The International People’s Tribunal

for 1965 and the Indonesian

Genocide

The International People’s Tribunal addressed the many forms of violence during
the period of the massacres of 1965–66 in Indonesia. It was held in The Hague, the
Netherlands, in November 2015, to commemorate 50 years since the killings be-
gan. The Tribunal, as a people’s court, holds no jurisdiction and was an attempt to
achieve symbolic justice for the crimes of 1965.
This book offers new and previously unpublished insights into the types of crimes
committed in the 1965 genocide and how these crimes were prosecuted at the Inter-
national People’s Tribunal for 1965 (IPT 1965). Divided thematically, each chapter
analyses a different crime—enslavement, sexual violence, and torture—perpetrated
during the Indonesian killings. The contributions consider either general patterns
across Indonesia or a particular region of the archipelago. The book reflects on how
crimes were charged at the IPT 1965 and focuses on questions relating to the place
of people’s tribunals in truth-seeking and justice claims, and the prospective for
transitional justice in contemporary Indonesia.
Positioning the events in Indonesia in 1965 within the broader scope of compara-
tive genocide studies, the book is an original and timely contribution to knowledge
about the dynamics of the Indonesian killings. It will be of interest to academics in
the field of Asian studies, in particular Southeast Asia, Genocide Studies, Criminol-
ogy and Criminal Justice Studies, and Transitional Justice Studies.

Saskia E. Wieringa is honorary professor at the University of Amsterdam, the

­Netherlands. She chairs the International People’s Tribunal on the 1965 Crimes
against Humanity in Indonesia. Her latest books include Heteronormativity, Passion-
ate Aesthetics and Symbolic Subversion in Asia (with Abha Bhaiya and ­Nursyahbani
Katjasungkana, 2015). In 2018 the volume Propaganda and the Genocide in ­Indonesia:
Imagined Evil (with Nursyahbani Katjasungkana) was published by Routledge.

Jess Melvin is Postdoctoral Research Associate with the Sydney Southeast Asia Centre
at the University of Sydney, Australia. She is the author of The Army and the I­ ndonesian
Genocide: Mechanics of Mass Murder (Routledge, 2018) and the co-editor, with
­Katharine McGregor and Annie Pohlman, of The Indonesian Genocide of 1965 (2018).

Annie Pohlman is Senior Lecturer in Indonesian Studies at the University of

­Queensland, Brisbane, Australia. She is the author of Women, Sexual Violence and
the Indonesian Killings of 1965– 66 (2015) and the co-editor of Genocide and Mass
Atrocities in Asia (2013), also published by Routledge, and also the co-editor, with
Katharine McGregor and Jess Melvin, of The Indonesian Genocide of 1965 (2018).
Routledge Contemporary Southeast Asia Series

The aim of this series is to publish original, high-quality work by both new
and established scholars on all aspects of Southeast Asia.

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Budi Hernawan

Family and Population Changes in Singapore

A unique case in the global family change
Edited by Wei-Jun Jean Yeung and Shu Hu

Islamic Education in Indonesia and Malaysia

Shaping Minds, Saving Souls
Azmil Tayeb

Islam, State and Society in Indonesia

Local Politics in Madura
Yanwar Pribadi

The Appeal of the Philippines

Spain, Cultural Representation and Politics
José Miguel Díaz Rodríguez

Propaganda and the Genocide in Indonesia

Saskia E. Wieringa with Nursyahbani Katjasungkana

The International People’s Tribunal for 1965 and the

Indonesian Genocide
Edited by Saskia E. Wieringa, Jess Melvin and Annie Pohlman

For more information about this series, please visit: https://www.routledge.

com/Routledge-Contemporary-Southeast-Asia-Series/book-series/RCSEA
The International People’s
Tribunal for 1965 and the
Indonesian Genocide

Edited by Saskia E. Wieringa,

Jess Melvin, and
Annie Pohlman
First published 2019
by Routledge
2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN
and by Routledge
52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017
Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa
business
© 2019 selection and editorial matter, Saskia E. Wieringa, Jess
Melvin and Annie Pohlman; individual chapters, the contributors
The right of Saskia E. Wieringa, Jess Melvin and Annie Pohlman
to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of
the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in
accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and
Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or
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or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and
explanation without intent to infringe.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British
Library
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Wieringa, Saskia, 1950– editor. | Melvin, Jess, editor. |
Pohlman, Annie, editor.
Title: The International People’s Tribunal for 1965 and the
Indonesian genocide / edited by Saskia E. Wieringa, Jess Melvin and
Annie Pohlman.
Description: New York: Routledge, 2019. | Series: Routledge
contemporary Southeast Asia series | Includes bibliographical
references and index. | Identifiers: LCCN 2018048191 (print) |
LCCN 2018049802 (ebook) | ISBN 9780429427763 (master) |
ISBN 9780429764967 (Adobe Reader) | ISBN 9780429764950 (Epub) |
ISBN 9780429764943 (Mobipocket) | ISBN 9781138371071 |
ISBN 9781138371071 (hardback) | ISBN 9780429427763 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Indonesia—History—Coup d’âetat, 1965. | Human
rights—Indonesia—History—20th century. |
Genocide—Indonesia—History—20th century. | Crimes against
humanity—Indonesia—History—20th century. | International
People’s Tribunal for 1965.
Classification: LCC DS644.32 (ebook) |
LCC DS644.32 .I57 2019 (print) | DDC959.803/5—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018048191

ISBN: 978-1-138-37107-1 (hbk)

ISBN: 978-0-429-42776-3 (ebk)
Typeset in Times New Roman
by codeMantra
Contents

List of figures, map, and tables vii

Foreword ix
Acknowledgements xiii
List of abbreviations xv
List of contributors xxiii

1 The Indonesian genocide and the International People’s

Tribunal for 1965 1
Saskia E . W ieringa , J ess M elvin , and A nnie P ohlman

2 Organisation and impact of the International People’s Tribunal

on 1965 crimes against humanity in Indonesia 22
N ursyahbani K atjasungkana and Saskia  E .  W ieringa

3 How the military came to power 44

J ess M elvin

4 Mass torture in 1965–66: a continuing legacy 60

Galuh Wandita , I ndria F ernida , and K aren 
Campbell -N elson

5 Suharto’s grievous human rights abuses: the case of Buru Island 80

A svi Warman A dam

6 Sexual slavery, enforced prostitution, and forced marriage as

crimes against humanity during the Indonesian killings of 1965–66 96
A nnie P ohlman

7 Persecution through denial of citizenship: Indonesians in forced

exile post 1965 115
R atna Saptari
vi Contents
8 Mass graves, memorialisation, and truth-finding 135
Saskia E . W ieringa

9 Propaganda and complicity, 1965–66 157

A dam H ughes H enry

10 What’s in a name? Naming and shaming in the Indonesian

1965 mass violence discourse and the IPT 1965 179
S ri L estari Wahyuningroem

11 Ingat65: how Indonesia’s young generation share their

discovery of a forgotten massacre 198
Prodita Sabarini , E llena E karahendy, I ka
K rismantari , F ebriana F irdaus , and R ika T heo

