequences. For example, Burhan, a member of JAI Surabaya said the
following:
There are many models for proselytization…I myself am very interested in the way that Dadang Nasir proselytized when he was in the Philippines. He used his actions to showcase his beliefs, not his words. By seeing his behavior, people converted…This is the most effective way [to proselytize] and it also does not invite a reaction that would disturb [our] safety.103
Burhan’s predictions came to fruition. The inward orientation of Ahmadiyah communities in
East Java meant that the sect was largely left alone.
The one exception to continuity was JAI North Sumatra. As I show in Chapter 4,
Ahmadiyah communities in North Sumatra were amongst the most visible during the 20th
Century. As discussed, however, the group’s run in with the legal system meant that the North
Sumatra state policed the group’s activities. For example, the ban had an impact on the group’s
proselytization strategies. As Suriadi (2005, 67) noted in the case of Medan, “Since the North
Sumatra High Court banned the Ahmadiyah in North Sumatra from carrying out any activities,
the Medan branch has frequently received notices forbidding them from engaging in
proselytization.” While the Medan branch continues to proselytize, they have done so in ways
group of villagers took matters into their own hands and flattened the partially built mosque themselves (Ahmad 2004, 69-72). 102 Basuki Ahmad, Mubaligh East Java. Interview by Abdul Haq Mubasyir, Surabaya, February 2004. See appendix of Mubasyir (2004) for interview transcript. 103 Syahbuddin Burhan. JAI Surabaya member. Interview by Abdul Haq Mubasyir, Surabaya, 9 March 2004. See appendix of Mubasyir (2004) for interview transcript.
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that are less visible. For example, they have materially supported the proselytization efforts of
branches outside of Medan; they have held parties to celebrate non-religious holidays (e.g.
Indonesian Independence Day) in an attempt to cultivate bonds with the local community; and
they have visited non-Ahmadiyah mosques to help improve the image of Ahmadis (68). Similar
to the dynamics that will be described in Chapter 7, this shift away from public space meant that
this group was left alone.
It is important to acknowledge that while democratization did not seem to impact levels
of visibility on the part of the Ahmadiyah, in some cases it did impact the form of organized
opposition. Several anti-Ahmadiyah incidents that took place during the early democratic period
turned violent. Two of these incidents transpired in the villages of Pancor in the province of
West Nusa Tenggara and Manis Lor in the province of West Java. The violence in Pancor
erupted first, on 6 September 2002, when a group of villagers attacked their Ahmadi neighbors.
Over the next five days, the perpetrators burned down the Ahmadiyah mosque, vandalized 81
Ahmadi-owned homes, and looted eight Ahmadi-owned shops.104 This episode was sparked due
to anger over the newly built houses and fields newly purchased by Ahmadi refugees from other
villages in West Nusa Tenggara (Anam 2011, 90). Less than 2 months later, the Ahmadiyah
community in Manis Lor village was also attacked by a group of young Sunni men from the area.
In this incident, the At-Taqwa mosque was destroyed and nearby homes were vandalized
(Panggabean et al. 2014, 30-31). Nasuruddin, the manager of the Sunni mosque (Al-Huda),
organized this act of violence in response to the building of a mosque in the neighboring village
of Manis Kidul (Burhani 2013, 260). This shift in modality aligns with the findings of scholars
such as Bertrand (2004) and Tajima (2014), who show how democratization was accompanied
by an upsurge in communal violence.
While neither episode of anti-Ahmadiyah violence garnered much coverage in the major
press outlets, the news magazine Gamma did write an article about the Lombok incident.105 It is
104 “Ahmadiyya Community Submission to the Office of the UN High Commander for Human Rights.” OHCHR. Accessed March 29, 2018. http://tbinternet.ohchr.org/Treaties/CEDAW/Shared%20Documents/IDN/INT_CEDAW_NGO_IDN_52_9022_E.pdf 105 “Dan Ahmadiyah Pun Diusir [Even the Ahmadiyah are Expelled],” Gamma, 11-17 July 2001, pg. 39.
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likely that the violent character of the mobilization made the incident more newsworthy. Though
minimal, such coverage spotlighted the Ahmadiyah threat.
Overall, Ahmadiyah communities did not alter their practices in any significant way in
the early democratic era. Some communities were seen to pose a visible constitutive threat, while
others did not. Yet, despite facilitating the eruption of anti-Ahmadiyah violence in the cases of
Pancor and Manis Lor, the centralized character of the early democratic period did not
incentivize amplification on the part of district-level entrepreneurs. Instead, it was religious
actors at the national level—incentivized by religious outbidding—that first chose to exploit the
issue.
Religious Outbidding and the Competition for Patronage: Incentives for Amplification
The first entrepreneurs who sought to make the Ahmadiyah threat visible were not those
seeking patronage through electoral competition, but those seeking patronage through state
religious bodies. Religious bodies at the national level—both those associated with the state and
those that were not—were in competition for patronage due to the country’s transition to
democracy. By opening up opportunities for political participation, democratization is often
accompanied by a proliferation of new claimants to power and patronage. This proliferation of
actors thus increases levels of competition for both these entities.
Outbidding is a strategy that both established and new claimants to patronage can use to
gain new constituents. Outbidding refers to the process by which political elites compete for the
support of a particular ethnic group, leading to increased polarization as candidates outdo each
other in their efforts to convey their ethnic commitments (Horowitz 1985, ch. 8). While the term
was originally coined in reference to ethnic parties, similar dynamics characterize competition
amongst religious actors (Toft 2013). Outbidding can be a particularly effective strategy in the
early years of democracy. Because official Islam tends towards moderation,106 there are more
opportunities at the polar ends of the ideological spectrum to create a distinguishable brand and
106 On this point, see Nielsen (2017).
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to attract followers from an underrepresented constituency. Polarization does not necessarily
mean increased conservatism. However, taking a hardline stance against a resonant threat allows
actors to have a simple platform with a clear demand.
Given how attractive an outbidding strategy can be, it is perhaps expected that groups
would utilize it in their efforts to gain access to power and patronage. In the Indonesia case, two
groups in particular were key in making the constitutive threat of the Ahmadiyah visible to
members of the larger Muslim community. One group, the LPPI, was an upstart group seeking to
gain access to status and patronage. The second was MUI, a quasi-government body fending off
challenges to their hold on patronage flows.
LPPI: The Vanguard of the Hardliners
The involvement of Islamic hardliner groups (kelompok garis keras) in incidents of anti-
Ahmadiyah mobilization in Indonesia is fairly well known. As discussed in Chapter 3, hardliner
groups have carried out close to 30% of all anti-Ahmadiyah incidents between 2005-2015. The
most frequent culprit is the FPI, but they are far from the only hardliner group responsible for
anti-Ahmadiyah mobilization. Groups such as the Islamic Reform Movement (Gerakan
Reformasi Islam or GARIS), Guardians of the Creed Movement (Gerakan Pagar Aqidah or
GARDAH), the Muslim Front (Front Umat Islam or FUI), and the Islamic Ulama Forum (Forum
Ulama Umat Islam or FUUI) are frequently mentioned in the press for their involvement in anti-
Ahmadiyah protests. By organizing or joining anti-Ahmadiyah protests, hardliner groups have
acted as transmitters of the Ahmadiyah threat to the larger Muslim community. They have thus
played a significant role in amplifying the constitutive threat of Ahmadis in Indonesia.
Members of hardliner groups have leveraged their “expertise” on heresy and blasphemy
to gain access to status and patronage. For example, members of the FPI and GARIS have
participated in paid consultations with the Ministry of Religious Affairs.107 Similarly, a high-
107 Luhut, Staffer at the Ministry of Religious Affairs, Research Directorate. Interview by author, Jakarta, 27 August 2014; Arfan, GARIS Jakarta member. Interview by author, Jakarta, 9 October 2014; Adnan, FKUB Jakarta, Office of Research, personal communication, 11 October 2014. These payments come in the form of a daily honorarium.
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ranking member of the FPI, Habib Muhsin,108 is a member of the Depok office of the
Interreligious Harmony Forum (FKUB),109 the body responsible for granting permits for houses
of worship.110 In the district of Cianjur, MUI recruited teachers for religious schools from
Islamic hardliner groups such as GARIS (Buehler 2016, 162).
The strategy of exploiting the Ahmadiyah threat to gain access to patronage was first
modeled by the LPPI. It was the first hardliner group to identify the strategic potential of the
Ahmadiyah threat and leverage the issue to gain access to important religious institutions.111 In
fact, it is likely that the FPI’s exposure to the political effectiveness of the Ahmadiyah issue first
occurred when they were invited to an LPPI-led protest in 2005 (Burhani 2013, 142). Following
the LPPI’s example, the FPI would utilize the issue with great frequency after 2007 (Wilson
2014, 258), shifting their focus away from extracting rents from brothels, bars and dance clubs
(250).
The LPPI was established in 1980 by M. Amin Djamaluddin (Burhani 2016, 148).
Djamaluddin was involved in modernist Muslim organizations during the New Order regime,
namely the Indonesian Council for Propogation (Dewan Dakwah Islamiyah Indonesia or DDII)
and Persis (147). As a member of these organizations, he championed a number of conservative
causes including the implementation of shari’a law and the maintenance of religious orthodoxy
(152). LPPI was specifically founded to address Islamic heterodoxy or to “rescue Islam from
deviant sects wearing Muslim clothing” (148). Djamaluddin published books, organized
108 Ery Chandra, “Dewan Pembina FPI Habib Muhsin Alatas Kunjungi Mayjen TNI Purn Moerwanto Soeprapto di Sukamiskin [Chairman of FPI Board Habib Muhsin Alatas Visits Major General Purn Moerwanto Soeprapto in Sukamiskin],” Tribunnews, 6 July 2017, http://www.tribunnews.com/nasional/2017/07/06/dewan-pembina-fpi-habib-muhsin-alatas-kunjungi-mayjen-tni-purn-moerwanto-soeprapto-di-sukamiskin, accessed 3 April 2018. 109 FKUB was created in 2006 with the passage of the Joint Ministerial Regulation No. 8 and 9 on Places of Worship (Crouch 2007, 109). One of the forum’s most important roles is the granting of permits to build and maintain houses of worship (Izin Mendirikan Bangunan Rumah Ibadat or IMB). 110 “FKUB: Tingkatkan Spiritual ASN Depok Melalui Salat Berjamaah [FKUB: Heightens the Spirituality of Depok’s State Apparatus by Worshipping Together].” Depok: Government of Depok, 23 February 2017. https://www.depok.go.id/23/02/2017/01-berita-depok/fkub-tingkatkan-spiritual-asn-depok-melalui-salat-berjamaah, accessed 3 April 2018. 111 Najib Burhani, LIPI researcher. Interview by author, Jakarta, 21 February 2014.
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meetings, and lobbied the government to act against a wide range of deviant sects to carry out the
LPPI’s mission (149).
Djamaluddin seemed to be particularly concerned about the Ahmadiyah sect. Amongst
other disparagements, he stated that the Ahmadis “discombobulated religion” (mengacak-acak
agama) (154). Throughout the 1980s and 1990s, members of the LPPI put pressure on different
government bodies to act against the sect. In 1989, Djamaluddin lobbied the government to
prevent the Ahmadiyah community from celebrating their centennial in Parung (155). In 1994
and 1996, the LPPI sent formal requests to the Attorney General’s Office and the Supreme Court
to outlaw the Ahmadiyah (156). It is likely that Djamaluddin’s exposure to the threat of the
Ahmadiyah occurred in Bima, the small town in West Nusa Tenggara province where he grew
up (147). The JAI had found great success there, having established several branches of the sect
in Bima throughout the New Order period. According to the JAI leader in charge of operations in
West Nusa Tenggara, tensions between Ahmadis and Sunnis in Bima were quite common prior
to 1998.112
Like other opponents of Ahmadis during this time, the LPPI’s lobbying efforts were
ineffective due to the institutional context. Like other Islamic conservatives during the New
Order, members of the LPPI were repressed. Djamaluddin himself was arrested and jailed for
championing radical causes (149). However, the LPPI’s past activism on issues of heresy and
deviancy during the New Order period set the stage for their later successes.
For Djamaluddin and the LPPI, the transition to democracy presented new possibilities
for prestige, power, and patronage. In the early years of the democratic era, Djamaluddin’s
repertoire remained similar to those he employed during the New Order period. His activism was
largely limited to publishing books and holding religious seminars about the deviancy and heresy
of Ahmadiyah teachings, as well as writing letters to government bodies asking them to disband
the sect (Burhani 2016, 156). For example, the LPPI organized a conference at Istiqlal mosque
on 11 August 2002 entitled ‘Ahmadiyya: Its deviance and danger’ (Burhani 2013, 226).
Djamaluddin also organized a smaller religious intensive course on the Ahmadiyah in Mataram,
112 Amir, JAI West Nusa Tenggara member. Interview by author, Mataram, Lombok, Nusa Tenggara Barat, 2 June 2014.
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the provincial capital of Djamaluddin’s home province, West Nusa Tenggara (Burhani 2016,
156).
Although the LPPI were actively carrying out their organizational mission during these
early days of democracy, they did not gain religious authority or access to patronage. Failure to
do so was arguably an outcome of the tactics they used, which did not render the constitutive
threat of the Ahmadis visible to members of the larger group. Letter writing, religious meetings,
and publishing anti-Ahmadiyah tracts may highlight the tensions between Ahmadiyah teachings
and their mainstream counterparts, but they do not necessarily make the group seem credibly
threatening. As argued, visibility is key to threat formation and perception. Simply having
deviant beliefs would put the sect alongside other heterodox groups that were faced with
disapproval from the mainstream, but were not seen as threats.
To amplify the Ahmadiyah threat, the LPPI changed their tactics. They utilized strategies
that would transmit the visible constitutive threat of the Ahmadiyah to the broader Indonesian
Muslim community. This shift began in 2005, when the LPPI decided to organize a protest
against the Ahmadiyah. The group chose to target the jalsah salanah. That year the event was
held at Mubarak campus (Kampus Mubarak), the organization’s post-secondary school, which
was located in Parung subdistrict in Bogor.113
The choice of target was an excellent one from a strategic perspective. Bogor is less than
a two-hour drive from the capital city of Jakarta, where many journalists are located.
Furthermore, not only is Kampus Mubarak clearly marked as belonging to the Ahmadiyah, it is
large and imposing. As Ahmadis from across the country were attending the meeting, the group’s
presence in Parung in the days preceding and during the event was unmistakable. As mentioned
above, Djamaluddin and his allies had lobbied the government to shut down Kampus Mubarak
and to prevent the jalsah salanah from happening in the past. However, he had made these
demands privately, either through letters or in face-to-face meetings. This time, these demands
were made out in the open.
113 Ghulam, Ahmadi victim of Cikuesik attack. Interview by author, Jakarta, 7 April 2014.
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The LPPI ultimately organized two protests that occurred within a week of each other.
The first protest took place on 9 July 2005, on the second day of the jalsah salanah (Billah et al.
2006, 55). Mid-morning, a group of about 100 people gathered at the nearby Sunni Al-Hidayah
mosque. The group paraded to Mubarak campus to protest the annual meeting, shouting about
the deviancy of the sect.114 Members of the LPPI were involved, but residents of Parung—
recognized by Ahmadi witnesses—also participated in the march (60). By early afternoon, the
protests became violent. Some protestors began to vandalize nearby structures and vehicles,
while others threw rocks, glass bottles, coconuts and other small projectiles at individual
Ahmadis from over the fence. No one was killed or seriously injured, though many suffered cuts
from flying glass (Ibid).
The July 9th protest did not achieve what the LPPI intended. Although it had been
organized a few days in advance,115 the incident was not well covered in the press. Witness
statements collected and published by the National Human Rights Commission do not mention
press being present at the first protest. While the July 9th protest was visible in the village of
Parung due to the spectacle of the march, the LPPI did not succeed in making the Ahmadiyah
threat seen by national or even regional audiences. In other words, members of the larger
Indonesian community did not experience the Ahmadiyah threat. It is perhaps due to these
failures of amplification that the LPPI decided to try again by staging another protest.
The second protest took place on 15 July 2005. The target of the protest remained
Mubarak campus, though the annual meeting had been cut short due to the violence that had
taken place a week earlier. There were two main points of difference between the first protest
and the second: 1) size and 2) media presence. The second protest was much bigger than the
first. It had between 400-500 participants compared to the 100 or so attendees that were at the
first march (57). A significant portion of these new participants were members of the FPI
(Burhani 2013, 240n46). Djamaluddin had invited the FPI because they had greater mobilization
capacity compared to the LPPI (240).
114 Asghar, JAI Indonesia leader. Interview by author, Parung, West Java, 10 March 2014. 115 Rumours about an impending event organized at Al-Hidayah mosque had been circulating a few days prior to the actual protest (Burhani 2016).
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There was also a significant media presence at the July 15th protests. At least two
Ahmadis witnessed reporters and cameramen from TV7, MetroTV, RCTI, TransTV, ANTV,
Global TV and SCTV camped outside the Ahmadiyah compound to cover the second protest
(Billah et al. 2006, 68, 81). Together with its large size, national coverage of the Parung protests
made the threat of the Ahmadiyah visible to a broader audience. This coverage also highlighted
and broadcasted the LPPI’s efforts to contain the threat, allowing Djamaluddin to claim expertise
on issues of heresy and deviancy.
In 2005, Djamaluddin was appointed by MUI to be the organization’s representative in
meetings held by the Coordinating Body for the Surveillance of Spiritual Movements
(Bakorpakem) to discuss the banning of heretical sects (Burhani 2016, 157). He is also listed in
several internal documents as a member of MUI’s Commission for Research and Development
(Ichwan 2013, 92n9). Furthermore, while Djamaluddin is not formally listed as a member of
MUI’s boards (Ibid), he has often represented MUI in cases of heresy and blasphemy (Platzdasch
2013, 226).
Although Djamaluddin’s fear of the Ahmadiyah did not appear to be solely instrumental,
the ability of the LPPI to gain access to patronage streams demonstrated to other groups how the
Ahmadiyah threat could be a vehicle to attain material or status goals. It was not only hardliner
groups that followed his example, but MUI would as well.
Maintaining Patronage Flows: MUI and its Defense of the Establishment
While the LPPI helped spotlight the visible constitutive threat of the Ahmadiyah, MUI
also played a significant role in amplifying the threat through the re-issuance of the 1980 fatwa
shortly after the Parung protests. The fatwa was passed during the organization’s seventh
National Conference (26-29 July 2005) and it categorized the Ahmadiyah Qadian as a deviant
sect. The fatwa directed Ahmadis to cease proselytizing and to shut down all their places of
worship immediately (MUI 2011, 104-105). MUI passed the fatwa as part of a broader strategy
to assert and maintain the organization’s relevance. The LPPI’s protests at Parung occurred at a
time when the organization’s authority and function were under attack, putting their funding at
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risk. The Ahmadiyah issue was an opportunity for MUI to shore up support and to legitimize the
organization’s continued access to patronage flows.116
MUI was created in 1975 as part of the New Order’s strategy to regulate Islam in
Indonesia. Its creation was in many ways a victory for the Suharto government, which had
struggled to create a nation-wide ulama council (Porter 2002, 77). Despite initial resistance from
Muslim leaders, the state was ultimately successful in getting all the major Islamic organizations
to sit on the Council (78-79). Support from the major Islamic organizations and leaders was
important because it lent the organization a level of credibility. By May of that year, per
instructions from the Minister of Internal Affairs, governors and district heads had set up
regional ulama councils to be part of the larger MUI network (Lindsey 2012, 257). The National
branch was established a few weeks later on July 26th (Ibid).
Although MUI is technically an independent, non-state organization, it is better described
as a quasi-autonomous non-governmental organization or a quango (Lindsey 2012, 255). Not
only does the body receive the majority of its funding from the state, its original mission
statement clearly aligned the organization with the state. MUI’s primary roles were to 1)
“translate” (i.e. make palatable) government policies to their constituents; 2) act as advisors to
the government on issues of religion; 3) act as mediators between the regime and ulama; and 4)
act as a forum to discuss the role of ulama in Indonesia (257). Suharto put precautionary
measures in place to keep MUI in line with these objectives. MUI was not allowed to get
involved in formal politics (i.e. it could not become a political party); it was not allowed to
recruit support from the masses like other Islamic mass organizations; and it was not allowed to
build Islamic schools or hospitals (Lindsey 2012, 257-258). Suharto also placed MUI under
surveillance by having the Ministers of Religious Affairs, Internal Affairs and Education and
Culture sit on the organization’s advisory board (Porter 2002, 78). Simply put, the regime sought
to eliminate any possibility of the organization becoming a site of opposition.
Due to MUI’s relationship with the Suharto regime, its legitimacy as a religious authority
was never hegemonic. Many Muslims saw MUI as an arm of the state, not as a representative of
116 While she writes about the religious bureaucracy more broadly, Hicks (2014) makes a similar argument as I do in this section.
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Indonesian Muslims. This view was seemingly confirmed by the edicts issued by the
organization, which worked to serve state interests by lending an air of legitimacy to
controversial government policies. For example, MUI supported the government’s program to
promote the consumption of frog meat, even though it is categorized as haram by the Syafi’i
school of Islam (78). On another occasion, the chairman of MUI’s fatwa commission announced
that buying tickets from the state’s Porkas-lottery did not count as gambling (an act forbidden by
Islam), thereby contradicting the position of some of the country’s most respected religious
leaders and organizations (78-79).
It is, of course, important to note that MUI did have a level of legitimacy, particularly
around matters of heresy and blasphemy. MUI was the state-sanctioned authority on determining
the limits of orthodoxy and orthopraxy (79). Although this function of identifying and getting rid
of deviant sects was primarily driven by security concerns—the New Order wanted to root out
sects that espoused revolutionary ideas—it became one of the few areas where MUI’s decisions
were broadly supported by the religious mainstream (80). For example, both Imaduddin
Abdulrahim (a conservative Muslim leader) and Harun Nasution (a ‘liberal’ Muslim leader) were
quoted as being supportive of MUI’s decisions on ‘deviant’ Muslim sects (80).
Although MUI’s religious authority was weak compared to other Islamic organizations,
its access to patronage was secure. Suharto struggled for five years to form MUI because he
needed to increase the legitimacy of the regime’s decisions. Support from religious elites became
even more important as the national chairmen of NU and Muhammadiyah—Gus Dur and Amien
Rais respectively—became vociferous critics of the New Order in the late 1980s and 1990s
(Hefner 2000, 162). The state’s increasing reliance on MUI support meant that their patronage
flows were guaranteed. Given that the state provided the bulk of MUI’s funding, members
profited greatly from this income stream.117
The transition to democracy put MUI’s access to patronage flows at risk. First, MUI’s
original role and function was made redundant by regime change. MUI was created by Suharto
117 As per documents circulated after the 1975 founding conference, MUI’s budget comes mainly from three sources: “[1] non-binding community funds and donations…[2] government assistance…and [3] other valid and halal businesses” (Lindsey 2012, 258).
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to increase the credibility of the New Order regime. In a democratic context, government actors
are not reliant on the support of traditional religious authorities in the same way. Government
legitimacy in a democracy, after all, is derived from electoral support. Second, democratic state
actors utilize a different metric to distribute patronage, distributing it based on the size of one’s
constituency. As such, democratization introduced new claimants to patronage. For MUI,
democratization essentially meant that patronage flows were no longer guaranteed.
It appears that MUI did not initially recognize the challenges posed by democratization to
the organization’s position and its access to patronage. As Ichwan (2005, 53-61) argued, MUI
acted as if it were business as usual in the early days of the democratic era. This posture was
likely due to MUI’s positive relationship with B.J. Habibie, the first President after Reformasi.
Habibie was the founding chairmen of the Indonesian Association of Muslim Intellectuals
(Ikatan Cendekiawan Muslim Se-Indonesia or ICMI), established by Suharto in 1990 to appeal to
the growing Muslim middle class (Hefner 2000, ch. 6). ICMI and MUI had worked together on
successful projects during the New Order era (Porter 2002, 93) and this longstanding relationship
likely gave MUI a sense of organizational security. Therefore, during Habibie’s tenure in office,
MUI did not distance itself from the state. Instead, it continued to fulfill its role as a government
advocate. The organization issued several non-legal recommendations (tausiyah) and one fatwa
that supported Habibie when he faces controversy. These times include when he came under fire
for his reported involvement in the Bank Bali corruption scandal; when he decided to hold a
referendum on East Timor’s independence; and during his mismanagement of the communal
violence in Ambon (Ichwan 2005, 58-59). In short, MUI did not initially adapt to the shifting
institutional environment.
While MUI sought to maintain the status quo, their main competitors took advantage of
new political opportunities introduced by democratization. Two of the individuals that benefitted
from the transition were Gus Dur, the former chairman of NU, and Amien Rais, the former
chairman of Muhammadiyah. Rais was the founder of the National Mandate Party (Partai
Amanat Nasional or PAN), the Muhammadiyah-affiliated party. He also became the head of the
People’s Consultative Assembly (Majelis Permusyawaratan Rakyat or MPR), a position that
made him the kingmaker in the 1999 general elections. As kingmaker, Rais and others in his
coalition played an important role in Gus Dur’s election as President of Indonesia.
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The political prominence of both Gus Dur and Rais in the early democratic period was a
result of NU and Muhammadiyah’s electoral significance. It is important to note that during this
time, executive positions were not yet elected directly. Yet, Gus Dur’s and Rais’s positions as
heads of NU and Muhammadiyah, organizations with 50 million and 35 million members
respectively, were relevant to political calculations. Gus Dur’s national profile as the leader of
NU meant that he commanded the respect of large swaths of the population. He was
consequently a good compromise for the office of the President.
Gus Dur’s election to the office of the Presidency put MUI’s position at risk. Unlike
Habibie, Gus Dur was highly critical of MUI and his disapproval was widely known. For
example, he condemned MUI’s tausiyah on the 1999 general election at the 1998 Congress of the
Indonesian Umma—a meeting organized by MUI (Ichwan 2005, 61). Given his long-standing
opposition to the organization, it is perhaps unsurprising that the organization found itself in a
tenuous position. Soon after Gus Dur took office (20 October 1999), he threatened to take away a
portion of MUI’s funding (Hicks 2014, 9). Specifically, he stated that MUI should no longer be
financially dependent on the Ministry of Religious Affairs and also suggested that the
organization no longer work out of Istiqlal mosque, which operated on government funds
(Ichwan 2005, 62).
Gus Dur also rejected the validity of some MUI fatwas. The most threatening to MUI’s
patronage flows was Gus Dur’s undermining of the fatwa on halal food, which was passed on 16
December 2000 (Kobayashi 2002, 32). The controversy began when MUI’s Institute for the
Study of Food, Medicines and Cosmetics (Lembaga Pengkajian Pangan, Obat-Obatan dan
Kosmetika or LP-POM) discovered that the Indonesian subsidiary of Japanese company
Ajinomoto used a pig enzyme in the production process of bacto soytone, an ingredient in their
MSG products (Ibid). Although the final product did not contain any pork, MUI believed that the
use of pig enzymes in the production process put Ajinomoto in violation of their halal
certification (Ichwan 2005, 69). To address concerns, MUI issued a fatwa stating that the
consumption of Ajinomoto Indonesia’s MSG products was forbidden. The fatwa also stated that
any Muslim who had unknowingly consumed bacto soytone would not be held responsible due
to reasons of ignorance (Ibid).
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Gus Dur openly questioned the validity of the Ajinomoto fatwa. He did not agree that
Ajinomoto’s MSG products were haram, because the final product was free from pork
ingredients. Gus Dur’s spokesman, Wimar Witoelar, stated that “Wahid was concerned about
‘the proper administration of religious law’ and suspected that MUI had issued an ‘imperfect’
fatwa” (70). While the majority of Muslims sided with MUI’s interpretation of the Ajinomoto
scandal, Gus Dur’s open disdain for MUI’s religious authority was highly troubling for the
organization.
In addition to challenging the organization’s religious authority, Gus Dur’s critiques had
material implications for MUI. Since the founding of LP-POM in 1989, one of MUI’s main
sources of income was its halal certification program (Lindsey 2012, 262). Although halal
certification is not legally required, it is economically beneficial for companies to pay for
labeling given the size of Indonesia’s Muslim population. In fact, this revenue stream is widely
believed to be larger than the funds provided by the Ministry of Religious Affairs (Ibid). The
weight of MUI’s certification program, however, is undergirded by the authority accorded to its
fatwa (256). By criticizing the soundness of MUI’s halal food fatwa, Gus Dur was challenging
the system on which MUI’s lucrative empire was built.118
MUI’s confrontational relationship with the President highlighted the need for the
organization to shore up its legitimacy. They did so in three ways: 1) took measures to
distinguish themselves from the state; 2) shifted to the right to gain support from an
underrepresented constituency; and 3) protected its monopoly on fatwa issuance. MUI began this
process of reconstitution in 2000, when the leadership issued a new mandate at that year’s
National Congress.
The first step, distancing itself from the state, was an important step because MUI’s close
relationship with the state had long undermined its legitimacy. To signal its independence, an
article in the 2000 mandate explicitly characterized MUI as a “guide and servant of the ummah”
118 Gus Dur was not the only critic of MUI, though he was by far the most prominent. For example, noted Muslim intellectual Djohan Effendi has publicly questioned the legal authority of MUI (Ropi 2013, 225).
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(khadim al-ummah) (Ichwan 2013, 68).119 In addition to this new mission statement, the
President and the Minister of Religious Affairs were both removed from the organization’s
council (Ibid). Finally, as a symbolic act, MUI also moved their offices out of Istiqlal mosque
(68-69). Although MUI only moved to buildings owned by the Ministry of Religious Affairs,
moving out from the most important state-owned mosque served to communicate a new direction
for the organization.
By distancing itself from the state, however, MUI lost its basis of support. After all, the
organization was created as an intermediary between the government and other Islamic
organizations. By choosing to pursue autonomy, MUI weakened its source of organizational
legitimacy. It therefore had to find new supporters. To do so, MUI shifted towards greater
conservatism. This shift was signaled by the 2000 mandate. Two articles of the 2000 mandate
stated that MUI would act to “reform and revive Islam (islah wa tajchel) and would “enjoin good
and forbid evil (al-amr bi-l-ma’ruf wa al-nahy ‘an al-munkar)” (68). Ichwan (2013, 68), in his
analysis of the 2000 mandate, notes:
Islah and tajdid are terms from the agenda of religious reform associated with the puritan
Persatuan Islam (Persis) and Dewan Dakwah Islamiyah Indonesia (DDII) as well as the
modernist Muhammadiyah (but much less so with the NU). Enjoining good and
forbidding evil, finally, is a core concept of Islamic social morality and…has
connotations of enforcing the Shari’ah not by legislation but through various forms of
persuasion, including vigilante action.
In short, these articles were deliberately phrased to attract the support of conservative forces in
Indonesia.
Shifting towards conservatism was an effective strategy because it allowed MUI to gain
the support of a constituency that had been underrepresented during the authoritarian period. The
sudden inclusion and proliferation of conservative voices meant that there was a newly available
constituency for recruitment. These previously untethered groups could help increase the
119 This proclamation seemed to be a direct response to criticisms that MUI was a servant of the government (khadim al-hukumah) (Ichwan 2013, 68).
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organization’s legitimacy. Due to how established MUI was, many of these recently emerged
actors were eager to connect with MUI. Recruiting religious conservatives also had the added
benefit of forming a power base hostile to MUI’s critics. After all, those opposed to MUI (e.g.
Gus Dur, Djohan Effendi) were often associated with the more moderate and progressive
segments of the Indonesian Muslim community.
The last aspect of MUI’s efforts to redefine and reestablish the organization revolved
around fatwa production. Issuing fatwas was a key element of MUI’s organizational purpose and
were also tied to the organization’s primary income streams of halal certification and Islamic
banking. Unlike mass organizations like NU and Muhammadiyah, MUI does not serve any social
functions. It does not, for example, run schools and hospitals for the community. If MUI’s fatwas
did not hold weight, MUI would become organizationally redundant. Monopoly over fatwa
production was thus important for keeping the organization relevant and for securing its access to
material goods.
To protect its monopoly on fatwa production, MUI sought to enforce its authority over
this domain. The second article in the 2000 mandate asserts that MUI is the “fatwa giver” of the
Indonesian Muslim community (Ichwan 2005, 50). Over the next few years, MUI carried out
several initiatives to support this article and to make their edicts the authoritative point of
reference for contemporary questions on sharia law. In 2003, for example, the organization
dramatically restructured the fatwa production process to increase the organization’s flexibility
and responsiveness (Ichwan 2013, 69). By implementing these reforms, MUI was able to
increase its fatwa output across a wide range of issue areas. Fatwas issued during this period
included those on Islamic banking, terrorism, and pornography (MUI 2011). Many of these fatwa
served a dual purpose: increasing the organization’s visibility, but also signaling the
organization’s conservative stance on social issues to potential constituents.
It was in this context of rebuilding and reorganization that the Parung protests took place.
The Parung protests thus came at an opportune moment for MUI, as exploiting the threat would
help the organization’s new mission. First, issuing a fatwa on the Ahmadiyah would simply
increase the organization’s fatwa output, allowing MUI to demonstrate its continued relevance.
Second, the Parung demonstrations showed that there was a conservative constituency—the very
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constituency MUI was targeting—that was opposed to the Ahmadiyah sect. MUI leadership had
every reason to believe that the Ahmadiyah fatwa would be seen in a positive light by members
of the broader community, because previous fatwas on orthodoxy and orthopraxy had been
widely supported. Acting on the LPPI’s demands would not only help MUI attract the support of
conservative groups, it could also potentially increase its legitimacy in the eyes of the broader
Muslim community.
In light of incentives to exploit the Ahmadiyah threat that was initially made visible by
the LPPI, MUI issued a fatwa on the deviancy of the Ahmadiyah sect on 28 July 2005. It is
important to note that this fatwa was largely redundant. Arifin, a staffer at the fatwa commission,
admitted that the 2005 fatwa was nearly identical to its 1980 counterpart and the fatwa was
issued mainly for confirmatory purposes.120Arifin’s statement suggests that MUI did not have to
issue an altogether new fatwa. It could have, for example, issued a reminder of the contents of
the 1980 fatwa—a much more common practice. However, as discussed, issuing a new fatwa
helped MUI meet important goals that a simple reminder would not have achieved.
By reissuing a new fatwa, MUI raised the profile of the Ahmadiyah threat, making it
visible to a broader audience. In fact, many observers have argued that the 2005 Ahmadiyah
fatwa shaped how anti-Ahmadiyah mobilization unfolded in Indonesia (e.g. Ichwan 2013, 88).
Ghulam, an Ahmadi who suffered very serious injuries in the Cikeusik attack described in the
opening of this dissertation, argued that the violence was “catalyzed by the MUI fatwa.”121 This
sentiment seems to have become popular knowledge amongst the Ahmadiyah community,
echoed by several Ahmadi interviewees based in Bogor,122 Bandung,123 and Mataram.124 Non-
Ahmadi interviewees have also expressed this view. For example, a member of the FPI said that
although he already knew that the Ahmadiyah was a deviant sect, the fatwa was important
120 Arifin, MUI Fatwa Commission Secretariat. Interview by author, Jakarta, 19 September 2014. 121 Ghulam, Ahmadi victim of the Cikeusik Attack. Interview by author, Jakarta, 7 April 2014. 122 Asghar, JAI Indonesia leader. Interview by author, Parung, West Java, 10 March 2014. 123 Raslan and Bashir, JAI Bandung members. Interview by author, Bandung, West Java, 22 April 2014. 124 Amir, JAI Nusa Tenggara Barat member. Interview by author, Mataram, Lombok, Nusa Tenggara Barat, 2 June 2014.
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because it informed the broader community about the dangers of the sect.125 The interviewees
arguably overstate the impact of the fatwa—there is too much temporal and spatial distribution to
accord the fatwa that much weight. Still, it is difficult to deny that the fatwa did have a
significant impact on perceptions of the constitutive threat posed by the Ahmadiyah community.
MUI’s efforts to reestablish itself—including the organization’s instrumental use of the
Ahmadiyah issue—were largely successful. MUI has become “the most authoritative Muslim
institution in Indonesia in the field of fatwa production” (Hasyim 2011, 8 in Lindsey 2012, 256).
