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Which Islam? Whose Shariah? Islamisation and citizen recognition in

contemporary Indonesia

Article  in  Journal of Religious and Political Practice · September 2018

DOI: 10.1080/20566093.2018.1525897

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WHICH ISLAM? WHOSE SHARIAH?

ISLAMIZATION AND CITIZEN RECOGNITION IN CONTEMPORARY INDONESIA
Robert W. Hefner
Department of Anthropology and Pardee School of Global Affairs
Boston University, 232 Bay State Road, Boston MA 02215
rhefner@bu.edu. Tel: 617 558 2786

Abstract
Since Indonesia’s return to electoral democracy in 1998-1999, analysts have spoken of the
deepening “Islamization” of politics, public culture, and personal life in this Southeast Asian
nation. Just what these trends entail for citizenship and social recognition, as well as the varied
meanings of “Islamization” itself, are the questions at the heart of this article. The essay begins
by sketching a theoretical framework for how to understand the forms and meanings of
Islamization. The approach emphasizes that Islamization is always socially contingent,
epistemologically heterogeneous, and varied in its impact on citizenship and social recognition.
The essay then reviews trends in Islamization and public ethics in modern Indonesia, devoting
primary attention to developments since 1998. It emphasizes that Islamization’s long term
implications for citizenship and public recognition will depend on which variety of Islamization
achieves political and public-ethical hegemony. It also emphasizes, however, that the
Islamization projects currently underway in Indonesia have already had profound effects on
gender practices and ethnoreligious relations. The article ends by highlighting the political and
moral complexity of Islamization in Reformasi Indonesia by comparing several rival
Islamization projects, each with different implications for politics, citizenship, gender, and the
practice of Islam.

Keywords
Islamization, Indonesia, citizenship, social recognition, gender, pluralism
Word count: 6135 (text); 8254 (title page, abstract, text, references)
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WHICH ISLAM? WHOSE SHARIAH?

ISLAMIZATION AND CITIZEN RECOGNITION IN CONTEMPORARY INDONESIA

Since Indonesia’s return to electoral democracy in 1998-1999, there has been much talk

of the deepening “Islamization” of politics, public culture, and personal life in this Southeast

Asian nation. Islam is the religion of some 87.2% of Indonesia’s population, and successive

waves of Islamization have transformed the cultures of the Malayo-Indonesian archipelago since

the first conversions to Islam in northwestern Sumatra in the thirteenth century. However, since

the 1980s, analysts have spoken of the ever-growing influence of Islamic values and practices in

public and private life. Whether in the widespread adoption of the hijab among Muslim women

(Brenner 2011; Smith-Hefner 2007), the proliferation of Islamic study groups (majlis taklim,

halaqah), Islamic programming on radio and television (Rakhmani 2016), the nation-wide

spread of Islamist militias (Wilson 2006), or the displacement of syncretic village traditions by

congregational worship in mosques (Cederroth 1981; Hefner 1987, 2011; Kim 1996; Pranowo

1991), the influence of Islamic traditions and practices has expanded steadily over the past

generation. With the dawn of the Reformasi (“Reformation”) era in 1998-1999 and the lifting of

repressive controls on Muslim politics and culture, the range and depth of Islamic activities have

only increased.

Just what these trends entail for citizenship and social recognition, and what they imply

for the varied meanings of “Islamization” itself, are the questions at the heart of this article. I

begin with several theoretical observations as to how we should understand Islamization. Much

as Shahab Ahmed (2016) has recently observed with regard to Islamization in the Turko-Indo-

Persian world, I emphasize that Islamization is always socially contingent, epistemologically

heterogeneous, and varied in its impact on citizenship and social recognition. Against this
 3

analytic backdrop, I then review trends in Islamization and public ethics in modern Indonesia,

beginning in the late colonial era but with primary attention to developments today. The survey

underscores three points. First, recent years have seen a notable increase in Islamization

projects. Second, because the processes’ social carriers, political dynamics, and normative aims

remain highly varied, Islamization’s long term implications for citizenship and public

recognition will depend on which variety of Islamization achieves political and public-ethical

hegemony. Third, whatever its long term implications for Islam and citizenship, the Islamization

projects underway in Indonesia have already had profound effects on gender practices and

ethnoreligious relations (cf., for Malaysia, Daniels 2017; Moustafa 2013). I conclude this article

by highlighting the political and moral complexity of Islamization in Reformasi Indonesia by

comparing different Islamization projects, each of which has significantly different implications

for politics, citizenship, gender, and the practice of Islam.