12 The Indonesian massacres as genocide 215

H elen Jarvis and Saskia E . W ieringa

Epilogue: the way forward 237

Bradley Simpson

Index 241
List of figures, map, and tables

Figures
1.1 Atmosphere at the IPT 1965 hearings, by Koes Komo,
reproduced with permission 4
2.1 The witness Martono, by Koes Komo, reproduced
with permission 23
2.2 Prosecutor Team 1, by Koes Komo, reproduced
with permission 25
2.3 Prosecutor Team 2, by Koes Komo, reproduced
with permission 28

Map
1.1 Map of Indonesia 2

Tables
4.1 Perpetrators of torture identified in victims’ testimonies 62
4.2 Patterns of torture committed in Aceh and Timor-Leste 69
Foreword
Zak Yacoob

The foreword to the volume is written by Retired Justice Zak Yacoob, who
chaired the hearings of the International People’s Tribunal for 1965. It intro-
duces the themes of the volume and the crimes dealt with by the IPT 1965. It
also discusses transitional justice efforts in Indonesia and internationally.
I was one of the judges of the hearings of the Independent Peoples’ Tri-
bunal held at The Hague during November 2015. I start by expressing deep
appreciation for this well-researched compilation by academics of note who
have left no stone unturned in their efforts.
The publication goes far beyond a description of the proceedings of the
International Peoples’ Tribunal itself. The study contextualises the events of
1965 both in the past and the international scene. The horrendous happen-
ings during the period 1965 until almost the beginning of the twenty-first
century are appropriately and graphically described. I sincerely thank each
of the writers, every person who gave evidence before the tribunal, all the
lawyers and researchers who worked so very hard to prepare for the pro-
ceedings, all the people and entities who contributed financially and organ-
isationally, as well as my fellow judges.
For me, the tribunal proceedings and events were, and remain in the first
place, a pungent, disturbing, yet illuminating experience of the suffering of
humanity. It also recalls to me, in an unforgettable way, the courage and
anguish of the survivors and others who gave evidence. Third, it clearly
demonstrates the determination of the organisers to ensure that the events
of that time do not become buried in history but remain alive to contribute
to the improvement of the quality of life of human beings everywhere. And
this publication serves amongst other things as a vivid and successful effort
to achieve the same laudable results.
The many, many thousands of people who died and disappeared, who
were maimed physically and psychologically, and who were abused physi-
cally and sexually were all victims of a huge international conspiracy. Let
us not interpret these events as if they concerned Indonesia alone. The peo-
ple of that country were really victims of the conflict between the East and
the West, the so-called Cold War between communism and ­capitalism, and
x Foreword
the competition between world forces for control and domination not only
of the world value system, but perhaps more importantly, also of world re-
sources. This book raises the real and inevitable inference that there was
a perception and a real fear both among conservative political forces in
­Indonesia and among western imperialists, and that the brand of com-
munism and the way in which it was being practised by President Sukarno
and his political allies, was in fact succeeding. Hundreds of thousands
of people were all sacrificed at the altar of western imperialism and anti-­
communism. The ­Indonesian military was in effect a tool of these evil, im-
perialistic forces.
These forces are still at work despite what is referred to as the end of
the so-called Cold War. This publication makes it plain that the usher-
ing in of a new humanitarian order in Indonesia in 1998 has not changed
much. There has not been a real acknowledgement of, and acceptance of,
responsibility for these atrocities either by Indonesian authorities or rep-
resentatives of western imperialism. This despite the fact that, given every
opportunity to present their version, all these perpetrators preserved their
silence during the tribunal, rendering its conclusions irrefutable. The in-
ternational forces inexcusably and heartlessly continue in their silence.
The present Indonesian regime, however, demonstrates the truth of the
evidence at the tribunal. While calling the proceedings and results of
the tribunal a ‘joke,’ they express no concern, sympathy, or support for the
efforts to memorialise and help achieve retribution and compensation for
victims, survivors, and families. Instead, they are agitated and appear to
be afraid of these developments which seems to signify them, a rearing of
communism’s ‘ugly’ head.
Yet the so-called end of the Cold War should mean that there should be
true freedom of expression, belief, and opinion. It should mean that believ-
ers and supporters of the communist, capitalist, or any other political system
are free to peacefully propagate their persuasions. True democracy does not
mean a capitalist democracy, as capitalists think. If a majority of people
prefer a particular political alternative, whether communism or something
else, their views must, in any realistic definition of democracy, be allowed to
prevail. There is no room for oppressive and violent crushing of alternative
political views. The authoritarian Indonesian vilification of communism is
contradictory of the new era of political democracy. Hopefully, it is not a
threat to resume the unspeakably cruel purge of 1965, and equally hope-
fully, the Indonesian authorities will confirm that it is definitely not.
The publication also shows without doubt that the conflict and struggles
in Indonesia during the 30-year Suharto regime and the struggle of the peo-
ple of Indonesia to obtain reparation, justice, and fairness today are integral
to a broader world struggle that has existed for centuries and is not yet at an
end, with human beings trying to achieve a just and equitable world order.
It is the struggle between authoritarianism on the one hand and true democ-
racy on the other; between a culture of exploitation and oppression, and a
 Foreword  xi
culture of humanism and human rights; between the absolute dominance
of capital and power, and the achievement of fairness for labour; between
arbitrary discrimination, and true acceptance of equality; and between the
rich and powerful, and people who are poor and vulnerable.
The crimes against humanity in Indonesia and elsewhere in the world
really represent an offensive by violent and powerful authoritarian forces
aimed at the destruction of human dignity, equality, and freedom, and an
offensive against the reduction of poverty, improvement of the quality of
lives of human beings, and social justice for all vulnerable people. The op-
posite is the struggle by people all over the world for the meaningful survival
of humanity and a struggle that I support without qualification.
We must all call upon the United Nations and other international struc-
tures with jurisdiction to prosecute these crimes; we call upon responsible
international forces to accept responsibility for their role and commit to
reparation, justice, and true democracy in Indonesia; and finally, we call
upon the Indonesian authorities to desist from their vilification of com-
munism and to contribute instead to true reparation, reconstruction, and
democracy.
This publication is an important step forward in our struggle for a better
and more humane world order.
Acknowledgements