In fact, not only has MUI been able to retain its religious authority and its function in the
religious institutional environment, it has been able to make significant gains. President Susilo
Bambang Yudhoyono began to cultivate a close relationship with MUI in 2005 (Lindsey 2012,
258) and treated it as “an important political interest group” (Preston 2012, 172). Furthermore, a
number of fatwa have “regulatory status as a form of quasi-legislation (Lindsey 2012, 272).
These quasi-regulatory fatwa generally protect lucrative income streams, such as those that come
from halal certification and those from the pilgrimage (haj) (Ibid). The basis of the successes
listed above comes from “MUI’s public position as the most authoritative source of fatwa from
the government’s perspective” (Ibid). More recently, President Joko Widodo selected Ma’ruf
Amin, the Chairman of MUI, as his running mate in his 2019 re-election campaign. His choice
further emphasizes the gains made by MUI. The exploitation of the Ahmadiyah threat was
arguably an important step in MUI’s ability to retain and make gains on their position.
Conclusion
This chapter covers the period immediately preceding the upsurge of anti-Ahmadiyah
activity in Indonesia. I argue that the onset of democratization introduced limited incentives for
religious groups to exploit and amplify the Ahmadiyah threat to secure access to patronage. The
“first movers” in this process of amplification were the LPPI and MUI. The LPPI and their allies
drew attention to the visible ways that Ahmadis disrupted group coherence by protesting their
mosque and their religious celebrations. The LPPI’s claim was further amplified and confirmed
by MUI when they reissued a new fatwa categorizing the Ahmadiyah as a deviant sect. 125 Yazid, FPI member. Interview by author, Depok, West Java, 25 September 2014.
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By highlighting the utility of the Ahmadiyah threat, the LPPI and MUI took the first steps
in making the Ahmadiyah appear threatening to the Indonesian Muslim community as a whole,
priming the issue for later political use. Most importantly, the LPPI’s tactics would become an
exemplar for other hardliner groups—who would go on to carry out a significant portion of the
mobilization against Ahmadiyah communities.
However, it is important to emphasize that the LPPI and MUI only jumpstarted the
amplification process. A single transmission of a visible constitutive threat is not enough to
render a micro-sized group threatening to the larger ethnic, religious or national community. If
this were the case, then other micro-sized groups in Indonesia would have had parallel
experiences to the Ahmadiyah. Yet, groups like the Al-Qiyadah Al-Islamiyah (subject to a MUI
fatwa in 2007)126 or Lia Eden (attacked by the FPI for propagating deviant teachings)127 have
not experienced equal levels of mobilization as their Ahmadiyah counterparts. For a micro-sized
group to become a national threat, multiple actors must make the threat seem ever present and
difficult to deny. To understand the taking up of the Ahmadiyah issue by a wide range of
political actors, we must look at the process of decentralization.
126 “Fatwa MUI: Ajaran Al-Qiyadah Al-Islamiyah Sesat [MUI Fatwa: The Teachings of Al-Qiyadah Al-Islamiyah is Deviant],” Detik News, 4 October 2007, https://news.detik.com/berita/d-837953/fatwa-mui-ajaran-al-qiyadah-al-islamiyah-sesat, accessed 20 April 2018. 127 Fery Firmansyah, “FPI berencana serang markas Lia Eden [FPI plans to attack Lia Eden headquarters],” Tempo, 15 December 2008, https://metro.tempo.co/read/news/2008/12/15/057151033/fpi-berencana-serang-markas-lia-eden, accessed 20 March 2017.
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Chapter 6 Decentralization, Clientelism, and the Amplification of the
Ahmadiyah Threat
On August 10th 2010, around 200 men belonging to the FPI and GUIB staged a protest at
An-Nur mosque, the Ahmadiyah mosque in Surabaya, the capital city of East Java province. At
the mosque, one of the protestors scaled the fence and took down the mosque’s placard, which
identified the building as an Ahmadiyah mosque. The sign quickly became the target of
collective rage, trampled underneath the feet of the protestors. Satisfied, the crowd eventually
dispersed, carrying the mangled sign with them.128 While this protest would be the only
hardliner-led incident of mobilization in East Java, the fact that it took place at all is—at first
glance—puzzling. Mobilization by hardliner groups is comparatively rare in East Java (Pelletier
2019, ch. 7). Furthermore, as previously established, East Java’s Ahmadiyah communities had
historically been left alone, considered unthreatening due to their inward orientation. While their
public invisibility can explain why the period of instrumentalization was short-lived, it does not
explain why these efforts occurred in the first place.
The occurrence of anti-Ahmadiyah mobilization in East Java—and in other less expected
spaces—took place because the micro-sized group became seen as a threat to the Indonesian
Muslim community as a whole. This heightened sense of threat was a result of the amplification
efforts of political entrepreneurs since 2005. As I described in chapter 3, actors at the district
level carried out the majority of amplification efforts. By acting on the Ahmadiyah threat, these
district-level actors increased the resonance of the Ahmadiyah threat to members of the larger
Indonesian Muslim community.
The increased involvement of actors at the district-level in anti-Ahmadiyah activity is
attributable to changes in the institutional incentive structure. Reforms introduced as part of
128 "Massa FPI dan GUIB Surabaya Serang Masjid Ahmadiyah [FPI and GUIB Surabaya attack an Ahmadiyah Mosque]," Tempo, 10 August 2010, http://www.tempo.co/read/news/2010/08/10/180270279/Massa-FPI-dan-GUIB-, accessed 22 August 2017.
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Indonesia’s massive decentralization efforts made 1) politicians increasingly reliant on local
political networks; and 2) opened up opportunities for new political actors—like Islamic
hardliner groups—to increase their social status and gain access to new revenue streams. In areas
where Ahmadiyah communities posed a visible constitutive threat, these district-level actors
were newly incentivized to take advantage of the Ahmadiyah threat to fulfill their own interests.
Put together, these instances of political entrepreneurship shone a spotlight on the
constitutive threat posed by Indonesia’s Ahmadiyah community. As more Indonesian Muslims
were exposed to the Ahmadiyah threat, more entrepreneurs decided to try their luck on the issue.
While many of these entrepreneurs found the Ahmadiyah issue ineffective, depending on the
local presence of a visible constitutive threat, even these one-off attempts contributed to
escalating perceptions of threat at the national level. In short, once political entrepreneurs were
incentivized to amplify the Ahmadiyah threat, rates of mobilization and repression against the
sect began to multiply.
This chapter proceeds as follows. I begin with a general overview of why and how
decentralization reforms incentivized political entrepreneurship on the Ahmadiyah issue. I then
illustrate how these processes of political entrepreneurship unfolded in the cases of Tasikmalaya
and Bandung. I close with a comparison of how district level incidents of mobilization and
repression against Ahmadiyah communities were amplified through a comparison of East Java
and North Sumatra provinces.
Decentralization in Indonesia: New Incentives for Amplification
Decentralization was introduced in Indonesia as a way to rescue a state in crisis. At the
time of its introduction, Indonesia was recovering from the devastating Asian Financial Crisis
and facing a number of secessionist movements, including the independence of East Timor (now
Timor Leste). By bringing government closer to local communities, decentralization was seen as
a way to improve transparency and accountability and to maintain the territorial integrity of the
state through the provision of autonomy (Mietzner 2014, 45-46). The decentralization process
ultimately unfolded in two stages. In 1999, Law 22/1999 on Regional Government and Law
25/1999 on the Fiscal Balance between the Central Government and the Regions were passed.
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Taking effect in 2001, these two pieces of legislation moved the majority of political and fiscal
power from the hands of the national government to the district (kabupaten) or municipal (kota)
level.129
In 2004, the 1999 regulations were revised to clarify language around the role of the
provinces. These revisions also introduced pilkada (pemilihan kepala daerah langsung): direct
elections for local district heads (bupati at the kabupaten level and walikota at the kota level).
Under the previous system, local district heads were chosen by members of the local legislature
(DPRD Kabupaten/Kota). In the old system, bupatis and mayors did not have to rely on the
support of their constituents to gain or maintain power. Introducing direct elections was seen as a
way of bringing the electorate back into the competition, thereby promoting local accountability.
(Hadiz 2010, 77-80)
Fiscal devolution and the introduction of direct elections incentivized political
entrepreneurs to exploit and amplify the Ahmadiyah threat. For politicians, the new political and
fiscal powers increased the desirability of district-level government office. The wide range of
portfolios under the authority of district officials increased the office’s prestige. Perhaps more
importantly, by transferring significant fiscal authority to districts and municipalities,
decentralization increased the number of access points to state coffers and the amount available
for siphoning revenue streams (Hadiz 2004, 709-710).
The new prestige and rents associated with district political office increased political
competition at the district level. To quote Hadiz (2010, 95-96), “the new opportunities provided
by decentralization clearly make up the fuel for the often intense levels of conflict that surround
contests for control of key institutions of governance at the local level.” In short, the first phase
of decentralization transformed district level office into a key focal point of politics in Indonesia.
The introduction of pilkada in the second phase of decentralization meant that candidates
for bupati required the support of local constituencies to win access to these newly lucrative
posts. In contrast to the early democratic period, where a process of elite bargaining determined
who got to be bupati or mayor, it was no longer enough for candidates to have relationships with
129 For an overview of the decentralization process, see Hill (2014).
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other elites. Given the clientelistic nature of Indonesian politics, the 2004 electoral reforms
increased the political relevance of local networks and the brokers that could deliver them. As
Buehler (2009) shows in his study of two rural districts in South Sulawesi, the winning
candidates were those who had strong personal networks at the kecamatan level. The foci of
political campaigning moved even further to individualized local networks when electoral
reforms, introduced in 2008 and 2009 respectively, made it possible for candidates to run as
independents and introduced an open-list Proportional Representation (PR) system. The latter
reform led to greater intra-party competition for parliamentary seats, as candidates now have to
distinguish themselves from competitors inside and outside of their political party (Aspinall
2014b, 548-549).
The increased relevance of local networks and brokers in electoral competition increased
the political relevance of their concerns. Certainly, the exchange of patronage goods was a key
mechanism for obtaining support (Aspinall and Sukmajati 2016, Aspinall and Berenschot 2019).
Yet, vote buying often only acts as an “entry fee” in the process of campaigning. Political
support is given for reasons beyond material exchange, such as personal rapport or policy
promises.130 In areas where the Ahmadiyah threat was seen as credible by important local
constituencies, exploiting the Ahmadiyah issue was one way of obtaining political support from
these important bases.
Hardliner groups were also incentivized by decentralization reforms to exploit the
Ahmadiyah threat. More specifically, the devolution of fiscal powers and resources to the district
level meant an increase in the rents available at the local level. Two ways that new, emergent
actors could gain access to patronage resources in this new context were: 1) become a broker or
client themselves or 2) build alliances with other brokers to collectively bolster their electoral
130 Fuad, Member of West Java Legislature, Justice Party (PKS). Interview by author, Bandung, West Java, 15 June 2015. For example, scholars such as Aspinall (2014a) and Fossati (2017) have linked the proliferation of generous health care schemes at the local level to the changing incentives of democratization and decentralization. The implementation of these new welfare policies shows that there was an increased sensitivity to the demands and interests of local constituencies.
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significance.131 Either of these paths could raise one’s social status132 and open up new revenue
streams.
Mobilization is an effective strategy for seizing the opportunities afforded by
decentralization. After all, mobilization allows a group to make the size of their constituency
visible, displaying one’s electoral potential as a client and broker to possible patrons and
partners. Mobilization against particular causes can also help signal one’s interests, that can help
actors recruit likeminded individuals and build bridges with similar groups—a process that
Menchik (2014) calls ‘productive intolerance.’ Episodes of space claiming by Ahmadiyah
communities thus provide opportunities for political entrepreneurs—such as hardliner groups—
to display their following and signal their organizational purpose.
In short, the devolution of fiscal authority and resources to the district level and the new
requirements of political campaigning incentivized political entrepreneurship on the Ahmadiyah
issue. Due to these new incentives, members of the larger Indonesian community began to see
and experience the visible constitutive threat posed by Ahmadiyah communities across the
country. Using the cases of Tasikmalaya, Bandung, North Sumatra, and East Java, I illustrate
how these processes unfolded.
Tasikmalaya District, West Java
Tasikmalaya’s Ahmadiyah communities have experienced some of the highest levels of
legal repression and mobilization in the country. The district is frequently mentioned by
Ahmadis as a danger zone.133 Tasikmalaya’s Ahmadiyah community has not only been subjected
131 It is important to acknowledge that locally determined factors shape the extent to which actors will follow these two pathways to patronage. Individuals in a jurisdiction dominated by a single broker may, for example, find it more strategic to invest time into working their way up in that dominant network. Where power hierarchies are less settled, however, there may be more incentives for new political actors to make claims on patronage themselves or to form alliances with other brokers and networks. 132 Wilson (2014) argues, for example, that while members of the FPI were certainly driven by material concerns, membership was also driven by desires for recognition and social status. 133 E.g. Raslan, JAI Bandung member. Interview by author, Bandung, West Java, 9 September 2014; Ghulam, Ahmadi victim of the Cikeusik Attack. Interview by author, Jakarta, 7 April 2014.
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to regulations that have circumscribed their ability to worship, they have also been targets of
mobilization by political entrepreneurs. These features make the Tasikmalaya case representative
of cases with high levels of intolerance in Indonesia (e.g. Cianjur, Sukabumi, Bogor). Because
the Tasikmalaya district government was an early adopter of anti-Ahmadiyah legislation, the
case can also shed light on the factors driving the instrumentalization of the Ahmadiyah threat in
the first half of the period covered in this chapter.
As discussed in Chapters 4 and 5, Tasikmalaya’s local religious leaders and their
constituents have long perceived their Ahmadi neighbors as threatening due to the sect’s public
visibility. These trends of public visibility continued into the 2005-2013 period, with JAI
communities in Tasikmalaya continuing to mark public space through the building of mosques
and Islamic prayer rooms,134 and holding large religious ceremonies.135 Yet, the response to
these space-claiming activities was significantly different from those in the 20th Century and in
the early democratic period. While villagers in close proximity to Ahmadiyah communities
continued to organize against the sect,136 a wider set of political actors began to engage in the
issue.
Amongst the newly complicit were state actors at the kabupaten level, who began to
actively engage in religious repression. Notably, in 2005, Tatang Farhanul Hakim, the bupati of
Tasikmalaya, passed a joint decree (Surat Keputusan Bersama, SKB) in partnership with the
mayor of Tasikmalaya city and a number of other law enforcement bodies.137 This SKB banned
the sect from engaging in proselytization, thereby limiting the group’s religious freedoms.
Justified as a preventative measure to ensure public order, the law was passed after local leaders
134 Farid, JAI Tasikmalaya member. Interview by author, Tasikmalaya, West Java, 19 October 2014. 135 “Islamic Hardliners Attack Ahmadiyah Community for Koran Recital,” The Jakarta Globe, 5 May 2013. 136 Mansur, Sunni Imam of Mosque in Tenjowaringin, Tasikmalaya. Interview by author, Tasikmalaya, West Java, 18 October 2014. 137 Joint Decision of the Mayor of Tasikmalaya City, the Regent of Tasikmalaya District, the Attorney General, Kapolres and Kapolresta No 450/Kep 387-Kesra.2005; No 450/1324/Kesra 2708/0.2.17/Dsp.5/08/2005; Nopol B/844/VII/2005 Polresta; Nopol B/41/VII/2005 Polresta Banning the Dakwah Activities of Ahmadiyah in the City and Regency of Tasikmalaya.
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asked the government once more to address the Ahmadiyah threat, after MUI’s and LPPI’s 2005
actions served to confirm the sect’s threat to Sunni Muslims in Indonesia.138
A year into his second term, on 4 July 2007, Hakim passed a stronger decree that banned
all Ahmadiyah activities in the district.139 According to the preamble, the decree was issued due
to violations of the 2005 decree, specifically a conference held at Mahmud mosque in Badak
Paeh, Singaparna subdistrict on 21-22 April 2007 by the JAI. Contrary to the accusations leveled
against them, the conference had very little to do with proselytization. It was simply the yearly
regional meeting (musyawarah kerja daerah or mukerda) for JAI leaders in West Java to
coordinate and plan for the upcoming year (Mudzakkir 2017, 68). Ironically, the local police had
granted JAI Singaparna a permit on 16 April 2007 to hold the meeting.140
While the purpose of the event was not proselytization, the event made the constitutive
threat of the Ahmadiyah community visible. As a regional meeting, emissaries from JAI
branches from across West Java attended. Due to the size of Cipakat village, the presence of this
influx of visitors was noticeable. The gathering also involved celebrations, an element of the
meeting that encroached onto the public sphere. On 19 June 2007, in response to this visible
constitutive threat, a mob of people—made up of villagers and hardliner groups141—descended
upon Mahmud mosque in protest (Mudzakkir 2017, 68). According to a witness, the protests
specifically targeted signs and symbols that rendered the Ahmadi community unique:
There were dozens of people shouting in the front of the mosque, demanding that the Ahmadiyah be disbanded. The peak of the protests was the destruction of the name
138 Ibid. 139 Joint Decision of the Regent, the Attorney General, Kapolres and Kapolresta of Tasikmalaya No 450/174/KBL/2007; No 23/0.2.17/Dsp.5/07/2007; No B/488/VII/2007; Nopol B/25/VII/2007/Polres; Nopol B/716/VII/2007/polresta A Statement of Dissatisfaction and Warning Towards the Ahmadiyah in Tasikmalaya District. 140 A. Mubarik Ahmad, Ahmadi from Singaparna, Tasikmalaya. Interview by Kontras, Jakarta, 27 June 2007 https://www.kontras.org/pers/teks/Kronologi%20Peristiwa%20Penyerangan%20terhadap%20Ahmadiyah%20di%20Tasikmalaya%20.pdf, accessed 4 June 2018. 141 Specifically: the FPI, Brigade Tholiban, and the People’s Ethical Movement Against Corruption (Gerakan Etika Rakyat Anti-Korupsi, GERAK).
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plaque of Mahmud mosque. They trampled on the sign even though it had a confession of faith…on it. Without any hesitation and full of hatred, the crowd just stomped on it.142
A few days after the protest, the government of Tasikmalaya held a meeting to discuss the
protest and the protestors demands. Afterwards, the government issued the 2007 decree.
Given longstanding tensions between Ahmadiyah and Sunni communities in
Tasikmalaya, being responsive to Sunni concerns about the heterodox sect was a way to garner
support from key local networks. It is not a coincidence that Hakim passed the 2005 decree in the
run up to the first pilkada in Tasikmalaya district, which was scheduled for early January
2006.143 Exploiting and amplifying the longstanding Ahmadiyah threat was a way for Hakim to
gain the support of local networks that became politically relevant after the introduction of direct
elections. More specifically, Hakim—and other candidates for bupati—had to win the support of
Islamic boarding school (pesantren) networks (Sukmajati 2011, 83). In Tasikmalaya, pesantren
are the main sites of religious and social activity. In addition to their religious function, pesantren
provide a variety of services, such as the provision of health care (Kingsley 2014, 663) and small
business loans (Isbah 2016, 47).
Given the religious, social and economic significance of the pesantren, pesantren
networks—led and delivered by kyai—are politically important. Today, kyai are the primary
intermediaries between voters and politicians in Tasikmalaya (Sukmajati 2011, 83). It is
especially important to gain the support of the kyai and pesantren networks associated with
Miftahul Huda, Cipasung, and Suryalaya pesantrens (85). With 3000-5000 students and alumni,
these pesantren are the oldest and largest in the district. The kyai of these schools have large
spheres of influence and are able to deliver the votes of those under their direct religious
authority. They also often help with campaigning, as students are often directed to participate in
campaign-related events (Hicks 2014, 7). Winning the support of these important kyai is crucial
for winning political office. For example, a senior strategist of the PPP specializing in West Java
elections noted that the party has been able to dominate Tasikmalaya elections because of its 142 A. Mubarik Ahmad, Ahmadi from Singaparna, Tasikmalaya. Interview by Kontras, Jakarta, 27 June 2007. 143 Although direct elections were instituted in 2004, the first round of pilkada were staggered to give the election commission time to implement the reforms.
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ability to gain the support of key kyai in the district.144 Candidates for political office, therefore,
are incentivized to cater to the demands of the kyai of these schools.
A kyai of one of the abovementioned networks had clear anti-Ahmadiyah preferences.
Kyai Asep Maoshul Affandi of Pesantren Miftahul Huda saw the Ahmadiyah as a threat to group
coherence. At a gathering of kyais, Affandi stated, “Ahmadiyah are not Muslim because they
have a new prophet….if they want to be identified as Muslim, they have to first convert to
Islam.”145 Hakim, in particular, had strong incentives to cater to Kyai Affandi’s preferences in
the run-up to the 2006 elections. Affandi was an important broker to Hakim’s political party, the
PPP.146 Affandi would eventually become an important supporter of Hakim’s campaign for
second term, fashioning coalitions of support for Hakim and recruiting supporters (Rachman
2006, 115 in Buehler 2016, 170). In fact, it appears that the 2007 decree against the Ahmadiyah
was also a response to Affandi’s demands. The protest prompting the passing of the decree was
organized by Brigade Tholiban, a pesantren paramilitary organization founded by Affandi
(Mudzakkir 2017, 68). Given his loyalty to the PPP, Hakim had an incentive to respond to
Affandi’s demands. In addition to the importance of the political quid pro quo, political actors
also require kyai support throughout their time in office to implement governing initiatives.
It is important to recognize that Affandi was the most vehement opponent of the
Ahmadiyah amongst the three important networks. The kyais of Cipasung pesantren and
Suryalaya pesantren seemed to be more ambivalent on the issue. Nonetheless, members of
Cipasung’s board were actively involved in celebrations of the conversion of 700 Ahmadis to
Sunnism.147 While many of the converts made the choice freely,148 the involvement of the
144 Ali, Political strategist, PPP West Java. Interview by author, Bandung, West Java, 13 October 2014. 145KH Asep Maoshul Affandy: Ahmadiyah Bukan Islam [KH Asep Maoshul Affandy: Ahmadiyah are not Muslim]” Kuningan Mass, 10 August 2016, https://kuninganmass.com/government/kh-asep-maoshul-affandy-ahmadiyah-bukan-islam (accessed 2 January 2018). 146 In 2009, Affandi would successfully win a seat in the national legislature as a member of the PPP. 147 “Menag Beri Bantuan Eks Ahmadiyah Tasikmalaya [The Ministry of Religious Affairs Provide Aid to Ex-Ahmadis in Tasikmalaya],” Ministry of Religious Affairs, 2 September 2013, https://www2.kemenag.go.id/berita/155937/menag-beri-bantuan-eks-ahmadiyah-tasikmalaya?lang=id, accessed 28 January 2018.
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military in some of these cases have raised concerns about forced conversion (Crouch 2012b,
561). Therefore, while the ambivalence of these important intermediaries did not necessarily
incentivize political entrepreneurship on the Ahmadiyah issue, it would not precipitate a political
backlash.
Ultimately, Hakim won 43.74% of the vote share and therefore won a second term in
office. Although it is difficult to assess whether or not the anti-Ahmadiyah decree was in itself
the deciding factor in Hakim’s win, it was an important component of his strategy for winning
the support of several kyai. It seemed to be an important step in maintaining the support of Kyai
Affandi. In fact, several kyai from the Cipasung and Suryalaya networks would become
supporters of Hakim’s re-election. K.H. Sihabudin Muchsin of Pesantren Sukahideng—one of
the pesantren in the aforementioned networks (Mudzakkir 2017, 61)—staged a campaign event
in support of Hakim due to his Islamic credentials (Rachman 2006, 114-115 in Buehler 2016,
170).
Hardliner groups were also incentivized by decentralization reforms to exploit the
Ahmadiyah threat. There are many examples of hardliners carrying out anti-Ahmadiyah protests
in Tasikmalaya in response to space-claiming activities by the JAI. On 9 December 2010, for
example, the FPI protested an Ahmadi-run orphanage in Kawalu because of the activities hosted
at the building (Hasani and Naipospos 2010, 170). Another example took place on 5 May 2013,
when hundreds of hardliners attacked two villages in Tasikmalaya district. In the first incident,
400 hardliners from various branches of the FPI stormed the village of Sukamaju, where the JAI
was holding a Quran recitation contest in celebration of Muhammad’s birthday.149 The second
incident occurred approximately 25 kilometers away, where a separate group of 200 people
attacked an Ahmadiyah mosque in the village of Tenjowaringin. The protest was organized on
that day because the local Ahmadiyah community continued to hold their celebration of
148 Machfoed, Ex-Ahmadi from Tasikmalaya. Interview by author, Tasikmalaya, West Java, 18 October 2014. 149 “Islamic Hardliners Attack Ahmadiyah Community for Koran Recital,” The Jakarta Globe, 5 May 2013, http://www.theDKIJakartaglobe.com/news/islamic-hard-liners-attack-ahmadiyah-community-for-koran-recital/, accessed 6 June 2018.
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Muhammad’s birthday, even after the local government told them not to.150 The next day, in the
village of Sukasari, an Ahmadiyah mushollah was burned to the ground.151
Hardliner groups seized the opportunity to mobilize against Ahmadiyah communities
because the devolution of fiscal resources to the district level and the new requirements for
political campaigning opened up new opportunities for these groups. This was particularly true
due to the West Java context, where access to state patronage is quite open to contestation
(Pelletier 2019, 220). Through mobilization, less established actors like the FPI were able to
utilize the anti-Ahmadiyah threat to gain access to patronage and to work with other more
established brokers to bolster their public profile.
Mobilizing against the Ahmadiyah allowed hardliners to showcase their mobilization
capacity, the size of their constituency, and their interests. Through these actions, they were able
to show politicians why they were suitable clients and brokers and to signal to more established
brokers why they should be incorporated into pre-existing networks. The FPI, for example,
successfully built connections with Kyai Affandi, leading to the staging of a joint protest in May
2013 with Brigade Tholiban (Aripudin 2013, 336). Similarly, branches of the FPI quickly
became key constituencies for Tatang Farhanul Hakim when he ran for vice-governor in the
2013 gubernatorial elections (Buehler 2016, 170). Through these partnerships, the FPI were able
to access state patronage. In addition to simple vote buying—ubiquitous in district level elections
in Indonesia (Aspinall and Berenschot 2019)—members of hardliner groups have been able to
access positions in the religious bureaucracy. Like in other districts in Indonesia, members of the
FPI in Tasikmalaya have gained access to positions in the district’s FKUB and MUI (Hamayotsu
2017). Ex-Ahmadis in Tasikmalaya have also been recipients of funds from the Ministry of
Religious Affairs,152 due to their incorporation in FPI networks.153
150 Machfoed, Ex-Ahmadi from Tasikmalaya. Interview by author, Tasikmalaya, West Java, 18 October 2014. 151 "Mushala Ahmadiyah di Kampung Sukasari dibakar [Ahmadiyah Mushollah in Sukasari Village Burned Down]," Sindonews, 6 May 2013. 152 “Menag Beri Bantuan Eks Ahmadiyah Tasikmalaya [The Ministry of Religious Affairs Provides Aid to Ex-Ahmadis in Tasikmalaya],” Ministry of Religious Affairs, 2 September 2013, https://www2.kemenag.go.id/berita/155937/menag-beri-bantuan-eks-ahmadiyah-tasikmalaya?lang=idm accessed 28 January 2018.
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As this section shows, both state and non-state entrepreneurs in Tasikmalaya began to
exploit episodes of Ahmadi visibility due to incentives introduced by the fiscal devolution and
direct elections that accompanied decentralization. Ultimately, these anti-Ahmadiyah actions
made the Ahmadiyah threat more visible to the larger Indonesian Muslim community. Media
coverage of anti-Ahmadiyah incidents in Tasikmalaya shone a spotlight on the group,
highlighting the constitutive threat they posed to other Indonesian Muslims. Articles on anti-
Ahmadiyah legislation and protests in Tasikmalaya joined those being written about conflicts
unfolding elsewhere (e.g. the violence in Manis Lor, Kuningan), thereby further amplifying the
sense of threat. A conversation that I had with Hussein, a high-ranking member of the FPI living
in Depok, illustrates how the process of amplification influenced his own perceptions of the
Ahmadiyah threat and his subsequent participation in anti-Ahmadiyah protests.
When did you start acting on the Ahmadiyah issue?
In 2006, I think…we knew the Ahmadiyah was there for a long time, but they didn’t really have an impact in terms of their growth and their mission. So we didn’t really care. But they started to be aggressive, going to influential leaders, proselytizing…So we reacted.
When you say they were more aggressive, what do you mean?
Take for example the case of Salawu in Tasikmalaya…There has been a lot of growth in the village there. Once we investigated, we found out that they had tricked [the new converts]! Ahmadis said that they were Muslim, the same as other Muslims. [But] their principle teachings differ from Islam!...If they said, ‘We are the Ahmadiyah religion outside of Islam’—we would say, go ahead. But if they confess themselves to be Muslim but then go outside of the principles of Islam…That is what we cannot accept.154
Records of Ahmadiyah activity during the early democratic era show that the community did not
change their behavior and the group was not growing beyond birth rates.155 Hussein’s perception
153 Machfoed, Ex-Ahmadi from Tasikmalaya. Interview by author Tasikmalaya, West Java, 18 October 2014. 154 Husein, Member of FPI Leadership. Interview by author, Depok, West Java, 25 September 2014. 155 Rahim, "Sejarah Dan Perkembangan Jemaat Ahmadiyah Di Desa Tenjowaringin Kecamatan Salawu Kabupaten Tasikmalaya [the History and Development of the Ahmadiyah Community in Tenjowaringin, Salawu, Tasikmalaya]," Appendix.
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errors, however, demonstrate how political entrepreneurship made Ahmadis in Tasikmalaya
more visible and therefore more threatening. It also suggests that the reason why individuals
were so concerned about the Ahmadiyah was due to the way the sect unsettled Muslim group
boundaries.
Bandung, West Java
Bandung city’s Ahmadiyah community had a different experience than their counterparts
in Tasikmalaya. Although the city was subject to the same institutional reforms that incentivized
amplification in other cases, the Bandung government abstained from passing discriminatory
legislation against the Ahmadiyah community. Similarly, they were rarely targets of protests by
hardliner groups during this period. The growing visibility of the Ahmadiyah at the regional and
national level did lead political actors to consider entrepreneurship on the Ahmadiyah threat.
However, the (in)visibility of the Ahmadiyah community at the local level meant that these
efforts at amplification failed. Thus, attempts at entrepreneurship were quickly abandoned in
favour of other political issues.
Unlike their counterparts in Tasikmalaya, Bandung’s city government took a stance of
inaction on the Ahmadiyah issue. During his tenure in office (2003-2013), Rosada did not pass
legislation that circumscribed the rights of Bandung’s Ahmadiyah community. Perhaps most
interestingly, he did not even campaign on the issue during his re-election campaign in 2008, a
time when the Ahmadiyah issue had reached the national level due to rising episodes of anti-
Ahmadiyah mobilization. 156 National level debates culminated in the passage Joint Ministerial
Decree No.3/2008 on the Ahmadiyah, which placed limitations on public proselytization by the
sect, but was not an outright ban on its private activities (Badan Litbang dan Diklat Kementrian
Agama RI 2008). Rosada’s administration did eventually choose to selectively enforce
legislation that was passed at the provincial level in 2011 (Gubernatorial Decree No. 12/2011).
For example, while deploying forces to guard an Ahmadiyah celebration of Ramadan in 2013,
the police’s spokesperson noted that he had directed the Ahmadis to “avoid religious activities
156 Mahmoed, former Head of the Research Directorate of the Ministry of Religious Affairs. Interview by author, Jakarta, 3 April 2014.
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that were too ostentatious, such as using speakers and symbols that would provoke conflict.”157
That being said, unlike his counterparts in places like Cimahi (Crouch 2012b, 557) and
Pekanbaru,158 Rosada still abstained from acting on the Ahmadiyah issue. This strategy seemed
to be deliberate. When asked about the Ahmadiyah issue, a strategist for the Bandung office of
Golkar—the party of the then-mayor—noted that the party just chose not to engage with it.159
I argue that Rosada refrained from political entrepreneurship on the Ahmadiyah issue due
to the preferences of the leaders of the city’s most important networks. As an urban center, the
local networks of political importance in Bandung are different than Tasikmalaya’s. Certainly,
the most important networks were still shaped by Islamic identity due to a Muslim population of
over 90%.160 However, pesantren networks are not the only ones that matter.161 A political
strategist from the PPP lamented that his party was electorally unsuccessful in Bandung because
they could only get the support of pesantren networks.162 The more important religious
constituencies in the city are those that radiate from Bandung’s universities (particularly the
networks around the Bandung Institute of Technology (ITB)) and the major Islamic
organizations: NU, Muhammadiyah, and Persis.163 The more successful candidates and parties in
Bandung have been able to garner the support of these networks. For example, the most powerful
157 “Polisi Akan Pantau 4 Masjid Ahmadiyah di Bandung [Police will Guard 4 Ahmadiyah Mosques in Bandung],” Pikiran Rakywat, 8 July 2013, http://www.pikiran-rakyat.com/bandung-raya/2013/07/08/241916/polisi-akan-pantau-4-masjid-ahmadiyah-di-bandung, accessed 9 June 2018. 158 "Aktifitas Ahmadiyah di Pekanbaru dihentikan," Pekabaru Express, 4 October 2010, http://pekanbaruexpress.com/metropolis/metropolis/2599-aktifitas-ahmadiyah-di-pekanbaru-dihentikan, accessed 8 December 2016. 159 Ibnu, Political strategist, Golkar West Java. Interview by author, Bandung, West Java, 29 September 2014. Dada Rosada himself was not available for interview he was experiencing legal troubles for corruption during the period I was in the field. 160 “Jumlah Penduduk Berdasarkan Jenis Agama Tahun,” Office of Information and Documentation (PPID) Bandung City, https://ppid.bandung.go.id/knowledgebase/jumlah-penduduk-berdasarkan-jenis-agama/, accessed 28 December 2017. 161 Ani, Political Strategist for the Crescent Star Party (Partai Bulan Bintang, PBB). Interview by author, Bandung, West Java, 26 September 2014. 162 Ali, Political strategist, PPP West Java. Interview by author, Bandung, West Java, 13 October 2014. 163 Ibid.
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parties in Bandung—Golkar, Partai Demokrat, and PDI-P (Paskarina 2016, 205)—have
consistently been able to get the support of large mass organizations.164 Similarly, the
Prosperous Justice Party (PKS) has been the most successful Islamic party in the city because of
its hold on campus networks—particularly those emanating from ITB.165
The leaders of these important local networks—on the whole—did not have strong anti-
Ahmadiyah preferences due to the sect’s public invisibility. There were some exceptions. For
example, Maman Abdurrahman, the long-time head of Persis, was quite critical of Ahmadiyah
teachings. He defended the 1965 Blasphemy Law in 2010 (Menchik 2016, 65) and published a
book about the heresy of Ahmadiyah teachings in 2011 (Abdurrahman 2011). Yet,
Abdurrahman’s preferences diverged from those of other leading local figures. Brokers of the
most important campus networks in Bandung were, for example, ambivalent on the Ahmadiyah
issue. Anto, a professor at ITB and an important broker for the PKS at the city level, stated that
although he certainly believed that the teachings of the Ahmadiyah were heretical, it was not a
pressing issue in Bandung.166 A PKS politician, whose support came primarily from ITB’s
campus networks, made similar claims,167 suggesting that his constituents were not making
particular demands regarding the Ahmadiyah issue. The Bandung branches of Muhammadiyah
and NU similarly did not have strong anti-Ahmadiyah preferences and did not make any public
statements on the issue like their counterparts in other areas of Indonesia. In fact, at one point,
the leader of NU Bandung joined a group of other Muslim and non-Muslim religious leaders to
ask Rosada to reconsider passing anti-Ahmadiyah legislation in Bandung.168 The actions of the
Muhammadiyah and NU leadership suggest that the Bandung branches of these organizations did
not consider addressing the Ahmadiyah threat a priority.