Islamization as Contingent

Whether in contemporary Indonesia or in other Muslim societies, conservative and

Islamist proponents of the Islamization of state, society, and subjectivity sometimes describe

their projects as simple matters of bringing public and private life into alignment with norms

seen as uniform because based on some allegedly immutable aspect of Islam, such as Islamic law

or shariah. In Indonesia’s early Reformasi period, as the People’s Consultative Assembly (MPR)

debated legislation that would have required the state to enforce Islamic law for all Muslim

citizens, supporters of the proposed constitutional amendment in groups like the Hizbut Tahrir

Indonesia (Anhaf 2011; Osman 2018) and the Islamist United Development Party (PPP) argued,

not only that “shariah is the solution” to Indonesia’s ills, but that its regulations and meanings are
 4

clear, consistent, and unitary (Elson 2013; Salim 2008). However, the variation seen in

Islamization projects across time and space illustrates that that their ethical ideals and

implications for citizenship practices are anything but uniform (Daniels 2017; Dupret 2012;

Hefner 2016). Seen from a comparative sociological perspective, “Islamization” is not a single

process, but a family of social developments involving efforts to reconstruct values and practices

in such a way as to bring them into alignment with norms and regulations deemed Islamic by

their proponents. The latter claim is often made on the grounds that the norms and regulations in

question are said to be based on the Qur’an, the Sunnah of the Prophet, or the corpus of Islamic

ethico-legal traditions known as shariah.

As Talal Asad (1986:7) observed more than a generation ago, Islam as a discursive

tradition is intimately involved “with the formation of moral selves, the manipulation of

populations..., and the production of appropriate knowledges,” and the ethico-legal traditions

known as shariah are often central to this process of knowledge- and morality-making.

However, as Asad, Sami Zubaida, Ebrahim Moosa, and other commentators on Islamic ethico-

legal traditions have all also observed, the understanding and practices of shariah have never

been uniform, and “there has never been any Muslim society in which the religious law of Islam

has governed more than a fragment of social life” (Asad 1986:13; cf. Hefner 2016; Moosa 2001;

Zubaida 2005).

We can and should develop Asad’s insights even further. The contingency of Islamic

ethical traditions originates in the fact that the aspirations, normativities, and practices to which

they give rise are not fixed forever in changeless texts, but mediated through an array of

historically variable social authorities, popular ethical imaginaries, and institutions. To borrow

from and adjust Fredrik Barth’s (1993: 177-236; 2002:3) observations on the anthropology of
 5

ethical knowledge, we can observe that Islam like all traditions of knowledge depends for its

constitution as a human, social reality on the interplay of three elements. These are, first, “a

corpus of substantive assertions and ideas about aspects of the world,” which in the case of Islam

are seen as expressing and implementing values deemed “Islamic” (cf. Ahmed 2016); second, an

array of media through which those assertions are “instantiated and communicated”; and third, “a

series of instituted social relations,” which is to say authoritative organizations through which the

tradition of knowledge can be “distributed, communicated, employed, and transmitted” (Barth

2002:3). I would add to this triad a fourth social contingency: namely, that for the ethico-

religious tradition to remain resonant for large numbers of people over time, the social powers

and assemblages with which it is associated must inspire or otherwise reshape actors’ bodies and

minds sufficiently as to ensure a continuing identification with the concerns, forms of

knowledge, and way of life in which the tradition is embedded. All this is to say that the

tradition’s production and reproduction over time depend on, not just religious elites, doctrines,

or texts, but on the “entanglement” (Lempert 2013) of the broader ethico-legal assemblage with

identities, powers, and social organizations situated around and beyond the tradition itself.

There is another social fact that adds to the heterogeneity of Islamization projects. It is

the fact that in Muslim and all other complex societies there is typically not just one but several

ethico-legal traditions. This is to say that Islamization unfolds in societies that are already plural

in ethical and legal terms, a plurality which can be defined as “a situation in which two or more

legal systems coexist in the same social field” (Engle Merry 1988: 870; see also Tucker 2008:9).

At times, the ethico-legal traditions may exist in relative harmony. At other times, however, they

“may make competing claims of authority; they may impose conflicting demands or norms; they

may have different styles and orientations”; the plurality also “poses a challenge to the legal
 6

authorities themselves, for it means that they have rivals” (Tamanaha 2008: 375). During certain

critical junctures in a society’s development, the proponents of one ethico-legal tradition may

attempt to change the content and range of other ethico-legal currents by extending the norms

and authorities associated with one ethico-religious tradition into domains previously regulated

by a different set of ethico-legal norms. Where such efforts touch on matters of ethnoreligious

relations, they may have serious implications for citizenship and pluralist co-existence (Turner

2011:151-174).