This volume could not have been possible without the help and contribution
of many. First, we wish to thank the hundreds of volunteers who worked
on the International People’s Tribunal for 1965 (IPT 1965). Their efforts to
highlight the 1965 case and to achieve some measure of justice for the vic-
tims of these crimes have kept this dark chapter in our shared history alive.
As editors, we also have to thank one another, for the friendship and pro-
fessionalism with which we worked on this project. We were all involved in
compiling the material for the research report for the Prosecutors of the IPT
1965. Each of us has a different trajectory that brought her to work on this
anthology.
Saskia did her PhD research on the history of the Indonesian women’s
movement including Gerwani in the early 1980s. That was the first time she
heard the story of the slander against Gerwani. Shocked, she was deter-
mined to bring the story to the public. For many years, she could not return
to the country and was finally able, only in 2002, to publish the unpurged
version of the results of this research. Later she wrote a novel (Crocodile
Hole, 2014) and collaborated on a film on the topic (The Women and the Gen-
erals, by Maj Wechselman, 2012). Appalled by the continued impunity of the
perpetrators, and the stigma that the victims/survivors of the genocide and
other crimes against humanity still carry, she co-founded the IPT 1965 and
has chaired the Foundation IPT 1965 since its establishment in 2014.
Jess came to the case of 1965 from Aceh. She saw the end of the separatist
conflict in the province in 2005 and heard many stories of military brutal-
ity. When she later began to hear stories about 1965, she was struck by how
similar the two cases sounded and was determined to uncover the role of
the military during 1965. Her book, The Army and the Indonesian Genocide:
Mechanics of Mass Murder, was published in 2018.
Annie first met survivors of the 1965 killings while studying in Indonesia
in 2002. In the years since then, she has been awed and humbled time and
time again by the strength and resilience of survivors. Her work has focused,
in particular, on the gendered forms of violence perpetrated against women
and girls during 1965–66.
xiv Acknowledgements
Saskia would like to thank the Amsterdam Institute for Social Science
Research and particularly the Amsterdam Research Centre on Gender
and Sexuality for their support to this project. Jess would like to thank the
­Sydney Southeast Asia Centre at the University of Sydney for their support
to this project. Annie wishes to thank the School of Languages and Cultures
at the University of Queensland.
We also give our sincere thanks to the artist Koes Komo for allowing us
to reproduce four of his works which he created at the International People’s
Tribunal public hearings in 2015.
Lastly, we wish to thank the team at Routledge (Dorothea Schaefter and
Lily Brown) for assisting us along the way with the production and finalisa-
tion of the manuscript.
This anthology is dedicated to the victims and survivors of the genocide
and other crimes against humanity committed in Indonesia after 1 October
1965. We hope that the anthology will contribute towards reconciliation and
that it will help the younger generation in their efforts to unlearn the his-
tory lessons they received at school. Truth-finding is a necessary first step to
ending impunity.
List of abbreviations