164 Ibnu, Political strategiest, Golkar West Java. Interview by author, Bandung, West Java, 29 September 2014.
165 Fuad, Member of West Java Legislature, Justice Party (PKS). Interview by author, Bandung, West Java, 15 June 2015. 166 Anto, Broker for PKS. Interview by author, Bandung, West Java, 22 October 2014. 167 Fuad, Member of the West Java Legislature (PKS). Interview by author, Bandung, West Java, 15 June 168 Saeful, kyai and NU Leader. Interview by author, Bandung, West Java, 17 September 2014.
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The leaders of these networks generally did not consider the issue a high priority because
they did not see the group as threatening. The Ahmadiyah threat did not resonate with these
networks due to the JAI’s insular posture. While Bandung’s Ahmadis did occasionally celebrate
religious holdiays, the group did not have a significant public presence. They did not build or
renovate any mosques during this time,169 nor did they host the Ahmadiyah annual meeting.
While the Bandung branch did engage in proselytization activities, much of these efforts were in
Banjaran, located outside the city of Bandung itself.170 While the city’s religious elites disagreed
with Ahmadiyah beliefs, the group’s public invisibility meant that their threat levels were low.
As such, the instrumental value of the Ahmadiyah threat was low.
Hardliner groups in Bandung did more than consider entrepreneurship on the Ahmadiyah
issue, they utilized it twice during this time period. The first incident occurred on 15 January
2008, just a few months before the first pilkada. On this day, the Alliance of Muslims (Aliansi
Umat Islam, ALUMNI), a coalition of several hardliner groups from West Java, staged a protest
in front of Mubarak mosque, an Ahmadiyah mosque located in the city centre. The protestors
had two demands: that the mosque no longer be used as a house of worship and that the
government ban the Ahmadiyah sect. 171
The second incident took place a few years after the first protest, on 25 October 2012, the
eve of the religious holiday of Idul Adha. During this incident, the Bandung branch of the FPI
destroyed An-Nasir mosque. The incident occurred after the Ahmadi worshippers at An-Nasir
refused to comply with the demands of Muhammad Asep Abdurahman (“Utep”), a board
member of FPI Kota Bandung, who had asked the JAI to cancel their celebration. Two hours
after the Ahmadis refused, Utep returned with other members of the FPI and proceeded to
169 Bashir, JAI Bandung Leader. Interview by author, Bandung, West Java, 22 April 2014. 170 Raslan, Member of JAI Kota Bandung. Interview by author, Bandung, West Java, 9 September 2014. 171 "Kantornya 'Disegel, Ahmadiyah Bandung Serahkan pada Hukum [Their Office Closed, Bandung’s Ahmadiyah Community to Comply with the Law," Detik News, 15 January 2008, http://news.detik.com/read/2008/01/15/135810/879254/10/kantornya-disegel-ahmadiyah-bandung-serahkan-pada-hukum, accessed 18 June 2018.
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destroy the property until the Ahmadis fled the mosque.172 A few days after the vandalism, the
FPI staged a protest, demanding that Dada Rosada act against the Ahmadiyah who were
continuing to carry out activities in Bandung.173
Like their counterparts in Tasikmalaya, hardliner groups sought to leverage mobilization
on the Ahmadiyah issue to gain access to new revenue streams and to increase their patronage.
As in elsewhere in West Java, patronage streams in Bandung were open to contestation (Pelletier
2019, 220). Yet, hardliner groups soon moved away from the Ahmadiyah issue, choosing to
protest other religious minorities to gain access to patronage—whether as new clients or in
partnership with more established brokers in the area. For example, the FPI mobilized against 23
churches in Bandung from the fall of 2004 to the summer of 2005.174 More recently, in 2016,
Defenders of Ahlus Sunnah (PAS) protested the holding of a Christmas service at a large
convention centre in Bandung.175 Hardliner groups in Bandung also mobilized against the Shi’a
minority to prevent them from celebrating Ashura in 2013 (see Chapter 8).176
I argue that political entrepreneurship on the Ahmadiyah issue was ineffective for
hardliner groups in Bandung for at least two reasons. The inward orientation of Bandung’s 172 Hadi Suprapto, “Kronologi Penyerangan Masjid Ahmadiyah di Bandung [A Chronology of the Attack on the Ahmadi Mosque in Bandung], Viva News, 26 October 2012, https://www.viva.co.id/berita/nasional/362608-kronologi-penyerangan-masjid-ahmadiyah-di-bandung, accessed 19 June 2018. 173 Andrian Salam Wiyono, “Protes Ahmadiyah, FPI Blokir Jalan di Bandung [Protesting the Ahmadiyah, the FPI Blockade a Road in Bandung],” Merdeka, 8 November 2012, https://www.merdeka.com/peristiwa/protes-ahmadiyah-fpi-blokir-jalan-di-bandung.html, accessed 19 June 2018. 174 “Tutup 23 Gereja Di Bandung, Gus Dur Minta SBY Tindak FPI [23 Churches Closed in Bandung, Gus Dur asks SBY to Discipline FPI], Detik, 23 August 2005, https://news.detik.com/berita/d-427415/gus-dur-minta-sby-tindak-fpi-, accessed 13 June 2018. 175 Raja Eben Lumbanrau, “Alasan Ormas Keagamaan Menolak Kebaktian Natal di Bandung [Why Religious Organizations Rejected a Christmas Service in Bandung],” CNN Indonesia, 6 December 2016, https://www.cnnindonesia.com/nasional/20161206230052-20-177829/alasan-ormas-keagamaan-menolak-kebaktian-natal-di-bandung, accessed 15 July 2018. 176 Rio Kuswandi, "Warga Syiah Bandung Peringati Asyura di Tempat Sempit [Bandung’s Shi’a Honour Asyura in a Cramped Place]," 14 November 2013, Kompas, http://regional.kompas.com/read/2013/11/14/2300500/Warga.Syiah.Bandung.Peringati.Asyura.di.Tempat.Sempit, accessed 5 May 2018.
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Ahmadiyah community meant that there were few opportunities for emerging brokers to exploit
the threat through protesting. After all, JAI Bandung did not frequently hold religious
ceremonies in public and did not build new houses of worship. Relatedly, the public invisibility
of the group meant that important brokers in Bandung did not prioritize the issue. Consequently,
the Ahmadiyah issue was not an effective way to build bridges across networks.
Ultimately, hardliner groups like the FPI were better able to fulfill their interests by
opposing other minority groups. By seizing these opportunities, hardliner groups were able to
demonstrate to political candidates and other brokers the size of their constituency, their
mobilization capacity, and their interests. By doing so, they were able to gain entry into
important networks. For example, through their organization of anti-Shi’a mobilization, FUUI
has been able to build bridges with a number of high ranking religious leaders including Maman
Abdurrahman, head of Persis, and KH Ahmad Cholil Ridwan, a high ranking member of
MUI.177 Hardliner groups have also been able to successfully build relationships with
government agencies. Through these relationships, they have been invited to participate in
consultations and meetings, which are generally accompanied by honorariums. For example, the
leaders of FUUI and FPI Kota Bandung have led and participated in religious ceremonies for the
city’s police department.178
Overall, the absence of anti-Ahmadiyah repression and mobilization was rooted in the
inward orientation of JAI Bandung. Because Bandung’s Ahmadis did not engage in many space-
claiming activities, many of the city’s most important brokers did not consider the Ahmadiyah
issue a high priority. In fact, one was even an advocate for the community. The preferences of
Bandung’s most important religious brokers on the Ahmadiyah issue meant that there were few
incentives for politicians to pass discriminatory legislation against the sect. The inward
orientation of the JAI in Bandung also meant that there were few opportunities for emergent
177 Author’s fieldnotes from the Deklarasi Aliansi Nasional Anti Syiah in Buah Batu, Bandung, 20 April 2014. Both Abdurrahman and Ridwan were speakers at the seminar. 178 “Polrestabes Bandung Mengadakan Tablig Akabar Dengan Penceramah K.H. Athian Ali M D’Ai LC M.A [Bandung’s Police Department Hosts Sermon with Athian Ali],” Polrestabes Bandung, 8 June 2018, http://polrestabes-bandung.or.id/berita/kabar/polrestabes-bandung-mengadakan-tablig-akabar-dengan-penceramah-kh-athian-ali-m-dai-lc-ma, accessed 20 June 20, 2018.
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brokers to broadcast the threat. Consequently, emergent brokers deployed their organizational
resources to areas where opportunities to access patronage streams were higher. While the two
attempts at anti-Ahmadiyah entrepreneurship contributed to national level trends, they did not
contribute much to the aggregate total.
East Java Province
East Java is one of the very few cases in Indonesia where the government passed heavy
restrictions on the sect, but where legislation was not accompanied by anti-Ahmadiyah
mobilization by hardliner groups. In fact, this phenomenon was only replicated in other
provinces in the aftermath of the Cikeusik attack.179 The East Java case thus highlights how
amplification transformed the Ahmadiyah threat from a local threat to a regional one. As more
and more Indonesian Muslims began to experience the Ahmadiyah threat, incidents of
persecution multiplied.
The Governor of East Java, Soekarwo, issued decree number 188/94/KPTS/013/2011 on
February 28th, a mere three weeks after violence erupted in Cikeusik village, Banten province.180
While the decree was not a complete ban on Ahmadiyah activities, 181 it placed significant
restrictions on Ahmadiyah communities in the province. The legislation forbade Ahmadis from
“provoking and/or causing a disturbance to the safety and order of the people of East Java”
which meant that the group was not allowed to spread their teachings through audio, text, or
electronic media or to display JAI nameplates on buildings or anywhere else. The decree, to use
Bottomley’s (2014, 132) description, was a “ban of all the JAI’s public attributes [and]
identifiers.”
179 Author’s data. 180 East Java Governor’s Decree No. 188/94/KPTS/013/2011 on the Ban of Jemaat Ahmadiyah Indonesia (JAI) in East Java. 181 Fatkhurrohman Taufiq, “Ahmadiyah di Jawa Timur Tidak Dibubarkan [Ahmadiyah in East Java is not Disbanded],” Tempo, 28 February 2011, https://nasional.tempo.co/read/316592/ahmadiyah-di-jawa-timur-tidak-dibubarkan, accessed 26 June 2018.
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Soekarwo passed the law in response to the demands of NU, the most important political
constituency in East Java. As suggested by the discussion of NU in the Bandung case, it is an
organization of national political significance. However, it is particularly important in East Java,
as the region is the organization’s home base. As an umbrella organization, NU is comprised of
both formal and informal subsidiary groups, associations, and pesantren networks. These
constituent groups include the formal subsidiary groups of Muslimat (for older women), Ansor
(for younger men), and Pagarnusa (focused on martial arts). These various sub-groups are
deeply embedded in the province, having branches at the district-level, sub-district level, village-
level, and even mosque-level (Pelletier 2019, 201). Along the same lines, 84% of all pesantren in
East Java identify as NU, with 43% of them considered active members of the organization due
to their involvement in NU’s pesantren association, Rabithah Ma’ahid Islamiyah (RMI) (69).
Furthermore, due to NU’s leadership program (kaderisasi), men and women begin their
affiliation with NU at a young age (Lussier and Fish 2012, 78). A young man, for example,
would start as a member of Ikatan Pendidikan NU (IPNU), become a member of Ansor, and then
eventually work his way up the ranks in the formal NU organization.182 The fact that the
organization governs so many sub-groups means that most East Javanese have some connection
to NU.
The social and religious significance of NU and its affiliate organizations makes it the
most important political constituency in East Java. During legislative elections, for example,
candidates for political office will “rely above all upon the formal and informal networks that
make up the large NU family” (Rubaidi 2016, 275). During election season, candidates
commonly approach the leaders of NU groups like Ansor or Muslimat at the sub-district and
district level, as well as large NU-affiliated pesantren, to gain the political support of their
networks. For example, when running for a legislative seat in electoral district I (Madiun), a
candidate from the PPP approached the sub-district offices of Muslimat and Ansor; leaders in
NU’s district office; influential NU kyai; as well as teachers from the large martial arts schools in
the area (Hamdi 2016, 285-286). As suggested by the courting of brokers from martial arts
schools in Madiun, NU may not be the only brokers that are approached, nor are they the only
brokers that matter. However, NU networks are crucial for electoral success. 182 Anwar, GP Ansor Mojokerto member. Interview by author, Surabaya, East Java, 19 November 2014.
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It is clear that Soekarwo was highly cognizant of the importance of catering to NU
demands. When running for re-election in 2013, for example, he chose Saifullah Yusuf, an
important figure in NU circles, as a running mate.183 The pair also aggressively pursued electoral
support from NU-affiliated kyai in the run-up to the election.184 The pair’s targeting of the
pesantren vote was crucial to their victory.
The Gubernatorial decree on the Ahmadiyah was part of Soekarwo’s campaign strategy,
because NU leaders began perceiving the group as a threat as their visibility increased in other
parts of the country. At first glance, this outcome does not seem to align with the theory’s
predictions. As established in Chapters 4 and 5, Ahmadiyah communities in East Java were
mostly oriented away from public view and were not highly engaged in religious activities. The
theoretical expectations of my theory were, for the most part, fulfilled until 2011. JAI East Java’s
public invisibility meant that the group was not perceived as threatening. Residents living in
close proximity to Masjid Noer in Surabaya, for example, were unbothered by the Ahmadiyah
community.185 Furthermore, although religious elites in the province did not agree with
Ahmadiyah teachings, they also did not see the group as threats in need of management. Even in
2008, after the national government passed SKB No.3/2008 on the Ahmadiyah, the NU
leadership in East Java did not seem particularly concerned. When asked to comment on the
legislation, Hasyim Muzadi, the head of the NU board, said: “Responding to the Ahmadiyah is
the domain of the government. NU’s part is only to show them the right way. We cannot respond
to them with violence because we are all citizens of the same country.”186 Muzadi’s words
183 Arifin Nurul, “Pilgub Jatim, Pendamping Soekarwo dari NU [In the East Java Gubernatorial Elections, Soekarwo’s Running Mate is from NU],” Sindonews, 9 October 2012, https://daerah.sindonews.com/read/678157/23/pilgub-jatim-pendamping-soekarwo-dari-nu-1349748713, accessed 21 June 2018. 184 Agita Sukma Listyanti. “Jelang Pilgub, Soekarwo Intens Dekati Massa NU [In run up to election, Soekarwo campaigns to appeal to NU masses],” Tempo, 4 July 2013, https://nasional.tempo.co/read/493607/jelang-pilgub-soekarwo-intens-dekati-massa-nu, accessed 21 June 2018. 185 Suwiji Ahmad, Leader of JAI Surabaya, 2001-2004. Interview by Abdul Haq Mubasyir, Surabaya, 27 February 2004. See appendix of Mubasyir (2004) for interview transcript. 186 “NU: Pelarangan Ahmadiyah Itu Domain Pemerintah [NU: The Ban is the Jurisdiction of the Government],” Detik News, 26 April 2008, https://news.detik.com/berita/d-929974/nu--pelarangan-ahmadiyah-itu-domain-pemerintah, accessed 7 June 2018.
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suggest that he did not see the Ahmadis as constitutive threats, nor did he articulate a need for a
strong solution to the Ahmadiyah “problem.”
The perception of the NU leadership dramatically shifted after the 2011 Cikeusik attack.
Although the incident occurred outside of the province, the event seemed to be the tipping point
for threat perception. Video coverage of the mob killing and injuring Ahmadis went viral. This
video not only amplified the Ahmadiyah threat, it highlighted just how far individuals were
willing to go to address it. While the eruption of violence against Ahmadis was commonplace,
violence was generally low-intensity in nature (Hamayotsu 2013). While still undeniably
traumatic for those who experienced it,187 violence was largely limited to the destruction of
property and physical injuries tended not to be life threatening. The Cikeusik incident was the
first attack in the 2005-2013 period that resulted in a fatality.188 In fact, it resulted in three deaths
and six serious injuries (Burhani 2013, 297)—all of which were widely broadcasted.
For religious elites in East Java, the Cikeusik violence cemented the threatening nature of
Ahmadiyah communities despite the inward orientation of JAI branches in East Java. The
sustained visibility of the group at the national level meant that they had become a threat to the
Muslim community as a whole. The Cikeusik attack sparked almost immediate debate in NU
branches across East Java. On February 9th, just three days after the attack, the district branch of
NU (Pengurus Cabang NU, PCNU) in Malang organized a meeting on the Ahmadiyah issue. In
a post-meeting statement, board member Abdul Mudjib Sadzili asked Ahmadis in Malang to “not
provoke conflict” and asked the Malang people to not address the Ahmadiyah problem
themselves. 189 Although Sadzili noted that the presence of Malang’s Ahmadiyah population had
187 Several Ahmadi respondents who were targeted by hardliners displayed signs of emotional distress when speaking about their experiences. 188 Author’s data. The last recorded fatality before the Cikeusik incident took place in June 2001, when a man was killed in an attack in Lombok. See “Dan Ahmadiyah Pun Diusir [Even the Ahmadiyah are Expelled],” Gamma, 11-17 July 2001, pg. 39. 189 “NU antisipasi konflik antar umat beragama terjada di Malang [NU anticipates interreligious conflict in Malang],” Detik news, 9 February 2011, https://news.detik.com/berita-jawa-timur/d-1567617/nu-antisipasi-konflik-antar-umat-beragama-terjadi-di-malang, accessed 17 August 2017.
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not posed problems before, the occurrence in Cikeusik showcased their potential threat to
Malang.190
The NU leadership at the provincial level soon followed. The East Java branch of NU
(Pengurus Wilayah NU, PWNU) made a public statement endorsing a ban on Ahmadiyah
activities on February 21st.191 In this statement, the Secretary of the PWNU board said the
following: “We support the SKB passed by the Ministry of Religious Affairs, the Ministry of
Home Affairs and the Attorney General because it is a ban on the Ahmadiyah. The Ahmadiyah
are banned from carrying out activities and spreading teachings that are considered deviant.”192
In contrast to the 2008 statement, which was more lukewarm in tone, the 2011 statement took a
position of strong support towards the SKB. In a later statement, the PWNU East Java also
advocated for the strict enforcement of anti-Ahmadiyah legislation.193 They further stated that
they would be increasing their efforts to proselytize to the Ahmadiyah community, particularly to
those who did not have a true understanding of the teachings of Islam.194
Given the political significance of NU networks, Soekarwo was highly incentivized to
pass anti-Ahmadiyah legislation once PWNU East Java signaled their preferences. The NU
statement did not, of course, mean that the organization in its entirety saw the Ahmadiyah as a
threat or that all NU brokers would support Soekarwo in his re-election campaign. However, it
was a clear opportunity for Soekarwo to demonstrate his responsiveness to NU demands, his
willingness to work with the organization, and how attuned he was to their interests.
190 Ibid. 191 “NU Jatim Dukung Pembekuan Kegiatan Ahmadiyah [East Java NU supports the ban on Ahmadiyah activity],” Republika, 21 February 2011, http://nasional.republika.co.id/berita/breaking-news/nasional/11/02/21/165274-nu-jatim-dukung-pembekuan-kegiatan-ahmadiyah, accessed 17 August 2017. 192 Ibid. 193 “Kalangan NU Desak Pemerintah Tegas Sikapi Ahmadiyah [NU Circles Push The Government to Strictly Deal With Ahmadiyah],” Investor Daily, 8 March 2011, http://id.beritasatu.com/home/kalangan-nu-desak-pemerintah-tegas-sikapi-ahmadiyah/7220, accessed 25 June 2018. 194 “NU Jatim Tingkatkan Intensitas Dakwah Hadapi Ahmadiyah [NU East Java Increases Intensity of Missionizing Efforts Towards the Ahmadiyah],” NU, 1 March 2011, http://www.nu.or.id/post/read/27085/nu-jatim-tingkatkan-intensitas-dakwah-hadapi-ahmadiyah, accessed 26 June 2018.
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Consequently, just mere days after PWNU East Java issued a public statement in support of a
ban on the Ahmadiyah (February 28th), decree 188/94/KPTS/013/2011 was passed.
The actions taken by religious constituencies in East Java and the responsiveness of the
state highlights how amplification transformed the Ahmadiyah threat from a local one to a
regional one. Still, local-level (in)visibility did shape the absence of state intervention on the
Ahmadiyah issue after the gubernatorial decree was passed. Indeed, after Governor Soekarwo
limited Ahmadiyah activities in the province, JAI branches across East Java further reduced their
public profile. The day the gubernatorial decree was issued, Ahmadis across the province
removed all identifying symbols from their mosques.195 Some branches took additional steps.
JAI Madiun, for example, removed all pictures of their Caliph and stopped projecting
Ahmadiyah television programs in the mosque during daily prayers.196 Along the same lines,
during his visit to Surabaya’s Masjid Noer, Bottomley (2014, 152) observed that:
[T]here were no signs on the exterior to indicate that it was a mosque associated with the Ahmadiyah…The only indication of religious activities visible from the alleyway entrance [was] a simple hand painted banner indicating that this building was indeed a Muslim place of worship.197
The retreat inward—eliminating any concerns about non-compliance with the legislation—
assuaged the concerns of NU elites. There was thus little reason for state actors to intervene on
the issue once more.
As described in the opening narrative of this chapter, hardliner groups in East Java did
seek to instrumentalize the Ahmadiyah issue in August 2010, protesting Masjid Noer and
195 “Papan Nama Pusat Kegiatan Ahmadiyah Jatim Dicopot [Name Placard Removed from Ahmadiyah Centres in East Java],” Detiknews, 28 August 2011, https://news.detik.com/surabaya/read/2011/02/28/174700/1581502/466/papan-nama-pusat-kegiatan-ahmadiyah-jatim-dicopot, accessed 8 September 2013. 196 Ishomuddin. “Ahmadiyah Madiun Hentikan Akses Siaran Televisi Internasional [Madiun’s Ahmadiyah Stop Access to International Television Broadcasts],” Tempo, 3 March 2011, https://nasional.tempo.co/read/317416/ahmadiyah-madiun-hentikan-akses-siaran-televisi-internasional, accessed 29 June 2018. 197 I was unable to visit Masjid Noer while I conducted fieldwork in Surabaya in 2014 because the mosque was under renovation.
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collectively vandalizing the mosque’s placard.198 Yet, this appears to be the only anti-Ahmadiyah
protest to be staged in East Java. Hardliner groups like the FPI eventually chose to mobilize on
other issues of “vice” and against other minority groups. For example, in September 2010,
dozens of people from the Association of Surabaya Islamic Youth Forces (Himpunan Angkatan
Pemuda Islam Surabaya, HAPIS) staged a protest at a hotel known for being a common site of
sex work (Wahid Institute 2010, 196). In March 2010, FUI East Java carried out protests against
LGBTIQ organizations in Surabaya (Wahid Institute 2010, 152-153). In 2016, the FPI mobilized
against the public placement of Christmas symbols, which they argued was a violation of the
MUI fatwa on Christmas.199
It is important to acknowledge that the incentive structure in East Java was less available
for contestation compared to the cases of Bandung and Tasikmalaya. As Pelletier (2019)
convincingly argues, NU’s dominance means that patronage positions are largely allocated
through membership in the organization. For example, high-ranking members of NU solely
occupy positions on the board of MUI East Java.200 Consequently, there are less incentives for
political actors to make patronage claims outside of NU. However, although institutional
structures did incentivize less political entrepreneurship by hardliner groups, they did still utilize
mobilization to increase their status and build bridges with other brokers and organizations. This
was especially the case before 2011, the year the FPI changed their strategies due to opposition
by NU (Pelletier 2019, 200). When hardliner groups did use mobilization, why did they not
exploit the Ahmadiyah threat further?
Hardliner groups in East Java did not further exploit and broadcast the Ahmadiyah threat
due to the inward orientation of JAI communities in the area. Ahmadiyah communities in East
Java were responsive to demands to reduce their public visibility, thus reducing opportunities for
198 "Massa FPI dan GUIB Surabaya Serang Masjid Ahmadiyah [FPI and GUIB Surabaya attack an Ahmadiyah Mosque]," Tempo, 10 August 2010, http://www.tempo.co/read/news/2010/08/10/180270279/Massa-FPI-dan-GUIB-, accessed 22 August 2017. 199 Heyder Affan, “Mengapa aksi FPI merazia atribut parayaan Natal ‘harus dilarang?’ [Why the FPI say Christmas Symbols ‘have to be stopped’],” BBC Indonesia, 20 December 2016, https://www.bbc.com/indonesia/indonesia-38369598, accessed 8 March 2019. 200 Cholil, MUI Jatim Board member. Interview by author, Surabaya, East Java, 5 November 2014.
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amplification. For example, after the FPI and GUIB carried their mosque placard away, it was
not replaced. Even the times where Ahmadis in East Java did carry out space-claiming activity,
the public veneer of group coherence was quickly restored. For example, the Ahmadiyah mosque
in Gempolan village, Tulungagung district was vandalized when a protest briefly turned violent.
Residents had been angered by the visit of an Ahmadi speaker from JAI headquarters in Parung,
which they considered to be a violation of an agreement that the community would stop
practicing.201 Soon after the incident took place, the JAI decided to close down the mosque,
thereby turning inward.202 In short, even at a time where the Ahmadiyah threat was nationally
visible, their general posture of invisibility meant that there were few opportunities for
entrepreneurship.
In sum, the East Java case illustrates how the sustained amplification of a visible
constitutive threat can lead to the multiplication of incidents against micro-sized groups. This
sense of threat can be exploited by political entrepreneurs to meet their own interests. Yet, even
when the threat was highly resonant at the national level, the visibility of local Ahmadiyah
communities remained influential. The general posture of reluctant compliance to the demands
of both state and non-state actors meant that levels of perceived threat in East Java were quickly
de-escalated. As a consequence, the period of instrumentalization was short lived.
North Sumatra Province
Due to the history of state intervention on the Ahmadiyah issue, it would have been
unsurprising if political entrepreneurs exploited the Ahmadiyah issue. However, even at the
height of anti-Ahmadiyah activity in Indonesia, political entrepreneurs in the province generally 201 “Sekelompok Warga Rusak Masjid Ahmadiyah di Tulungagung [A Group of Residents Destroy an Ahmadi Mosque in Tulungagung],” Republika, 17 May 2013, https://www.republika.co.id/berita/dunia-islam/islam-nusantara/13/05/17/mmxlhq-sekelompok-warga-rusak-masjid-ahmadiyah-di-tulungagung, accessed 28 June 2018; Solichan Arif, “Masjid Ahmadiyah di Tulungagung Dirusak Massa [Ahmadi Mosque in Tulungagung Vandalized by the Masses],” Okezone, 17 May 2013, https://news.okezone.com/read/2013/05/17/521/808540/masjid-ahmadiyah-di-tulungagung-dirusak-massa, accessed 2 July 2018.
202 “Masjid Ahmadiyah Tulungagung Ditutup [Ahmadiyah Mosque in Tulungagung Closed],” KBR, 20 May 2013, https://kbr.id/nusantara/05-2013/masjid_ahmadiyah_tulungagung_ditutup/54469.html, accessed 17 May 2019.
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refrained from acting on the issue. If the East Java case illustrates how the sustained
amplification of a visible constitutive threat can lead to the multiplication of incidents against
micro-sized groups, the North Sumatra case illustrates how regional structures and local context
can mitigate the amplification of threat. Even when the threat was highly resonant at the national
level, the invisibility of local Ahmadiyah communities still mattered.
Unlike their counterparts in East Java and West Sumatra, neither Syamsul Arifin (2008-
2011) or Gatot Pujo Nugroho (2011-2015) chose to pass legislation banning the sect—even as
the Ahmadiyah threat continued to grow at the national level. Why did these political actors
abstain from banning or restricting Ahmadiyah activities in North Sumatra? I argue that this
choice was due to a combination of two factors. First, while still highly relevant, religious
constituencies only formed a sub-section of the most important networks in North Sumatra. As a
result, the Ahmadiyah threat was only potentially meaningful to a segment of politically relevant
brokers. Second, the inward orientation of Ahmadiyah communities in North Sumatra meant that
these religious constituencies were largely ambivalent on the Ahmadiyah threat, especially given
other constitutive threats the community was facing.
It is important to acknowledge that North Sumatra’s political landscape is exceptionally
complex and heterogeneous. Compared to East Java, whose politicians are predominantly
dependent on NU networks, political networks in North Sumatra can be divided into three
categories: 1) ethnic associations (paguyaban); 2) protection gangs; and 3) religious
organizations. The first group, ethnic associations, is politically important due to the high levels
of ethnic diversity in North Sumatra (Suryadinata, Arifin, and Ananta 2003). Ethnic associations
are an important part of social and organizational life in North Sumatra. They promote ethnic
culture, maintain adat (customary) institutions, organize social activities and arrange community
work (Aspinall, Dettman, and Warburton 2011, 32). Their importance means that candidates will
court leaders of important ethnic associations to obtain the support of these constituencies. Non-
Muslim candidates in particular focus electoral strategies on ethnic associations to gain the
support of their co-ethnics, even if they do not share a religious identity (Damanik 2016, 77).
Protection gangs (preman), “non-state organizations that employ coercion to provide
physical protection and have some significant involvement in illicit activities” (Tajima 2018,
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1101), are also politically relevant. Groups such as Pemuda Pancasila (Pancasila Youth, PP) and
Ikatan Pemuda Karya (Work Service Youth Association, IPK) are powerful due to their hold on
the economic sector.203 In addition to their ability to use illicit funds to back political campaigns,
these gangs are able to mobilize their extensive membership for campaign rallies (Chong 2015,
498). As a result, politicians will often seek their support. For example, city politicians (e.g. the
leader of the PDI-P faction in the Medan city council, Hasyim SE) have been guests at PP
meetings.204 At least part of the reason why some local networks were unbothered by the
Ahmadiyah issue was because the micro-sized group was not seen to pose a constitutive threat to
constituencies in these two categories.
Despite the presence of other important networks, Islamic networks still remain
electorally significant in North Sumatra, as Muslims do form a majority. They make up about
two thirds of the provincial population, at a little over 60% (Suryadinata, Arifin, and Ananta
2003). As a result, Muslim candidates for office will still emphasize their religious identity in
political campaigning and seek support from the leaders of religious networks. The importance
of religious identity has been identified at the district, municipal (Aspinall, Dettman, and
Warburton 2011, Damanik 2016) and provincial levels (Pasaribu and Prayogi 2018).
The most important religious networks in North Sumatra emanate from the Islamic mass
organizations and MUI. The most dominant mass association is Al-Washliyah, a traditionalist
organization with a theological posture similar to NU.205 While precise membership numbers are
not available, over two thirds of North Sumatra’s Muslims are affiliated with the organization.206
While there is a rather large minority of Muslims who are a part of Muhammadiyah, the
modernist organization founded on Java, it is the Al Washliyah networks that are politically
203 Suhut, NGO Worker. Interview by author, Medan, North Sumatra, 30 April 2014. 204 Irvan Sugito. “Sesepuh dan Tokoh PP Sumut Gelar Silaturahmi [Leadership of PP North Sumatra Host Gathering],” Medan Bisnis Daily, 4 April 2016, http://www.medanbisnisdaily.com/news/read/2016/04/04/226005/sesepuh-dan-tokoh-pp-sumut-gelar-silaturahmi/, accessed 8 July 2018. 205 Riffandy, Al Washliyah Leader. Interview by author, Medan, North Sumatra, 8 July 2015. 206 Zain, MUI North Sumatra Board Member. Interview by author, Medan, North Sumatra, 11 December 2014.
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important. In the 2014 national legislative elections, for example, the Muslim candidates who
won the seats came from, and were supported by, Al Washliyah networks.207 Leaders from MUI
also exert political influence. For example, several religious leaders associated with MUI were
involved in the 2010 mayoral election in Medan. Specifically, Mohammad Hatta, the chair of
MUI Medan, was a strong advocate for the Muslim candidates, particularly in the second round
(Aspinall, Dettman, and Warburton 2011, 47-48).
Due to the historical willingness of the state to intervene in the Ahmadiyah issue and the
national political context, politicians could have easily sought to instrumentalize the Ahmadiyah
threat. Yet, while religious leaders and organizations had taken strong stances against the
Ahmadiyah community in the past, this was not the case during the 2005-2013 period. A board
member of Al-Washliyah noted that while the Ahmadiyah did go against central tenets of the
faith, there was no conflict in Medan so there was no need for a ban.208 MUI leaders located in
Medan also did not seem particularly bothered by the Ahmadiyah community in the city. When
asked about the Ahmadiyah issue, my conversation with Zain, a member of the North Sumatra
MUI board, went as follows:
It seems like a lot of MUI branches elsewhere are afraid of Ahmadiyah. What is it like here?
It’s not really like that here. There are Ahmadiyah here, but they have not grown. They only have one mosque and they do not bother us. Why should we bother them?
Do they proselytize? Just amongst themselves. So it’s always safe. There has never been an incident against Ahmadiyah. Never. Why is that?
Because they do not bother us! Why do we have to bother them?209
The conversation I had with Zain suggests that the leaders of politically important organizations
did not see the Ahmadiyah issue as a problem due to the group’s inward orientation. As
discussed in Chapter 4, JAI North Sumatra branches did not engage in much space claiming
207 Lubis, University Administrator. Interview by author, Medan, North Sumatra, 10 December 2014. 208 Riffandy, Al Washliyah Leader. Interview by author, Medan, North Sumatra, 8 July 2015. 209 Zain, MUI North Sumatra Board Member. Interview by author, Medan, 11 December 2014.
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activities in the democratic era—a product of the legal dispute of 1991. By practicing away from
public view, Muslim elites did not see Ahmadis as threats in need of management.
The question still remains why seeing the space-claiming activities that Ahmadis engaged
in elsewhere in Indonesia was perceived as a threat to the NU leadership in East Java, but not to
Muslim leaders in North Sumatra. It is here that local context mattered. Conversations with the
leaders of provincial-level organizations revealed that they were facing another visible
constitutive threat. This constitutive threat was not a heterodox group, but the tearing down of
mosques—particularly in Medan—by corporate and government actors.210 One prominent
example involved Al-Ikhlas Mosque in Medan. In this case, the Indonesian government wanted
to tear down and move the mosque in order to expand a military base.211 As a site of communal
religious practice and the building of social bonds, this demolition plan was seen as an attack on
the Muslim community in Medan. Such attacks were of greater concern to the Muslim leaders
that I interviewed in Medan.212 The ongoing conflict around mosques in North Sumatra and the
general orientation of invisibility of JAI North Sumatra worked together to reduce the resonance
of the Ahmadiyah threat. Even when the threat was highly resonant at the national level, local
patterns of space-claiming still mattered.
The public invisibility of the Ahmadiyah community also shaped entrepreneurship efforts
by hardliner groups. Like their counterparts elsewhere, hardliner groups in North Sumatra
attempted to utilize the Ahmadiyah issue twice to fulfill their own interests. The first episode
involved the North Sumatra branch of the FPI and occurred on 8 August 2008. The group
demanded that the North Sumatra provincial government disband the sect because Ahmadis
210 “Ada Tiga Masjid Lagi di Medan Bakal Digusur [Another Three Mosques in Medan Will Be Evicted],” Republika, 21 June 2011, https://www.republika.co.id/berita/dunia-islam/islam-nusantara/11/06/21/ln4hzz-ada-tiga-masjid-lagi-di-medan-bakal-digusur, accessed 18 May 2019. 211 Ishmael, Caretaker of Al-Ikhlas Mosque. Interview by author, Medan, North Sumatra, 16 December 2014. 212 Author’s Fieldnotes, 17 December 2014.
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would “break down” Islam in Indonesia.213 The second protest took place on 18 February 2011,
just days after the Cikeusik incident. The protest targeted the mayoral office specifically, with
hundreds of people from FPI Medan demanding that the Ahmadiyah community be
disbanded.214
Like their counterparts in Bandung and Tasikmalaya, hardliner groups sought to use
mobilization on the Ahmadiyah issue to gain access to new revenue streams. The complex and
fragmented nature of the political landscape meant that there were opportunities for emergent
political actors to become clients or to partner with intermediaries of more established networks.
Unsurprisingly, then, the number of emergent brokers in North Sumatra has proliferated. For
example, the number of ethnic associations in North Sumatra has increased rapidly since
Reformasi (Damanik 2016, 72). Yet, hardliner groups soon moved away from the Ahmadiyah
issue, choosing to protest other religious minorities or corporations.