Indonesia today is in the throes of just such a heightened contestation over the terms of

public ethical life, not least with regard to different understandings and practices of Islam,

citizenship, and social recognition. The result has been that, even as Indonesian politics has

transitioned to electoral democracy, it has also witnessed the growth of an “agonistic plurality”

(Mouffe 2000) of projects with regard to just how to balance aspirations for public piety with

democratic citizenship and civic recognition.

A Plurality of Ethico-Legal Traditions

When speaking of the varieties of Islamization projects in the Indonesian archipelago, it

is important to keep in mind one essential difference between the early phases of the process here

as opposed to much of the Middle East and South Asia. One of the great achievements of

Islamic civilization in these latter region’s in Islam’s third to fifth centuries (10-12th c. CE) was

the putting in place of an educational and political assemblage for the enduring production and

reproduction of the ethico-legal knowledge that has come to be known as “Islamic law” or

shariah. Until the great political transformations of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the

institution at the heart of this ethico-legal assemblage was the madrasa, a boarding school for
 7

intermediate and advanced study in the Islamic sciences (Berkey 1992; Makdisi 1981). Madrasa

curricula varied, but in most pre-modern Muslim lands the subject matter at its heart of was

jurisprudence (fiqh). As the historian of medieval Islamic learning, Jonathan Berkey (2003:189),

has observed, from the tenth century on, the proliferation and cultural influence of madrasas,

many under the patronage of ruling elites, brought about a great “re-centering and

homogenization” of Islamic knowledge and public ethics. The process elevated Islamic

jurisprudence to a position of influence in significant portions of state and society (Berkey 2003:

189; see also Chamberlain 1994).

Shahab Ahmet’s recent (2016) study of Islam and “being Islamic” in the Turko-Indo-

Persianate world from the tenth to the nineteenth centuries demonstrates that the variety of

Islamic ethical assemblages operative across this vast region was actually more plural and

agonistic than Berkey and other scholars of Islamic legal traditions (see Hallaq 2013) imply. In

medieval times and even still today, “ordinary Muslims” (Peletz 1997) from outside the ranks of

the ulama class honed their understanding of God’s shariah through an an array of less law-

minded ethical performances, including adab literature; participation in state, calendrical, and

life-cycle rituals; pilgrimage to the shrines of Islamic saints; visits with Islamic healers; and the

devotional activities of diverse Sufi orders. Moreover, even among lettered elites, actors’

understandings of Islamization varied, in ways that showed the influence of entanglements with

other ethical traditions and other sociopolitical projects (Ahmed 2016; Hefner 2016).

All this said, the looming presence of madrasa and fiqh in, at the very least, educated and

upper class cultures in the premodern Middle East and South Asia provides a striking point of

contrast with the process of Islamization in early-modern Southeast Asia. The difference is also

important for understanding the plurality of Islamic ethical traditions in Indonesia today. Rather
 8

than accompanying the first waves of Islamization in the region, madrasas made their appearance

in the Indonesian archipelago only a full four centuries after the first wave of conversion to

Islam. For most of the preceding period, the heart and ethical soul of Islam in this region was

not juridico-legal. Its primary ethical exemplars were the arts and rituals of a court-based

imperial Islam, along with a diverse array of localized Islamic traditions, including saint and

guardian spirit veneration (cf. Woodward 1989: 164; see also Gibson 2007; Pelras 1996).

One striking consequence of this peculiar mode of Islamization in the Malayo-Indonesian

archipelago was that, until the rise of Islamic reform movements in the late nineteenth century,

many of the gendered categories and rulings of classical fiqh discourse were largely absent.

Although some women wore loose-fitting headscarves (Ind., kerudung; Malay, tudung), the hijab

was rare (Smith-Hefner 2007). With the exception of a few aristocrats, female seclusion was

unknown. Women were the dominant actors in local markets; men predominated only in long-

distance trade (Reid 1993, 162-64). In daily life, women were free to move about villages and

towns unescorted. Divorce for women (at least prior to bearing children) entailed little stigma.

In some parts of the archipelago, local sexual cultures acknowledged the reality of a third sex

and transgenderism (Graham Davies 2010). Last but certainly not least, most Muslim families

ignored Islamic jurisprudence’s rules on succession, providing daughters with an inheritance

share equal to rather than half of their brother’s.