AAKI  (Aliansi Anti-Komunis Indonesia, Indonesian Anti-

Communist Alliance)
AAPSO (Afro-Asia Peoples’ Solidarity Organisation)
ABRI  (Angkatan Bersenjata Republik Indonesia, Armed Forces
of the Republic of Indonesia), former name for the Armed
Forces, now called the TNI (Tentara Nasional Indonesia)
AD  (Angkatan Darat, lit. Land Forces), the Army’s name during
the New Order
AGO (Attorney General’s Office)
AJAR (Asia Justice and Rights)
AJI  (Aliansi Jurnalis Independen, Alliance of Independent
Journalists)
Ansor, youth wing of Nahdlatul Ulama (NU)
APIK  (Asosiasi Perempuan untuk Keadilan Indonesia, Indonesian
Women’s Association for Justice)
Banser (Barisan Serba Guna Ansor, Multipurpose Ansor Brigade), a
paramilitary militia formed within Ansor in the early 1960s
BAPEPRU 
(Badan Pelaksana Resettlement Pulau Buru, Buru Island
Resettlement Implementation Body)
BAPERKI 
(Badan Permusyawaratan Kewarganegaraan Indonesia,
Deliberative Association for Indonesian Citizenship), an
Indonesian Chinese political organisation with ties to the
PKI
BTI  (Barisan Tani Indonesia, Indonesian Peasants’ Front), peasant
organisation affiliated with the PKI
CAH (Crimes Against Humanity)
CAT  (Convention against Torture and Other Cruel, Inhuman, or
Degrading Treatment or Punishment)
CCFD  (Catholic Committee against Hunger and for Development)
CGMI  (Consentrasi Gerakan Mahasiswa Indonesia, Indonesian
Student Movement Centre), a leftist student movement
disbanded after the 1965 coup attempt
CPM  (Corps Polisi Militer, Military Police Corps)
xvi  List of abbreviations
DGI  (Dewan Gereja-gereja Indonesia, Indonesian Council
of Churches)
DKN  (Dewan Kerukunan Nasional, National Harmony
Council)
DOM (Daerah Operasi Militer, Military Operation Region)
DPR  (Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat, People’s Representative
Council)
dwifungsi  (dual function), the name given to the dual military
and political function of the Indonesian Armed
Forces
Dwikora  (People’s Double Command), the name given
by Sukarno for the involvement of civilians in
Konfrontasi in May 1964
ECCC (Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia)
ELSAM  (Lembaga Studi dan Advokasi Masyarakat, Institute
for Policy Research and Advocacy)
FAKI  (Front Anti-Komunis Indonesia, Indonesian Anti-
Communist Front)
FPI (Front Pembela Islam, Islamic Defenders’ Front)
FUI  (Forum Umat Islam, Forum of Believers/Islamic
Community)
FUIK  (Forum Ukhuwah Islamiyah Kaloran, Kaloran Islamic
Fraternity Forum)
G30S  (Gerakan Tiga Puluh September, 30 September
Movement), formal name of the movement which
launched the 30 September 1965 coup, led by Colonels
Untung and Latief, which kidnapped and killed six
generals and one general’s aide
(Crush Malaysia), a Konfrontasi campaign launched
Ganyang Malaysia 
by Sukarno in September 1963
Gerwani  (Gerakan Wanita Indonesia, Indonesian Women’s
Movement), a mass-based women’s organisation with
close links to, but not formally affiliated with, the
PKI
Gestapu,  acronym for the 30 September Movement, coined by
Brigadier General Sugandhi, Direct of the Armed
Forces’ daily newspaper, Angkatan Bersendjata
GKI  (Gereja Kristen Indonesia, Indonesian Christian
Church)
GMNI  (Gerakan Mahasiswa Nasionalis Indonesia, Indonesian
Nationalist Student Movement)
Golkar  (Golongan Karya, Functional Groups), the name of
the New Order government’s electoral party
Hanra  (Pertahanan Rakyat, People’s Defence), civilian militia
under Army control
 List of abbreviations  xvii
Hansip  (Pertahanan Sipil, Civil Defence), civilians under Army
control, similar to Hanra
HMI  (Himpunan Mahasiswa Islam, Islamic University
Students’ Association)
HRC (Human Rights Council), of the United Nations
HSI  (Himpunan Sarjara Indonesia, also spelled Himpoenan
Sardjana Indonesia, Indonesian Graduates’ Association),
an organisation associated with the PKI
ICC (International Criminal Court)
ICCPR (International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights)
ICTJ (International Centre for Transitional Justice)
ICTR (International Criminal Court for Rwanda)
ICTY  (International Criminal Court for the former Yugoslavia)
IDR  (Information Research Department), special unit within
the UK Foreign Office
IKOHI  (Ikatan Keluarga Orang Hilang Indonesia, Indonesian
Federation for Families of the Disappeared)
Inrehab  (Instalasi Rehabilitasi, Rehabilitation Installation), later
name of prison camps on Buru Island
IPPI  (Ikatan Pemuda Pelajar Indonesia, League of Indonesian
Student Youth), a students’ association affiliated with the
PKI
IPT 1965  (International People’s Tribunal for 1965), a people’s
tribunal held in 2015
ISSI  (Institut Sejarah Sosial Indonesia, Indonesian Institute for
Social History)
Jardokber  (Jaringan Pendokumentasian Bersama, Joint
Documentation Network)
JPIT  (Jaringan Perempuan Indonesia Timur, Women’s Research
Network of Eastern Indonesia)
KAMI  (Kesatuan Aksi Mahasiswa Indonesia, Indonesian
Students’ Action Front), an anti-communist group
formed in October 1965
(Komite Aksi Pengganyangan Gerakan Tigapuluh
KAP-Gestapu 
September, Action Committee for the Destruction of the
30th September Movement)
KAPPI  (Kesatuan Aksi Pelajar Pemuda Indonesia, Indonesian
Student and Youth Action Front), an anti-communist
group made up of mainly university students, similar to
KAMI
KBG  (Komunis Gaya Baru, New Style Communism)
KIPPER  (Kiprah Perempuan, Women’s Progress), an association of
women survivors based in Yoygakarta
KKPK  (Koalisi Keadilan dan Pengungkapan Kebenaran,
Coalition for Justice and the Disclosure of Truth)
xviii  List of abbreviations
KKR  (Komisi Kebenaran dan Rekonsiliasi, Truth and
Reconciliation Commission)
KODAHAN  (Komando Daerah Pertahanan, Joint Regional Defence
Command), later called KOHANDA (Regional Defence
Command) in Aceh
KODAM  (Komando Daerah Militer, Regional Military Command)
KODIM  (Komando District Militer, District Military Command)
KOLAGA  (Komando Mandala Siaga, Area Alert Command)
Komnas HAM (Komisi Nasional Hak Asasi Manusia, National
Commission on Human Rights)
(Confrontation), the Indonesian military campaign to
Konfrontasi 
oppose the formation of Malaysia, 1963–66
KontraS  (Komisi untuk Orang Hilang dan Korban Tindak
Kekerasan, Commission for the Disappeared and Victims
of Violence)
KOPKAMTIB  (Komando Operasi Pemulihan Keamanan dan Ketertiban,
Operational Command for the Restoration of Security
and Order), the military organisation with special powers
created by Suharto after the 1 October 1965 coup which
oversaw much of the killings and which remained in
various forms throughout the New Order