Hardliner groups quickly moved on from entrepreneurship efforts on the Ahmadiyah
threat for at least two reasons. The public invisibility of the Ahmadiyah community in North
Sumatra meant that there were few opportunities for emerging brokers to exploit the threat.
Relatedly, as discussed above, the public invisibility of the group meant that important brokers in
North Sumatra did not prioritize the issue. Mobilizing on the Ahmadiyah issue would therefore
not be the most useful strategy for building bridges with other networks to gain greater access to
patronage streams.
Ultimately, hardliner groups in Medan were better able to leverage their opposition to
development deals and the displacement of mosques by corporations. One of these instances
involved the abovementioned conflict around Al-Ikhlas Mosque. Several hardliner groups
mobilized against the displacement of the mosque. Timsar Zubir, the head of the North Sumatra
branch of FUI, argued that tearing down the mosque was an offense towards a holy symbol of 213 “FPI Sumut Demo Desak Pembubaran Ahmadiyah [FPI North Sumatra Protest in Demand of the Disbandment of the Ahmadiyah],” Detiknews, 8 August 2008, https://news.detik.com/berita/d-985377/fpi-sumut-demo-desak-pembubaran-ahmadiyah--, accessed 9 July 2018. 214 “FPI Medan Minta Ahmadiyah Dibubarkan [FPI Medan Demands Ahmadiyah Be Disbanded],” Liputan 6, 18 February 2011, https://www.liputan6.com/news/read/320941/fpi-medan-minta-ahmadiyah-dibubarkan, accessed 9 July 2018.
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Islam.215 FUI, in coordination with a wide range of Islamic groups such as the FPI and HTI,
mobilized against the government.216 Their efforts allowed them to form alliances with a number
of established religious organizations and political parties, including Muhammadiyah, MUI Kota
Medan, MUI North Sumatra, PPP Medan, and more.217
Overall, the amplification process did not lead to the uptake of the Ahmadiyah issue in
North Sumatra. I have argued that their restraint was driven by a combination of the invisibility
of the Ahmadiyah community in the province and a preoccupation with other threats to group
boundaries. The North Sumatra case illustrates how regional structures and local context mitigate
the amplification of threat. Even when the threat was highly resonant at the national level, the
invisibility of local Ahmadiyah communities still mattered.
Conclusion
This chapter investigates what was driving the upsurge of anti-Ahmadiyah repression and
mobilization in the 2005-2013 period. It seeks to understand why district-level actors in
particular sought to address the Ahmadiyah threat when they had not in the past. I argue in this
chapter that reforms introduced by decentralization incentivized both state and non-state actors at
the district level to exploit and act against the constitutive threat posed by Ahmadiyah
communities. Where the Ahmadiyah threat was publicly visible—and therefore resonant—
politicians could use the issue to gain the support of local constituencies, which became highly
relevant after the introduction of direct elections at the district level. At the same time, emergent
political actors (e.g. hardliner groups) were also incentivized to instrumentalize the threat. By
mobilizing against the Ahmadiyah sect, they could display the size of their following, their
215 “Umat Islam Cuek Soal Penggusuran Masjid [Muslims Don’t Care About Mosque Move],” Republika, 21 June 2011, https://www.republika.co.id/berita/dunia-islam/islam-nusantara/11/06/21/ln4h36-umat-islam-acuh-soal-penggusuran-masjid-di-medan, accessed 9 July 2018. 216 Din, Member of FUI North Sumatra. Interview by author, Medan, North Sumatra, 16 December 2014. 217 Ishmael, Caretaker of Al-Ikhlas Mosque. Interview by author, Medan, North Sumatra, 16 December 2014.
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interests, and their mobilization capacity. By doing so, not only did these new political actors
gain access to new revenue streams, they were able to increase their social status.
The influx of political actors who instrumentalized the Ahmadiyah issue worked to make
the Ahmadiyah threat visible at the provincial and national level. Media coverage of anti-Ahmadi
incidents shone a spotlight on the group, highlighting the constitutive threat they posed to the
larger Indonesian Muslim community. As more and more actors began to see the Ahmadiyah as
a threat, incidents of repression and mobilization multiplied.
Still, the cases in Bandung, North Sumatra, and East Java demonstrate that the visibility
of local Ahmadiyah communities continued to shape patterns of repression and mobilization—
even at the height of threat amplification. In all these cases, the deliberate cultivation of
invisibility by some Ahmadiyah communities meant that attempts at political entrepreneurship
were short-lived. As the East Java case illustrates, the invisibility of the province’s Ahmadiyah
communities worked to neutralize the group’s perceived threat levels, thereby reducing overt
acts of opposition. Chapter 7 demonstrates how this pathway was not limited to East Java, but
also occurred in places across Indonesia.
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Chapter 7 Threat Neutralized? The Decline of Anti-Ahmadiyah
Persecution in Indonesia
While Ahmadis in Indonesia were frequent targets of mobilization between 2005 and
2011, levels of persecution at the national level began to decline dramatically in 2012 (see
Chapter 3). The onset of this decline varied at the sub-national level. However, by the end of
2013, Ahmadiyah communities in Indonesia were rarely targets of overt persecution. When these
infrequent incidents do occur, they remain localized and do not spread to other areas. Why did
the frequency of anti-Ahmadiyah repression and mobilization begin to decline in 2012?
Understanding why the Ahmadiyah threat was no longer resonant sheds further light on the core
elements of the perceived Ahmadiyah threat and the one posed by micro-sized groups more
generally.
In this chapter, I show how Indonesia’s Ahmadiyah community purposefully withdrew
from public spaces by removing publicly displayed symbols and proselytizing in more private
ways. Ahmadiyah communities withdrew from the public sphere for two reasons. First, the
passage of discriminatory legislation subjected the Ahmadiyah to a religious regulatory complex
that worked to control the signage on their mosques; made it difficult for the sect to build new
houses of worship or stage public religious ceremonies; and forbid the sect from engaging in
public proselytization. Second, many Ahmadis policed their own behaviors to avoid being
harmed by their neighbors and by hardliner groups.
By turning inwards, the Ahmadiyah neutralized their threat to Muslim group coherence
and boundaries. Consequently, because opponents no longer viewed this micro-sized group as a
threat, the issue lost its political utility. Therefore, while the incentive structure did not change,
the constitutive threat posed by Ahmadiyah communities was no longer widely visible. As such,
the threat was considered neutralized. In short, one of the conditions needed for Ahmadis to be
seen as threatening to the larger Muslim community was no longer met.
This chapter is comprised of three sections. I first discuss how the legal context and
personal trauma worked to minimize the public presence of the Ahmadiyah community. I follow
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this with a discussion of how the withdrawal from public spaces correlated with a drastic decline
in incidents of mobilization and repression. I argue that this decrease was attributable to the
declining utility of the Ahmadiyah issue. I close with a study of the decline of anti-Ahmadiyah
conflict in Tasikmalaya, where Ahmadiyah communities were subjected to some of the highest
levels of repression and mobilization in the country. I show that this decline in intergroup
conflict resulted from the community’s withdrawal from the public sphere.
Invisible Constitutive Threat: Ahmadi Withdrawal from Public Space
While many Ahmadiyah communities across Indonesia had long maintained an inward
and invisible orientation, many others did not and the visibility of the latter made them
threatening to those that could see them. Yet, after several years of intense persecution, the vast
majority of Indonesia’s Ahmadiyah communities began to reduce their public presence. They did
so by removing symbols from the façade of religious buildings and began proselytizing in more
private, relational ways.
Ahmadiyah withdrawal from public spaces was prompted by two factors that resulted
from the upsurge of anti-Ahmadiyah activity that began in 2005. First, the passage of multiple
pieces of discriminatory legislation subjected the Ahmadiyah to a religious regulatory complex
that managed their public presence. Second, the heightened state of persecution eventually led
Ahmadis to police their own behavior to avoid further harm.
The New Legal Context and (Forced) Compliance
A key factor driving declining oppositional efforts to the Ahmadiyah was the new legal
context. As discussed in the previous chapter, the heightened politicization of the Ahmadiyah
threat resulted in the proliferation of legislation that heavily restricted or banned the sect’s ability
to worship. Twenty-six pieces of anti-Ahmadiyah legislation was passed in 21 districts during
the democratic era.218 The Ministries of Religious Affairs, Internal Affairs and the Attorney
218 Author’s data.
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General passed SKB No. 3/2008 that limited the activities of the Ahmadiyah at the national
level. When the national law was seen as ineffective in the aftermath of the Cikeusik attack, six
provinces passed legislation to regulate the sect.219 In total, 34 pieces of legislation were passed
to address the Ahmadiyah threat in Indonesia, meaning that Ahmadis were being increasingly
policed.
Although the laws targeting the Ahmadiyah regulated a wide range of religious activities,
many explicitly named and regulated public religious practices (e.g. proselytization). Many of
these laws also focused on managing the building and maintenance of Ahmadi mosques and
mushollahs. For example, the East Java Gubernatorial Decree on the Ahmadiyah (SK Gubernur
Jatim No. 188/94/KPTS/013/2011) specifically forbids placing a plaque with the JAI name in
public spaces.220 Similar articles can be found in other pieces of legislation regulating the
Ahmadiyah, such as the West Java Gubernatorial decree and the city of Tasikmalaya’s joint
decree.221 These regulations worked to reduce the public visibility of Ahmadiyah communities
across Indonesia.
One way visibility was reduced was through the voluntary—albeit reluctant—compliance
of some Ahmadiyah communities to new legal restrictions. For example, a few days after the
mayor of Samarinda city passed a ban on all Ahmadi activities,222 the local JAI branch painted
over the “clearly visible” sign that identified the mosque as belonging to the Ahmadiyah sect.223
219 Ibid. 220 “Pemerintah Jatim Resmi Larang Kegiatan Ahmadiyah [East Java Government Formally Bans Ahmadiyah Activities],” Suara Nahdlatul Ulama, 28 February 2011, http://www.nu.or.id/post/read/27070/pemerintah-jatim-resmi-larang-kegiatan-ahmadiyah, accessed 18 May 2018. 221 Peraturan Gubernur Jawa Barat No. 12/2011 and the Kota Tasikmalaya Joint Decree towards the Ahmadiyah (450/Kep 72/Kesbang/2007). 222 “Walikota Samarinda Tutup Seluruh Activities Ahmadiyah [Mayor of Samarinda Shuts Down All Ahmadiyah Activities],” Republika, 26 February 2011, https://www.republika.co.id/berita/breaking-news/nasional/11/02/26/166390-walikota-samarinda-tutup-seluruh-aktivitas-ahmadiyah, accessed 4 October 2018. 223 Hasbi, “Ahmadiyah Samarinda Copot Papan Nama Majelis [Ahmadiyah in Samarinda Remove Sign],” Tribun News, 3 March 2011, http://www.tribunnews.com/regional/2011/03/03/ahmadiyah-samarinda-copot-papan-nama-majelis, accessed 4 October 2018.
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Similarly, after a prolonged struggle with the local community over a similar issue, the JAI
branch in Madiun city complied with the East Java’s gubernatorial decree soon after it was
passed.224 As the picture accompanying the cited article shows, the original sign of the
Baiturrahman mosque in Madiun clearly signified the mosque as an Ahmadiyah building. After
the passage of Governor Soekwaro’s decree, JAI Madiun replaced the original sign with a
generic one. The replacement sign made it impossible to identify the mosque’s affiliation with
the Ahmadiyah sect from the outside (Figure 7.1).
Figure 7.1: Masjid Baiturrahman in August 2015. Source: Google Street View.
Although not all Ahmadiyah communities voluntarily complied with the dictates of these
laws, the mere passage of legislation made the group a site of governance. Once certain religious
practices were considered illegal, state bodies were empowered to enforce the law. They had the
necessary legal authority to remove Ahmadiyah signage from mosques; shut down houses of
worship; prevent houses of worship from being built in the first place; and stop Ahmadis from
carrying out religious ceremonies and obligations in public spaces. In short, if Ahmadiyah
communities did not voluntarily comply with the legal restrictions placed on them, the
government could force them to do so.
Several state bodies became responsible for policing Ahmadiyah practices. In addition to
executive bodies and the police, Indonesia’s extensive religious regulatory complex were also 224 Ishomuddin, “Jemaat Ahmadiyah Copot Papan Nama [Ahmadiyah Congregation Remove Sign],” Tempo, 1 March 2011, https://nasional.tempo.co/read/316941/jemaat-ahmadiyah-copot-papan-nama, accessed 3 October 2018.
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heavily involved in managing Ahmadiyah activities. This complex consists of bodies such as
MUI, the Ministry of Religious Affairs, FKUB, the Coordination Board for the Control of
Mystical Beliefs in Society (Badan Koordinasi Pengawas Aliran Kepercayaan Masyarakat,
Bakorpakem),225 and the bodies for security coordination (Musyawarah Pimpinan Daerah or
Muspida at the provincial level and Musyawarah Pimpinan Kota/Kabupaten or Muspida at the
district level).226 Responsible for governing areas considered fraught for inter-religious and
intra-religious relations, such as apostasy/blasphemy, proselytization, and houses of worship,227
these bodies could force Ahmadis to comply with the law, including the provisions that worked
to reduce the sect’s public presence.
How these state actors forced compliance to legal provisions varied in terms of levels of
coercion. In some cases, coercion involved state authorities visiting Ahmadiyah communities to
encourage these groups to observe the newly passed legislation. In Bogor city, for instance,
representatives of Muspida—including the chief of police and the commander of the district
army—went to two Ahmadiyah mosques to enforce the mayor’s decree (No. 300.45-122/2011).
At the two mosques, Muspida representatives instructed the Ahmadi congregations to obey the
issued decree, underscoring that proselytization of any kind was now banned and that the group
was not allowed to put up signs with the organization’s name on it on any house of worship,
school or any other building.228 Bakorpakem in the West Java district of Cianjur acted similarly.
They put up 17 signs outlining the provisions of SKB No.3/2008 on 17 Ahmadi mosques to
“remind” Ahmadi communities of their legal obligations and the sanctions that could be incurred 225 Bakor pakem, an office in the Attorney General’s Office, monitors and addresses the emergence of deviant sects, often providing legal recommendations for banning them (Sihombing 2008, 26, Hicks 2014, 8). 226 Muspida or Muspika, is the coordination body for regional or local security concerns. It is made up of holders of executive office, the heads of regional military/police, the chairperson of the local parliament, and the attorney general’s office and is tasked with addressing “threats to stability.” In recent years, they have extended their admittedly vague mandate to addressing threats to religious harmony (Hicks 2014, 10). 227 For a good overview of the religious practices that are considered sensitive, see Crouch (2014). 228 “Muspida Bogor Inspeksi Masjid Ahmadiyah [Bogor’s Muspida Inspect Ahmadiyah Mosques],” Kompas, 4 March 2011, https://properti.kompas.com/read/2011/03/04/20325068/muspida.bogor.inspeksi.masjid.ahmadiyah, accessed 5 October 2018.
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from violations.229 These reminders worked to reduce the public presence of Ahmadiyah
communities in Bogor and Cianjur respectively.
In other cases, state authorities employed significantly higher levels of force to get
Ahmadiyah communities to comply with the law. One such case occurred in the city of Bekasi in
Banten province. In 2013, the Bekasi government closed down the Al-Misbah Mosque in the
Pondok Gede neighborhood during a crackdown on deviant sects.230 Bekasi’s Ahmadiyah
community, however, did not concede to this closure. A few weeks later, the community
removed the seal and staged an occupation to protest government encroachment on their
religious freedoms.231 This cycle of closures and re-openings would recur several times, only
ending when Bekasi’s Ahmadis finally capitulated and accepted the government’s limitations.232
By shutting down Al-Misbah Mosque, the presence of Bekasi’s Ahmadiyah community was
reduced.
Another example of state actors using high levels of coercion is the forced expulsion of
the Ahmadiyah community in Sungailiat sub-district, Bangka district, Bangka Belitung province.
According to a Sunni religious leader in the district, conflict arose because the Ahmadis refused
to stop using material goods (e.g. food) in their proselytization efforts.233 Eventually, the Sunni
community began lobbying the government to address their concerns. In response, the 229 Benny Bastiandy, “17 Rumah Ibadah Ahmadiyah Ditempeli Baliho SKB [Billboard with Joint Decree Placed on 17 Ahmadi Houses of Worship],” Inilah, 20 June 2012, http://nasional.inilah.com/read/detail/1874287/17-rumah-ibadah-ahmadiyah-ditempeli-baliho-skb#.VBLtDsWSxYc, accessed 18 December 2018. 230 "Bekasi Government Targets Al-Misbah Mosque in Ahmadiyah Crackdown,” Jakarta Globe, 14 Februari 2013, http://www.theDKI Jakartaglobe.com/archive/bekasi-government-targets-al-misbah-mosque-in-ahmadiyah-crackdown/, accessed 8 August 2016. 231 "SobatKBB: Hentikan Kekerasan Terhadap Ahmadiyah di Bekasi [SobatKBB: Stop Violence Against the Ahmadiyah in Bekasi]," April 4, 2013, The Wahid Institute. 232 Adi Warsono, "Masjid Ahmadiyah Bekasi Digembok [Ahmadiyah Mosque in Bekasi Locked]," Tempo, 16 May 2014, http://metro.tempo.co/read/news/2014/05/16/064578154/masjid-ahmadiyah-bekasi-digembok, 13 December 2019. 233 Deddy Marjaya, “Ini Alasan Warga Kesal Terhadap Ahmadiyah di Sungailiat [The Reason Why Residents are Upset at the Ahmadiyah in Sugailiat]” Tribun News, 24 January 2016. http://bangka.tribunnews.com/2016/01/24/ini-alasan-warga-kesal-terhadap-ahmadiyah-di-sungailiat, accessed 19 December 2018.
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government issued a letter encouraging the Ahmadis in Sungailiat to convert to mainstream
Islam or leave the district by February 5th. If they did not, the group would “face expulsion.”234
The conflict quickly escalated, with the Ahmadis choosing to remain in Bangka.235 In response
to their refusals to convert or leave, the government of Bangka forcefully removed them from
Sungailiat.236 By expelling the Ahmadis, the Bangka government physically removed any trace
of the Ahmadiyah in Sungailiat.
State actors did not only engage in responsive policing to minimize the public visibility
of the Ahmadiyah, they also engaged in pre-emptive policing. In other words, the police
addressed factors seen as causing conflict before it could erupt. Pre-emptive policing of Ahmadi
communities involved actively minimizing the occurrence of public proselytization, public
religious celebrations, and the building of new houses of worship.
In some cases, pre-emptive policing was carried out on a more ad hoc basis. For example,
during the month of Ramadan, Bandung’s police department stated that they would allocate
additional resources to safeguard the city’s four Ahmadiyah mosques. However, they explicitly
directed the Ahmadis to “avoid religious activities that were too ostentatious, such as using
speakers and symbols that would provoke conflict.”237 At other times, Bandung’s Ahmadiyah
communities would be asked by the police to cancel particular events.238 In other words,
234 Ahmad Junaidi, “Protection Sought for Ahmadiyah in Bangka,” The Jakarta Post, 18 January 2016, https://www.thejakartapost.com/news/2016/01/18/protection-sought-ahmadiyah-bangka.html, accessed 18 December 2018. 235 “Warga Ahmadiyah di Bangka Memilih ‘Tetap Bertrahan’ [Ahmadis in Bangka Choose to Remain],” BBC Indonesia, 5 February 2016, https://www.bbc.com/indonesia/berita_indonesia/2016/02/160205_indonesia_ahmadiyah_dipaksapindah, accessed 19 December 2018. 236 Ahmad Junaidi, “Bangka’s Ahmadiyah Followers Evicted,” The Jakarta Post, 6 February 2016, https://www.thejakartapost.com/news/2016/02/06/bangka-s-ahmadiyah-followers-evicted.html, accessed 18 December 2018. 237 Andrian Salam Wiyono, “Bulan Puasa 4 Masjid Ahmadiyah di Bandung Dijaga Ketat [During Fasting Month, 4 Ahmadi Mosques Tightly Guarded],” Merdeka, 9 July 2013, https://www.merdeka.com/peristiwa/bulan-puasa-4-masjid-ahmadiyah-di-bandung-dijaga-ketat.html, accessed 18 December 2018. 238 Bashir, JAI Bandung member. Interview by author, Bandung, West Java, 22 April 2014.
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Bandung’s police force worked to pre-emptively reduce Ahmadi public visibility before it
occurred.
The new legal context also provided the means to pre-empt Ahmadi visibility more
systematically, through institutionalized channels. Monitoring and managing the visibility of
Ahmadiyah communities became the explicit responsibility of institutions in the religious
regulatory complex. For example, this was the case with houses of worship, a key area of
religious contention. While it has generally become more difficult for all religious minorities to
build new houses of worship since the passage of joint ministerial decree No.8 and 9/2006 on
houses of worship (Crouch 2007), the Ahmadiyah and other “heretical” sects are uniquely
hampered. The FKUB plays a key role in the process of obtaining permits (Ijin Menderikian
Bangunan or IMB) for houses of worship in Indonesia. As article 9 of the joint decree states,
FKUB branches at the district level are responsible for writing recommendations on the granting
of IMBs by the state. Because the FKUB makes decisions by consensus and Muslim
representatives tend to come from mainstream organizations,239 the likelihood that the FKUB
would approve a building permit for any group considered heretical is nearly impossible. This
point was clearly made by a FKUB member, who simply stated that just like the Jehovah’s
Witnesses would not be granted a permit to build a church due to mainstream Christian concerns
about heresy, the Ahmadiyah would not be granted a permit due to mainstream Muslim concerns
about heresy.240 This prediction has largely come to pass. With one exception,241 Ahmadiyah
communities have not been able to legally build new houses of worship.242 In fact, the need for
239 Adnan, FKUB Jakarta member. Interview by author, Jakarta, 20 August 2014. 240 Author’s fieldnotes, 21 August 2014. 241 In this exception, the popular former governor of Jakarta, Basuki Tjahaja (“Ahok”) Purnama independently ordered the Ahmadi mosque in Bukit Duri, South Jakarta to be reopened and permitted the Ahmadis to utilize a house as a house of worship. Known for making controversial political decisions, Ahok was a Christian, Chinese Indonesian who made this pro-Ahmadiyah ruling to make a point about religious pluralism in the country. His identity and his pluralist commitment were so politically controversial that he was found guilty of blasphemy in 2017 and was sentenced to two years in prison. 242 Some JAI branches, such as the one in Jambi, have however sought to build new prayer rooms or mosques through extra-legal channels. See “Tanpa Izin, Ahmadiyah Bangun Tempat Ibadah di Jambi [Without a Permit, Ahmadis Begin Building a House of Worship in Jambi,]” Semarak News, 21 September 2018, https://semarak.news/tanpa-izin-ahmadiyah-bangun-tempat-ibadah-jambi/19080/, accessed 8 January 2019.
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FKUB approval meant that some Ahmadiyah communities even had difficulties obtaining the
necessary permits for extending their lease and for renovation projects. JAI Surabaya, for
example, tried to get a recommendation from the FKUB to extend their land use permit, which
was withheld.243 Similar dynamics characterized the permit process for staging religious events.
In Garut district in West Java, for example, an application for the Ahmadis to hold a community
athletics competition was denied.244
Overall, the proliferation of anti-Ahmadiyah legislation in Indonesia between 2005 and
2012 worked to diminish the public presence of the sect. By labeling certain activities as illegal,
state authorities were able to deploy the religious regulatory complex to coerce Ahmadis into
ceasing activities that made them visible. The state’s ability to prevent Ahmadis from displaying
group symbols in public spaces, building houses of worship, and staging public events led to a
decline in their visibility. As a consequence, the constitutive threat they posed became less
credible.
Self-censorship
While the new legal context was an important driver for the decreasing public presence of
the Ahmadiyah sect, it was not the only factor. After all, anti-Ahmadiyah legislation began
proliferating in 2005 and yet persecution only began declining in 2012. The passage of
discriminatory legislation did not have an immediate effect on threat resonance because many
Ahmadiyah communities chose to resist and stand up for their religious freedoms. By choosing
to resist, Ahmadiyah communities remained visible during the initial upsurge of legislation.
Eventually, however, high levels of persecution took its toll. The majority of Ahmadi
communities in Indonesia began to actively manage their public presence to prevent overt
conflict from erupting. As this section will show, this move towards increased self-censorship
further diminished the visibility of Ahmadiyah communities across Indonesia.
243 Budi, JAI East Java member. Interview by author, Surabaya, East Java, 31 October 2014. 244 Asghar, JAI Indonesia Leader. Interview by author, Parung, West Java, 9 March 2014.
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A case that illustrates the abovementioned trajectory is the JAI community in Manis Lor
village, Kuningan, West Java. As mentioned in Chapter 5, JAI Manis Lor was an early victim of
anti-Ahmadiyah violence. In the first few years of anti-Ahmadiyah repression and mobilization,
however, the Ahmadiyah community did not comply with the demands of their opponents. For
example, Kuningan’s Ahmadiyah community brought a legal challenge to the constitutionality of
the 2004 district ban to the PTUN (Panggabean et al. 2014, 33). Furthermore, when the
Kuningan government shut down the Ahmadiyah mosque and mushollah in 2005, they removed
the seal and resumed using it just a few months later in 2006 (33). When intergroup tensions
escalated between 2007 and 2010, the Ahmadiyah community did not capitulate to instructions
to close down the mosque. These moments of resistance were often followed by episodes of
collective mobilization, such as the 18 December 2007 protest by an alliance of hardliner groups
and the 2 March 2010 protest by villagers (34-35). As these incidents show, Ahmadis in Manis
Lor were defiant during the early years of persecution, in spite of laws that sought to
circumscribe their religious freedoms.
By 2012, however, the posture of JAI Manis Lor had changed. As Panggabean et al.
(2014, 55) write:
In the run-up to Ramadan in 2012, rumors flew that the Ahmadis were going to hold a national level meeting. The Jalaksana police immediately went to the location to check [the accuracy of the rumors] and found an events tent that had been set up for a halal bi halal event. Then and there, the Jalaksana police—on the direction of the police chief—asked that the tent be taken down and that the event be held secretly245 outside of Kuningan. The Ahmadis, on their own [initiative], then took down the tent.
While this example is a small gesture of compliance, the fact that it occurred at all illustrates a
new willingness to concede to state authorities. JAI Manis Lor was certainly not alone in their
actions. While there are certainly exceptions,246 the majority of Ahmadi communities in
Indonesia followed similar pathways.
245 In Indonesian, sembunyi-sembunyi. 246 Some Ahmadiyah communities, such as the branches in Depok and East Lombok have continued to resist encroachments to their religious freedoms. See Imam Hamdi, “Masjid Ahmadiyah Depok Sudah 6 Kali Disegel [Ahmadiyah Mosque in Depok Sealed 6 Times],” Tempo, 24 February 2017, https://nasional.tempo.co/read/849951/masjid-ahmadiyah-depok-sudah-6-kali-disegel, accessed 31
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Reluctant obedience to the demands of state authorities and withdrawal from the public
sphere was at least partially driven by self-preservation and a desire to avoid conflict. Many
Ahmadiyah communities reduced their public visibility after hearing rumors of impending
protests. For instance, the Ahmadiyah community in Medan removed two signs with Ahmadiyah
symbols from their mosque after police officers told them that a protest was being organized by
the Muslim People’s Forum (Forum Umat Islam, FUI). As Ibnu Muhiddin, the mubaligh of JAI
Medan, stated: “We received information from the police that members of the FUI are planning
to protest our mosque this afternoon. To prevent the possibility of tragedy, we obeyed the
suggestion to take down the signs with our organization’s name on them.”247 The removal of the
signs seems to have warded off the protest, as there are no reports that the protest ended up
taking place.248
Ahmadiyah communities did not only withdraw from the public sphere at moments of
high tension. Many altered the visible nature of their practices over the long term. JAI Bandung,
for example, continues to use their mosque. However, activities now take place away from
public view.249 For example, a large gathering of leaders from the Bandung area was held at the
back of the mosque with the front gates tightly shut.250 Similarly, when explaining why an
Ahmadiyah meeting in Tangerang city attended by about a thousand people was undisturbed, an
NGO worker told me: “They’re safe because there are a few strategies they use to not be out in
the open with the people in the neighborhood.”251
January 2019; “Penganut Ahmadiyah di Lombok NTB diserang di hari ketiga Ramadhan [Ahmadis in Lombok attacked on the third day of Ramadan],” BBC Indonesia, 20 May 2018, https://www.bbc.com/indonesia/indonesia-44187364, accessed 31 January 2019. 247 “JAI Medan Turunkan Sendiri Dua Papan Nama Ahmadiyah [JAI Medan Takes Down Two Name Plates],” Antara News, 10 June 2008, https://www.antaranews.com/berita/105526/jai-medan-turunkan-sendiri-dua-papan-nama-ahmadiyah, accessed 10 January 2019. 248 According to the 2008 Wahid Institute Report on Religious Intolerance in Indonesia, the head of FPI Medan did issue a threat, but the report does not have a record of a protest occurring on this day.
249 Uwes Fatoni, Professor at UIN Sunan Gunung Djati. Interview by author, Bandung, West Java, 9 September 2014. 250 Author’s fieldnotes, 29 September 2014. In fact, when I arrived to the mosque to observe the meeting, I initially thought I had arrived too late for the meeting and that everyone had already gone home. 251 Maya, NGO worker. Interview by author, Jakarta, 4 April 2014.
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Ahmadiyah communities tended to become more withdrawn as violence against their co-
religionists escalated in other parts of the archipelago. This is what seems to have happened with
the JAI branches in Padang, West Sumatra and in Karanganyar, Central Java. In the city of
Padang, there was a longstanding conflict between the JAI community and the mayor about the
continued display of an Ahmadiyah mosque placard. The Padang city government had originally
asked the JAI to remove the sign in December 2005, when conflict was beginning to increase but
was still comparatively rare. Upon receiving this request, the JAI asked the local legal aid office
(Lembaga Bantuan Hukum, LBH) to help them. They argued that the government’s request
violated their religious freedoms.252 In June 2008, however, after a few years of conflict in other
parts of the country, the Ahmadiyah community in Padang finally relented to the mayor’s request
to remove the sign from their mosque (see Figure 7.2).253
Figure 7.2: Mubarak Mosque in 2017. While the name of the mosque is visible, there are no obvious indicators that
the mosque belongs to the Ahmadiyah community. Source: Google Street View.
252 “Diminta Bongkar Plang, Ahmadiyah Padang Mengadu ke LBH [Asked to Take Down their Sign, Padang’s Ahmadiyah Complain to LBH],” Detik News, 14 December 2005, https://news.detik.com/berita/498892/diminta-bongkar-plang-ahmadiyah-padang-mengadu-ke-lbh, accessed 8 January 2019. 253 Rus Akbar, “Walikota Padang Turunkan Papan Ahmadiyah [Padang Mayor Takes Down Ahmadiyah Sign],” Okezone, 13 June 2008, https://news.okezone.com/read/2008/06/13/1/118412/wali-kota-padang-turunkan-papan-ahmadiyah, accessed 2 January 2019.
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The response of JAI Karanganyar was even more extreme. On 9 March 2011, the branch
leader announced that the branch was being shut down completely. In front of an audience made
up of government officials, community leaders, and religious leaders, he stated:
We have not carried out organizational activities since 2008. We have only carried out religious services according to shari’a. With the issuing of this statement, we will no longer be carrying out any meetings that may bother the residents. Ahmadiyah Karanganyar is voluntarily shutting down.254
The decision to shut down represents a shift from the branch’s position in 2008, when the
leadership argued that the SKB could not stop the sect from carrying out the religious obligations
of Islam.255 The timing of the shut down announcement suggests that the reversal was heavily
influenced by the increased targeting of Ahmadis in other parts of the country. The
announcement, after all, occurred just a month after the vicious—and well-publicized—attack on
the Ahmadiyah in Cikeusik.
Overall, after a few years of standing up for their rights at great personal risk, many
Ahmadis chose the route of self-preservation. To protect themselves from being targets of
collective mobilization and state repression, many Ahmadiyah communities chose to reduce their
public visibility. They did so by removing symbols from public spaces and celebrating religious
events behind closed doors. As a result, they further reduced the threat they posed to the Muslim
category.
Threat Neutralized: Declining Anti-Ahmadiyah Opposition
The withdrawal of Ahmadiyah communities from public spaces had political
implications. If it was the visibility of the Ahmadiyah community that made the group a credible 254 “Ahmadiyah Karanganyar Bekukan Diri Mubaligh Kembali ke Pusat [Karanganyar Ahmadiyah Voluntarily Shuts Down, the Mubaligh will return to Headquarters],” Detik News, 9 March 2011, https://news.detik.com/berita/1588045/ahmadiyah-karanganyar-bekukan-diri-mubaligh-kembali-ke-pusat, accessed 8 January 2019. 255 Bramantyo, “Diancam Dibakar, 1 Pleton Jaga Masjid Ahmadiyah [Threatened with arson, 1 police unit guards the Ahmadiyah mosque],” Okezone, 12 June 2008, https://news.okezone.com/read/2008/06/12/1/118185/diancam-dibakar-1-pleton-jaga-masjid-ahmadiyah, accessed 7 January 2019.
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threat, then their new invisibility neutralized the threat they posed to Muslim boundaries and
group coherence. Although Indonesian Muslims continued to have strong theological
disagreements with the Ahmadiyah sect (Fealy 2016, 119), it seems like individuals no longer
consider the group threatening. Once the threat was defused, the issue lost its political utility. As
a result, the frequency of anti-Ahmadiyah repression and mobilization declined.
As established in Chapter 3, the raw numbers from the events dataset shows that the
targeting of the Ahmadiyah community is now—at least at the time of writing—a rare
phenomenon. Except for the bureaucracy, tasked with the continued governance of the
Ahmadiyah community, both state and non-state actors now seem unconcerned by the micro-
sized group. The decline in the frequency of anti-Ahmadiyah incidents carried out by non-state
actors (i.e. villagers and hardliner groups) and politicians begins in 2012, but becomes very clear
by 2014 and 2015. As Table 7.1 shows, few incidents occurred in 2014 and 2015.
Perpetrators 2010 2011 2012 2013 2014 2015 Non-State Actors 15 26 15 14 2 5 Politicians 7 21 1 13 4 2
Bureaucrats 4 7 5 11 8 5
Table 7.1 – Frequency of Anti-Ahmadiyah Activity in Indonesia (2010-2015). Source: Author’s Data.
The decreased incidence of anti-Ahmadiyah episodes by non-state actors is arguably
attributable to a decreased sense of threat. As discussed in the first part of the chapter, reduced
public visibility on the part of Ahmadiyah communities was followed by an absence of
mobilization by non-state actors. Take, for example, the case of the Ahmadiyah in the Kuningan
village of Manis Lor. After the March 2010 protest, JAI Manis Lor capitulated to local pressure
and withdrew from the public sphere. While the group continues to face social discrimination,256
there has not been a protest since. A similar absence of anti-Ahmadiyah activity also
256 “Warga Ahmadiyah di Manislor Kuningan Keluhkan Sulitnya Dapat KTP [Ahmadiyah in Manislor, Kuningan complain about difficulties obtaining ID cards],” Detik news, 23 July 2017, https://news.detik.com/berita/d-3570559/warga-ahmadiyah-di-manislor-kuningan-keluhkan-sulitnya-dapat-ktp, accessed 18 January 2019.
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characterizes places like Bandung, West Java and Padang, West Sumatra. Once these groups
withdrew from the public sphere, they were no longer targets of mobilization or repression.
There are, predictably, cases where opposition to the Ahmadiyah community did arise
after 2012. These exceptions, however, further support the argument that visibility drives the
perception of group threat. These recent episodes of contention occurred when Ahmadiyah
communities disrupted public space. In most of these recent cases, however, community
concerns were quickly addressed by the state. The new institutional context meant that villagers
or community leaders who felt threatened by the Ahmadiyah community were able to deploy the
power of the state to address the threat. As Ahmadiyah communities were becoming increasingly
compliant, they would obey state directives to manage their public presence before conflict
escalated. If they discontinued their public activities, the community would be left alone because
the sect’s opponents would consider the “Ahmadiyah problem” resolved. The cycle would begin
again if the Ahmadiyah community visibly disrupted public space again.