All this would eventually change, albeit in a manner the preserved a significant measure

of Islamic ethical heterogeneity in the Indonesian region. From the middle decades of the

nineteenth century onward, the Malayo-Indonesian equivalent of the Middle Eastern madrasa,

known locally as a pondok or pesantren (see Dhofier 1999), became a major feature of the

Muslim landscape (see van Bruinessen 1994; Ricklefs 2007: 52-72). The spread of pesantren
 9

across central and western Indonesia insured that, for the first time in history, a well organized if

still minority wing of the Indonesian Muslim community developed a scholarly familiarity with

and commitment to Islamic jurisprudence (fiqh). In the early years of the twentieth century, the

expansion of pesantren networks was accompanied by growing calls for the Islamization of

Muslim society – where the “Islamization” in question now involved, not saint veneration or

imperial cults, but the reconstruction of public and private life with reference to the ulama-

mediated traditions of classical Islamic jurisprudence.

For most of the twentieth century, however, social mobilizations in support of state-

implementation of Islamic shariah were not the only projects aspiring to bring about an ethical

reorientation of state and society. From early on in the new Indonesian republic, the proponents

of state shariah found themselves locked in a bitter struggle with conservative nationalists in the

armed forces, as well as a variety of left-leaning and (more or less) secular nationalist

movements in society. The balance of power among these currents changed dramatically in the

aftermath of the destruction of the country’s huge Communist Party and the rise of the military-

dominated New Order regime (1966-1998; Hefner 2000). A conservative secular nationalism

was the hegemonic political ideology for the regime’s first twenty years. However, from the

mid-1980s onward the country witnessed an upsurge in piety-minded and fiqh-oriented

Islamization in broad swaths of society.

Islamic jurisprudence or fiqh, however, is itself deeply plural in its interpretations and

practice (Hefner 2016; Kamali 1999). For most of the New Order period, the dominant currents

in Indonesia’s fiqh-oriented Islamization projects were still those broadly associated with

Indonesia’s two huge, mass-based social organizations, the reformist Muhammadiyah (est. 1912;

with an estimated 25 million members) and the “traditionalist” Nahdlatul Ulama (est. 1926; with
 10

an estimated 45-50 million followers today). For most of the same period, the leadership of

these organizations remained committed to Indonesia’s tradition of multi-confessional

nationalism and, with it, a (relatively) religiously undifferentiated variety of citizenship.

However, in the 1990s, campuses and urban neighborhoods witnessed a slow but steady

expansion in new Islamist movements committed to what they regarded as a more “authentic”

Islamization project and more “comprehensive” (kaffah) enactment of Islamic law (Bubalo and

Fealy 2005). The two key elements in these new Islamization projects were a more rigorous

reconstruction of gender roles and a more extensive differentiation of Muslim citizens from non-

Muslims.

Islamization agonistes

One of the more prominent movements promoting shariah-focused Islamization projects

in the early post-Soeharto period was the Council of Indonesian Mujahidin (Majelis Mujahidin

Indonesia; MMI). The MMI was founded in Yogyakarta in August 2000 by a core group of

activists that included, as spiritual leader, Abu Bakar Ba’asyir of Jemaah Islamiyah fame, and

Irfan Awwas as executive director (ICG 2002). Although Ba’asyir was the undisputed spiritual

leader (amir) of the organization, Awwas and others in the Yogyakarta-based MMI executive ran

day-to-day operations, including the movement’s publishing wing. Awwas and the MMI

executive broke with Baasyir in 2008, over a host of issues which included whether the MMI

was to remain in full-blown opposition to the Indonesian state, or try to work within the existing

state system, on the model of the All-Malaysia Islamic Party (Parti Islam Se-Malaysia; PAS) in

Malaysia. Awwas and the mainstream MMI were in favor of the latter approach, while Baasyir,

influenced by internationalist jihadist appeals, advocated a turn to anti-system radicalism and

 11

armed struggle. The latter preference underlay his decision in 2015 to swear an oath of

allegiance to the Islamic State in Iraq and Syria/ISIS/Daesh. As Awwas explained in a long

interview in August 2015, he and the MMI were bitterly opposed to ISIS, aligning themselves

instead with the al-Nusra and other al-Qa’ida linked organizations in Syria and the Middle East.

From 2001 through 2015, I conducted annual interviews in Yogyakarta with Awwas and

his associates, in an effort to trace the MMI’s ideological evolution and its leaders’

understandings of Islamization and Islamic law. The MMI’s founding ambition was to create a

broad coalition of organizations committed to a comprehensive implementation of shariah law

across Indonesia. However, this rather general ambition aside, just what form God’s law would

take in such a shariah-implementing state and what it implied for nationhood and citizenship

were not spelled out in the MMI’s early years. In large part this reflected the fact that, as Awwas

told me on numerous occasions, MMI leaders were determined to recruit a broad base of activists

and organizations to MMI ranks.