KORAMIL  (Komando Rayon Militer, Military Sub-district
Command)
KOREM  (Komando Resort Militer, Sub-regional Military
Command)
KOSEKHAN  (Komando Sektor Pertahanan, Defence Sector Command)
KOSTRAD  (Komando Cadangan Strategis Angkatan Darat, Army
Strategic Reserve Command), commanded by Suharto at
the time of the 1965 coup
KOTI  (Komando Operasi Tertinggi, Supreme Operations
Command)
LAPPAN  (Lingkar Pemberdayaan Perempuan dan Anak, Women’s
Empowerment Circle), based in Ambon, Maluku
LBH  (Lembaga Bantuan Hukum, Legal Aid Foundation)
LEKRA  (Lembaga Kebudayaan Rakyat, Institute of People’s
Culture), a cultural organisation made up of writers,
artists and performers associated with the PKI
Lemhanas  (Lembaga Pertahanan Nasional, National Defence
Institute)
LPR-KROB  (Lembaga Perjuangan Rehabilitasi Korban Rezim Orde
Baru, Institute for Struggle for the Rehabilitation of the
New Order Regime’s Victims)
LPSK  (Lembaga Perlindungan Korban dan Saksi, Victim and
Witness Protection Agency)
 List of abbreviations  xix
(Crocodile Hole), the name given to the well in which
Lubang Buaya 
the seven victims of the 30 September Movement were
thrown, and a central feature in the New Order regime’s
propaganda about the 30 September coup
Mahid  (Mahasiswa Ikatan Dinas, University Students’ Bond or
In-Service Students), for Indonesian exchange students
travelling overseas
Mahmillub  (Mahkamah Militer Luar Biasa, Extraordinary Military
Tribunal), a court created to try leaders of the 30
September Movement during the New Order
(First Mandala) Command (also Mandala Dua,
Mandala Satu 
Second Mandala Command), set up in Sumatra during
Konfrontasi
Manipol  (Manifesto Politik, Political Manifesto), part of
Sukarno’s political rhetoric during the Guided
Democracy era, also written as Manipol-USDEK
MK (Mahkamah Konstitusi, Constitutional Court)
MPR  (Majelis Permusyawaratan Rakyat, People’s
Consultative Assembly)
Muhammadiyah 
(Followers of Muhammad), a mass-based modernist
Islamic social organisation, founded in 1912
MUI  (Majelis Ulama Indonesia, Indonesian Council of
Ulama/Religious Leaders)
NASAKOM  (Nasionalisme, Agama, Komunisme, Nationalism,
Religion, Communism), a political slogan created by
Sukarno to try to unite various factions during the
Guided Democracy era
NEFOS  (New Emerging Forces), a political slogan created by
Sukarno
NTT  (Nusatenggara Timor, East Nusatenggara), the name of
the province in southeast Indonesia
NU  (Nahdlatul Ulama, Revival of the Muslim Scholars), a
mass-based Islamic organisation, founded in 1926
Opsus  (Operasi Khusus, Special Operations), a domestic
intelligence agency dominated by Lieutenant General
Ali Murtopo during the early New Order period
involved in creating propaganda
Orde Baru  (New Order), the name coined in 1966 for the new
Army-led regime under Suharto
Orde Lama  (Old Order), the name coined in 1966 to refer to former
President Sukarno’s reign
OTP  (Orang Terhalang Pulang, Persons Prevented from
Returning Home)
Pangad  (Panglima Angkatan Darat, Commander of the Armed
Forces)
xx  List of abbreviations
PBHI  (Perhimpunan Bantuan Hukum dan Hak Asasi
Manusia Indonesia, Indonesian Legal Aid and Human
Rights Support Association)
PDI  (Partai Demokrat Indonesia, Indonesian Democratic
Party)
Pemuda Pancasila 
(Pancasila Youth), an anti-communist youth militia
group
Pemuda Rakyat  (People’s Youth), the youth wing of the PKI
Perdoi  (Perkumpulan Dokumentasi Indonesia, Indonesian
Documentation Association)
Permesta  (Piagam Perjuangan Semesta, Universal Struggle
Charter), a regional rebellion movement based in
Sulawesi established in 1957, associated with the
PRRI rebellion
PETA (Pembela Tanah Air, Homeland Defenders)
Petrus  (Pembunuhan/Penembakan Misterius, Mysterious
Killings/Shootings), the extrajudicial executions of
alleged criminals by Indonesian security forces during
the 1980s
PKI  (Partai Komunis Indonesia, Indonesian Communist
Party)
PNI  (Partai Nasionalis Indonesia, Indonesian Nationalist
Party)
PP/I  (Perhimpunan Persaudaraan/ Indonesia, Indonesian/
Brotherhood Association)
PPI  (Perhimpunan Pelajar Indonesia, Indonesian Students’
Association)
PPT (Permanent People’s Tribunal)
PRRI  (Pemerintah Revolusioner Republik Indonesia,
Revolutionary Government of the Republic of
Indonesia), a regional rebellion based in West
Sumatra between 1958 and 1961
PTUN  (Pengadilan Tinggi Tata Usaha Negara, State
Administrative Court)
RPJMN  (Rencana Pembangunan Jangka Menengah Nasional,
National Medium Term Development Plan)
RPKAD  (Resimen Para Komando Angkatan Darat, Army Para-
Commando Regiment)
SARBUPRI  (Sarekat Buruh Kehutanan Republik Indonesia,
Plantation Workers’ Union of the Republic of
Indonesia), affiliated with the PKI
SCSL (Special Courts for Sierra Leone)
SEKBER 65  (Sekretariat Bersama 65, Joint Secretariat for Victims
of 1965)
 List of abbreviations  xxi
SKP HAM  (Solidaritas Korban Pelanggaran HAM, Solidarity
for Victims of Human Rights Violations)
SOBSI  (Sentral Organisasi Buruh Seluruh Indonesia,
All-Indonesia Organisation of Labour Unions), a
unions’ federation associated with the PKI
Supersemar  (Surat Perintah Sebelas Maret, Letter of 11 March
1966), the letter signed by Sukarno on that date
granting Suharto the authority to take whatever
measures he deemed necessary to restore order
in the aftermath of the genocide; letter used by
Suharto to usurp executive powers from Sukarno
Tameng  civilian militia group involved in the killings
primarily in Bali
TAP MPRS XXV 1996 
(Ketetapan Majelis Permusyawaratan Rakyat
Sementara, No. XXV, tahun 1996, People’s
Assembly Decree No. 25 of 1966), the ban on ‘all
activities that spread or develop Communist/
Marxist-Leninist ideas or teachings’
tapol  (tahanan politik, political prisoner); also ‘E/T’
which stood for ‘ex-tapol’ was stamped on former
political prisoners’ identity cards after release
TAPOL,  The British Campaign for the Release of
Indonesian Political Prisoners
TEFAAT  (Tempat Pemanfaatan, Place for the Utilization of
Labour), prison camp on Buru Island
UGM  (Universitas Gadjah Mada, Gadjah Mada
University)
UI (Universitas Indonesia, University of Indonesia)
UPR (Universal Periodic Review)
YAPHI  (Yayasan Pengabdian Hukum Indonesia,
Foundation for the Service of Rights in
Indonesia)
YHB (Yayasan Hidup Baru, New Life Foundation)
YLBHI  (Yayasan Lembaga Bantuan Hukum Indonesia,
Indonesian National Legal Aid Foundation)
YPKP 1965  (Yayasan Penelitian Korban Pembunuhan 1965,
Foundation for Research on the Victims of the
Killings of 1965)
YSBY  (Yayasan Sejarah dan Budaya Indonesia,
Indonesian History and Culture Foundation)
List of contributors