These dynamics can be seen in the cases of JAI Madiun and JAI Depok. As discussed
above, JAI Madiun removed their name from their mosque placard, replacing it with a generic
sign in 2011 (Figure 7.1).257 After they ceased displaying their sign, there were no subsequent
reports of contention until September 2017, when the religious regulatory complex in Madiun—
specifically the Ministry of Religious Affairs, the police, the District Attorney, FKUB and
MUI—called Ahmadi leaders for a meeting. This meeting occurred after JAI Madiun decided to
sell books—including those that contained information about the sect’s teachings—from a stall
placed in a public park. The Madiun city government noted that “all public activities”, including
the selling of these books, constituted a violation of the law. Reluctantly, JAI Madiun complied
with the government’s demands, with the JAI leader promising to consult with JAI headquarters
in Parung on how to stay within the bounds of the law.258 Since then, there has been no news of
257 Ishomuddin, “Jemaat Ahmadiyah Copot Papan Nama [Ahmadiyah Congregation Remove Sign],” Tempo, 1 March 2011, https://nasional.tempo.co/read/316941/jemaat-ahmadiyah-copot-papan-nama, accessed 3 October 2018. 258 Surya Rahadian Bagus, “Gelar Pameran Buku Agama di Tempat Umum, Pengurun Ahmadiyah Madiun Diberi Peringatan [Holding a Book Fair in a Public Place, the Head of Ahmadiyah Madiun is Given a Reminder],” Tribun News, 6 September 2017, http://jatim.tribunnews.com/2017/09/06/gelar-
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any episodes of contention between the Ahmadiyah community in Madiun and their Sunni
counterparts.
A similar story emerged in Depok between 2014 and 2017. The Ahmadiyah community
in Depok was very unhappy with the state’s closure of their mosque. Consequently, the group
kept unsealing the mosque and returning to use it for religious services.259 The resumption of
activities at the mosque would often prompt locals to complain to the city government, who
would deploy the police to shut down the mosque again and again. The refusal of the Ahmadiyah
community to stop their religious activities was a concern for Depok’s key brokers and their
constituents. However, these brokers did not need to mobilize against the sect because the state
quickly intervened. Husein, an FPI leader in Depok, told me the following in 2014:
We no longer protest as much, unless it’s really needed. We still carry out the political struggle though, but first we do it through legal means. When we find out there is a mosque that is used by the Ahmadiyah, we just tell the mayor. For example, in Depok, the mosque was closed down. And it was the mayor that shut it down. Speaking to the government is now our first step.260
In short, because the government rapidly managed public space and the issue at hand, Husein did
not have to work outside legal channels to get his wish. The government did not simply act
quickly in 2014, but also in 2015 when the Depok Ahmadiyah community resumed their
religious services at the same mosque. A few hours after the FPI branch in Depok issued a public
pameran-buku-agama-di-tempat-umum-pengurus-ahmadiyah-madiun-diberi-peringatan, accessed 17 January 2019. 259 Imam Hamdi, “Masjid Ahmadiyah Depok Sudah 6 Kali Disegel [Ahmadiyah Mosque in Depok Sealed 6 Times],” Tempo, 24 February 2017, https://nasional.tempo.co/read/849951/masjid-ahmadiyah-depok-sudah-6-kali-disegel, accessed 31 January 2019. 260 Husein, Member of FPI Leadership. Interview by author, Depok, West Java, 25 September 2014.
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statement demanding that the government tear down the mosque,261 the government moved to
seal the mosque again,262 defusing the threat once more.
Because most Indonesians no longer perceive the Ahmadiyah community to be a threat,
its political utility has decreased. By 2014, it was rare for politicians to act on the Ahmadiyah
issue. When they attempted to do so, they quickly moved on to other issues with greater
resonance. For example, in June 2014, H. Iing Syam Arifin—the bupati of Ciamis district—
made a discriminatory statement against the Ahmadiyah while giving a speech at an FPI
event.263 However, there is no mention of him campaigning on the issue after the speech was
made. While Arifin continued to emphasize his religious credentials, he shifted focus and did so
by carrying out public prayers,264 discussing Israel/Palestine,265 and closing businesses during
Ramadan.266 Similarly, when Rudi Samin sought support from the FPI during his campaign to be
261 “Segel Dirusak, FPI Desak Masjid Ahmadiyah Depok Dirobohkan [Seal Broken, FPI Demands that the Ahmadiyah Mosque in Depok be Torn Down],” Viva News, https://www.viva.co.id/berita/metro/576217-segel-dirusak-fpi-desak-masjid-ahmadiyah-depok-dirobohkan, accessed 17 January 2019. 262 "Satpol PP Segel Masjid Ahmadiyah Sawangan [The Police Seal the Sawangan Ahmadiyah Mosque]," Viva News, 7 January 2015, http://metro.news.viva.co.id/news/read/575855-satpol-pp-segel-masjid-ahmadiyah-sawangan, accessed 18 January 2019. 263 Dian Sholeh Wardiana, “Berantas Kemaksiatan, Bupati Ciamis Sepakati Aspirasi FPI [Against Wrongdoing, the Bupati of Ciamis Agrees with FPI Aspirations], Harapan Rakyat, 24 June 2014, http://www.harapanrakyat.com/2014/06/berantas-kemaksiatann-bupati-ciamis-sepakati-aspirasi-fpi/, accessed 22 January 2019. 264 “Empat Hari Berjalan Kaki Ini Doa Sang Bupati Untuk Warga Ciamis [Four days spent walking, this is the Prayer of the Bupati for Ciamis’s People],” Tribun News, 1 December 2016, http://jabar.tribunnews.com/2016/12/01/empat-hari-berjalan-kaki-ini-doa-sang-bupati-untuk-warga-ciamis, accessed 21 January 2019. 265 Andri M. Dani, “Solidaritas Untuk Palestina Di Ciamis, Bantuan Puluhan Juta Rupiah Terkumpul Dalam Berberapa Menit [Solidarity with Palestine in Ciamis, Thousands of Dollars Collected in a Few Minutes],” Tribun News, 21 December 2017, http://jabar.tribunnews.com/2017/12/21/solidaritas-untuk-palestina-di-ciamisbantuan-puluhan-juta-rupiah-terkumpul-dalam-beberapa-menit, accessed 21 January 2019. 266 “Bupati Ciamis Larang Warung Nasi Buka Siang Hari Saat Ramadhan [Ciamis Bupati Forbids Restaurants from Operating in the daytime during Ramadan],” Republika, 25 May 2015, https://www.republika.co.id/berita/nasional/daerah/17/05/25/oqil0z384-bupati-ciamis-larang-warung-nasi-buka-siang-hari-saat-ramadhan, accessed 21 January 2019.
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PDIP’s candidate during the Depok mayoral race, he said: “If I am the one who becomes
candidate for [the PDIP party], I will push for a law that bans alcohol and one that bans the
Ahmadiyah in Depok.”267 However, given that Depok’s FPI no longer saw the Ahmadiyah issue
as particularly pressing,268 it is unsurprising that Samin too shifted gears. Although he eventually
dropped out of the mayoral race, he continued to operate in politics, focusing on the issue of
corruption instead.269
The Decline of Sectarianism in Tasikmalaya District
This chapter thus far has sought to demonstrate the correlation between the withdrawal of
Ahmadiyah communities from public spaces and the decline in the frequency of anti-Ahmadiyah
mobilization and repression. This section seeks to strengthen this claim by connecting these two
factors in the case of Tasikmalaya. Once a site of high levels of Ahmadiyah-Sunni conflict,
levels of overt conflict subsided after 2013. In fact, in late 2018, an article published in the
national newspaper Kompas detailed the new peace between the Ahmadiyah community in
Tenjowaringin—a site of violence in 2013—and their Sunni neighbors.270 In this section, I trace
how the once palpable public presence of Ahmadiyah communities in Tasikmalaya diminished
and how this withdrawal from the public sphere neutralized the threat they posed. As a result,
opponents to the Ahmadiyah community in Tasikmalaya no longer considered the group to be a
threat, leading to a drastic decline in overt acts of contention.
267 “Balon Walkot Depok Dari PDIP Sowan Ke Habib Rizieq [Trial Balloon from PDIP Mayor Candidate meets with Habib Rizieq],” Tribun News, 7 July 2015, http://wartakota.tribunnews.com/2015/07/07/balon-walkot-depok-dari-pdip-sowan-ke-habib-rizieq, accessed 7 January 2019. 268 Husein, Member of FPI Leadership. Interview by author, Depok, West Java, 25 September 2014. 269 See, for example, “Jika Ada Permainan Hukum Di Kasus Korupsi Nur Mahmudi Warga Depok Akan Gugat Citizen Law Suit [If Law is Manipulated in Nur Mahmudi’s Corruption Case, a Citizen Law Suit will be Filed],” Tribun News, 9 September 2018, http://wartakota.tribunnews.com/2018/09/14/jika-ada-permainan-hukum-di-kasus-korupsi-nur-mahmudi-warga-depok-akan-gugat-citizen-law-suit, accessed 13 December 2019. 270 Reni Susanti, “Menjaga Toleransi di Tenjowaringin, Tasikmalaya [Guarding Tolerance in Tenjowaringin, Tasikmalaya],” Kompas, 16 November 2018, https://regional.kompas.com/read/2018/11/16/11281161/menjaga-toleransi-di-tenjowaringin-tasikmalaya?page=all, accessed 8 May 2019.
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As established in previous chapters, Ahmadiyah communities in Tasikmalaya district had
long been visible. They engaged in public proselytization, placed Ahmadiyah symbols in public
spaces, and built identifiable mosques. This visibility continued even after Bupati Hakim passed
legislation in 2005 that placed limits on the sect’s religious practice. Fatoni (2014, 58) observes
that the 2005 ban was ineffective in curbing the public proselytization efforts of Ahmadis in
Tasikmalaya. That Ahmadiyah communities resisted encroachments to their religious freedoms
even after the 2005 and 2007 legislation is confirmed by references to public events,
proselytization, and their refusal to take down Ahmadiyah symbols in the media coverage of
anti-Ahmadiyah events between 2005 and 2013. For example, the 19 June 2007 protest by
hardliner groups was attributed to complaints about the continued use of Mahmud mosque by
Ahmadiyah communities.271 Similarly, participants in the violence that erupted on 20 April 2012
in the subdistrict of Singaparna said that they were angry that the Ahmadis had re-opened Baitul
Rahim mosque after it had been sealed by the local government. In fact, a week before the
violence, a group of people threatened the Ahmadis, telling them to stop all religious activities at
the mosque because doing so violated both the national and provincial bans.272 It also appears
that Ahmadis in Singaparna also did not kowtow to articles that forbade the public placement of
Ahmadiyah symbols, as the mob vandalized the mosque’s sign.273
Ahmadiyah communities in Tasikmalaya did not turn away from public space overnight.
The group began to reorient themselves inward in 2011, due to increased efforts by the local
government to enforce the dictates of the anti-Ahmadiyah legislation passed by district,
provincial, and national governments. The 2005 and 2007 district-level bans on Ahmadiyah
activities were not accompanied by strong enforcement. According to my dataset of anti-
271 "Masjid Mahmud Dilempar Batu [Rocks thrown at Masjid Mahmud]," Rakyat Merdeka, 20 June 2007, http://www.rakyatmerdeka.co.id/nusantara/2007/06/20/5740/Masjid-Mahmud-Dilempar-Batu, accessed 8 June 2013. 272 “ELSAM: Ini Pelanggaran Serius, SBY Harus Tegas! [ELSAM: This is a serious violation, SBY must be strict!],” Tribun News, 20 April 2012, http://www.tribunnews.com/nasional/2012/04/20/elsam-ini-pelanggaran-serius-sby-harus-tegas, accessed 16 January 2019. 273 “Polisi Masih Jaga Masjid Ahmadiyah di Tasikmalaya [Police Continue to Guard Ahmadiyah Mosque in Tasikmalaya],” Republika, 21 April 2012, https://www.republika.co.id/berita/dunia-islam/islam-digest/16/08/10/nasional/jawa-barat-nasional/12/04/21/m2tx5u-polisi-masih-jaga-masjid-ahmadiyah-di-tasikmalaya, accessed 18 January 2019.
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Ahmadiyah events,274 prior to 2008, the only state actors that were involved in anti-Ahmadiyah
activity were officials in elected positions such as bupati275 or members of the district
legislature.276 Starting in 2011, however, the number of incidents involving the district police
and various agencies of the local religious regulatory complex increased.
Increased policing can be traced to the formation of a coordination team dedicated to the
cause, formed mere weeks after the passage of the West Java gubernatorial decree on the
Ahmadiyah. The team’s purpose was to ensure that the provincial decree would be followed and
that various agencies in the local government would work to “socialize” the 2008 SKB. The head
of MUI Tasikmalaya, who played a key role in creating this team, noted that the team would
work to prevent the Ahmadis from proselytizing and from putting “the organization’s signs in
public places, including names of houses of worship and schools that contain the Ahmadiyah
identity.”277
After the formation of the coordination team in 2011, district police and the local
religious regulatory complex have actively prevented the Ahmadis from “disrupting” public
space, thereby maintaining clear boundaries between Sunni Muslims and Ahmadis. In November
2012, for example, the local Religious Affairs office annulled a marriage between an Ahmadi
couple because they had registered themselves as Muslim (Wahid Institute 2012, 70). In May
2014, the district Bakorpakem did not grant an events permit for the hosting of an Ahmadiyah
event (Wahid Institute 2014, 51). State bodies also worked to make it significantly more difficult
for Ahmadis to operate houses of worship and to build or renovate new ones. In 2014, for 274 Author’s data. 275 For example, Farhanul Hakim’s 2005 and 2007 legislation limiting the religious practices of Ahmadiyah communities in Tasikamalaya. 276 For example, the head of parliamentary commission IV in the district legislature, KH Dede Saepul Anawar, made political statements about how he would raise the Ahmadiyah issue to the provincial and national branches of MUI to get them to strengthen their language about the sect’s religious deviancy. See "Dokumen Ahmadiyah Akan Dibawa ke MUI Pusat [Ahmadi Documents will be brought to MUI Headquarters]," MyRMnews, 20 June 2007. 277 Fery P, “Pemkab Tasikmalaya Bentuk Tim Mengawal Pergub Ahmadiyah [Tasikmalaya Government Forms Oversight Team for Provincial Decree on Ahmadiyah],” Antara News, 14 March 2011, https://jabar.antaranews.com/berita/30835/pemkab-tasikmalaya-bentuk-tim-mengawal-pergub-ahmadiyah, accessed 20 January 2019.
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example, the Ahmadiyah community in Tenjowaringin began a renovation project on a
mushollah after getting the permission of the village head to do so. Midway through the project,
the security apparatus shut down the project because several local religious leaders had created a
petition stating that the renovation constituted a legal violation.278 Similarly, the police and
Bakorpakem shut down an Ahmadi mosque in Cigalontang subdistrict in March 2015 because it
did not have an operating permit.279 Through the continued enforcement of anti-Ahmadiyah
legislation, the public presence of Ahmadiyah communities in Tasikmalaya is now minimal.
In addition to increased government interference into Ahmadiyah affairs, conflict fatigue
on the part of Ahmadiyah communities also drove the sect to turn away from the public sphere.
This appears to be the case with the Ahmadiyah communities in Singaparna and Salawu
subdistricts. As the largest Ahmadiyah communities in Tasikmalaya district, these communities
were by far the most frequent targets of repression and mobilization.280 For many years, JAI
communities in Singaparna and Salawu resisted the dictates of the discriminatory legislation that
governed their activities since 2005. Despite being the targets of mass protests,281 vandalism,282
arson,283 and mob attacks284 between 2005 and 2012, JAI communities in these two locations
were unbowed.
278 Farid, JAI Tasikmalaya member. Interview by author, Tasikmalaya, West Java, 19 October 2014. 279 Candra Nugraha, "Masjid Jemaah Ahmadiyah di Tasikmalaya Disegel Satpol PP [Police Close Ahmadiyah Mosque in Tasikmalaya," Tempo, 31 March 2015, http://nasional.tempo.co/read/news/2015/03/31/058654283/masjid-jemaah-ahmadiyah-di-tasikmalaya-disegel-satpol-pp, accessed 8 September 2018. 280 Author’s data. 281 For example, a protest in June 2007 against the Ahmadis in Singaparna was attended by over 300 people. See "Masjid Mahmud Dilempar Batu [Rocks Thrown at Mahmud Mosque]," Rakyat Merdeka, 20 June 2007, http://www.rakyatmerdeka.co.id/nusantara/2007/06/20/5740/Masjid-Mahmud-Dilempar-Batu, accessed 7 August 2013. 282 E.g. In Singaparna: "Dokumen Ahmadiyah Akan Dibawa ke MUI Pusat [Ahmadi Documents will be brought to MUI Headquarters]," MyRMnews, 20 June 2007. In Salawu, see Wahid Institute (2008, 82). 283 For example, the al-Mujahidin mosque in Salawu was vandalized and then burned to the ground (Wahid Institute 2012, 95). 284 E.g. "FPI Serang Masjid Ahmadiyah," BBC Indonesia, 20 April 2012, http://www.bbc.com/indonesia/berita_indonesia/2012/04/120420_fpiahmadi.shtml, accessed 19 March 2017.
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May 2013 was arguably the turning point for the Ahmadiyah community. As outlined in
Chapter 6, Ahmadiyah communities in both Singaparna and Salawu held celebratory events for
Muhammad’s birthday (May 5th) despite government directives forbidding them from doing
so.285 Angered by this perceived infraction, hundreds of hardliners—many of them associated
with the FPI—launched a coordinated attack on each respective site. While no Ahmadis were
seriously injured during the attack, dozens of homes at both sites were destroyed.286 The day
after these two connected attacks, villagers in Sukasari village in Sukaresik district burned an
Ahmadiyah mushollah to the ground.287
Three consecutive attacks in different parts of the district was the last straw. After May
2013, Ahmadiyah communities reluctantly toed the line out of a sense of preservation. As
highlighted above, Ahmadis continue to carry out their religious practices. However, they largely
comply with government directives. In contrast to previous years, where they resisted, the
violence of May 2013 led Ahmadis to cancel events (Wahid Institute 2014, 51), close down
houses of worship,288 and cancel renovation projects289 out of a sense of self preservation.
This new orientation towards self-preservation coupled with increased policing meant
that by 2014, Ahmadiyah communities were no longer visible in the public sphere. Writing in
2014, Fatoni noted the following about the Ahmadiyah community in Salawu subdistrict,
285 Machfoed, Ex-Ahmadi from Tasikmalaya. Interview by author, Tasikmalaya, West Java, 18 October 2014. 286 “Islamic Hardliners Attack Ahmadiyah Community for Koran Recital,” The Jakarta Globe, 5 May 2013, http://www.theDKIJakartaglobe.com/news/islamic-hard-liners-attack-ahmadiyah-community-for-koran-recital/, accessed 6 June 2018; Ramadhani, "Ahmadiyah Tasikmalaya Diserang, Polisi Kewalahan [Tasikmalaya’s Ahmadiyah Attacked, Police Overwhelmed]," Tempo, 5 May 2013, http://nasional.tempo.co/read/news/2013/05/05/078478023/ahmadiyah-tasikmalaya-diserang-polisi-kewalahan, accessed 6 August 2014. 287 "Mushala Ahmadiyah di Kampung Sukasari dibakar [Ahmadiyah Mushollah in Sukasari Village Burned Down]," Sindonews, 6 May 2013. 288 "Masjid Jemaah Ahmadiyah di Tasikmalaya Disegel Satpol PP [Police Close Ahmadiyah Mosque in Tasikmalaya," Tempo, 31 March 2015, http://nasional.tempo.co/read/news/2015/03/31/058654283/masjid-jemaah-ahmadiyah-di-tasikmalaya-disegel-satpol-pp, accessed 8 September 2018. 289 Farid, JAI Tasikmalaya member. Interview by author, Tasikmalaya, West Java, 19 October 2014.
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Tasikmalaya: “They no longer dare put up signs on Ahmadiyah mosques and they no longer
freely sell calendars, pictures, or books. Anything that has Ahmadiyah attributes is only
distributed amongst themselves” (58). Proselytization strategies have also changed from more
public ones to more private ones. When I interviewed an Ahmadi leader in Salawu about
proselytization, he said: “Due to all the laws, our proselytization is one on one, about
relationships.”290 Their Sunni neighbors noticed the shift from more public proselytization to
more private proselytization. In a conversation between my local interlocutor and a Sunni
villager who lived a short motorcycle ride away from the primary school belonging to the
Ahmadis in Tenjowaringin, the villager stated that Ahmadis were “not as frontal” with their
proselytization compared to how they were before.291 Generally speaking, Ahmadiyah
communities in Tasikmalaya followed a pathway similar to their counterparts elsewhere.
Without deep local knowledge, it is now difficult to know that the district is home to some of the
largest Ahmadiyah communities in the country.292
It is not a coincidence that the frequency of anti-Ahmadiyah opposition declined after
2013. While the local bureaucracy did continue to intervene in Ahmadiyah activities, there has
not been a single episode of anti-Ahmadiyah mobilization recorded in Tasikmalaya after May
2013 to the time of writing. By withdrawing from the public sphere, Ahmadis drastically
decreased their threat levels. Grievances that arose from instances where Ahmadis disrupted
public space were quickly addressed by government bodies. The halting of the 2014 mushollah
renovation project is instructive. Despite getting permission from the village head to begin the
project, the government reversed its decision once they received complaints from the local
community.293 In short, the responsiveness of the state and the inward orientation of the
290 Acep, JAI Singaparna member. Interview by author, Tasikmalaya, West Java, 19 October 2014. 291 Author’s fieldnotes, 19 October 2014. 292 According to my fieldnotes from 19 October 2014, some Ahmadi-owned cafes and mini-buses (angkot) in Salawu district continue to display the Ahmadiyah slogan “Love for All Hatred for None,” but I did not see any pictures of Mirza Ghulam Ahmad or the explicit display of the sect’s name in public spaces. 293 Farid, JAI Tasikmalaya member. Interview by author, Tasikmalaya, West Java, 19 October 2014.
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Ahmadiyah sect meant that the group was no longer a pressing concern for their Sunni
counterparts.
As Tasikmalaya’s Sunni Muslims no longer perceived the Ahmadiyah community to be a
threat, the political utility of the issue decreased. This is true for both politicians and non-state
political entrepreneurs like the FPI. Few politicians, if any, use the issue today to gain political
support. In fact, while a failed legislative candidate for district election reportedly promised to
“eradicate the Ahmadiyah from Tasikmalaya” in the 2013 legislation elections,294 he appears to
be amongst the last politicians to utilize the threat for political means. Since 2013, there have
been, to my knowledge, no reports of politicians using the issue. Similarly, the Ahmadiyah issue
no longer seems to be an optimal strategy for emerging brokers to showcase the size of their
constituency or to demonstrate shared interests with important brokers. Groups will not mobilize
without some sort of purpose or justification; the inward orientation of the Ahmadiyah
community and the responsive repression of the state means that the Ahmadiyah is no longer a
solid basis for mobilization. As such, non-state political entrepreneurs like the FPI have chosen
to redirect their efforts to other issues with greater contemporary resonance, such as prostitution
and alcohol.295 In short, as the constitutive threat of the Ahmadis became less palpable, the
frequency of overt conflict in Tasikmalaya declined.
Conclusion
In interviews with members of Ahmadiyah communities across the country, a common
refrain was that their situation had improved. Speaking generally about the contemporary
situation in Indonesia, a national leader of the JAI said that with exceptions such as the cases of
Garut and Mataram, the conflict was “not as bad.”296 In terms of the frequency of anti-
Ahmadiyah persecution, the period after 2012 resembles the state of affairs during the 20th
294 Ibid. 295 “Prostitusi, Miras Rusak Kota Santri [Prostitution, Alcohol Ruining Santri City],” Radar Tasikmalaya, 20 September 2018, https://www.radartasikmalaya.com/prostitusi-miras-rusak-kota-santri/, accessed 29 January 2019. 296 Asghar, JAI Indonesia Leader. Interview by author, Parung, West Java, 9 March 2014.
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Century. I argue, however, that intergroup stability in the post-2012 period and the pre-
democratic period were caused by different factors. As argued in Chapter 4, Ahmadiyah
communities did engage in public religious activity in the 20th Century and were seen as
threatening by those who directly experienced the challenge to group boundaries. Yet, there were
no incentives to amplify and exploit the Ahmadiyah threat during this time. In contrast,
institutional arrangements in the post-2012 period do incentivize the exploitation of local
concerns and issues. If institutional change led to the upsurge of anti-Ahmadiyah repression and
mobilization, what is driving its decline?
I have argued in this chapter that decline in the frequency of anti-Ahmadiyah repression
and mobilization is not due to a changing institutional structure, but because the sect no longer
poses a visible constitutive threat. Driven by a combination of increased policing and conflict
fatigue, Indonesia’s Ahmadiyah communities reduced their public presence by removing
symbols from public spaces and proselytizing in more private ways. By doing so, the sect
neutralized their threat to Muslim group coherence and boundaries. As a consequence, the
Ahmadiyah issue lost its political utility.
As described in this chapter, stability does not mean emancipation or peace. Ahmadiyah
communities continue to experience discrimination and have had their religious freedoms curbed
significantly by the state. Begrudgingly, they have largely chosen not to resist what they perceive
to be unjust laws. The compromise to their emancipation as citizens, however, has successfully
shifted the target away from them, protecting them from violence.
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Chapter 8 Assessing Plausibility: Patterns of Anti-Shi’a Mobilization
and Repression in Indonesia
Held on 20 April 2014 at Al-Fajar mosque in Bandung city, the National Anti-Shi’a
Alliance (Aliansi Nasional Anti-Shi’a, ANNAS) was an attempt to unify all opponents of Shi’ism
under one organizational umbrella.297 Attended by over five hundred people from different parts
of the archipelago, 298 including representatives from the West Java gubernatorial office,299 the
event was so well attended that an overflow area was established, a large screen on the lawn
projecting the speeches made inside. Many of the attendees wore t-shirts emblazoned with the
slogan: “I’m Muslim, not Shi’a” (Saya Muslim, Bukan Syiah) or were dressed in the uniform of
the FPI or other civilian militias (laskar). The speaker line-up was fairly impressive, including
Maman Abdurrahman, the head of Persis, and Ahmad Cholil Ridwan, the head of MUI.
Furiously orating about the threat of the Shi’a to Indonesia’s social and political order, the
speakers one by one encouraged the attendees to stand up against the sect. Some speakers even
advocated for genocide. One man, for example, argued that the “blood of Shi’a is halal.” Another
stated that “the Shi’a are heretical. They cannot be in Indonesia, they cannot be on the face of the
earth.”300
At the time, the ANNAS rally—held less than two years after a violent attack on a Shi’a
community in Sampang, Madura—felt like a harbinger to an era of persecution for Indonesia’s
297 Anwar Siswadi, “Ulama Gelar Deklarasi Anti-Syiah di Bandung [Ulama Stage Anti-Shia Declaration in Bandung], Tempo, 20 April 2014, https://nasional.tempo.co/read/571895/ulama-gelar-deklarasi-anti-syiah-di-bandung, accessed 31 January 2019. 298 Ibid. 299 K.H. Ahmad Heryawan, then Governor of West Java, had accepted an invitation to attend the event. His name was attached to the early advertisements of the event. However, he later withdrew after many criticized his association with the group. Instead of attending himself, he sent representatives in his stead according to one of the speakers. Author’s fieldnotes, 20 April 2014. 300 Author’s fieldnotes from the Deklarasi Aliansi Nasional Anti Syiah in Buah Batu, Bandung, 20 April 2014. Video of the full event was also uploaded to Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCV1n2R8XkWU_HlROa-s9M0g (accessed 1 February 2019).
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Shi’a community. Sitting on a driveway of a house just outside the mosque in Bandung’s Buah
Batu neighborhood and listening to the anti-Shi’a vitriol broadcasted by the loudspeakers, I had
been convinced that the target on the Ahmadiyah had shifted to the Shi’a minority. I was not
alone in this prediction. Many individuals believed the Shi’a community were the new targets of
religious intolerance.301After all, both communities constitute less than 1% of the population
(Hicks 2014, 3, Institute for Policy Analysis of Conflict 2016, 1); neither group is economically,
politically or socially privileged; and both sects are similarly disliked by the Indonesian
population (Fealy 2016, 119). Thankfully, rates of anti-Shi’a mobilization and repression did not
nearly reach the levels experienced by their Ahmadi counterparts. Incidents, however, did occur.
Between 2007-2015, at least 54 incidents of anti-Shi’a activity were carried out.
The parallel circumstances experienced by these two micro-sized groups provides an
opportunity to assess the plausibility of the theory presented in this dissertation, which I
inductively developed through the case of the Ahmadiyah in Indonesia. Process tracing allows
me to assess empirical outcomes against theory-generated expectations (Mahoney 2012,
Schwartz 2019). If the theory proposed plausibly has explanatory power beyond the Ahmadiyah
case, public challenges to group boundaries by the Shi’a community should raise the group’s
threat profile, prompting organized opposition. We should expect these conflicts to be
constrained to the village- or neighborhood- level in the absence of incentives for political
entrepreneurship.
I assess the plausibility of my theory using four cases. The first two cases, the districts of
Pekalongan and Pasuruan, represent cases with low-intensity conflict. The second two cases, the
city of Bandung and the district of Sampang, are cases of higher intensity conflict. The Shi’a
case studies support the central assertions of this dissertation: that micro-sized groups become
targets of mobilization and repression when they publicly challenge the constitutive elements of
groupness. This threat can be exploited and amplified by political entrepreneurs to fulfill their
own interests. That being said, the ability of political entrepreneurs to exploit the Shi’a threat
301 For example, Shi’a Muslims were themselves extremely frightened that they would soon experience the trials of their Ahmadiyah counterparts (Assegaf 2015, 264).
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was significantly lower as Shi’as tended to avoid space-claiming practices in Indonesia and were
not always viewed as a constitutive threat.
I open this chapter by outlining trends of anti-Shi’a activity in Indonesia across time. This
section is followed by a discussion about why Shi’a communities in Indonesia are often not
considered visible constitutive threats. I then compare four Shi’a communities in Indonesia: 1)
Pekalongan and Batang, Central Java; 2) Bangil, East Java; 3) Bandung, West Java and 4)
Sampang, Madura, East Java. Through these case studies, I show how the public presence or
absence of Shi’a communities shaped whether or not the community was considered threatening,
thus determining the ability or desire of entrepreneurs to exploit the issue.
Anti-Shi’a Conflict Trends in Indonesia
Despite being similarly located, the experience of the Shi’a community in Indonesia has
been quite different from the Ahmadiyah. Trends of anti-Shi’a activity can be organized into
three broad periods: 1) 1924-1998; 2) 1998-2010; and 3) 2011-2014. While political
entrepreneurs did seek to instrumentalize the Shi’a issue in the latter periods, the Shi’a issue did
not resonate to the same degree as the Ahmadiyah issue did.
Conflict Trends in the 20th Century (1924-1998)
The Shi’a community has a long history in Indonesia, likely introduced to the country by
Arab or South Asian traders. Though the precise founding date is unclear, the Shi’a community
was already established by the late colonial era. The turning point for the Shi’a community in
Indonesia—and elsewhere—was the Iranian Revolution of 1979. The Revolution led to a growth
in the number of Shi’a Muslims in Indonesia in the 1980s, but also expanded the community’s
membership amongst indigenous (pribumi) Indonesians (Zulkifli 2009, 29). Like their
Ahmadiyah counterparts, intergroup conflict did occur as Shi’a institutions were established.
Frequency of Incidents: Broadly speaking, anti-Shi’a opposition during the 20th Century took the
form of theological debates about the validity of Shi’a teachings. When asked about his
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experiences as a Shi’a Muslim during the New Order period, an administrator at the Shi’a
boarding school Yayasan Pesantren Islam (YAPI) said,
Conflict between Sunni and Shi’a has always existed, but the difference is in the intensity and the mode [of conflict]. Before, when I was still a student here, there was some tensions. But that was mostly about our theology. I still remember the book about Mohammad that was revelatory to me, but was opposed by Sunni Muslims. That was it though; conflict was over theology. 302
Though there were certainly theological debates that occurred prior to the 1979 Revolution,303
they intensified in frequency after the 1979 Revolution. For example, articles critical of Shi’ism
were published in the newsletters of several Islamic organizations. Bangil branch published 32
highly critical articles in their magazine Al-Muslimun between 1979-1998 to encourage caution
on the part of their constituents (Zulkifli 2009, 280-281). While an indicator of opposition, it is
notable that this opposition took the form of ideational exchanges.
Organized opposition to Shi’a communities did occur, but quite rarely. Between 1979 and
1998, only a few episodes of organized opposition have been uncovered. In 1984, as interest in
the 1979 Revolution grew, MUI passed a tausiyah that outlined the basic differences between
Sunnism and Shi’ism. While the 1984 decision was not a fatwa, it instructed “all Sunni Muslims
to raise their vigilance towards the possibility of new sects based on the teachings of Shi’a”
(MUI 2011, 46-7). In 1992, a group of local Sunni religious leaders in Pekalongan, Central Java
forwarded a petition to the district government asking them to place limits on the local Shi’a
community (Zulkifli 2009, 294-295). In 1993, Sunni organizations in Bangil gathered to discuss
Sunni Islam and criticize Shi’a Islam after an event was staged in the district (Formichi 2014,
12). A few months later, on 2 August 1993, religious leaders from Bangil hijacked a meeting of
the East Java branch of MUI and proposed the creation of a team that would prevent the
expansion of Shi’ism in the area (Zulkifli 2009, 270). In 1996, the national leadership of Muslim 302 Ibrahim, Staff of Yayasan Pesantren Islam (YAPI). Interview by author, Bangil, East Java, 20 November 2014. 303 For example, when the Shi’a cleric Sayyid Ali bin Ahmad Shahab formed the first Muslim organization in the Dutch East Indies, Jami’at Khair, local religious leaders formed the organization Al-Irsyad to counter the influence of the organization (Institute for Policy Analysis of Conflict 2016, 9n43). For example, Al-Irsyad asked the Indonesian government to ban Shi’a proselytization in Indonesia (Zulkifli 2009, 262-263).
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organization Al-Irsyad made a speech demanding that the Department of Religion and other
government institutions ban Shi’ism and all Shi’a activities (262-263). Finally, in 1997, the LPPI
organized a seminar articulating and affirming concerns over Shi’a teachings at Istiqal Mosque
in Jakarta (Formichi 2014, 14-15). In other words, organized opposition seemed to only occur
every few years.
Scale of Conflict: As opposition to the Shi’a community occurred so infrequently, it is difficult to
categorize the scale of the conflict. As suggested by the articles published by the Bangil branch
of Persis, religious leaders at the district level did debate the issue. However, religious
organizations at the provincial level also became involved with the issue—especially in East
Java. As mentioned above, MUI East Java discussed ways to prevent the propagation of Shi’a
beliefs. Furthermore, the head of Muhammadiyah’s East Java branch, K.H. Rochim Noer, stated
in the meeting that Shi’as were not believers and supported the creation of a team that would
monitor Shi’a activities (Zulkifli 2009, 270). Finally, the passing of the 1980 tausiyah and the
1997 LPPI seminar shows two instances of national religious leaders working against the sect.
Targets of Mobilization and Repression: The targets of anti-Shi’a mobilization and repression
during the 20th Century were: 1) Shi’a teachings and practices more generally and 2) Shi’a
events. The 1984 tausiyah, the 1996 speech by Al-Irsyad to the Department of Religion, and the
1997 seminar all discussed the placement of limits on Shi’a practices. The petition by
Pekalongan’s religious elite was more specific, demanding that Al-Hadi pesantren cease all
activities and the Shi’a leader, Ahmad Baragbah stop carrying out what they perceived to be
unlawful marriages (294-295). Bangil opposition to the Shi’a community was a response to a
large Shi’a gathering that had previously occurred in the area (Formichi 2014, 12).
Conflict Trends in the Early Democratic Era (1998-2010)
While other religious minorities—including the Ahmadiyah—were targets of repression
and mobilization in the years between 1998 and 2010, Shi’a communities were largely left alone
during this time. Nonetheless, compared to the New Order period, Shi’a communities noted that
conflict began to escalate during this time.