In private interviews and closed-circle discussions at their headquarters in Yogyakarta,

however, Awwas and his colleagues made clear that, in their view, the shariah is not something

that should or can be adjusted in light of national culture or citizenship. Awwas spoke

disparagingly of the idea popular in some national-minded legal circles that Indonesia might be

able to develop its own national school of law (madhhab; Feener 2007; Hooker 2008). He was

equally critical of modernizing reformists who sought, not a literal application of an unreformed

shariah, but a variety premised on the “higher aims of the law” (maqasid al-shariah) (Hefner

2016; Kamali 1999). In much the same uncompromisingly unitarian spirit, Awwas and his

colleagues made clear that the Indonesian state’s ideal of Pancasila citizenship – formally

undifferentiated with regard to religion – would have to be replaced by the models of

 12

dhimmihood or “protected minorities,” whereby non-Muslims were to be tolerated only if they

acknowledged Muslim rule and accepted certain limits on their citizen rights, including not being

allowed to serve in the military or assume positions of executive leadership in government.

In light of these rather uncompromising statements, I was surprised by Awwas’s response

to a question I posed several times as to what country or movement might best exemplify the

MMI model for statehood and citizenship. Awwas always answered that the model was not that

of Saudi Arabia or the Taliban in Afghanistan, but the all-Malaysia Islamic Party (PAS) in

Malaysia. In fact, the PAS reference emerged regularly in my discussions with MMI officials,

not just in Yogyakarta, but in Jakarta and South Sulawesi in interviews conducted in the decade

from 2002 to 2012. The link was a matter of special pride and comment in South Sulawesi,

where, in July 2004, representatives from the Committee for the Preparation of the

Implementation of Islamic Law (KPPSI), spoke openly and at length about their extensive

consultations with PAS officials (cf. Buehler 2016; Juhannis 2006).

Several years ago, the Australia-based legal scholars, Tim Lindsey and Jeremy Kingsley

(Lindsey and Kingsley 2008), carried out a textual analysis of MMI proposals with regard to

Islamic law. They discovered evidence of strong PAS influences in matters of shariah content

and interpretation, not least with regards to matters of citizenship and criminal punishment. The

authors also observe that there is significant vagueness in the MMI code with regards to how

shariah law is to be implemented, and a spirit of “utopian ambition” that leads to conclusions

such as “the application of the MMI Code will result in a removal of ‘the criminality,

disharmony of life, moral decadence, and the decay of human values’ flourishing under the

current (secular) Criminal Code” (p. 5). “The attitude so saturates the text of the MMI Code that
 13

little attention is paid to specificities and practicalities, presumably because these are matters that

will take care of themselves once God’s law is in force.”

Over the course of these same years, I carried out some 100 interviews with Muslim

activists – ranging from vigilante-based Islamists to Muslim democrats -- in Jakarta, Yogyakarta,

Aceh, West Java, and South Sulawesi. A central question in my interviews had to do with the

compatibility of shariah law with the ideals and doctrines of Indonesian nationalism and

citizenship. One of the more striking themes to emerge from these discussions is that, in the

years between the MMI’s founding in 2000 and 2005, the movement’s “anti-national”

understanding of Islamic law caused increasing unease and, eventually, outright opposition on

the part of some of the activists earlier involved in the MMI coalition. The majority among the

interviewees commented that at first they had fully agreed with the MMI’s effort to organize a

clearing house of pro-shariah groups, and they supported what they understood as its one-size-

fits-all view of Islamic law and Islamization. By 2005-2006, however, the tide of opinion in

these activist circles had turned. Many activists decried the MMI understanding of shariah as

“dry” (kering) and lacking in proper attention to procedures for educating the public and

engaging state and military officials. Even more important, many now took strong exception to

the MMI’s claim that the implementation of Islamic law required that Indonesia’s constitution

and nation-state framework be abolished. Even among Islamist conservatives in the ranks of the

hardline militia, the Islamic Defenders Front (FPI; see Bamualim 2011; Pausacker 2013; Wilson

2006, 2014), interviewees who had once cooperated with the FPI were by 2005 making clear that

they did not share its opposition to Indonesian nationhood. Indeed, representatives of the FPI

and the Makassar-based, neo-Salafi movement, Wahdah Islamiyah (with whom I conducted
 14

interviews in August 2006 and in 2010), were among the most vocal in taking exception to the

MMI position on nationhood.