Asvi Warman Adam  is Research Professor at The Indonesian Institute of

Sciences (LIPI), Jakarta, Indonesia. He obtained his PhD from Ecole des
Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales, Paris, in 1990, and is the author of 14
books on Indonesian history, primarily on the 30 September Movement,
Sukarno and Suharto. He was a member of the team formed by the Indo-
nesian Human Rights Commission in 2003 to investigate grievous human
rights abuses committed during Suharto’s New Order regime.
Karen Campbell-Nelson’s  work in gendered transitional justice, human
rights, and participatory research spans many years. She has also worked
with the Indonesian Women’s National Commission (women and human
rights documentation in Aceh) and with the Timor-Leste Commission
for Reception, Truth-Seeking and Reconciliation (CAVR; coordinator of
the women’s research team), and has been a gender consultant for UN
Women and the International Center for Transitional Justice to truth
commissions in Liberia and the Solomon Islands. Karen also works on
issues of human trafficking and advocacy for 1965 survivors with several
faith-based organisations in West Timor. She holds a PhD from the Uni-
versity of Massachusetts.
Ellena Ekarahendy is an art director and graphic designer based in Jakarta,
Indonesia. Over the last few years, Ellena has been supporting various
civil initiatives in human rights, freedom of expression, gender, and other
social-political issues through design thinking and practices, including
Ingat65 in which she contributes as an illustrator. She is currently the
chairperson of SINDIKASI (Media and Creative Industry Workers Un-
ion for Democracy) and now focusing on digital labour discourses.
Indria Fernida is a human rights lawyer who works as the Regional Program
Coordinator of Asia Justice and Rights (AJAR). She is an advocate for hu-
man rights and state accountability in Indonesia and Asia for more than
15 years, her professional human rights skills include issues of interna-
tional human rights law, transitional justice, and security sector reform.
She was Deputy Coordinator of the Commission for the Disappeared
xxiv  List of contributors
and Victims of Violence (KontraS), an Indonesian non-­governmental or-
ganisation from 2006 to 2012, joining the organisation since 1999. She
obtained a BA in Law from the University of Parahyangan, Indonesia,
and a master’s from the University of Oslo, Norway.
Febriana Firdaus  is an independent investigative journalist based in
­Jakarta, Indonesia, and is New Naratif’s Consulting Editor for Jakarta
and Papua. She has reported on politics, corruption, human rights and
LGBT (­lesbian, gay, bisexual, trans) rights, the 1965 purge, Papua, and
ISIS (­Islamic State). She is an editor of Ingat65 and manages the Voice
of Papua newsletter. She has previously worked at Tempo and Rappler.
Her freelance work has appeared in TIME, among others. In 2017, she re-
ceived the Indonesian Oktovianus Pogau Journalism Award for Courage
for her fearless reporting on human rights, including LGBT issues.
Adam Hughes Henry  is an honorary lecturer, School of Culture, History
and Language, Australian National University (ANU) and a Lecturer in
Global Studies, Faculty of Arts and Design, University of Canberra. He
is currently a holder of a Whitlam Fellowship (Whitlam Institute, Univer-
sity of Western Sydney) examining the Australian diplomatic relationship
with the United Nations in regard to human rights. He was a visiting fel-
low at the Human Rights Consortium (HRC), School of Advanced Stud-
ies (SOAS), University of London in 2016–17. He has published two books:
Independent Nation, Charles Darwin University Press (2010) and The
Gatekeepers of Australian Foreign Policy 1950–1966, Australian Scholarly
Publishing (2015). His third book, Blind Spots (under contract), examining
violence, nationalism, human rights, and war, is planned for later 2018.
Helen Jarvis studied political science and Indonesian language and ­literature
at the Australian National University and holds a PhD from the University
of Sydney. She first visited Indonesia in late 1965 and worked in ­Jakarta
during 1969 as a translator. Since the mid-1990s, Helen has worked on
­issues relating to crimes against humanity and genocide, mainly focusing
on Cambodia. She was a member of the Panel of Judges at the IPT 1965.
She is a Vice President of the Permanent People’s T
­ ribunal and a member
of the Advisory Board of the Center for the Study of G
­ enocide and Justice
in Dhaka, Bangladesh. She holds both Australian and C ­ ambodian nation-
ality and is currently living in Phnom Penh.
Nursyahbani Katjasungkana is a human rights lawyer, the Director of the Ja-
karta Legal Aid Institute, and the President of Indonesian Environmental
Forum (WALHI). She was a Commissioner of the National Commission
on Violence against Women (1998–2003). She is the co-founder of APIK,
Asosiasi Perempuan Indonesia untuk Keadilan (Indonesian ­Women’s As-
sociation for Justice), and the National Coordinator of the Indonesian
Federation of the Women’s Legal Aid Society. She was a member of the
People’s Consultative Assembly (1999–2004) and a Member of Parliament
 List of contributors  xxv
(2004–09). Her most recent publication (with Saskia Wieringa) is Prop-
aganda and the Genocide in Indonesia: Imagined Evil (Routledge, 2019).
Ika Krismantari is a journalist, editor, and a mother of two lovely daugh-
ters. She co-founded Ingat65, a participatory digital storytelling project
for the young generation to collectively remember the 1965 period in
­Indonesia in 2015, and is currently its managing editor.
Jess Melvin is Postdoctoral Research Associate with the Sydney Southeast
Asia Centre at the University of Sydney. She was Postdoctoral Associate
in Genocide Studies and Rice Faculty Fellow in Southeast Asia Studies
at the Macmillan Centre, Yale University, in 2016–17. She is the author of
The Army and the Indonesian Genocide: Mechanics of Mass Murder (2018)
and the co-editor of The Indonesian Genocide of 1965: Causes, Dynamics
and Legacies (2018).
Annie Pohlman is Senior Lecturer in Indonesian Studies at The University
of Queensland, Brisbane, Australia. She is the author of Women, Sex-
ual Violence and the Indonesian Killings of 1965–1966 (2015), and the
co-­editor of The Indonesian Genocide of 1965: Causes, Dynamics and
Legacies (2018) and Genocide and Mass Atrocities in Asia: Legacies and
Prevention (2013). Her current research maps the development of torture
under Indonesia’s New Order regime. Her research interests include In-
donesian history, comparative genocide studies, gendered experiences of
violence, and oral history.
Prodita Sabarini initiated Ingat65, a storytelling movement for young people
to remember 1965 events in Indonesia. She is a journalist and currently
editor of The Conversation Indonesia. She was the Elizabeth Neuffer
Fellow at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology Center for Interna-
tional Studies in 2013–14. Prodita has a master’s degree in Human Rights
Law and Policy from UNSW and a bachelor’s degree in Communication
Science from Universitas Padjadjaran.
Ratna Saptari holds a PhD from the University of Amsterdam. She is cur-
rently teaching at the Institute of Cultural Anthropology and Develop-
ment Sociology, Leiden University, and her specialisations are gender
and labour relations, migration, social movements, collective memory,
and social history. She has written mainly on cigarette factory workers,
domestic workers, and the politics of memory. Her concern with human
rights issues in Indonesia started with her involvement in the labour
movement in the mid-1980s. She was part of the International People’s
Tribunal for 1965 (IPT 1965) research team based in the Netherlands and
helped to prepare the report for the IPT 1965.
Bradley Simpson researches the global history of self-determination, explor-
ing its political, cultural, and legal descent through post-1945 US foreign
relations and international politics. He is also the founder and director
xxvi  List of contributors
of a project at the non-profit National Security Archive to declassify US
government documents concerning Indonesia and East Timor during the
reign of General Suharto. He is the author of Economists with Guns: Au-
thoritarian Development and U.S.–Indonesian Relations, 1960– 68 (Stan-
ford, 2008) and is an associate professor at the University of Connecticut.
Rika Theo, originally trained as a journalist, has written on a wide range of
topics surrounding economic, political, and social issues in Indonesia. In
the middle of her journalistic career, she was awarded a scholarship to
study in the Netherlands. She completed her master’s degree in develop-
ment studies in 2010 and went back to Indonesia, continuing her work as
a journalist. In 2014, she started her PhD at Utrecht University research-
ing international student mobility of the Indonesia-China corridor. Since
finishing her PhD in June 2018, she has lived in the Netherlands and cur-
rently works as a researcher on labour migration at Utrecht University.
Sri Lestari Wahyuningroem was one of the researchers for the International
People’s Tribunal for 1965 and assisted in the preparation of the tribunal
in Australia and Indonesia. She teaches political science at the Univer-
sity of Indonesia and the University of Pembangunan Nasional Veteran,
Jakarta. She received her PhD from the Australian National University,
doing her thesis on transitional justice and democratisation in Indone-
sia, and her Master of Art from Central European University, Budapest.
With a background in political science, she has research interests in the
areas of transitional justice, civil society, peacebuilding, and gender stud-
ies, with a geographic focus on Indonesia and Southeast Asia.
Galuh Wandita  has been working and writing about gender, peace, and
conflict issues since the 1990s, working with Oxfam and civil society
groups in Indonesia. In 1998, she co-founded a women’s organisation,
­Fokupers in Dili, joining the UN Human Rights Unit from 2000. She was
appointed the Deputy Director of Timor-Leste’s truth commission. She
worked as a senior associate for the International Center for Transitional
Justice, an international non-governmental organisation based in New
York, working on accountability in Indonesia and Timor-Leste. In 2012,
she co-founded Asia Justice and Rights and continues to lead the organ-
isation as its executive director.
Saskia E. Wieringa is an honorary professor at the University of A
­ msterdam.
She is also the co-founder and presently secretary of the Kartini Asia
Network. Since the late 1970s, she has done research on women’s move-
ments, sexual politics, and the same-sex relations in many parts of the
world, particularly in Indonesia. She has written and edited more than
30 books and more than 200 articles. Her latest book (with Nursyahbani
Katjasungkana) is Propaganda and the Genocide in Indonesia: Imagined
Evil (Routledge, 2019).
 List of contributors  xxvii
Zak Yacoob,  Retired Justice, has been blind from infancy and studied at
a school for blind children in Durban, South Africa. While at univer-
sity and during practice as an advocate from 1973 to 1998, Yacoob was
a member of the underground of the African National Congress and
of community organisations involved in anti-apartheid and commu-
nity activities including the United Democratic Front. After the fall of
apartheid, he was a member of the committee that prepared the Bill of
Rights in the 1993 Interim Constitution; of the Independent Electoral
Commission, that was responsible for South Africa’s first democratic
election in 1994; and of the Independent Panel of Experts that advised
the Constitutional Assembly in preparing the 1996 final Constitution. He
was appointed as judge of the Constitutional Court of South Africa from
1998 to 2013. Among other activities, he participated in the International
Commission of Enquiry into the case of the ‘Cuban Five’ held in London
in 2013, chaired the hearings of the 1965 Peoples’ Tribunal in The Hague,
and chairs The People’s Commission into Economic Crimes in South
­Africa which began in February 2018 and is still ongoing.
1 The Indonesian genocide and
the International People’s
Tribunal for 1965
Saskia E. Wieringa, Jess Melvin,
and Annie Pohlman