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Frequency of Incidents: A pattern of sporadic anti-Shi’a mobilization characterized the period
between 1998-2010. During this period of time, there were three main episodes of anti-Shi’a
mobilization. The first incident to occur took place in 2000 in the district of Batang, Central
Java. Angered by the expansion of Al-Hadi pesantren from Pekalongan district into neighboring
Batang, thousands of locals from both districts attacked the newly constructed building in
Batang. (Formichi 2014, 19-20)
While the Batang incident was the only episode of mobilization to turn violent, the two
episodes of collective action that occurred in Pasuruan, East Java and Sampang, East Java
respectively set the stage for larger episodes of mobilization in the subsequent period. In 2007,
after Friday prayers, about a thousand people protested the Shi’a pesantren YAPI in Pasuruan
(Panggabean et al. 2014, 137-140). Along the same lines, the roots of the Sampang violence—
the most significant episode of Sunni-Shi’a violence to occur in Indonesia thus far—can be
traced to 2006. In 2006, religious leaders began to organize against the Shi’a leader Tajul Muluk,
who they considered a threat to their interests and to the community at large (Afdillah 2016, 49).
Although incidents of mobilization against the Shi’a community did occur, it is important
to note that they occurred quite infrequently—especially compared to the experience of other
religious minorities. According to my data, only 9 incidents of anti-Shi’a activity occurred
between 1998 and 2010. In contrast, Indonesia’s Ahmadiyah communities were targets of 151
incidents during this same period.
Scale of Conflict: During this time, episodes of anti-Shi’a mobilization were constrained to the
village-level. Organized opposition was largely planned by village-level actors that were not
affiliated with the state: local religious leaders and neighbors. The exception was the Sampang
case, where local religious leaders were able to get support from religious leaders across all four
districts on the island of Madura. Generally speaking, however, the incidents were carried out by
those in close proximity to Shi’a communities.
Targets of Mobilization and Repression: Anti-Shi’a incidents that have occurred tended to
revolve around 1) Shi’a institutions and 2) Shi’a religious events. For example, the Batang
violence was carried out due to grievances over Al-Hadi’s expansion. Similarly, the anti-Shi’a
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protest staged in Sampang was carried out to halt the celebration of the Prophet Muhammad’s
birthday (mawlid).
The Anti-Shi’a Uptick (2011-2014)
The escalation of anti-Shi’a activity began just as the targeting of the Ahmadiyah began
to subside. There was a sense, then, that the target had shifted from the Ahmadiyah to the Shi’a.
Between 2011 and 2014, there was certainly an uptick in terms of the frequency and scale of
anti-Shi’a activity. However, while political entrepreneurs did seek to exploit and amplify the
Shi’a threat, the Shi’a did not experience nearly the same levels of mobilization and repression
compared to the Ahmadiyah.
Frequency of Incidents: As Figure 8.1 suggests, there was an uptick in the incidence of anti-
Shi’a activity between 2011 and 2014. Still, as the dotted line reveals, even at its highest peak,
the frequency of anti-Shi’a incidents was lower than the frequency of anti-Ahmadiyah incidents.
Figure 8.1: Frequency of Anti-Shi’a Incidents in Indonesia, 2003-2015
The uptick in the frequency of anti-Shi’a activity is mainly attributable to the eruption of
conflict in a handful of areas. Unlike conflict involving the Ahmadiyah, which was
geographically widespread, anti-Shi’a conflict was concentrated in only a few sites on the island
of Java (Figure 8.2).
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Figure 8.2: Spatial Distribution of Anti-Shi’a Activity, 2011-2014
Scale of Conflict: With the exception of the passage of Gubernatorial Decree (Peraturan
Gubernur, pergub) 55/2012 in East Java and the launch of ANNAS, anti-Shi’a conflict largely
remained in the domain of the village. While non-state entrepreneurs in East Java were
successful in pressuring the provincial government to act on the Shi’a issue, few entrepreneurs in
other districts, provinces, or at the national level chose to exploit it (Figure 8.3). Furthermore, in
contrast to the Ahmadiyah, state actors largely chose to abstain from acting on the issue (Figure
8.4). In other words, the scale of anti-Shia conflict was comparatively small.
Figure 8.3: Jurisdictional Disaggregation of Anti-Shi’a Activity, 2008-2015.
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Figure 8.4: State and Non-State Actor Involvement in Anti-Shi’a Repression and Mobilization, 2008-2015.
Targets of Mobilization and Repression: The targets of anti-Shi’a incidents between 2011 and
2014 differ slightly from their Ahmadiyah counterparts. The most notable is that Shi’a houses of
worship are not targets of mobilization. One reason for this absence is that Shi’a mosques are
rare in Indonesia and are generally attached to Shi’a schools. Consequently, it is possible that the
Shi’a mosque is the target, but that reporters are misidentifying the main target of intent. It is
also possible that Shi’a mosques are not considered important targets of mobilization.
Interestingly, the most common targets of anti-Shi’a repression and mobilization are 1) Shi’a
religious practices; 2) individual people;304 and 2) Shi’a religious events.
Figure 8.5: Targets of Anti-Shi’a Activity, 2011-2014
304 This figure is skewed by the high levels of persecution experienced by Tajul Muluk, the Shi’a leader in Sampang, Madura, East Java.
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Invisible Constitutive Threat? Shi’a Religious Practices in Indonesia
The debate over the boundaries of Islam arguably go back to the founding of the Shi’a
sect, which originated with the succession conflict that followed the death of the Prophet
Muhammad in 632. Muslims who believed that Muhammad’s cousin and son-in-law Ali bin Abi
Thalib was the rightful heir became known as Shi’a (“followers of Ali”). Sunni Muslims, on the
other hand, rejected the principle of hereditary succession and believed that Abu Bakr, one of the
Prophet’s companions, was the legitimate successor. The split between Sunni and Shi’a
crystallized when Ali’s son Husayn was killed during the Battle of Karbala in his quest to
reclaim the throne from the Ummayad dynasty. After Husayn’s martyrdom, Ali’s followers
viewed the Ummayyad dynasty as illegitimate rulers who usurped the throne from the rightful
heir.
Shi’a and Sunni Muslims have beliefs and practices in common. Followers of both sects
believe in the oneness of God (tawhid), that the Quran is the holy book, and that Muhammad is
the seal of the prophets. While following different jurisprudence, both sects also have similar
understandings of the components of religious obligations, such as prayer, fasting, the giving of
alms (zakat), and the carrying out of the haj.
In Southeast Asia more broadly, and in Indonesia in particular, Shi’a Islam has also
influenced the practice of Sunni Islam—particularly the variant practiced by traditionalist
Muslims. Although the origins of these shared practices are contested,305 this Shi’a influence can
be seen in a few mainstream Sunni practices today. For example, there is a widespread devotion
amongst Sunni Muslims to the prophet and the members of his family (i.e. the ahl al-bayt),
specifically: the Prophet Muhammad, Fatima, Ali, Hasan and Husayn (Assegaf 2015, 265;
Formichi 2015). This devotion permeates some religious practices and commemorations. For
example, members of NU commonly recite a prayer of adoration to these five individuals, a
practice that resembles prayers in Shi’ism (Zulkifli 2009, 302). In fact, Gus Dur once saw so
305 Some scholars believe that a minority of the nine wali sanga (the original propagators of Islam in Java) were Shi’a, while others believe that Indian and Persian traders helped bring Shi’a traditions to the archipelago. For a succinct overview of these debates, see Zulkifli (2009, 3-12).
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many similarities between NU and Shi’ism that he controversially stated that NU was culturally
Shi’a (Formichi 2014, 10). Furthermore, while both Sunni and Shi’a celebrate Ashura, only the
latter places such a great emphasis on Husayn’s martyrdom. Djajadinigrat (1958, 380 in Zulkifli
2009, 6) suggests that the widespread commemoration of Husayn’s martyrdom in Indonesian
Ashura celebrations is evidence of the Shi’a influence on Indonesian Islam.
While there are clear similarities between Sunni and Shi’a beliefs and practices, there are
also clear differences. Beyond disagreements over the lines of succession, both sects disagree on
key theological tenets. Sunni and Shi’a disagree who is included in the al bayt. Shiites only
acknowledge Ali, Fatimah, and their sons as the ahl al-bayt, while Sunnis recognize
Muhammad’s other children. The Twelvers—the sect followed by most Shi’a in Indonesia—also
believe in the Great Occultation. Shi’a Muslims in this sect believe that all imams of the Shi’a
tradition were killed except for the twelfth, who was hidden by God to return as the Messiah (al-
Mahdi) in the end times. Until this incident occurs, there are living Ayatollahs (senior clerics)
who take on the spiritual, administration and political role of the Twelfth Imam. These leaders,
according to the concept of imamate (“leadership”), are in charge of both political and religious
decisions. Because these leaders are divinely appointed, Shi’a Muslims are obligated to emulate
and follow their teachings. This conception of leadership is quite different from the imams in the
Sunni tradition, who are not seen to inherently have political or administrative authority.
Perhaps the most important difference between Indonesian Sunni Muslims and Shi’a
Muslims is that they follow different schools of jurisprudence. Most Sunnis in Indonesia follow
Shafi’i jurisprudence, while Shi’a follow Ja’fari jurisprudence (Zulkifli 2009, 108). The
differences between the two schools, small as they are, shape the day-to-day practices carried out
by their adherents. For example, Shi’a Muslims are not allowed to eat food prepared by non-
Muslims and cannot eat fish that do not have scales (115). They are also allowed to engage in
temporary marriage, a practice known as mut’a (114). In addition to differences with regards to
marriage and diet, prayer is shaped by differences in jurisprudence. While both sects believe that
there are five obligatory prayers carried out daily at dawn (subh), noon (zuhr), in the afternoon
(asr), after sunset (maghrib) and at night (isha), Shi’ites are allowed to consolidate prayers.
Being able to pray three times instead of five times is perceived as making the obligatory prayers
more manageable (112). Furthermore, prayer is seen as more of an individual activity in the
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Shi’a tradition, meaning that there is less of an emphasis on the performance of the communal
Friday prayer as in Sunnism (ibid). In addition to differences in the frequency of prayer, there are
also differences in the utterances and movements in the practice of prayer. For example, Sunni
Muslims fold their arms in the standing phase of prayer, while Shi’a Muslims keep their arms
straight during this phase. Along the same lines, during the prostration phase of prayer, Shi’a do
not place their foreheads on carpet because it does not grow out of the earth. They will, therefore,
place their forehead on earth, stone, or paper. Often, Shi’a Muslims will use a block of mud from
Karbala called a turba (112-113).
What is important to note, however, is that differences in practice are not always publicly
seen due to the principle of taqiyya (“to guard oneself”). The practice of taqiyya is the practice of
dissimulation of one’s true faith in order to protect oneself from persecution. Therefore, in Sunni
dominated areas, Shi’a Muslims will often simulate Sunni practices of worship, especially in
public spaces. (Zulkifli 2009, 122-123)
Taqiyya is widely practiced by Shi’a Muslims in Indonesia. In fact, Zulkifli (2009, 122)
goes so far as to state that “the practice of taqiyya….has become a distinguishing feature of the
Shi’is in Indonesia.” Jalaluluddin Rakhmat, a public intellectual and a highly respected Shi’a
leader, wrote the following about his own observations of the pervasive practice of taqiyya in the
Indonesian Shi’a community:
The Shi’ites in Indonesia tended to state their Shi’ite beliefs only for themselves or for their close relations. From their outward appearance, they were adherents of the Sunni school of Islam, but they upheld the Shi’ite beliefs whilst practicing Shafi’ite Islamic jurisprudence. In addition, they did not have a missionary zeal to proselytize the Shi’ite teachings to the community. (Rakhmat 1995 in Zulkifli 2004, 289)
The practice of taqiyya does not only apply to individuals, but also institutions. As will be
demonstrated in the case studies, many Shi’a institutions—whether schools or foundations—are
also reluctant to identify themselves as Shi’a. In fact, many Shi’a Muslims in Indonesia will
“suppress or modify information” about the nature of Shi’a institutions and the community more
broadly (Zulkifli 2009, 124).
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The widespread practice of taqiyya by Indonesian Shi’ites means that challenges to group
boundaries largely remain isolated to the private sphere. There are, of course, exceptions to this
rule. As will be shown in the case studies, some Shi’a Muslims do not practice taqiyya. There are
also times when the Shi’a community is publicly visible, notably in their yearly celebration of
Ashura. There are, for example, distinctive elements about the way Shi’a Muslims commemorate
the maqtal (the story of Husayn’s massacre). This portion of the celebration is accompanied by
crying and wailing—which is absent from Sunni traditions.
The public suppression of difference on the part of most Shi’a communities in Indonesia
meant that the threat to Muslim group boundaries were isolated to the private sphere.
Furthermore, given the influence of Shi’a practices on traditionalist Islam, some Shi’a
practices—such as the devotion to the ahl al-bayt—did not disrupt the category of Muslim in
Indonesia. The minimal public presence of what distinguished Shi’a communities from their
Sunni counterparts meant that Muslim group coherence could be outwardly maintained.
It is important to acknowledge that compared to the Ahmadiyah, there is less of a
consensus over whether or not the Shi’a community presents a constitutive threat to Islam. This
state of affairs is arguably reinforced by the general absence of distinct Shi’a practices carried
out in public. While there does seem to be agreement amongst conservative voices about the
perceived threat of Shi’ism to Indonesian Islam, there is a wider range of opinions amongst what
is considered the Muslim mainstream. Persis, the modernist organization, consider Shi’ites to be
non-Muslim. The general chairman of Persis (1983-1997), A. Latief Muchtar, published a
provocative article about Shi’ism, “Awas Akidah Syiah (Beware of Shi’a Doctrine),” in the
organization’s magazine. The Persis leadership also participated in the LPPI’s 1997 seminar and
officially endorsed the contents of the published conference proceedings (Zulkifli 2009, 283).
However, there is more ambivalence on the part of Indonesia’s largest Muslim
organizations, Muhammadiyah and NU. Local branches of Muhammadiyah did participate in
anti-Shi’a activities. For example, the head of Muhammadiyah’s East Java branch, K.H. Rochim
Noer, stated that Shi’a Muslims were not believers and supported the creation of a team that
would monitor Shi’a activities (Zulkifli 2009, 270). On the other hand, Muhammadiyah was the
only major Muslim organization that did not attend LPPI’s 1997 seminar, which was seen as a
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notable absence (Formichi 2014, 15). More recently, Din Syamsuddin, the Chairman of
Muhammadiyah between 2005-2015, publicly condemned anyone who sought to exploit the
Sunni-Shi’a divide. He stated: “Muhammadiyah does not follow Sunni or Shi’a. We are Muslim.
If we look at history, there are historically even Muslim ideas, philosophy, and knowledge that
come from Shi’ism.”306
The views of Indonesia’s largest Muslim organization, NU, are similarly complex in its
internal variation. There are two polarized camps in this traditionalist organization: those who
believe that Shi’a Muslims are within the fold of Islam and those who see them as heretics. NU
ulama who are vehemently anti-Shi’a have participated in a wide range of anti-Shi’a events,
including the 1997 LPPI seminar (Zulkifli 2009, 285) and the founding of ANNAS.307 There are
also those within the organization that consider Shi’ism to be within the fold of Islam. As
mentioned above, Gus Dur emphasized on several occasions that Shi’a practices have influenced
NU practices. Said Agiel Siradj, NU chairman between 2010 and 2015, held similar views.
While he was Chairman, he stated that Shi’a Islam “is not a deviant sect, just different from us. It
is not right that this attack [i.e. Sampang attack] was carried out under the name of NU. NU has
never tolerated violence for any reason.”308
Another indicator of the lack of consensus over the Shi’a issue was the tausiyah issued by
MUI on 8 March 1984. In this recommendation, the Council outlines the basic differences
between Sunnism and Shi’ism and closes off by “urging all Sunni Muslims to raise their
vigilance towards the possibility of new sects based on the teachings of Shi’a” (MUI 2011, 46-
7). What is not said in the recommendation is notable. While the Council urges caution towards
Shi’ism, they do not label the sect as deviant. A lack of consensus remains today. When asked
about whether or not a fatwa on the Shi’a would be issued, a member of MUI’s fatwa
306 “Din Syamsuddin: Hentikan Provokasi Konflik Sunni-Syiah [Din Syamsuddin: Stop Provocations for Sunni-Shi’a Conflict],” Detik news, 28 September 2013, https://news.detik.com/berita/d-2372157/din-syamsuddin-hentikan-provokasi-konflik-sunni---syiah, accessed 18 February 2019. 307 Author’s fieldnotes, 20 April 2014. 308 Srihandriatmo Malau, “Ketua PBNU: Syiah Bukan Aliran Sesat [PBNU Chair: Shi’ism Not a Deviant Sect],” Tribun News, 29 August 2012, http://www.tribunnews.com/regional/2012/08/29/ketua-pbnu-syiah-bukan-aliran-sesat, accessed 18 February 2019.
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commission stated: “With regards to Shi’ism, we are still analyzing the topic on a general
level…We do not issue fatwa if a consensus has not been reached.”309
In short, with some exceptions, Shi’a communities in Indonesia did not pose a visible
constitutive threat. The public suppression of difference by most Shi’a communities in Indonesia
meant that the threat to Muslim group boundaries was isolated to the private sphere. Their
invisibility shaped the consensus—or lack thereof—on whether or not Shi’ism threatened
Muslim group coherence. However, as the case studies will show, when Shi’a communities did
mark public space, they faced forms of local resistance similar to their Ahmadi counterparts. It is
to these case studies I now turn.
Examining Patterns of Anti-Shi’a Mobilization and Repression in Four Cases in Indonesia
Pekalongan and Batang, Central Java
The Shi’a community in Pekalongan and Batang, Central Java was left alone when the
group was most visible at the national level (2011-2014). This absence is notable because Shi’a
communities at these sites were victims of the first episode of anti-Shi’a violence to occur in
Indonesia’s democratic era, which erupted in April 2000 (Formichi 2014, 19). These patterns of
opposition were shaped by the group’s shifting levels of visibility. Given the absence of a visible
constitutive threat in the aftermath of the 2000 attack, the Shi’a issue in these districts was not
resonant when institutional configurations incentivized the uptake and the amplification of local
concerns.
Pekalongan is considered an important site for Indonesia’s Shi’a community due to al-
Hadi pesantren, founded by Ahmad Baragbah in 1989 (Zulkifli 2009, 131). During the New
Order period, the religious practices of this particular Shi’a community slightly differed from
Shi’a communities in other sites in Indonesia, such as in Jakarta, Bandung, and Bangil. Three
aspects are relevant. First, al-Hadi exclusively caters to Shi’a students, proudly emphasizing their
309 Arifin, MUI Fatwa Commission Secretariat. Interview by author, Jakarta, 19 September 2014.
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rigorous religious identity as a Shi’a pesantren (Zulkifli 2009, 173). In fact, al-Hadi is named for
one of the 12 imams significant in Shi’a beliefs (133). In this way, al-Hadi differed from other
schools run by Shi’a leaders, such as YAPI in Bangil and the Muthahhari schools in Bandung—
both of which cater to students from both Shi’a and Sunni backgrounds.310 Second, unlike many
other Shi’a leaders and communities in Indonesia, Baragbah and his followers very rarely
practiced taqiyya (173). Instead, they chose to follow Shi’a prayer rituals, even when in view of
their Sunni neighbors. In fact, it seems like intercommunal tensions emerged when it became
“clear that religious rituals [at al-Hadi] were different than their neighbors” (Humaedi 2012, 15-
16). Finally, the students and staff of al-Hadi also were engaged in proselytization. In addition to
being an educational institution, al-Hadi was an important distributor of Shi’a religious material.
They were engaged in the distribution of printed material, but also produced audio cassettes
(Assegaf 2015, 252). Together, these three characteristics made the Shi’a community in
Pekalongan uniquely visible during the New Order period.
Like their Ahmadiyah counterparts, the visibility of the al-Hadi community in
Pekalongan led many of their neighbors to perceive the group as a constitutive threat. For
example, a Pekalongan ulama expressed concerns about “those in the community who
provocatively show[ed] their distinct beliefs by smoking or hanging around outdoors during the
time of Friday prayers, which are considered mandatory for Sunni followers but not for the
Shi’i” (Assegaf 2015, 262-263). To safeguard their communities against the influence of
Shi’ism, Sunni Muslims organized public lectures with anti-Shi’a preachers from out of town
(Humaedi 2012, 16). That they perceived the Shi’a community to be a visible constitutive threat
to the category of Muslim is suggested by a petition lodged in 1992 by a number of local Sunni
leaders. This petition was presented to the mayor of Pekalongan and the district legislature. It
outlined four demands:
First, for the Pesantren Al-Hadi to cease all activities; second, to bring Ahmad Baragbah, the leader of Al-Hadi, before the court as he had organized unlawful marriages; third, to [monitor] and prohibit all Shi’i activities in Pekalongan; and fourth, to call on the central government to declare, via its GBHN (Garis-garis Besar Haluan Negara, Broad Outlines
310 Ibrahim, Staff of Yayasan Pesantren Islam (YAPI). Interview by author, Bangil, East Java, 20 November 2014; Said, IJABI Leader. Interview by author, Bandung, West Java, 23 September 2014.
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of the Nation’s Direction), that the only form of Islam recognized by the state is ahl al-sunna wa al-jama’a. (Zulkifli 2009, 294-295).
In 1996, the national leadership of Muslim community Al-Irsyad made an announcement in
Pekalongan demanding that the Department of Religion and other government institutions ban
Shi’ism and all Shi’a activities, including the practice of rituals, the printing of publications
about Shi’ism and its distribution in order to prevent conflict with the “Muslims in Indonesia
who are adherents of the teachings of ahl al-sunna wa al-jama” (262-263).
Both the 1992 petition and the 1996 petition highlight how fears about group boundaries
in flux were at the core of the Shi’a threat. Both petitions ask the government to make Sunni
Islam synonymous with the category of Muslim in Indonesia to ensure that the group’s
foundations are ontologically secure. While both petitions only allude to the element of visibility,
that opposition clearly emerged in Pekalongan specifically and not elsewhere suggests that it was
an important element of the equation. The determination of Pekalongan’s Shi’a community to
openly practice the rites of Shi’ism explains why this community in particular experienced
greater opposition than their counterparts elsewhere during this time period.
Like their Ahmadiyah counterparts during the New Order era, conflict involving the
Shi’a community in Pekalongan remained constrained to the village level. As discussed in
Chapter 4, the institutional configurations of the time meant that state actors had little incentive
to respond to the demands of local religious elites. Political actors did not, after all, rely on kyai
to gain or maintain their positions in the state. Given their weak political influence, only those in
close proximity to Pekalongan perceived the Shi’a community there as a threat to the cohesion of
the Muslim category.
The transition to democracy and the sudden decrease of authoritarian repression created
the environment that led to the first known incident of anti-Shi’a violence in Indonesia, which
erupted at the Batang branch of al-Hadi on 14 April 2000. Perhaps encouraged by the freedoms
brought on by democratization and the presidency of Gus Dur, Baragbah planned an expansion
of al-Hadi, which had grown from five students in 1989 to 100 students in 1999 (Institute for
Policy Analysis of Conflict 2016, 15). This expansion was not well received by people in both
Pekalongan and Batang. Locals mobilized, putting pressure on the district attorney’s office to
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halt construction and to withdraw the pesantren’s teaching permit (Zulkifli 2009, 296). This ban
was eventually issued on 3 April 2000 (Institute for Policy Analysis of Conflict 2016, 15). Al-
Hadi’s staff immediately began plans to challenge this ruling in the courts (Zulkifli 2009, 296).
Before they were able to do so, however, the school became a target of violence. On the eve of
Ashura, thousands of Sunni Muslims from neighboring areas attacked a newly constructed
building in the Batang branch of al-Hadi. During the mob attack, over 30 students were injured
and the building was heavily damaged (est. $18,000 USD) (Formichi 2014, 19).
The attack by al-Hadi’s Sunni neighbors successfully drove the Shi’a out of Batang. Not
only did the pesantren stop plans to fight against the district attorney’s ban, but the violence
drove al-Hadi to relocate (Zulkifli 2009, 296-97). Furthermore, it appears that the attitude of al-
Hadi’s leadership on taqiyya changed. A journalist wrote in 2006 that Shi’a communities in
Central Java have protected themselves by engaging in taqiyya.311 In other words, members of
the Shi’a community in both Pekalongan and Batang withdrew from the public sphere.
Consequently, by the time decentralization amplified the concerns of local leaders, the Shi’a
threat was no longer resonant and therefore not politically useful.
The Pekalongan and Batang cases support the argument that both a visible constitutive
threat and incentives for entrepreneurship are required for micro-sized groups to be considered
threatening. During the New Order period, Pekalongan’s Shi’a community posed a visible
constitutive threat and experienced opposition by those who directly experienced this threat. The
absence of political incentives, however, worked to contain the conflict. However, prompted by
the eruption of violence in 2000, the Shi’a community shifted inwards. As a consequence, they
no longer posed a visible constitutive threat when political entrepreneurs were positioned to
exploit the Shi’a threat.
311 Fahmi Rukardi, “Melihat Lebih Dekat Kaum Syiah di Jawa Tengah: Menghindarkan Gesekan dengan Taqiyya [Look More Closely at the Shi'a of Central Jawa: Preventing Tensions through Taqiyya],” Suara Merdeka, 12 February 2006, http://www.suaramerdeka.com/harian/0602/12/nas05.htm, accessed 30 September 2016.
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Bangil, Pasuruan District, East Java
Despite efforts by political entrepreneurs to exploit the Shi’a threat after the onset of
democratization and decentralization, they were not successful. The absence of entrepreneurship
is surprising, as YAPI in Bangil, Pasuruan district, East Java is one of the most—if not the
most— important Shi’a-affiliated pesantren in Indonesia. However, the ability of entrepreneurs
to exploit and amplify the Shi’a threat was limited by YAPI’s inward orientation, which
neutralized the constitutive threat posed by the community.
The Shi’a community in Bangil can be traced to the establishment of YAPI in 1976 by
Husein Al-Habsyi, a highly respected religious teacher of Arab descent (Zulkifli 2009, 62).
YAPI is not only the oldest Shi’a-led pesantren in Indonesia, but the most important (161).
Although it started with a single building that functioned as both classrooms and dormitories,
today YAPI consists of three large complexes: a large boys school in Bangil’s suburbs, a girls
school, and an elementary school. Each complex is fully equipped with its own mosque, dorms,
and other facilities (162).
While the Shi’a community in Pekalongan openly identified themselves and their school
as Shi’a, the Shi’a community in Bangil did not. Al-Habsyi was a steadfast follower of taqiyya.
Thus, although there is little doubt that Al-Habsyi was a Shi’a,312 he never publicly identified
himself as such and actually identified as a Sunni (Zulkifli 2004, 289). In fact, Al-Habsyi’s fierce
defense of Shi’a teachings were based on Sunni theological arguments, an approach consistent
with taqiyya (Ibid). As the kyai of YAPI, Al-Habsyi’s practice of taqiyya would have been
followed by his constituents.
In fact, YAPI is very reluctant to identify the school as Shi’a, a characteristic that Zulkifli
(2009, 170) interprets as a manifestation of taqiyya. The school’s name is generically Muslim,
making no reference to Shi’ism. Furthermore, unlike al-Hadi pesantren in Pekalongan, YAPI is
open to students and teachers from both Shi’a and Sunni backgrounds. YAPI’s disavowal of a
Shi’a identity continues to this day and is illustrated by an interview I conducted with a YAPI
administrator named Ibrahim. During the interview, Ibrahim paused twice to emphasize that
312 For more details about Husein Al-Habsyi’s life, see Zulkifli (2009, 285).
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YAPI was not a Shi’a school. The first time, he said: “We are not a sectarian school. We teach
Shi’a teachings, but we also teach Sunni teachings. The teachers are Sunni and Shi’a, and the
students too.”313 The second time, at the close of the interview, he made the point more
explicitly, saying: “I’d like to re-emphasize that we are not a Shi’a pesantren. We are a pesantren
with a lot of Shi’a students.”314 This messaging has been fairly successful. According to the
Institute for Policy Analysis of Conflict (2016, 2), YAPI is not known locally as a Shi’a
pesantren, but as the “Arab pesantren”—likely in reference to the lineage of its founder.
It would be incorrect to state that YAPI’s inward orientation protected the group from all
forms of opposition. For many years, however, opposition to the Shi’a community in Bangil was
limited to theological disagreements. For example, some of YAPI’s Sunni teachers decided to
leave their positions at the school when they deduced that Al-Habsyi was Shi’a (Zulkifli 2004,
298). Along the same lines, according to Ibrahim, who was a student at YAPI during this period,
Al-Habsyi’s writings on Islam were criticized.315
Organized opposition to the Shi’a community in Bangil only coalesced after an
uncharacteristic moment of visibility: the staging of a large gathering of the ahl al-Bayt (i.e.
Shi’a Muslims) that was hosted at YAPI. In response to this meeting, in April 1993, a group of
Sunni organizations in Bangil gathered criticize Shi’a Islam (Formichi 2014, 12). A few months
later, on 2 August 1993, religious leaders from Bangil hijacked a meeting of the East Java MUI
and proposed the creation of a team that would prevent the expansion of Shi’ism in the area
(Zulkifli 2009, 270). While the East Java branch of MUI supported this proposal, it is unclear if a
team was ultimately formed. Regardless, due to the institutional configurations of the 1990s,
organized opposition to the Shi’a community in Bangil did not escalate beyond the local level or
even into any mobilized group.
313 Ibrahim, Staff of Yayasan Pesantren Islam (YAPI). Interview by author, Bangil, East Java, 20 November 2014. 314 Ibid. 315 Ibid.
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Institutional change in the form of democratization and decentralization not only
provided space for organizations to mobilize, but also incentivized claims making. In 2000,
individuals who had participated in the 1993 Sunni gatherings formally reorganized as Majelis
Ta’lim Ahlussunnah wal Jamaah (MT Aswaja) (Institute for Policy Analysis of Conflict 2016,
19n104). However, the group did not get involved in politics in the first few years of their
existence. In fact, it was not until 2007 that MT Aswaja began to organize against the Shi’a
community. The first episode of anti-Shi’a mobilization took place on 20 April 2007 after Friday
prayers. Organized over a month in advance, approximately 1000 protestors travelled a route
from the town square (alun alun), to YAPI, and finally to the district court. The protestors
demanded that the Shi’a be disbanded (“pembubaran Syiah”), marching with banners espousing
discriminatory phrases such as “Expel followers of Shi’ism from Bangil City”; “Shi’a=Jews”;
and “Don’t Dirty Bangil City with Heretical Teachings.” (Panggabean et al. 2014, 137-140)
Given the timing and context of MT Aswaja’s entry into politics, the April 2007 protest
was likely modeled after the anti-Ahmadiyah campaign that was ongoing at the time. Comparing
the 2007 anti-Shi’a protest with anti-Ahmadiyah protests in 2005, 2006, and 2007 reveals
undeniable similarities. The demands by MT Aswaja to “Disband the Shi’a” echoes demands to
“Disband the Ahmadiyah,” simply substituting one minority group for another. Opponents of
both groups also similarly highlighted the heresy of both sects’ teachings. These imitations are
likely not a coincidence. It was entirely reasonable to expect that imitating the strategy of anti-
Ahmadiyah campaigns would also lead to restrictions on Shi’a religious practices and increased
access to power and patronage.
Yet, despite the similarities between the Ahmadiyah and the Shi’a and the institutional
environment, the 2007 protest had a minimal impact on the politics of Pasuruan district.
Pasuruan’s political elite did not make moves to circumscribe the ability of the Shi’a community
to practice. Similarly, important religious elites did not publicly express concerns about the sect.
In other words, the protest did not galvanize support for anti-Shi’a efforts in Bangil.
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The second major episode316 of anti-Shi’a mobilization similarly did not galvanize the
anti-Shi’a movement. This incident occurred on 15 February 2011, beginning as a verbal
argument and then escalating into a massive brawl between members of MT Aswaja and students
of YAPI pesantren (Panggabean et al. 2014, 140). The incident began when a group of about 100
people went to a pengajian where they heard an anti-Shi’a message from speaker Habib Muhdlar
Al-Hamid (Institute for Policy Analysis of Conflict 2016, 19). On their way home, the group
rode by YAPI and began yelling taunts and throwing stones at the school buildings. Some YAPI
students fought back, retaliating by throwing stones at the attackers. The situation eventually
escalated into brawling. Police eventually stopped the fight, though not before six YAPI students
were injured.317
As one of the few cases where Shi’ites tried to defend themselves, the 2011 brawl was
seemingly ripe for political instrumentalization. Yet, as with the first incident, politicians did not
exploit or amplify the Shi’a threat. While they did not defend the Shi’a community, choosing
instead to act as a neutral arbiter, 318 they did not blame or target them. The night of February
15th—just a few hours after the violence had been de-escalated by the police—the district
government organized a meeting to prevent tensions from turning violent once again. This
meeting was led by the vice bupati of Pasuruan, Edy Paripurna, and was attended by important
stakeholders including police chiefs, the district attorney, and a number of important community
leaders. Paripurna began the meeting with a public statement, saying that he “regretted and was
grieved by the incident that occurred at YAPI pesantren.” He followed this statement with a
request that the security apparatus pursue the necessary steps to ensure that the offenders were
brought to justice; that the people of Pasuruan would remain calm; that community leaders
would urge their constituents to not be provoked into conflict; and that the media would be 316 It is important to note that more minor episodes of opposition did occur between 2007 and 2011. For example, on 19 August 2009, a group of people riding motorcycles played loud music and threw a water bottle at YAPI’s security post (Zulkifli 2004, 285). 317 Abdul Syukur, “Inilah Kronologis Penyerangan Pondok Pesantren YAPI [This is the Chronology of the YAPI Pesantren Attack],” Tribun News, 2 February 2015, http://www.tribunnews.com/regional/2011/02/15/inilah-kronologis-penyerangan-pondok-pesantren-yapi, accessed 7 February 2019. 318 Ibrahim, Staff of Yayasan Pesantren Islam (YAPI). Interview by author, Bangil, East Java, 20 November 2014. The exact analogy used was that the state acted like a parent.
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responsible in their coverage of the sensitive situation.319 Politicians who held legislative office
made similar points. Bambang Soesatyo, the Pasuruan representative of the national legislature,
urged the people in the district to remain calm. He said: “I hope that all sides keep of sound
mind, are not anxious, and that we are not easily provoked into conflict.”320 The speaker of
Pasuruan’s district legislature, Irsyad Yusuf, communicated similar sentiments (Panggabean et
al. 2014, 159).
What explains the restraint of Pasuruan’s political elites compared to their counterparts in
Sampang or Kuningan? I argue that politicians in the district did not exploit and amplify the
Shi’a threat because the most important religious elites in Bangil were not particularly concerned
by it. Many notable religious leaders chose to participate in the meeting organized by the
Pasuruan government to manage sectarian tensions in Bangil. These attendees included the Chair
of NU Bangil, KH Khoron Syukur, as well as the Chair of NU Pasuruan, KH Shonhaji
Abdusshomad.321 Given the dominance of NU in East Java, these men were politically
significant at the local level. Abdusshomad even made a separate statement, disavowing the
YAPI attack, saying: this “incident is not at all linked to NU. We ask the police to enforce the
law and to act strictly against the perpetrators.”322 Beyond the immediate response to the 2011
incident, religious elites in Pasuruan did not partner with MT Aswaja and in fact distanced itself
from members of the organization. According to the YAPI administrator, both NU and
Muhammadiyah defended the pesantren by condemning the violence that had occurred.323 In
319 “Disesalkan, Penyerangan di Ponpes YAPI [Regrettable, Attack on YAPI Pesantren],” Kompas, 16 February 2011, https://travel.kompas.com/read/2011/02/16/1122300/disesalkan.penyerangan.di.ponpes.yapi, accessed 8 February 2019. 320 “Pesantren di Pasuruan Diserang, Ulama-Polisi Bergerak Cepat,” Antara, 16 February 2011, https://www.antaranews.com/berita/246264/pesantren-di-pasuruan-diserang-ulama-polisi-bergerak-cepat, accessed 9 February 2019. 321 Ibid. 322 “Penyerangan YAPI Tak Terkait NU [YAPI Attack Not Linked to NU],” Kompas, 15 February 2011, https://nasional.kompas.com/read/2011/02/15/2221479/penyerangan.yapi.tak.terkait.nu, accessed 9 February 2019. 323 Ibrahim, Staff of Yayasan Pesantren Islam (YAPI). Interview by author, Bangil, East Java, 20 November 2014.