Wahdah Islamiyah is a neo-Salafi movement founded in Makassar in the early 2000s,

which now has 120 branches across Indonesia. In a recent article, Chris Chaplin has observed

that over the past several years the movement has begun to cooperate with government agencies,

including the police force. As a result of these interactions, the movement’s leadership has

reached a new accommodation with both the Indonesian state and (some of) the ideals of

Indonesian nationhood. The group “has become adept at combining religious and national

terminology in order to ‘locate’ themselves within nationally oriented narratives of Islamic

revival” (Chaplin 2018:209). However, the accommodation is a selective one on matters of

citizen recognition, not least with regard to non-Muslim citizens. Chaplin rightly notes that

Wahdah Islamiyah activists seek “to alter the membership boundaries of Indonesian citizenship

so as to preference Muslims at the expense of non-Muslims” (ibid.).

Chaplin’s insights are consistent with changes taking place in, not just the Wahdah

Islamiyah, but a broad range of Indonesian Islamist groups dedicated to conservative

Islamization projects. The above history of the MMI’s fissioning over nationhood questions

shows that the changes Chaplin observed in Wahdah Islamiyah began several years earlier in

other Islamist organizations, and involved a far larger number of organizations. With the notable

exception of staunchly internationalists groups like Hizbut Tahrir Indonesia (Osman 2018), the

shift away from anti-national shariah projects and toward a new accommodation with nationhood

and national citizenship has been one of the most striking trends in Indonesian Islamist circles

since 2004-2005. It has also been one of the keys to the Islamists’ strategy for pushing back
 15

against the Muslim feminists, democrats, and liberals that seemed influential in the early

Reformasi period, and whose influence today has waned.

Muslim democrats, feminists, and progressive Islamization

The developments in Islamists circles described here were part of a broader array of

contentions taking place across Indonesia during the early Reformasi period, many of which had

to do with the implications of different Islamization projects for citizenship and social

recognition. The first years of the Reformasi transition had witnessed a surge in reform-minded

and democracy-enhancing projects in Jakarta, many crafted with the support of the country’s

major Islamic social welfare organizations, the Muhammadiyah and Nahdlatul Ulama. The

legislation was premised on the conviction that Islam and Islamization were broadly consistent

with democracy and Indonesia’s variety of pluralist citizenship (cf. Abdillah 1997; Hefner 2000).

From early on, however, voices were raised against the Muslim democrats’ proposals for

legislative reforms, especially on matters related to citizenship, religious freedom, and gender

ethics. At first, however, the coalition of Muslim democrats, feminists, and liberals so prominent

in the first years of Reformasi was confident that this conservative opposition could be

contained. Between 1999 and 2002, Indonesian legislators crafted constitutional amendments

intended to strengthen religious freedom and Pancasila pluralism in a manner that domestic and

international observers welcomed as consistent with liberal-democratic freedoms, as well as the

international human rights covenants to which Indonesia was already a signatory (Butt and

Lindsey 2012: 19-25; cf. Hosen 2007). Another Reform-era amendment (28I(1)) borrowed

language from the Universal Declaration of Human Rights so as to state that the “right to have a

religion” (Ind., hak beragama) was one among several human rights “that cannot be limited
 16

under any circumstance” (Lindsey and Butt 2016:22). Between 2000 and 2001 the National

Assembly rebuffed efforts on the part of several Islamist parties to change the constitution so as

to require the state to implement Islamic law for all Muslim citizens (Hosen 2007). The effort

failed in part because of opposition from the leadership of the Muhammadiyah and Nahdlatul

Ulama.

Gender was the focus of unusually intense normative contention in the early Reformasi

era, and, here again, a broadly “liberal” current at first seemed ascendant. Between 2001 and

2002, activists committed to the reform of state-crafted Islamic laws on marriage and divorce

launched an effort to reform the Compilation of Islamic Law (Kompilasi Hukum Islam; see

Nurlaelawati 2007) used in Indonesia’s Islamic courts for adjudicating matters of marriage,

divorce, and inheritance (Hefner 2016; Lindsey 2014). The most ardent proponents of the

Compilation’s reformulation were a new, theologically-savvy generation of Muslim feminists

who had arrived on the national scene in the 1990s. In the heady climate of the early Reformasi

era, these gender activists launched one of the boldest attempts at Islamic legal reform ever seen

in modern Indonesia. The initiative centered on the release in October 2004 of a draft bill known

as the “Counter Legal Draft” (CLD), which was put forward to revise sections of the

Compilation of Islamic Law dealing with women’s roles (Mulia and Cammack 2007; Lindsey

2012: 69-101). The CLD was prepared by a seven-member team of Islamic legal scholars under

the direction of Siti Musdah Mulia, a professor at the Hidayatullah State Islamic University in

Jakarta and a special assistant to the Minister of Religion. Known for her staunch support of

women’s rights and religious freedom, Mulia had been recruited by the Ministry of Religion in

2001 to lead a “Working Group for Gender Mainstreaming” (see Doorn-Harder 2006).
 17