In the wake of an attempted coup on the night of 30 September 1965, the

Indonesian Army took over the government and wiped out its main po-
litical rivals, the members and affiliates of the mass-supported Indonesian
Communist Party (Partai Komunis Indonesia, PKI). The mass violence that
engulfed Indonesia in the months following resulted in the death of hun-
dreds of thousands and the political imprisonment of more than one million
others. These mass killings are perhaps the clearest example of a genocide
against a sociopolitical group from the twentieth century, though they are
rarely understood as a case of genocide. The regime that rose to power dur-
ing these killings, General Suharto’s ‘New Order’ (1966–98), established a
military-led, authoritarian government which lasted 33 years (Cribb 2001;
Kammen & McGregor 2012).
The regime was brought down in 1998 amid nationwide calls for demo-
cratic reform and for the redress for the New Order’s many state-sponsored
human rights abuses. In the two decades since, Indonesia has developed
into the world’s third largest, albeit low-quality, democracy (Bünte & Ufen
2009; Aspinall 2010). The promise for redress of past crimes, however, has
largely been ignored by successive administrations (ICTJ & KontraS 2011;
Ehito 2015). To this day, there has never been an official acknowledgement
or apology by the Indonesian government for the killings of 1965–66 or for
a host of other cases of grievous, state-led abuses committed by the New
Order regime. These cases include, amongst others, the occupation of
­Timor-Leste (1975–99), the abuses committed under military occupation
in Aceh, the many human rights ‘incidents’ in which civilians were killed
and disappeared, and the ongoing serious human rights violations in West
Papua (see Robinson 1998; Tanter, van Klinken & Ball 2006; Human Rights
Watch 2007) (Map 1.1).
The contributors to this volume re-examine the 1965–66 mass violence
in Indonesian history in the light of attempts to seek justice for the crimes
committed during that period. Specifically, the chapters in this volume ana-
lyse a range of crimes committed following the events of 1 October 1965 and
how these crimes were dealt with at the International People’s Tribunal for
1965 (known as the ‘IPT 1965’). This People’s Tribunal was held in 2015 in
Map 1.1  M
 ap of Indonesia.
Source: Robert Cribb, Digital Atlas of Indonesian History (Copenhagen, NIAS Press, 2010), reproduced with permission.
 The Indonesian genocide and the IPT 1965  3
The Hague to mark 50 years since the killings began in order to seek some
measure of justice for the victims.
The opening chapters of the book outline the People’s Tribunal and dis-
cuss some of the main crimes dealt with by the court. The remaining chap-
ters explore thematically a range of topics, including a focus on specific
locations, specific types of crimes committed, propaganda, and memoriali-
sation of the killings. The volume concludes with a reflection on the work of
the Tribunal and on developments in Indonesia since. In this introduction,
we outline the establishment of the Tribunal within the context of ongoing
impunity for gross human rights violations in Indonesia, before sketching a
brief background to the 1965 killings.

The International People’s Tribunal on 1965

The Foundation for the International People’s Tribunal on the 1965 Crimes
against Humanity in Indonesia (hereafter, ‘Foundation IPT 1965’) was for-
mally established in March 2014. A year prior, in March 2013, a small working
team was formed who drafted an initial concept note that set out the aims
of the Foundation. The main aim was to hold a people’s court for the crimes
committed in 1965–66 in order to raise awareness about these events and to
promote reconciliation in Indonesia. Further, the Foundation aimed to ‘affirm
the uncompromising hope that justice is still possible […] and to contribute to
the creation of a political climate in Indonesia where human rights and the
rule of law are recognised and respected’ (Foundation IPT 1965 2016b, p. 6).
For the following 18 months, the Foundation commissioned and coor-
dinated research reports to be compiled as evidence for the Prosecutor.
These reports were written by victims’ advocates and researchers from
­Indonesia and several other countries, including by researchers based in
North ­A merica, Europe, and Australia. These reports detailed the killings
and mass imprisonments across several regions of Indonesia. They also
made thematic explorations into particular forms of violence, such as sexual
­violence or the exile of Indonesian citizens following the coup. The Inter-
national People’s Tribunal then held its public hearings at the Nieuwe Kerk
in The Hague from 10 to 13 November 2015. At these hearings, survivors,
­researchers, and activists gave testimony before a Panel of Judges; these pub-
lic hearings were held in the Netherlands rather than in Indonesia to ensure
the safety of participants, and the proceedings were live-streamed on the
internet to reach a wider audience (see Foundation IPT 1965 2016a, 2016b).1
In July 2016, the Panel of Judges handed down their judgement. The Panel
of Judges was made up of seven international experts, including former
judges and prosecutors (Zak Yacoob and Geoffrey Nice), those with a ca-
reer in other international courts (Helen Jarvis and Mireille Fanon Mendès-
France), experts in international law (Cees Flinterman) and human rights
(Shadi Sadr), and scholars (John Gittings).2 In their judgement, the Panel ad-
dressed the arguments made by the Chief Prosecutor, the leading Indonesian
4  Saskia E. Wieringa et al.
human rights lawyer, Todung Mulya Lubis, and his team. This team included
other Indonesian human rights prosecutors and lawyers, Antarini Arna, Uli
Parulian Sihombing, Rinto Tri Hapsoro, and Bahrain Van Halen, as well as
Silke Studzinsky, an international expert on sexual violence.3
As will be explored further in the chapters in this volume, the Prosecutor
and his team alleged nine crimes against humanity were perpetrated in 1965
by the Indonesian state and its proxies: murder, enslavement, imprisonment,
torture, sexual violence, persecution, enforced disappearance, hate propa-
ganda, as well as the complicity of other states in these crimes (Foundation
IPT 1965 2016b, p. 1). In their findings, the Panel of Judges assessed the evi-
dence presented on each charge, confirming that the state of Indonesia was
guilty of crimes against humanity, but also went further to address other
issues not raised by the Prosecutor. In particular, as will be addressed in
Chapter 12, the judges also addressed whether the mass killings of 1965–66
constituted genocide (Figure 1.1).
The Indonesian government has yet to make any official response to either
the holding of the International People’s Tribunal itself or the judgement,
though several government officials have made generally condemnatory
statements about both (Amindoni 2016; Wieringa 2016). Following the
public hearings, for example, Indonesia’s Vice President, Jusuf Kalla, con-
demned the public hearings outright (Hasibuan 2015), while the Foreign
Minister, Retno Marsudi, stated that it was not a real tribunal but rather
a type of freedom of expression (Manafe 2015). The reaction from right-
wing and conservative groups in Indonesia was more severe, with some of
the Tribunal organisers personally targeted for their involvement after they
returned to Indonesia (see McGregor & Purdey 2015).