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short, a lack of concern about Shi’a threat on the part of the district’s important brokers meant
that there were few incentives for politicians to amplify the threat.
I argue that the lack of concern on the part of Pasuruan’s religious elite is rooted in the
absence of the visible constitutive threat posed by the Shi’a community in Bangil. The Shi’a
community’s embrace of taqiyya—both in their individual religious practices and in the school’s
branding—reduced their public presence. In recent years, out of a sense of self-preservation,
YAPI’s administrators sought to reduce the group’s visibility even more. This is exemplified by
YAPI’s approach to celebrating Ashura, an important religious holiday for Shi’a Muslims. When
my research assistant, Syahar Banu, broached this topic, one of the YAPI administrators said the
following:
In Bangil, we have not been able to celebrate Ashura for the last 3 years.
Why is that?
Because we have to be on guard, so that things become safer.
Is it forbidden by the government?
There is no ban. The police do not have the right to ban this. We are afraid if we hold [the ceremony] something will happen.324
This exchange suggests that YAPI has explicitly managed their public activities for the purposes
of their own security.
The case of the Shi’a in Bangil, Pasuruan shows that despite efforts, MT Aswaja failed to
politicize the Shi’a threat. Subsequent efforts also failed. For example, after the anti-Shi’a
violence in Sampang led the East Java branch of the MUI to issue a fatwa labeling Shi’ism as
deviant325 MT Aswaja put up banners containing the fatwa in the town square. This attempt to
amplify the Shi’a threat in the community did not gain any traction (Panggabean et al. 2014, 156-
324 Ibid. 325 Isma Savitri, "Hanya MUI Jawa Timur yang Teken Fatwa Syiah Sesat [Only MUI East Java Issues Fatwa about Shi’a Heresy],” Tempo, 31 August 2012, http://nasional.tempo.co/read/news/2012/08/30/173426499/hanya-mui-jawa-timur-yang-teken-fatwa-syiah-sesat, accessed 8 August 2014.
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157). The failure of their attempts is linked to the inward orientation of YAPI and their minimal
public presence, which shaped incentives to exploit and amplify the Shi’a threat in the district.
Bandung, West Java
Bandung represents a case of moderate anti-Shi’a repression and mobilization. While
Bandung’s Shi’a community did not experience nearly the same degree of opposition as their
counterparts in Sampang, Madura, they were targeted more frequently compared to their
counterparts in the cases above. These patterns of opposition, I argue, are attributable to a higher
public presence during the 2011-2014 period. While these space-claiming activities were still
somewhat infrequent, hardliner groups and politicians were able to exploit episodes of space-
claiming to fulfill their political interests. Still, because there is no consensus amongst
Bandung’s elites about whether or not the Shi’a community posed a constitutive threat to the
Muslim category, political entrepreneurs eventually moved on to other issues.
The Shi’a community in Bandung is the largest in Indonesia.326 The community’s roots
can be traced back to 1979, when students from the city’s elite universities—namely, ITB and
Padjadjaran—became interested in Shi’a teachings in the aftermath of the 1979 Iranian
Revolution.327 Amongst these new converts were individuals such as Rakhmat and Haidar Bagir
(Zulkifli 2009, 42). Already rising stars in the (Sunni) Muslim intellectual community, they
would eventually establish nationally important Shi’a institutions in Bandung.
The most important Shi’a-affiliated institution in Bandung is the Muthahhari
Foundation.328 Established on 3 October 1988 by a group of Muslim intellectuals led by
Rakhmat, it was an institution focused on dakwah, education, and book publishing (86). In 1992,
326 Driyan and Cornila Desyana, ”Bandung, Kantong Syiah Terbesar di Indonesia [Bandung, Largest Pocket of Shi’a in Indonesia],” Tempo, 2 September 2012, https://nasional.tempo.co/read/426978/bandung-kantong-syiah-terbesar-di-indonesia, accessed 13 February 2019. 327 It is certainly possible that there were Shi’a Muslims in Bandung prior to 1979; however, the group did not appear to be organized in any way. 328 There is another Shi’a institution in Bandung, the Al-Jawad Foundation, which was founded in 1991 (Zulkifli 2009, 175). That being said, the institution is very small.
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the foundation entered the education field, beginning with the founding of a high school that is
nationally recognized today (177). The Muthahhari Foundation was simultaneously publicly
visible and publicly invisible. Named after a leading Shi’a reformist in Iran, the organization is
identifiable as Shi’a (Zulkifli 2009, 133). Yet, its organizational ethos is much closer to YAPI in
Bangil than al-Hadi in Pekalongan prior to 2000. In line with the notion of taqqiya, the founders
of the Muthahhari Foundation, “frequently reject the notion that the institution is Shi’a” (134).
Like YAPI in Bangil, the Muthahhari schools are open to students and teachers from both Sunni
and Shi’a backgrounds.
During the New Order period, Rakhmat too was a supporter and follower of taqiyya. He
refused to identify himself as a Shi’a. In fact, one of the most famous anecdotes about Rakhmat
was his deflection of a question about his sectarian identification. Instead of answering the
question directly, he quipped: “People call me Sushi [I.e. Sunni and Shi’a]” (Zulkifli 2009,
124).329 Abdul, a longtime opponent who would later play an important coordinating role in
mobilizing anti-Shi’a opposition, described Rakhmat’s adherence to taqiyya in the following
way:
There is a leader in Bandung [Jalaluddin Rakhmat]…I have paid attention to his views since 28 years ago. I was sure he was teaching Shi’a perspectives, even though for 24 years, he did not want to admit that he was Shi’a. He didn’t want to. JR says that he too is a Muslim, but he guides his cadres with doctrines that are actually Shi’a….Only in the last four years, after they felt strong, that he openly identifies as a Shi’a.330
For Rakhmat, taqiyya was a way of avoiding conflict within the Muslim community. It was a
way “to avoid disputes and division” (Rakhmat 2002, 51).
While Rakhmat did not openly identify himself as Shi’a, he was a public intellectual who
taught Shi’a doctrine at well-known religious institutions. He was thus the target of some
opposition. Rakhmat, alongside other Shi’a intellectuals like Muchtar Adam and Haidir Bagir,
was banned from teaching at the famous Salman mosque (Zulkifli 2009, 41). Similarly, a
member of the Shi’a community, remembered a leader of the MUI giving a sermon at Al- 329 This anecdote was also told to me multiple times during casual conversations with Shi’a Muslims in Indonesia. 330 Abdul, FUUI member. Interview by author, Bandung, West Java, 16 October 2014.
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Muslimun mosque about the false teachings of Shi’ism (143). In fact, Athian Ali often discussed
the deviancy of Shi’a teachings with other ulama during the New Order period.331 However, this
opposition was not coordinated and the institutional environment was such that there was little
space or incentive for claims making on the Shi’a issue.
The presence of the Shi’a community in Bandung grew slightly more palpable during the
Reformasi era. Taking advantage of the institutional space provided by democratization and Gus
Dur’s presidency, Rakhmat and other Shi’a leaders established the Indonesian Council of Ahlul
Bait Associations (Ikatan Jamaah Ahlul Bait Indonesia, IJABI) in 2000. IJABI was the first
national umbrella organization for the Shi’a community in Indonesia and Rakhmat openly
identified as a Shi’a when he became the group’s leader.332 While IJABI is a national
organization and is headquartered in Jakarta, Rakhmat’s role as the organization’s founder and
leader meant that there was a lot of overlap between the organization and the Muthahhari
Foundation. Many Muthahhari leaders are also leaders of IJABI.333
The founding of IJABI raised the profile of the Shi’a community in Bandung, but only at
certain times. For example, the inauguration ceremony was held in the same venue as the historic
1955 Asia-Africa Conference and was widely covered by Bandung’s newspapers (Zulkifli 2009,
226). The organization also began hosting their annual celebrations of Ashura, usually at the
Muthahhari Foundation.334 These religious events were widely attended and carried out in public
view. Given differences in how Sunnis and Shi’as celebrate Ashura, the ceremony is a clear
signal of the sect’s distinctiveness. At these moments, the group was seen as a visible
constitutive threat.
331 Abdul, FUUI member. Interview by author, Bandung, West Java, 16 October 2014. 332 ”Mumpung Gus Dur Jadi President [While Gus Dur is President],” Gatra, 15 July 2000. 333 Said, IJABI Leader. Interview by author, Bandung, West Java, 23 September 2014. 334 Rio Kuswandi, “Warga Syiah Bandung Peringati Asyura di Tempat Sempit [Bandung’s Shi’a Remember Ashura in a Tight Place],” Kompas, 14 November 2013, https://regional.kompas.com/read/2013/11/14/2300500/Warga.Syiah.Bandung.Peringati.Asyura.di.Tempat.Sempit, accessed 13 February 2019.
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While IJABI occasionally engaged in space-claiming activities, they remained conscious
of managing their public presence. When celebrating Ashura, for example, IJABI seeks to
incorporate local cultural influences. An IJABI leader in Bandung noted: “For religious
celebrations, IJABI tends to be closer to the [local] culture. For Ashura, the Sundanese culture
comes through [in our celebrations]. However, ABI’s335 [celebrations] are Persian in
character.336 Similarly, IJABI does not engage in publicly visible efforts at dakwah, instead
choosing to hold seminars at the mosque.337 Ultimately, it appears that Bandung’s Shi’a Muslims
were able to straddle a fine line. While occasionally engaging in space-claiming activity, it was
rare enough that the threat was not broadly resonant.
The amplification of the Shi’a threat elsewhere—particularly the Sampang violence in
2011—and Rakhmat’s decision to run for a position in the national legislature338 led political
entrepreneurs to use the Shi’a issue as a means to gain access to power and patronage. Athian Ali
deployed his newly formed group, FUUI, for the cause. Formed in 2001,339 FUUI had
participated in efforts to address perceived threats to the Muslim community, mobilizing on a
wide range of issues including “Christianization” (i.e. Christian proselytization),340 the
proliferation of Christian churches,341 and the apostasy of the Ahmadiyah community.342 While
335 ABI stands for Ahlul Bait Indonesia, the other main Shi’a organization in Indonesia. It was founded in 2010 and its membership mostly consists of Sayyids (descendents of the Prophet Mohammed). 336 Said, IJABI Leader. Interview by author, Bandung, West Java, 23 September 2014. 337 Ibid. 338 Ali Hidayat, ”Jadi Anggota DPR, Ini Rencana Tokoh Syiah [A Member of National Parliament, these are the Plans of this Shi’a Leader],” Tempo, 2 October 2014, https://nasional.tempo.co/read/611290/jadi-anggota-dpr-ini-rencana-tokoh-syiah/full&view=ok, accessed 13 February 2019. 339 Abdul, FUUI member. Interview by author, Bandung, West Java, 16 October 2014. 340 For example, in March 2001, the FUUI issued a fatwa against two pastors in Bandung for blasphemy against Islam. See Herry Mohammad, Asrori S. Karni, Sulhan Syafi’i, and Ronald Panggabean, “Satu Penginjil, Satu Pendeta, Satu Fatwa: Mati! [One Evangelist, One Pastor, One Fatwa: Die!],” Gatra, 5 March 2001, http://arsip.gatra.com/2001-03-05/artikel.php?id=4521, accessed 15 February 2019. 341 “Police Investigate Church Closures, Vow to Take Action,” Jakarta Post, 27 August 2005. 342 “FUUI Dukung Ahmadiyah Jadi Agama Baru [FUUI Supports the Ahmadiyah Becoming a New Religion],” Detik news, 14 February 2006, https://news.detik.com/berita/d-538759/fuui-dukung-ahmadiyah-jadi-agama-baru-, accessed 14 February 2019.
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certainly concerned about all these issues, FUUI also approached these issues strategically. As
the think tank IPAC wrote, Ali “did not lead trends as much as follow them,” seeming “to have
an unerring instinct for how to take issues that had attracted public interest and mobilize mass
protests around them” (Institute for Policy Analysis of Conflict 2016, 21).
The amplification of the Shi’a threat from incidents in East Java—specifically the
episode in Sampang, Madura—worked to draw more attention to the Shi’a community in
Bandung. In January 2012, Ali met with 27 ulama from East Java who were on a roadshow with
the purpose of asking the national branch of MUI to ban the Shi’a sect (20-21). In the weeks
after the meeting, FUUI began preparing their fatwa labelling the Shi’a as deviant and demanded
that the sect be banned across Indonesia.343 This fatwa was signed on 22 March 2012 and was
officially issued a month later.344 Two years after FUUI issued their fatwa, ANNAS was
launched to help realize the organization’s goal of banning the Shi’a community in Indonesia. As
described in the opening of this chapter, ANNAS’s April 2014 launch was attended by
representatives from hardliner organizations; key leaders of the anti-Shi’a movement in East Java
and South Sulawesi; and conservative religious elites. ANNAS’s main goal was for the
government to respond “like they did towards the Ahmadiyah.”345 In other words, they wanted
the government to ban Shi’a Muslims from practicing.
While the Sampang violence shaped the impulse to amplify the Shi’a threat, moments of
space-claiming by the Shi’a community provided the momentum needed for political
entreprenuership by these hardliner groups. These opportunities presented themselves at
essentially the only time Shi’a communities in Bandung were publicly visible: the yearly Ashura
commemoration. The group staged protests against Ashura events staged by IJABI in 2013,346
343 “FUUI Desak MUI Keluarkan Fatwa Sesat Syiah [FUUI Pressures MUI to Issue a Fatwa about Shi’a Heresy],” Detik News, 23 April 2012, https://news.detik.com/jawabarat/1898786/fuui-desak-mui-keluarkan-fatwa-sesat-syiah, accessed 17 February 2019. 344 Ibid. 345 Abdul, FUUI member. Interview by author, Bandung, Indonesia, 16 October 2014. 346 Rio Kuswandi, “Warga Syiah Bandung Peringati Asyura di Tempat Sempit [Bandung’s Shi’a Remember Ashura in a Cramped Place],” Kompas, 14 November 2013,
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2014 (Wahid Institute 2014, 91), 2015,347 and most recently in 2018.348 Though these efforts
were sporadic, FUUI was able to utilize anti-Shi’a mobilization to build partnerships with some
high ranking brokers. One example was Maman Abdurrahman, head of Persis, who was a
speaker at the 2014 ANNAS event.349 Similarly, FUUI has also been invited to participate in
consultations and meetings on topics related to religion, which are generally accompanied by
honorariums. For example, Athian Ali once led religious ceremonies for the city’s police
department.350
Politicians in Bandung certainly attempted to use the Shi’a issue politically. While the
Governor of West Java eventually withdrew from attending the ANNAS inauguration, he sent a
representative in his stead.351 In 2015, a PKS member of the Bandung legislature shared that he
was involved in the fight against Shi’ism. While he did not identify what precise measures he
had taken, he stated: “We have to have a deep discussion about the position of Shi’ism in Islam.
Does it count as Islam or not? What are the signs that it is Islamic given the requirements [of the
category]? Shi’ism is foundationally problematic.”352 Similarly, in 2013, IJABI was told by the
police that they were not allowed to stage their Ashura event at the Gedung Istana Kana. While
https://regional.kompas.com/read/2013/11/14/2300500/Warga.Syiah.Bandung.Peringati.Asyura.di.Tempat.Sempit, accessed 13 February 2019. 347 Iqbal T and Lazuardi S, "Ratusan Pengunjuk Rasa Bubarkan Peringatan Asyura di Bandung [Hundreds Demand Disbandment of Ashura Commemoration in Bandung," Tempo, 24 October 2015, http://nasional.tempo.co/read/news/2015/10/24/058712608/ratusan-pengunjuk-rasa-bubarkan-peringatan-asyura-di-bandung, accessed 19 February 2019. 348 Irfan Teguh, “Penolakan Peringatan Asyura di Bandung [Rejection of Ashura Commemoration in Bandung],” Tirto, 22 September 2018, https://tirto.id/penolakan-peringatan-asyura-di-bandung-c1SR, accessed 18 February 2019. 349 Author’s fieldnotes from the Deklarasi Aliansi Nasional Anti Syiah in Buah Batu, Bandung, 20 April 2014. 350 “Polrestabes Bandung Mengadakan Tablig Akabar Dengan Penceramah K.H. Athian Ali M D’Ai LC M.A,” Polrestabes Bandung, 8 June 2018, http://polrestabes-bandung.or.id/berita/kabar/polrestabes-bandung-mengadakan-tablig-akabar-dengan-penceramah-kh-athian-ali-m-dai-lc-ma, accessed 20 June 20, 2018. 351 Author’s fieldnotes from the Deklarasi Aliansi Nasional Anti Syiah in Buah Batu, Bandung, 20 April 2014. 352 Fuad, Member of the Bandung Legislature (PKS). Interview by author, Bandung, West Java, 15 June 2015.
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they had long utilized the venue without permits from the government, police chose to enforce
permit laws this time around. As a consequence, the Ashura celebrations were held in the small,
cramped auditorium at the Muthahhari Foundation.353
Although entrepreneurs were able to exploit the rare moments of space-claiming by
Bandung’s Shi’a community, politicians eventually abandoned the Shi’a issue. Politicians in the
district did not exploit and amplify the Shi’a threat because the most of the important religious
brokers in the city did not see the group as a constitutive threat. Therefore, they did not consider
the issue a high priority. Certainly, Maman Abdurrahman, the head of Persis, was an opponent of
the Shi’a community. Abdurrahman was a keynote speaker at the ANNAS launch in 2014354 and
Persis as an organization also issued a public statement delineating their organization’s strong
opposition to Shi’ism.355 Abdurrahman aside, the Bandung branches of Muhammadiyah and NU
were silent on the Shi’a issue, signaling their alignment with the positions taken by the respective
organizations at the national level. As mentioned, neither Din Syamsuddin, the national
Chairman of Muhammadiyah, or Said Aqil Siradj, the national Chairman of NU, saw the Shi’a as
a constitutive threat.356 The silence of the majority of Bandung’s most important brokers meant
that incentives for the city government to act on the Shi’a issue were not self-evident.
The Bandung case suggests that public visibility is unthreatening if the micro-sized group
is not considered a constitutive threat. The invisibility of practices that distinguished Shi’a
Muslims from Sunni Muslims in Bandung further cemented the lack of consensus amongst Sunni 353 “Warga Syiah Bandung Peringati Asyura di Tempat Sempit [Bandung’s Shi’a Remember Ashura in a Tight Place],” Kompas, 14 November 2013, https://regional.kompas.com/read/2013/11/14/2300500/Warga.Syiah.Bandung.Peringati.Asyura.di.Tempat.Sempit, accessed 13 February 2019. 354 Author’s fieldnotes from the Deklarasi Aliansi Nasional Anti Syiah in Buah Batu, Bandung, 20 April 2014. 355 “Pandangan Persis Terhadap Shi’a [Persis’s Perspective Toward Shi’ism],” 15 December 2017, https://persis.or.id/pandangan-persis-terhadap-syiah, accessed 15 February 2019. 356 “Din Syamsuddin: Hentikan Provokasi Konflik Sunni-Syiah [Din Syamsuddin: Stop Provocations for Sunni-Shi’a Conflict],” Detik news, 28 September 2013, https://news.detik.com/berita/d-2372157/din-syamsuddin-hentikan-provokasi-konflik-sunni---syiah, accessed 18 February 2019; Srihandriatmo Malau, “Ketua PBNU: Syiah Bukan Aliran Sesat [PBNU Chair: Shi’ism Not a Deviant Sect],” Tribun News, 29 August 2012, http://www.tribunnews.com/regional/2012/08/29/ketua-pbnu-syiah-bukan-aliran-sesat, accessed 18 February 2019.
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constituencies. While the Shi’a in Bandung had different beliefs, these beliefs did not regularly
manifest in a way that visibly disrupted the foundational tenets of what it meant to be Muslim in
Indonesia. Hardliners that sought to amplify the disruptive differences of the Shi’a community
could not, for example, show that the Shi’a community prayed differently. Even their silver
bullet, the Ashura celebrations, did not necessarily disrupt group boundaries, as Sunni Muslims
also commemorate the martyrdom of Husayn. If the distinctiveness of the rituals were not widely
experienced by Sunni Muslims in Bandung, the threat may not be experienced to the same
degree. The Bandung case thus shows how both visibility and a constitutive threat must be
concurrently present for a micro-sized group to be perceived as threatening.
Sampang, Madura (East Java)
The violence that unfolded in Sampang, Madura is the most significant attack against a
Shi’a community to have occurred in Indonesia. It was the eruption of violence in Madura’s
Sampang district that put the possibility of widespread sectarian violence onto the national
consciousness. As Formichi (2014, 22) observed, the Sampang violence was the first time a
conflict was explicitly labeled as Sunni-Shi’a.
Levels of anti-Shi’a mobilization and repression was particularly high in Sampang for
two reasons. First, the Shi’a presented a visible constitutive threat to the Madurese community.
Second, political actors are heavily dependent on the political support of kiai357 and the
pesantren networks they control. Given the hardline anti-Shi’a preferences of these religious
leaders—linked to the visibility of the micro-sized group—political entrepreneurs exploited and
amplified the Shi’a threat for their own interests.
Although the Shi’a community in Sampang has existed since the 1980s, the community
did not have a significant public presence prior to the early 2000s. Kiai Makmun, the first known
Shi’a Muslim in Sampang, became interested in the sect after hearing about the 1979 Iranian
revolution (Institute for Policy Analysis of Conflict 2016, 6). However, like many of his
counterparts, Makmun practiced taqiyya and never confirmed his belief in Shi’ism. Both his
357 A kiai in Madura is equivalent to a kyai in Java or a Tuan Guru in Lombok.
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friends and his enemies “agree that he did not practice [Shi’ism] openly and he did not
proselytize to people outside of his own children, some of which also became followers” of
Sh’ism (Panggabean et al. 2014, 102).358
The only opposition that Makmun faced in relation to Shi’ism was a personal one. It
involved Makmun’s decision to send two of his sons—Tajul Muluk and Roisul Hukama—to
YAPI pesantren in Bangil instead of the local pesantren, Darut Tauhid (Panggabean et al. 2014,
102-103). His uncle, K.H. Karrar, was the kiai of the school and he was angered by Makmun’s
decision. Karrer was upset because YAPI was Shi’a and because the school did not belong to the
pesantren networks radiating from Madura (Afdillah 2016, 41). Other than this familial
disagreement, resolved when Makmun relented and withdrew his sons from YAPI ((Panggabean
et al. 2014, 103), the Shi’a community was left alone during the New Order period. Not only did
the group not pose a visible constitutive threat, there were no incentives for political
entrepreneurs to exploit and amplify the threat even if the group was considered threatening.
The roots of the contemporary sectarian conflict can be traced to 1999, upon the return of
Makmun’s son, Tajul Muluk, to Sampang.359 Taking a position as an administrator of his
father’s school, Muluk began introducing changes to the school’s and community’s practices
(Panggabean et al. 2014, 103-104). These changes made the Shi’a community in Sampang
increasingly visible. Importantly, these increasingly visible practices stood in direct opposition to
the traditions and practices that produced and reproduced Madurese identity. In other words,
Muluk and his followers posed a visible constitutive threat.
Despite administratively being a part of East Java province, Madura is considered to be
its own distinct community. While ethnicity is an important element of what it means to be
Madurese, Islam is also considered to be a defining characteristic of the group (Afdillah 2016,
43). The conflation of religious identity with Madurese identity was a common theme in my
358 The “hidden” nature of Makmun’s beliefs was also raised in an interview with a spokesperson of a key anti-Shi’a kiai. See: Reno, Spokesperson for Anti-Shi’a Kiai. Interview by author, Pamekasan, Madura, East Java, 12 November 2014. 359 Muluk spent six years in Saudi Arabia as a migrant worker (Tenaga Kerja Indonesia, TKI). During this time, he increased his study of Shi’a teachings. See Zulkifli (2004).
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interviews in Madura. For example, one ustadz told me: “Because life in Madura is 99% [about]
Islam, it can be said that the culture of Madura is very Muslim.”360 Consequently, many
Madurese customs and practices come out of religious obligations (Pribadi 2013, 11).
The conceptualization of the Muslim category in Madura is comparatively narrow. For
many Madurese, Islam is equivalent to the traditionalist practices of NU (Pribadi 2013, 16). Such
narrow boundaries means that even Muslims associated with Muhammadiyah can be considered
as an “other,” despite the uncontroversial consensus elsewhere in the country that members of
Muhammadiyah are comfortably within the category of Islam. For example, when speaking
about the religious landscape in Madura, said: “There is Muhammadiyah here, but nobody
bothers them because they keep to themselves. They also pray the same way and do not spread
their ways like the Shi’a.”361 If even Muhammadiyah is occasionally considered outside the
boundaries of Islam, it is perhaps unsurprising that Shi’a are considered by many Madurese
leaders to be outside the boundaries of the category.
The centrality of traditionalist Muslim beliefs and practices to Madurese identity explains
why the visible changes introduced by Muluk were perceived as a constitutive threat. Beginning
in 2004, Muluk became increasingly open in practicing his Shi’a beliefs (Panggabean et al. 2014,
105, Afdillah 2016, 44-55). This included praying in accordance to Shi’a prescriptions: 1) not
praying with folded arms and 2) placing one’s forehead not on the carpet, but on a turba. A
former district head argued that this different way of praying was a key point of contention in the
Sunni-Shi’a conflict.362 Instances of public visibility also included celebrations of Ashura.363
360 Reno, Spokesperson for Anti-Shi’a Kiai. Interview by author, Pamekasan, Madura, East Java, 12 November 2014. 361 Irfan, Former District Head. Interview by author, Sampang, Madura, East Java, 13 November 2014. 362 Irfan, Former District Head. Interview by author, Sampang, Madura, East Java, 13 November 2014. 363 That the Shi’a community in Sampang celebrated Ashura is suggested by the new agreement amongst the community that they would not celebrate the holiday once they were expelled from their homes. See Diananta P. Sumedi, “Pengungsi Syiah Sampang Tak Rayakan Ashura [Shi’a Refugees in Sampang Will Not Celebrate Ashura],” Tempo, 15 November 2013, https://nasional.tempo.co/read/529865/pengungsi-syiah-sampang-tak-rayakan-asyura/full&view=ok, accessed 20 February 2019.
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In addition to being more explicit in his religious practices, Muluk also increased his
proselytization efforts (Afdillah 2016, 45). Between 2004 and 2011, Muluk’s following grew
from 30 families to 120 families (Panggabean et al. 2014, 105).364 This growth was physically
embodied. Muluk not only began renovating the mosque, but also built new additions to the
mosque and the madrasah (ibid).
Another way that Muluk and the Shi’a community in Sampang challenged the
constitutive practices of the Madurese community was through their educational choices. Most
members of the Shi’a community sent their kids to YAPI pesantren in Bangil. This choice ran
contra to the norms of the island, where traditionally students attend one of the many pesantren
in Madura. Many of these pesantren solely focus on providing religious training. Students did not
learn “modern” school subjects such as reading and math.365 As a Shi’a member of Muluk’s
community explained:
Our worries [about education] changed tradition, because in our tradition, the children of the village are not allowed to go to public school. They had to go to the pesantren. But we wanted our village to progress and so we were seen as being in complete opposition to the [religious] leaders.366
Many kiai were concerned by the decision of the Shi’a community to school their children
outside of Madura.367 In addition to their inability to teach the children about their perspective of
Shi’ism and a loss of tuition fees, I argue that many kiai were threatened because the pesantren is
a constitutive institution for the Madurese community (Pribadi 2013, ch. 2). As an ustadz
succinctly observed: “Madura is identical to pesantren.”368
364 Afdillah (2016, 43) provides slightly different figures, obtained from police files, that puts the number of Shi’a Muslims in Sampang as growing from 50 families in 2004 to 150 families in 2011. 365 Reno, Spokesperson of Anti-Shi’a kiai. Interview by author, Pamekasan, Madura, East Java, 12 November 2014. 366 Alkhaf, Shi’a from Madura. Interview by author, Sidoarjo, East Java, 5 November 2014. 367 Irfan, Former District Head. Interview by author, Sampang, Madura, East Java, 13 November 2014. 368 Suhartoyo, Ustadz of Madura Pesantren. Interview, Pamekasan, Madura, East Java, 12 November 2014.
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Muluk’s most significant challenge to the constitutive elements of the Madurese
community were his innovations to the mawlid tradition. The celebration of the Prophet
Muhammad’s birthday is significant in Sampang. Compared to other parts of Indonesia, where
only a day is devoted to the commemoration, mawlid celebrations in Sampang often last up to a
month or longer (Afdillah 2016, 47). Throughout the month-long event, individual village
households traditionally take turns throwing community feasts at their homes (Panggabean et al.
2014, 105). Most villagers will attend a handful of these feasts each year (Afdillah 2016, 25). As
religious leaders, kiai and their families are invited to give a religious blessing at these parties. In
return, the host family will give a small honorarium to the kiai, known as a slabet (49). In
addition to providing an economic benefit for the local kiai, the celebration of mawlid is
arguably constitutive of community identity, consolidating intra-communal bonds and
reemphasizing the group’s identity as pious Muslims.
Muluk, however, did not agree with the mawlid traditions of Sampang. He observed that
many villagers in his community went into debt to throw their mawlid feast, as it is linked to
one’s personal pride and reputation (Afdillah 2016, 47-48). He was also critical of kiai who were
willing to receive honorariums from hosts that were clearly struggling financially (ibid). To
alleviate the financial burden that celebrating mawlid had placed on villagers, Muluk began a
new “radical” practice. He decided that mawlid celebrations would be a one time occurrence and
that the celebration would take place at his mosque. Each family who attended would only have
to pay Rp 20, 000 (about $2.00 USD) to offset the cost of food and drink for those in attendance
(44). By introducing this well-meaning change, Muluk was not only undermining the economic
interests of local kiai, he was also undermining a practice that was core to the community.
As shown above, the constitutive challenges that the Shi’a community in Sampang made
were highly visible. This level of public visibility was unique in comparison to the practices of
Shi’a communities and non-NU Muslims in neighboring districts. This point was emphasized by
a number of interviewees in Madura. One such interviewee was an important kiai in the
neighboring district of Bangkalan. We had the following conversation:
What sects do you have here?
In Sampang, there are the Shi’a.
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Only in Sampang?
There are a lot, but the [Shi’a] conflict occurred in Sampang. It even escalated into an
attack. There are Shi’a in other places, but we can still manage [the problem].
Why are you able to manage it better here, while in Sampang you have not been able to?
Well, in Sampang the population is the largest and it was the center [of Shi’ism] in
Madura. I feel like they were so obvious in their proselytization of the sect’s
beliefs….Maybe in Bangkalan there are [Shi’a], but they are not very big and they don’t
practice in front of a lot of people.369
The head of the Shi’a community in Bangkalan made similar observations as the kiai. He said
that the Shi’a community in Bangkalan had “better manners (lebih tau diri)” compared to the
Shi’a community in Sampang. When asked to clarify what he meant by that, he responded: “We
don’t force our beliefs. We don’t intervene or talk too much about Shi’ism. We just talk about
regular things…In Sampang, maybe they are a little bit arrogant, less able to fit in with local
traditions.”370
An ustadz in Pamekasan district who was complicit in the anti-Shi’a violence also
suggested that it was the public visibility of Sampang’s Shi’a community that prompted concern.
371 After confirming that there was a Shi’a community in Pamekasan, I asked him whether or not
he considered the Shi’a community in Pamekasan to be a problem as long as they did not
practice openly. The ustadz replied that it wasn’t a problem “as long as there [wasn’t] any
anxieties” about the sect.372 His indifference about the presence of the Shi’a community in
Pamekasan suggests that it was the particular practices of the Shi’a community in Sampang that
he considered to be problematic. 369 Thohir, Madura Kiai. Interview by author, Bangkalan, Madura, East Java, 14 November 2014. 370 Dedi, Shi’a leader in Bangkalan. Interview by author, Bangkalan, Madura, East Java, 13 November 2014. 371 Suhartoyo, Ustadz of Madura Pesantren. Interview, Pamekasan, Madura, East Java, 12 November 2014. He admitted that he had been involved in opposing Muluk, though disavowed any complicity in the violent incidents of 2011 and 2012. 372 Ibid.
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Opposition to Muluk and his followers increased in response to the Shi’a community’s
increasing visibility. The conflict broke into public view in 2006. Karrar, who was also
motivated by his financial interests, jumpstarted opposition efforts by bringing his concerns to
the Association of Pesantren-based Ulama in Madura (Badan Silaturrahmi Ulama Pesantren
Madura, BASSRA) (Panggabean et al. 2014, 106), where he was very well connected (Afdillah
2016, 39). By bringing the Shi’a issue to the attention of BASSRA, he essentially put a spotlight
on the Shi’a threat. BASSRA, after all, is part of the powerful coalition known as BMN
(BASSRA, MUI, and NU), which represents the interests of the religious establishment373
On 20 February 2006, based on Karrar’s complaints, BASSRA summoned Muluk to
respond to the accusations that he was propagating Shi’ism. At the BASSRA meeting, Muluk
was asked to leave Shi’ism behind and return to Sunnism. He was given a week to think about
the request. When BASSRA did not get a response, BASSRA ulama arranged another meeting
under the auspices of the Ulama Association Forum (Forum Musyawarah Ulama, FMU) of
Sampang and Pamekasan to deal with the issue further. The police were present at this meeting,
though they did not actively participate. Once again, Muluk was publicly asked to return to
Sunnism—and once again, he stood up for his beliefs (Panggabean et al. 2014, 106). A few
months later, local kiai mobilized their constituents to stage a protest of the group’s mawlid
celebration (Afdillah 2016, 39). Although the protest was peaceful, the protestors pressured
Muluk to recite the tawhid, which articulates the monotheistic nature of God.374 Presumably, the
protestors were demanding Muluk’s loyalty to their God.
In 2009, the conflict escalated. The anti-Shi’a movement gained an ally in Hukama,
Muluk’s brother, who had converted back to Sunnism. According to several sources, Hukama
left Shi’ism after Muluk did not allow Hukama to marry one of his students (Institute for Policy
Analysis of Conflict 2016, 16).375 Whatever the reason, Hukama’s defection from Muluk’s camp
373 Thohir, Madura Kiai. Interview by author, Bangkalan, Madura, East Java, 14 November 2014. 374 Alkhaf, Shi’a from Madura. Interview by author, Sidoarjo, East Java, 5 November 2014. 375 This point was also raised in several interviews. Said, IJABI Leader. Interview by author, Bandung, Indonesia, 23 September 2014; Ibrahim, Staff of Yayasan Pesantren Islam (YAPI). Interview by author, Bangil, East Java, 20 November 2014; Dian, Shi’a journalist. Interview by author, Jakarta, 10 August
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added fuel to the conflict, leading to government involvement. On 26 October 2009, the
Sampang level offices of Bakorpakem, MUI, Religious Affairs, NU and other community
leaders came together to find a resolution to the Shi’a conflict (Afdillah 2016, 67-68). Muluk
was also invited and was forced to sign a statement that he would stop practicing and spreading
Shi’a teachings or willingly face the consequences. This agreement came into play on 4 April
2011, after Muluk yet again carried out the mawlid celebration in his own style (68). On this day,
a group of about 100 protestors armed with machetes demanded that Muluk adhere to the
dictates of the agreement he had previously signed (Panggabean et al. 2014, 108-109).
Angered by Muluk’s refusal to capitulate to their demands, BASSRA soon demanded
that the entire Shi’a community be expelled from Madura. Members of the Shi’a community,
whose livelihood depended on farming their land, refused. Following meetings with both MUI
and the Forum for Regional Leadership (FORPIMDA), Muluk eventually agreed to leave
Sampang. He moved to the city of Malang in July 2011, though the rest of the Shi’a community
remained in Sampang (Panggabean et al. 2014, 109). Although Muluk did live in Malang, he did
return to Sampang for visits. On these visits, he would hold religious meetings with his
followers. 376 Furthermore, even in Muluk’s absence, the Shi’a community continued to carry out
Shi’a practices in a public manner, such as the commemoration of Ashura. In other words, the
visible constitutive threat posed by Sampang’s Shi’a community remained.