For Muslim democrats and gender reformists, the time seemed right for such a bold

initiative and the progressive Islamization project it implied. The years 2000-2002 were the peak

of democratic and feminist activism in post-Soeharto Indonesia. Conservative Islamists,

including those in militia groups like the Islamic Defenders Front (Wilson 2014), had not yet

finished putting in place a national network, a project they would largely complete by 2005. The

celebrated (if administratively challenged) Muslim democrat, Abdurrahman Wahid, was

president (through August 2001). Under Wahid’s leadership the Ministry for the Empowerment

of Women moved to implement a series of gender reforms. In 2001, the Ministry announced a

national policy of “zero tolerance” for violence against women. The policy’s action plan singled

out several provisions from the Compilation of Islamic Law as discriminatory (Mulia and

Cammack 2007: 133).

At first the CLD initiative enjoyed the support of high-ranking officials in the Ministry of

Religion. Five of the CLD’s proposals, however, generated immediate and fierce pushback in

Muslim scholarly circles. These were the draft’s proposal to ban polygyny; to allow inter-

religious marriages; to do away with the requirement that a women be represented by a male

guardian (wali nikah) in marriage ceremonies; to equalize inheritance shares for sons and

daughters; and to make disobedience (nusyuz) a moral failing for which husbands as well as

wives can be faulted. All of these proposals were at variance with Indonesia’s existing

Compilation of Islamic law; all too were contrary to the classical fiqh studied in Islamic boarding

schools. This is to say that the CLD reforms sought nothing less than to replace existing fiqh

traditions with a contextual understanding of Islam premised on the notion that “the purpose and

goal of Qur’anic text... is the eventual emancipation of humanity from all forms of bondage and

oppression” (Mulia and Cammack 2007: 138).

 18

In the end, however, the CLD gamble proved ill-timed and the initiative failed. In the

interim between 2001 and 2004, the circumstances of Indonesian democracy had changed. After

a bitter dispute with former allies, President Wahid was ousted from office in August 2001

(Feillard and Madinier 2006). At first startled by the boldness of Muslim progressives in the

early years of the post-Soeharto era, by 2002 Muslim conservatives and Islamist militias had

rebounded and begun to launch a series of counter-campaigns against Muslim democrats,

feminists, and Muslim minorities deemed “deviant” (sesat). The largest groups, including the

Islamic Defenders Front, the Hizbut Tahrir Indonesia (Osman 2018), and the Council of

Indonesian Mujahidin (MMI; see Hilmy 2010), put in in place a media-savvy network for

countering liberal initiatives, combining social-media-blitzes with demonstration shows-of-force

(Wilson 2006, 2014). Although these activists were unable to translate their protests into

electoral gains, their ability to pressure local state officials and disseminate their views through a

network of mosque preachers proved effective at shifting public opinion just enough to scuttle

efforts at legal reforms. Two weeks after its introduction, the Minister of Religion withdrew the

CLD from legislative discussion. Muslim intellectuals whom I interviewed over the next three

years lamented that at first they had not realized that the CLD draft had poured fuel on the fire of

a neo-conservative backlash, not least in semi-governmental ulama bodies like the Council of

Indonesian Ulama (Majelis Ulama Indonesia, MUI; see Hasyim 2011).

Public contention and the Indonesian Council of Ulama (MUI)

By 2002-2003, the MUI was emerging as a leading force, not just in the opposition to the

CLD, but in an array of campaigns aiming to counter liberal Islamization projects. The MUI had

been established at the urging of President Suharto in 1975, and for most of the New Order the
 19

Council had worked so closely with the authoritarian government that it came to be seen as “the

bureaucratisation of Islam… in its most extreme form” (Hooker 2003:60). In the far more

competitive religious market of the Reformasi era, however, the MUI leadership realized that it

risked being rendered obsolete by the country’s new array of preachers, activists, and movements

(see Hoesterey 2015). So from 2000 onward the MUI sought to rebrand itself as an Islamic civil

society organization, formally announcing that its primary role was no longer to be a “servant of

the government” (khadim al-hukumah) but a servant of the Muslim community (khadim al-

ummah).

Over the next five years, the Council extended its authority into several fields, including

national education and the lucrative enterprises of Islamic banking and halal certification. The

primary role the MUI sought to play, however, had to do with policing Islamic orthodoxy and

ensuring that the correct values were put in place in any Islamization project. As part of its

rebranding efforts, the MUI reached out to new Islamist organizations, including small but

radical organizations like Indonesia’s Muslim Brotherhood, Hizbut Tahrir Indonesia, and the

Majelis Mujahadin Indonesia. Liberal and progressive Muslims like those associated with the

Network of Liberal Islam (Jaringan Islam Liberal, JIL, see Feillard and Madinier 2006; Nurdin

2005) were deliberately excluded from the now widened MUI tent (Ichwan 2013: 64; Hasyim

2014).