The conflict turned violent on 29 December 2011. In response to a prayer meeting that
took place at Muluk’s Misbahul Huda school, 500 men attacked the complex where the school
was located. Once there, the mob set the school on fire and two homes belonging to members of
the Shi’a community on fire (Formichi 2014, 23). The government, taking the side of Madura’s
religious establishment, did two things to “resolve” the conflict. First, the government forcefully
relocated 250 members of the Shi’a community from their village to the local sporting arena
(Gedung Olah Raga Sampang, GOR Sampang) for two weeks. Second, Muluk was blamed as
the provocateur of the conflict due to his beliefs and charged with blasphemy (Formichi 2014,
2014; Helmy, Sampang Reconciliation Team. Interview by author, Surabaya, East Java, 26 November 2014. 376 Alkhaf, Shi’a from Madura. Interview by author, Sidoarjo, East Java, 5 November 2014.
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23). He was eventually found guilty in July 2012 and served four years in prison for his
infraction.377
Violence erupted once more on 26 August 2012, when approximately 500 people armed
with machetes and Molotov cocktails descended on the Shi’a community (Institute for Policy
Analysis of Conflict 2016, 17). This group of Sunni locals attempted to prevent YAPI students
from going back to Bangil after school holidays. The refusal of these Shi’a Muslims to leave
YAPI and enroll in a Sunni pesantren in Madura was seen, I argue, as a threat to a constitutive
element of the Madurese category. Ultimately, the perpetrators killed one man and burned down
49 homes in this confrontation (Ibid).
The August 2012 violence essentially led to the elimination of the Shi’a community in
Sampang. After the violence, the Sampang government forced the Shi’a community to take
refuge at GOR Sampang (Panggabean et al. 2014, 116). This relocation did not satisfy the local
ulama, who wanted the community to be expelled from the entire island of Madura. The Shi’a
community was willing to stay in GOR Sampang so they could still have access to their land.378
However, the district government—with the support of the provincial government—forcefully
expelled the Shi’a community in 2013. They were moved to a refugee camp in Sidoarjo, located
just outside the capital of East Java, Surabaya.379 The community remains there today, unable to
return unless they convert back to Sunni Islam.380
377 Muluk was originally sentenced to two years in prison. After the High Court in Surabaya turned down his appeal, it increased his sentence to four years. See “Kasasi Ditolak, Pemimpin Syiah Tetap Divonis 4 Tahun karena Nodai Agama [Appeal denied, Shi’a leader still sentenced to 4 years for blasphemy],” Detik, 14 February 2013, https://news.detik.com/berita/2169811/kasasi-ditolak-pemimpin-syiah-tetap-divonis-4-tahun-karena-nodai-agama, accessed 25 February 2019; Faisal, Tajul Muluk’s Legal Team. Interview by author, Surabaya, East Java, 30 October 2014. 378 Alkhaf, Shi’a from Madura. Interview by author, Sidoarjo, East Java, 5 November 2014. 379 “Warga Syiah Sampang Dipindah ke Sidoarjo [Sampang Shi’a Moved to Sidoarjo], BBC Indonesia, 20 June 2013, https://www.bbc.com/indonesia/berita_indonesia/2013/06/130620_syiah_sampang_dipindah_sidoarjo, accessed 23 February 2019. 380 Helmy, Sampang Reconciliation Team. Interview by author, Surabaya, East Java, 26 November 2014. In fact, even in 2018, the government had to engage in long negotiations around whether or not the Sampang Shi’a community would be allowed to temporarily return—accompanied by guards—to vote in the Sampang election. See Achmad Faizal, “Opsi Pengugsi Syiah Sampang Saat Pemugutan Suara
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What this account of the Sampang conflict reveals is that both Sunni ulama—particularly
those involved in BMN—and the Sampang government were highly complicit in the repression
of, and mobilization against, the Shi’a community. The Shi’a threat was also instrumentalized by
politicians in their efforts to acquire political power. The most obvious example of
instrumentalization was carried out by Bupati Noer Tjahja in his re-election campaign. For
example, on 12 February 2012—after the December 2011 violence and prior to the August 2012
violence—Tjahja made a speech at a mawlid celebration where several ulama, including
Hukama, were present. He said:
If there are deviant sects here, drive them out! Drive them out! I take responsibility. Like a seller, if no one is buying what they sell, they close up shop. Pak Yusuk [a police officer], if they come here, arrest them! If they come here, don't take care of them, drive them out…To be honest, I cannot stand it anymore, swear to God, just ask Kiai Rois [Hukama]…If I am elected and I become bupati again, it is finished! I will for sure resolve the problem. (Afdillah 2016, 87-88)381
Tjahja was not the only one to use the Shi’a issue for political means. Fanan Hasib and Fadhillah
Budiono, the pair who would eventually win the 2012 district elections, also made a lot of
promises about ending the conflict. Hasib and Budiono would eventually lead the charge in
expelling the Shi’a community from Madura to the town of Sidoarjo on East Java. Candidates for
district election also campaigned on the issue.382
That the government catered to the interests of the ulama in Sampang is arguably
predictable, given the political context. In Madura more broadly, kiai, are “without a doubt the
main actors in state-society relations” (Pribadi 2013, 294). In fact, a common phrase used to
describe the social system of Sampang is “Buppha’ Babbu’ Guru Ratoh” (Parent, Kiai, King),
where the authority of the kiai supersedes that of the state (Afdillah 2016, 117).
Pilkada Serentak [Options for Sampang’s Shi’a for Local Election Voting],” Kompas, 21 February 2018, https://regional.kompas.com/read/2018/02/21/17462271/opsi-pengungsi-syiah-sampang-saat-pemungutan-suara-pilkada-serentak, accessed 19 February 2019. 381 The speech was made in Madurese, but was translated into Indonesian by Afdillah. 382 Musthofa Bisri, “Isue Syiah Sampang Jadi Komoditas Politik Pilkada [Sampang Shi’a Issue Becomes Political Commodity in Local Elections],” Tempo, 7 May 2013, https://nasional.tempo.co/read/478574/isu-syiah-sampang-jadi-komoditas-politik-pilkada/full&view=ok, accessed 25 February 2019.
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The social importance of the kiai in Madura—especially those associated with BMN—
means that they are key brokers. Kiai were certainly important during the New Order era, with
village heads requiring their support to carry out policy (Pribadi 2013, 198). The onset of
democratization and decentralization only served to amplify their political dominance. Today, it
would be very difficult—if not impossible—for any political candidate to win office without the
support of important kiai in the district. The political importance of the kiai was described by a
former bupati in the following way:
For the people of Sampang, to know God requires the kiai. The kiai introduces them [to God]….So for the people of Sampang, the role of the kiai is very, very strong. Getting close to the kiai is a must, if a person wants to become a leader in Sampang, because they have the masses. A single person has a huge following.383
Their political relevance means that kiai more generally, and BMN kiai in particular, are the foci
of political campaigning. They are constantly approached and campaigned to in the run-up to
elections.384
In fact, the influence of Madurese kiai is not limited to the electoral period. They are so
important that elected representatives and other bureaucrats meet with BMN ulama every two
months. When urgent matters arise, such as the perceived Shi’a threat, these meetings are
convened more frequently.385 These meetings allow ulama to influence the government in
Madura’s four districts more broadly.
The dependence of state actors on Madura’s kiai meant that they had to cater to the
demands of the BMN kiai. As articulated by statements in the fatwa issued by BASSRA and
MUI Sampang in January 2012 (Afdillah 2016, 49), there was a broad-base consensus on the
383 Irfan, Former District Head. Interview by author, Sampang, Madura, East Java, 13 November 2014. 384 Thohir, Madura Kiai. Interview by author, Bangkalan, Madura, East Java, 14 November 2014; Suhartoyo, Ustadz of Madura Pesantren. Interview, Pamekasan, Madura, East Java, 12 November 2014. 385 Suhartoyo, Ustadz of Madura Pesantren. Interview, Pamekasan, Madura, East Java, 12 November 2014.
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part of the religious establishment that the Shi’a community in Sampang was a threat.386
Consequently, to defend the sect would have been political suicide. For many religious leaders,
even the idea that a politician would openly oppose the ulama was absurd. This sentiment was
expressed by the disbelief expressed by an ustadz that I interviewed:
Can you think of a case where a candidate opposed the ulama in Madura? For example, on the Shi’a issue?
If in Madura, I have never heard of such a thing. I mean…opposing! If you don’t get the support of the pesantren vote…I mean, the peasntren have the people!387
Another ustadz responded similarly to my question, saying:
[T]here must be people who do not agree with my kiai’s actions and thoughts. But they have not been open about it, to my knowledge. Nobody has directly said: “that behavior is not Madurese.” All Madurese know that the government and the ulama agree that there should be no Shi’a in Madura.388
Given the preferences of Madura’s key ulama, it is perhaps unsurprising that politicians
instrumentalized the Shi’a issue for their own gain.
I have shown in this case study that the Shi’a community in Sampang presented a
uniquely visible constitutive threat to the Madurese Muslim category. While the threat was
amplified by entrepreneurs whose economic interests were being compromised by the religious
practices of the Shi’a, the threat was credible because Shi’a activities challenged the constitutive
foundations of what it meant to be Madurese. In a political context where elected officials were
highly dependent on kiai who were most concerned about the Shi’a threat, government officials
acted against the Shi’a community to win the support of these key brokers. The combination of a
386 According to a member of the Sampang Reconciliation Team, there were one or two kiai in Sampang that privately expressed dislike for the way the conflict had unfolded, but they are unwilling to articulate those criticisms in any BASSRA or NU meetings. See Helmy, Sampang Reconciliation Team. Interview by author, Surabaya, East Java, 26 November 2014. 387 Suhartoyo, Ustadz of Madura Pesantren. Interview, Pamekasan, Madura, East Java, 12 November 2014. 388 Reno, Spokesperson of anti-Shi’a kiai. Interview by author, Pamekasan, Madura, East Java, 12 November 2014.
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visible constitutive threat and political incentives for amplification ultimately led to the
persecution of Sampang’s Shi’a community. These Shi’a continue to languish in the Sidoarjo
refugee camp as of 2018.
Conclusion
Using process tracing, his chapter has looked at a comparable micro-sized group—
Indonesia’s Shi’a community—to test the theory presented in this dissertation. Through an
exploration of four Shi’a communities in Indonesia, I demonstrate that at moments and in places
where Shi’a communities were publicly visible, they were perceived as threatening to the
category of Muslim in Indonesia. When political entrepreneurs were incentivized to exploit the
threat for their own political interests, they did so, thereby amplifying the threat to a larger
audience. This phenomenon was most exemplified by the case of Sampang, where Muluk’s
public challenges to foundational Madurese practices were seen as a threat to the majority group.
Similarly, when Shi’a communities in Pekalongan and Bandung claimed public space by
carrying out Shi’a-specific practices, their Sunni neighbors mobilized against them. Ultimately,
while it requires further testing to cases beyond Indonesia, the findings of this chapter suggest
that the theory inductively developed from the Ahmadiyah case in Indonesia is plausibly
generalizable to the experience of micro-sized groups more broadly.
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Chapter 9 Conclusion
Summarizing the Argument
Like most projects, this dissertation began with an empirical curiosity: why a group I had
never heard of—the Ahmadiyah—was suddenly being targeted by a wide array of social groups
and state bodies. As a person from a Christian, Chinese Indonesian background, I had long been
familiar with the broad contours of ethnic and religious conflict in the archipelago. The targeting
of a minority Muslim sect was new and unexpected. The Ahmadiyah did not have the privileged
access to economic wealth or political power that had long fueled the perceived threat of the
country’s ethnic Chinese or Christian minorities (Bertrand 2004, Sidel 2006). They were also
exceptionally small in size, seemingly unable to pose a significant political or military challenge
to the dominant majority. In fact, further research indicated that the Ahmadiyah were pacifists
and thus uninterested in using force to mount any kind of political challenge.
Yet, so many Indonesian Muslims—across all walks of life—seemingly saw the group as
a problem worthy of a wealth of resources. For a time, namely between 2005-2011, groups of
protestors mobilized every few weeks against the sect. These protestors not only devoted their
finite time to addressing the Ahmadiyah threat, some engaged in behavior that led to injury and
even jail time.389 Similarly, many state governments at the national, provincial, and district level
389 While their sentences were criticized as disproportionately lenient by human rights activists, several perpetrators of anti-Ahmadiyah violence did face jail time. See, for example, Endang Gunawan, “Dua Penyerang Ahmadiyah Divonis 6 Bulan Penjara [Two Attackers of the Ahmadiyah Sentenced to 6 months in jail],” Okenews, 13 April 2011, https://news.okezone.com/read/2011/04/13/338/445468/dua-penyerang-ahmadiyah-divonis-6-bulan-penjara, accessed 8 March 2019; “Hanya 3-6 bulan penjara untuk pembunuhan Cikeusik [Only 3-6 Months for Cikeusik Killings],” BBC News, 28 July 2011, https://www.bbc.com/indonesia/berita_indonesia/2011/07/110728_cikeusikverdict, accessed 9 March 2019; “Terdakwa Perusakan Masjid Ahmadiyah Dituntut 4 Bulan Penjara [Defendents of Ahmadiyah Mosque Vandalism Sentenced to 4 Months in Jail],” Detik news, 29 January 2013, https://news.detik.com/berita-jawa-barat/2155039/terdakwa-perusakan-masjid-ahmadiyah-dituntut-4-bulan-penjara, accessed 7 March 2019.
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not only imposed legal restrictions on the sect, but also devoted additional manpower to policing
the group.390
In seeking to classify and categorize anti-Ahmadiyah repression and mobilization, it
became clear that the group’s experience was far from unique. For example, despite making up
less than one percent of the population, the Nirankaris—a reformist sect of Sikhism—have been
targets of violence in India since the 1970s (Appadurai 1998, 914-915). Similar dynamics
characterize the experience of groups such as the Baha’i in Iran, the Shi’a in Malaysia, and the
Jehovah’s Witnesses across Eastern Europe. Despite the absence of a viable underlying material
threat, these groups were perceived as threatening to the majority group. Together, these
groups—which I call micro-sized groups—make up a class of outliers that have been largely
overlooked in the literature on ethnic and religious conflict due to their small size.
I have argued that micro-sized groups become seen as threatening to the larger ethnic,
religious, or national group—therefore becoming targets of repression and mobilization—under
two conditions. First, micro-sized groups must pose a visible constitutive threat to the majority
group. When the core institutions, routines, and practices that reproduce the majority group are
publicly undermined, the existence of the majority group itself is perceived to be under attack.
Public visibility is an important element of constitutive threats because it makes dangers concrete
and undeniable. Furthermore, because power relations imbue public space, public disruptions can
be seen as a challenge to established power structures. Due to their ability to challenge the core
criteria of group membership through the marking of public space, micro-sized groups can be
seen as threatening to groups that dominate them on every other indicator of threat.
The second factor is political entrepreneurship. If visibility is a necessary component of
threat perception, challenges to the constitutive routines, practices, and institutions of a group
must be seen and felt by members of the larger group to become salient at the national level.
Political entrepreneurship is, therefore, the mechanism that transforms the visible constitutive 390 See, for example, “Pemkab Tasikmalaya Bentuk Tim Mengawal Pergub Ahmadiyah [Tasikmalaya Government Forms Oversight Team for Provincial Decree on Ahmadiyah],” Antara News, 14 March 2011, https://jabar.antaranews.com/berita/30835/pemkab-tasikmalaya-bentuk-tim-mengawal-pergub-ahmadiyah, accessed 20 January 2019.
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threat of micro-sized groups from a local threat to a regional or national one. The decision of
political entrepreneurs to amplify the constitutive threat is shaped by context-specific incentive
structures.
These two conditions must be met concomitantly for the micro-sized group to be seen as
a threat to the larger ethnic, national, or religious group. When there are no institutional
incentives for political entrepreneurs to amplify the visible constitutive threat posed by micro-
sized groups, the threat will be perceived only by those who directly encounter it. In these
circumstances, the targeting of micro-sized groups will remain highly localized. When a micro-
sized group does not visibly challenge the constitutive elements of groupness, the threat will not
be seen as credible by the broader community—even when political entrepreneurs seek to
instrumentalize the threat.
I developed this theory by examining the experiences of Indonesia’s Ahmadiyah
communities in four sites and across four time periods. In Chapter 4, I show how Ahmadiyah
communities in Bandung, Tasikmalaya, North Sumatra, and East Java had periods of time when
they claimed public space in ways that challenged the foundational tenets of what it meant to be
Muslim in Indonesia. They claimed public space through public proselytization, building clearly
marked religious institutions, and holding religious ceremonies in public view. At times when
these communities were publicly active, their Sunni neighbors carried out acts of organized
opposition. However, even if a visible constitutive threat was present, the institutional set up of
the colonial eras, the Old Order, and the New Order did not incentivize catering to local
constituencies. As a result, political entrepreneurs did not exploit the Ahmadiyah threat. In the
absence of political entrepreneurship on the Ahmadiyah issue, intergroup tensions remained
localized.
Chapters 5 and 6 show how democratization (1998-2004) and decentralization (2005-
onwards) incentivized political entrepreneurs to exploit and amplify the Ahmadiyah threat.
Chapter 5 documents how the onset of democratization introduced limited incentives for
religious actors—specifically the LPPI and MUI—to exploit and amplify the visible constitutive
threat posed by Ahmadiyah communities to Indonesian Muslims. These groups exploited the
Ahmadiyah threat to secure access to patronage streams in an increasingly competitive
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environment. Chapter 6 illustrates how reforms introduced by decentralization incentivized both
state and non-state actors at the district level to exploit and act against the constitutive threat
posed by Ahmadiyah communities. Where the Ahmadiyah threat was publicly visible—and
therefore resonant—politicians could use the issue to gain the support of local constituencies,
which became highly relevant after the introduction of direct elections at the district level. At the
same time, emergent political actors (e.g. hardliner groups) were also incentivized to
instrumentalize the threat. By mobilizing against the sect, they could display the size of their
following, their interests, and their mobilization capacity to gain access to new revenue streams
and increase their social status. As political entrepreneurs across the country began amplifying
the constitutive threat of the Ahmadiyah, the group became more visible at the national level,
leading to a proliferation of anti-Ahmadiyah repression and mobilization in Indonesia.
Chapter 7 documents the response of Ahmadiyah communities to increasing levels of
repression and mobilization. The Ahmadiyah communities oriented away from public space
during the 2005-2011 period continued to be invisible. Their more publicly visible counterparts
eventually emulated their inward orientation. After a few years of resistance, the increasingly
repressive legislative regime and an impulse for self-preservation led most members of the
Ahmadiyah community to withdraw from public space. In the absence of a visible constitutive
threat, the frequency of anti-Ahmadiyah repression and mobilization declined.
I closed the dissertation in Chapter 8 by examining the experiences of a similarly situated
micro-sized group: Indonesia’s Shi’a community. If the theory proposed in this dissertation has
explanatory power beyond the Ahmadiyah case, public challenges to group boundaries by the
Shi’a community should raise the group’s threat level to Muslim group boundaries, prompting
organized opposition. Through a study of four Shi’a communities, I show how Shi’a
communities in Indonesia often engaged in taqiyya or dissimulation, which meant that
challenges to group boundaries by Shi’a Muslims largely occurred in the private sphere. In the
rare moments and rare cases where Shi’a communities did pose a visible constitutive threat, they
experienced similar forms of opposition like their Ahmadiyah counterparts. The Shi’a case
therefore supports the central assertions of this dissertation: that micro-sized groups become
targets of mobilization and repression when they publicly challenge the constitutive elements of
211
groupness. Perpetrators of mobilization and repression therefore do not blindly follow the
machinations of political elites, but act because they perceive themselves to be under threat.
Theoretical Implications
By identifying why and how micro-sized groups become seen as threatening, my
dissertation makes a number of theoretical contributions. Through an exclusive focus on the
targeting of micro-sized groups, this dissertation investigates an often-overlooked puzzle in the
literature on ethnic and religious conflict. Scholars have certainly sought to explain individual
cases of conflict involving micro-sized groups391 and have also acknowledged that micro-sized
groups are often victims of scapegoating (Horowitz 2001, Peterson 2002). Yet, scholars in the
former category see the targeting of micro-sized groups as a product of elite machinations and
sidestep the question of why ordinary people would participate in the targeting of these groups.
There is, therefore, an assumption that non-elites have little agency and are simply following the
directions of religious or political elites. Similarly, scholars in the latter category see the
targeting of micro-sized groups as an irrational process. Micro-sized groups are seen as targets of
convenience. Therefore, scapegoating explanations cannot explain why some micro-sized groups
become targets of “displaced rage” while others do not (Horowitz 2001, 136). By explaining why
the threat of micro-sized groups is perceived to be credible, my work sheds light on a
phenomenon that has often been overlooked or brushed aside.
Does my theory travel beyond Indonesia? While the theory I develop in this dissertation
requires further empirical testing and refinement, a cursory overview of other cases of conflict
involving micro-sized groups suggests that my theory has explanatory power beyond the
Indonesia case. The Baha’i population in Iran is arguably a good example. Comprising of 0.5%
of the population, the Baha’i are one of the most repressed religious minorities in the world
despite their small size.392 There are at least two reasons why the Baha’i would be considered a
constitutive threat. First, like the Ahmadiyah, Baha’i Muslims do not believe in the seal of the
391 See, for example: Webster (2018) on the Nirankaris in India; Menchik (2016) and Hicks (2014) on the Ahmadiyah in Indonesia; and Sanasarian (2000) on the Baha’i in Iran. 392 Jonathan Fox, Religion and State dataset, http://www.religionandstate.org
212
prophets, a foundational tenet of mainstream Islam (Sanasarian 2000, 51). Their belief in the
existence of a prophet after Muhammad and the practices that arise from that belief challenge the
constitutive foundations of Muslim identity in Iran. This challenge may have been seen as
particularly threatening in the post-revolutionary period, when Shi’ism became a defining
characteristic of nationhood. Second, the association of the Baha’i community with Western
powers and with the forces of secularism (115) only served to increase the constitutive threat
posed by the group. The self-identification of the Baha’i as simultaneously Muslim and aligned
with the secular West, I argue, was seen as a challenge to the version of Islam that had propelled
Khomeini into power.
It is also plausible that public visibility played a role in amplifying the Baha’i threat. In
the pre-revolutionary period, members of the Baha’i community in Iran engaged in “unceasing”
proselytization (114). The idea that it was the public visibility of the Baha’i community that
shaped hostilities against the sect is suggested by a 1983 interview with the prosecutor-general of
Iran, who argued that if the Baha’i “practiced their religion without inviting others to join, did
not advertise, and did not form associations, then they” would not be persecuted (119). While
these words should be evaluated with a critical lens, the quote does suggest that a key concern
about the Baha’i sect was its tendency to “advertise” (i.e. display) its beliefs. While the
applicability of my theory to the Baha’i case requires more systematic evaluation, it does seem to
have a level of explanatory power for explaining the targeting of micro-sized groups more
broadly.
Why study micro-sized groups at all? Examining why micro-sized groups become targets
has theoretical implications for the broader literature on intergroup conflict. Studying a least
likely target of repression and mobilization challenges longstanding assumptions about the
necessary material dimensions of threat perception. According to the vast majority of work on
communal conflict, minorities become targets of mobilization and repression because they pose
some challenge to a group’s access to material goods (e.g. Devotta 2004, Posner 2005, Bertrand
2004). Even scholars who examine non-material elements of conflict, such as group symbols or
rituals, presuppose the existence of a material threat (Kaufman 2001, Ross 2007, Blake 2019).
Yet, the targeting of micro-sized groups suggests that a material threat is not a necessary
precondition of mobilization and repression.
213
My work thus highlights the centrality of public visibility in threat construction and threat
perception. While my work is in agreement with arguments that see the impulse to stabilize
group boundaries as a key pathway to ethnic and religious conflict (e.g. Appadurai 1998,
Brubaker 2004, Sidel 2006), my study shows that constitutive threats only resonate when they
are visible in the public sphere. If even micro-sized groups can be seen as threatening due to the
ways they mark public space, then visibility is likely an important component of how threats are
perceived more broadly—even if the threat is not a constitutive one. Conflict, therefore, is likely
not just driven by concerns about retaining privileged access to resources, but is also shaped by
elements such as representation in politics and the media; the celebration of festivals and
ceremonies; and the simple everyday marking of public space through store signs, religious
institutions, and even dress.
The concept of the visible constitutive threat also has broader implications. It arguably
sheds light on political phenomena that appear to be costly, inefficient, and irrational. There are
many cases where actors invest seemingly disproportionate amounts of attention or resources to
outwardly trivial issues. Such examples may include efforts to ban minarets in Switzerland when
there were only four to begin with,393 the debate in Quebec about the wearing of niqabs,394 and
the prioritization of paving over graveyards in the midst of warfare in Bosnia (Haniff 1999, 127).
Funneling resources and energy into these seemingly unimportant issues may seem irrational if
only the material costs are considered. However, if one sees public visibility as crucial to the
(re)production of groups, then prioritizing the management of public space is only logical. To
echo sentiments expressed by scholars of memory (Gillis 1994, Longman 2017), these seemingly
trivial acts are not simply epiphenomenal oddities that can simply be brushed aside, but are at the
heart of politics.
393 Nick Cumming-Bruce and Steven Erlanger, “Swiss Ban Building of Minarets on Mosques,” New York Times, 29 November 2009, https://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/30/world/europe/30swiss.html, accessed 14 March 2019. 394 Ingrid Peritz, “ ‘It’s going to encourage more hate’: Women in Quebec who where the niqab speak out against Bill 62,” The Globe and Mail, 27 October 2017, https://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/national/quebec-women-who-wear-the-niqab-fear-impact-of-bill-62/article36753623/, accessed 13 March 2019.
214
While the central contribution of my work is its theorization of public visibility, this
project also speaks to two more narrow bodies of literature. My study of the institutional
incentives driving the targeting of the Ahmadiyah in Indonesia highlights the importance of
clientelist structures in the shaping of conflict. Drawing from the work of Stokes et al. (2013),
who highlight the significance of brokers, I show that politicians amplified the Ahmadiyah threat
to win the support of important local brokers and the clientelist networks they could deliver. In
this way, my work supports the findings of scholars such as Berenschot (2011) and Taylor,
Pevehouse, and Straus (2017), who show how patterns of intergroup conflict can be better
explained by incorporating clientelism into the analysis.
Finally, at its core, this dissertation is a study of religious minorities in Indonesia. It thus
draws from, and speaks to, the rich literature on religion and politics in Indonesia. Scholars who
have studied Christian-Muslim violence in the country have identified how episodes of
contention have often revolved around issues of proselytization and churches (Boland 1971,
Sidel 2006, Crouch 2014). My work suggests that incorporating public space into analyses of
conflict can help explain its particular forms. Specifically, my work provides an explanation as to
why state and non-state actors have dedicated so much energy to regulating houses of worship
and public proselytization of religious minorities. My findings can also help explain why some
religious minorities are targeted more frequently than others. Religious minority groups that
unsettle or challenge the category of Islam through the marking of public space (e.g. Christian
Protestants) will be more frequent targets than those who do not (e.g. Catholics).
Practical Implications
Why should people care about the persecution of micro-sized groups? Beyond the
aspirational ideal that all people deserve to live free from violence and discrimination, I argue
that micro-sized groups are important because they are signifiers of democratic health. Scholars
have long argued that protecting minorities from the tyranny of the majority is an important
diagnostic of democratic quality (e.g. Diamond and Morlino 2004). To use the metaphor so
powerfully employed by Guinier and Torres (2009): micro-sized groups are the canary in the
coal mine. Just as the canary’s well being diagnoses the condition of the entire mine, the well
215
being of society’s most vulnerable populations helps us evaluate the health of the system as a
whole (Guinier and Torres 2009, 14). In other words, protecting micro-sized groups means that
one is safeguarding the health of the entire system. It is, therefore, an important policy objective.
Understanding the factors driving the persecution of micro-sized groups can help
practitioners better protect these vulnerable communities. My work suggests that public
displays—such as the building of houses of worship and the staging of religious festivals—are
likely to prompt organized opposition by members of the majority group. Understanding what is
prompting mobilization can help practitioners make decisions that more effectively protect
micro-sized groups. For example, instead of building a police post near a minority community,
the government may choose to deploy a larger force during particular times, such as during the
public celebration of religious holidays.
My work also suggests the need for practitioners to focus on informal institutions,
particularly in patronage democracies. Most democracy and governance programs focus on
formal institutional reform when trying to increase minority protections. My research shows that
this narrow focus is insufficient. The lived experience of minority groups in patronage
democracies is heavily shaped by broker preferences and clientelistic structures. For example,
my findings suggest that targeting the preferences of brokers of important networks will more
effectively alter the incidence of anti-minority repression and mobilization. In short, my work
shows that incorporating informal institutions into policy practices will produce more effective
outcomes.
What are the implications of my findings for members of micro-sized groups themselves?
My case studies show that Ahmadi and Shi’a communities that kept to themselves and did not
mark public space were not seen as threatening. Furthermore, the Ahmadi communities that
changed course by turning inwards were able to stave off further violence. In many ways, these
findings align with scholarly expectations. Scholars have long documented how the occupation
of public space by minorities has led to conflict (e.g. Guss 2000, Gillis 1994). Furthermore,
many minorities have tried to keep themselves safe by withdrawing from the public sphere
(Hobbs and Lajevardi 2019). In fact, this logic is at the core of the Shi’a doctrine of taqiyya:
dissimulation enables a religious minority to keep themselves safe.
216
Is this dissertation a call for quiescence? While it may be read that way, my hope is that
this work acts as a cautionary tale that illustrates the double bind that minorities so often face.
While an inward orientation by Shi’a and Ahmadiyah communities reduced the frequency and
scale of mobilization, their achievement of security came at a cost. Ahmadiyah and Shi’a
communities are currently severely limited in their ability to worship and practice their faith. My
work demonstrates that while particular forms of space-claiming prompt organized—sometimes
violent—opposition, capitulation to majority demands only serves to cement repression.
Ultimately, like minorities more broadly, micro-sized groups have to make the unfair choice
between safety and limited freedom.
217
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224
Anonymous. “Menag Beri Bantuan Eks Ahmadiyah Tasikmalaya [The Ministry of Religious
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225
Anonymous. “Pemerintah Jatim Resmi Larang Kegiatan Ahmadiyah [East Java Government
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Anonymous. “Pesantren di Pasuruan Diserang, Ulama-Polisi Bergerak Cepat,” Antara, 16
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Anonymous. “Police Investigate Church Closures, Vow to Take Action,” Jakarta Post, 27
August 2005.
Anonymous. “Polisi Amankan Ahmadiyah Kalau Berpotensi Rusuh [Police Guard Ahmadiyah if
there is Conflict Potential," Tempo, 3 March 2011.
Anonymous. “Polisi Akan Pantau 4 Masjid Ahmadiyah di Bandung [Police will Guard 4
Ahmadiyah Mosques in Bandung],” Pikiran Rakywat, 8 July 2013.
Anonymous. “Polisi Masih Jaga Masjid Ahmadiyah di Tasikmalaya [Police Continue to Guard
Ahmadiyah Mosque in Tasikmalaya],” Republika, 21 April 2012.
Anonymous. “Polrestabes Bandung Mengadakan Tablig Akabar Dengan Penceramah K.H.
Athian Ali M D’Ai LC M.A [Bandung’s Police Department Hosts Sermon with Athian
Ali],” Polrestabes Bandung, 8 June 2018.
Anonymous. “Prostitusi, Miras Rusak Kota Santri [Prostitution, Alcohol Ruining Santri City],”
Radar Tasikmalaya, 20 September 2018.
226
Anonymous. "Satpol PP Segel Masjid Ahmadiyah Sawangan [The Police Seal the Sawangan
Ahmadiyah Mosque]," Viva News, 7 January 2015.
Anonymous. “Segel Dirusak, FPI Desak Masjid Ahmadiyah Depok Dirobohkan [Seal Broken,
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Anonymous. “Sekelompok Warga Rusak Masjid Ahmadiyah di Tulungagung [A Group of
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2018.
Anonymous. “Terdakwa Perusakan Masjid Ahmadiyah Dituntut 4 Bulan Penjara [Defendents of
Ahmadiyah Mosque Vandalism Sentenced to 4 Months in Jail],” Detik news, 29 January
2013.
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Appendix 1: Events Dataset Codebook
1. Event Data: day/month/year 2. Month of Event Occurrence January 1 February 2 March 3 April 4 May 5 June 6 July 7 August 8 September 9 October 10 November 11 December 12 Unknown 13 3. Province of Occurrence Aceh 1 Sumatera Utara 2 Sumatera Barat 3 Riau 4 Jambi 5 Sumatera Selatan 6 Bengkulu 7 Kep. Bangka Belitung 8 Kep. Riau 9 DKI Jakarta 10 Jawa Barat 11 Jawa Tengah 12 Banten 13 Jawa Timur 14 …………………………….. Papua Barat 33 Lampung 34 4. District (Kabupaten/Kota) of Occurrence Aceh Barat, Kab. 1 Aceh Besar, Kab. 2 Aceh Selatan, Kab. 3 Aceh Singkil, Kab. 4 Aceh Tengah, Kab. 5 Aceh Tenggara, Kab. 6
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…………………………. Bandar Lampung, Kota 525 Metro, Kota 526 5. Sub-district of Occurrence (Kecamatan) Arongan Lambalek 1 Bubon 2 Johan Pahlawan 3 Kaway XVI 4 Meureubo 5 …………………………………….. Gedong Tengen 6709 Danurejan 6710 6. Village of Occurrence Alue Bagok 1 Alue Batee 2 Alue Sundak 3 Arongan 4 Cot Buloh 5 ………………………………… Bausasran 82507 Suryatmajan 82508 Tegal Panggung 82509 7/8. Longitude and Latitude (Decimal Degree Format) 9. Target Group Ahmadiyah 1 Shia 2 Christian 3 Muslim 4 Buddhist 5 Hindu 6 Other Muslim Devant Sect 7 Traditional Religion 8 Other 9 10. Target of Action Place of Worship 1 All Community Members 2 Individuals 3 Houses 4 Housing Complex 5 School 6 Other 7
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11. Property Damage? Yes 1 No 0 12. Actor Type FPI 1 Other Hardliner Group 2 MUI 3 Mainstream Muslim Organization 4 Security Apparatus 5 Prosecutor or Attorney General 6 Governor 7 District Head (Bupati/Walikota) 8 Sub-District Head (Camat) 9 Other Politician 10 Ordinary Person 11 Religious Regulatory Body 12 Courts 13 Government Ministry 14 Multiple Government Ministries 15 Other 16 13. Actor Name 14. Actor’s Jurisdictional Level National 1 Provincial 2 Rural District (Kabupaten) 3 Urban District (Kota) 4 Village 5 15. State or Non-State Actor? State actor 1 Non-state actor 0 16. Form of Anti-Minority Event Political statement 1 Intimidation/Verbal Threat 2 Religious Edict/Fatwa 3 Demonstration (Non-violent) 4 Anti-minority Convention 5 Theological Debate 6 Provincial Legislation 7 District Legislation 8 National Legislation 9
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Court Decision 10 State closure of house of worship 11 Non-state closure of house of worship 12 Forced conversion 13 Prison sentence for blasphemy 14 Arson 15 Vandalism by mob 16 Vandalism by individual 17 Bomb 18 Forced displacement 19 Physical clash 20 Mob attack 21 Blasphemy Charge 22 Other 23 17. State response/intervention? State intervened 0 State did not intervene 1 State was the offender 2 18. Number of Damaged Houses of Worship 19. Number of Damaged Homes 20. Number of Damaged Vehicles 21. Number of Damaged Miscellaneous 22. Number of Damaged Shops 23. Number of People Injured 24. Number of People Killed 25. Sources for Event Information 26. Short Event Summary
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