The MUI had an understanding of the proper ethical compass for Islamization quite

different from that of the Muslim democrats, feminists, and progressives who had enjoyed

momentary prominence during the early Reformasi era. In 2005, just a year after the failure of

the Counter Legal Draft initiative, the MUI made its ambitions all the clearer when it issued a

fatwa declaring that “secularism, pluralism, and liberalism” are contrary to Islam (Gillespie
 20

2008; Ichwan 2013; Olle 2009). Over the following months, Islamist vigilantes cited the fatwa

to justify attacks on liberal Muslims and Muslim minorities (Crouch 2014; HRW 2013; ICG

2008). They also worked with local Muslim social organizations and vigilante groups to

promote the implementation of “regional by-laws” (peraturan daerah) widely seen as shariah-

inspired (Bush 2008). The most common by-laws dealt with matters of general public concern,

including prostitution and the growing availability of drugs and alcohol. However, and

illustrating once again the centrality of gender issues in Reformasi-era contentions, others have

taken aim squarely at girls and women: requiring the wearing of the hijab in schools and public

spaces, and limiting the movement of unescorted women after dark (Robinson 2009: 172).

Although the bulk of this legislation was implemented in regions long regarded as bases for

Islamist movements (Bush 2008), some of its most ardent supporters were politicians from

secular nationalist parties. As Michael Buehler (2016) has shown, in several instances these

officials aimed to use the “Islamization” of by-laws to curry support in the conservative wing of

the Muslim community so as to blunt challenges to their own power.

Through these and other initiatives, the MUI and its allies have for the time being

succeeded in discrediting the proponents of liberal Islamization projects, and have shifted the

focus of public ethical debates toward conservative projects of public Islamization (Hadiz 2016;

Wilson 2014).

Conclusion: Religiously differentiated citizenship?

Fueled in part by public concerns over globalization, corruption, and growing economic

inequality, social change in the Reformasi era made the liberal Islamization projects so

influential in the transition’s early years increasingly vulnerable to challenge by conservative

 21

Muslims and Islamists. The latter loudly proclaimed that the immorality and vice (maksiat)

about which so many Indonesians are concerned are in fact “integral to liberal and secular

lifestyles, associated with the upper-middle classes and the city’s rich” (Wilson 2014:266).

These same developments allowed for a greater public hearing of Islamist proposals for a

religiously differentiated practice of citizenship. These appeals appeared to get greater traction

because they were now securely positioned within a new operating consensus in Islamist circles

on Indonesian nationhood.

All this is to say that, if most Indonesian Islamists have now reached a new

accommodation on the ideals and practices of nationhood, they have done so in part so as to

better challenge and remake those with regard to citizenship. The latter ambition was vividly

illustrated in a national political drama that unfolded in late 2016 and early 2017. In those

months, an alliance of conservative Muslims and Islamists mounted a campaign that eventually

succeeded in ousting and ultimately imprisoning the Chinese-Christian governor of Jakarta,

Basuki Tjahaja Purnama (popularly known as “Ahok”). They were able to challenge the once

popular governor because of a campaign speech that he made in late September 2016, which was

interpreted by his opponents as having “defamed” the Qur’an and Muslims (IPAC 2018; Rais

and Bagir 2016). Although economic inequalities and the coercive displacement of the urban

poor in urban renewal programs contributed to popular frustration with the blunt-talking

governor, Islamist groups managed to refocus public attention on the defamation allegation.

They did so in order to drive home the message that an “authentic” Islam prohibits non-Muslims

from holding positions of executive leadership over non-Muslims (Hefner 2018). Whether this

same message will resonate in future elections, not least the presidential elections of 2019,

remains unclear. But what is certain is that Indonesia has reached a critical juncture, and the
 22

issue – and with it, the larger question of a religiously differentiated citizenship – is going to

figure for some years to come both in national and Muslim politics.

As these and other developments in Reformasi Indonesia remind us, there is no single

project of Islamization. The process is always and everywhere socially and ethically contingent,

in a manner that allows appeals to Islamic traditions of knowledge and practice to take different

forms and acquire contradictory meanings in different times and places. It is just such a contest

of Islamizations that lies at the heart of social contentions taking place in Indonesia today. Its

outcomes will in no small measure determine the future of Indonesian democracy, as well as the

quality and content of citizenship in this hugely important, Muslim-majority country.

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