Figure 1.1  A
 tmosphere at the IPT 1965 hearings, by Koes Komo, reproduced with
permission.
 The Indonesian genocide and the IPT 1965  5
This lack of government response, and the severe response by conserv-
ative groups, is in no way surprising. For half a century, the crimes of
1965–66 have remained an unacknowledged and un-redressed dark period
in Indonesian history. Indonesia’s political elites, with their close ties to the
military and their oligarchic tendencies, have shown that they have little in-
terest or political will to redress the violence of 1965 or any other past gross
human rights violations. Indonesia’s vast security services, along with their
conservative allies, have also shown that they will resist efforts to open up
this dark past, let alone allow any official remedies for justice for victims
and their families. It is in the face of this ongoing impunity for gross abuses
that the IPT 1965 was held, in the hope that some measure of justice could
be achieved.

Justice denied and redressing impunity

In the two years prior to the establishment of the Foundation IPT 1965 in
2014, there had been a number of events which had provoked public interest
in this largely ignored and mostly forgotten case of mass violence amongst
both domestic Indonesian and international audiences. These events, and
the increase in domestic and international interest in the 1965 case, led to
the establishment of the Foundation and then the Tribunal itself.
One significant event leading up to the establishment of the Foundation
IPT 1965 was the completion in 2012 of a landmark investigation by the
independent Indonesian National Human Rights Commission (Komisi
­Nasional Hak Asasi Manusia, Komnas HAM). The 2012 report was based
on an investigation conducted by a team from Komnas HAM in six regions
of Indonesia over four years: Flores, Bali, Maluku, North Sumatra, South
Sumatra, and South Sulawesi provinces. During their investigation, the
Komnas HAM team took 359 statements from witnesses and survivors, and
amassed a wealth of evidence of gross human rights violations committed
after the 1965 coup (Komnas Ham 2012).4 Although the report did not at-
tempt to extrapolate the numbers of victims nationwide based on their six
regional case studies, the Komnas HAM team concluded that there was
overwhelming evidence of ‘widespread and systematic’ killings and other
crimes against civilians by Indonesian state actors and their proxies. Spe-
cifically, the report concluded that there was evidence of nine categories
of crimes against humanity: killings, extermination, enslavement, enforced
evictions/banishments (pengusiran atau pemindahan penduduk secara
paksa), arbitrary deprivation of freedom, torture, rape and other forms of
sexual violence, persecution, and enforced disappearances (Komnas HAM
2012: section 5.1.1). In the report’s final section, the investigating team also
recommended that the Attorney General carry out further investigations
so that, under Indonesian domestic Law No. 26 of 2000, an ad hoc human
rights court could be established to redress the crimes against humanity
committed in 1965–66 (Komnas HAM 2012: section 5.2).
6  Saskia E. Wieringa et al.
This report was delivered by the Komnas HAM team to the Indonesian
Attorney General’s Office (AGO) in July 2012. Under Law No. 26 of 2000,
once Komnas HAM has conducted its investigation (known as a pro-justicia
inquiry) and found sufficient evidence that gross human rights violations
have occurred, they must submit their findings to the AGO. The AGO is the
only body which can conduct full criminal investigations and seek prosecu-
tions in these cases; after this step, an ad hoc human rights court may be es-
tablished by the national parliament (Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat, DPR) and
the President (Herbert 2008). Although two such courts were established in
the early 2000s—one for crimes committed in Timor-Leste and the other for
the 1984 Tanjung Priok ‘incident’5 —both were unmitigated farces; senior
military officials identified for prosecution in the two preceding Komnas
HAM pro-justicia inquiries were never put on trial and, in both courts, all
defendants were acquitted either at the original trials or on appeal (Cohen
2003; Linton 2004; Tapol 2005).
Since the East Timor and Tanjung Priok cases, not one of the reports sub-
mitted by Komnas HAM to the AGO has been accepted for further criminal
investigations, let alone taken further to enable prosecutions at an ad hoc
human rights court. To date, the AGO has failed to follow the recommenda-
tions made by Komnas HAM in their reports for a long list of cases, includ-
ing Trisakti (1998), Semanggi (1998, 1999), the May Riots of 1998, W ­ asior
(2001–2002), Wamena (2003), the ‘Petrus’ killings of the early 1980s, and
the 1965–66 killings (Herbert 2008; Budiwan & Walsh 2015; Pohlman 2016).
Over the past decade, the AGO has rejected each of the Komnas HAM re-
ports submitted for further investigations on spurious grounds; in the case
of the 2012 report on 1965, the AGO rejected it out of hand, saying that the
four-year investigation detailing evidence of crimes against humanity across
six provinces was ‘insufficient’ and that it failed ‘to satisfy the requirements’
for a legal inquiry (Prakoso et al. 2012).
Shortly after the 2012 Komnas HAM report was rejected by the AGO, a
documentary film entitled The Act of Killing (Indonesian title Jagal) was re-
leased internationally. The film by American director Joshua Oppenheimer
(co-directed by Christine Cynn and an Indonesian person listed as anony-
mous) opened in Indonesia and several other countries in late 2012 and early
2013 and received widespread international acclaim. The film was based on
recorded interviews with perpetrators of the killings in North ­Sumatra, which
Oppenheimer had begun filming in 2004 and dramatised the recollections
of one of these men, Anwar Congo, along with his ­henchmen ­(Oppenheimer
2012). The film, and subsequent international a­ cclamation, including a nom-
ination for best documentary at the Academy Awards the following year,
turned a spotlight on the 1965 killings and significantly raised international
awareness about these events (Dwyer 2014; Pulver 2014). Significant also
was the impact that The Act of Killing and its companion film, The Look of
Silence (2014, Indonesian title Senyap), had on generating debate about the
1965 mass violence domestically in Indonesia. Activists and human rights
 The Indonesian genocide and the IPT 1965  7
organisations in Jakarta and numerous other cities in I­ ndonesia held under-
ground screenings of both films (Smith 2013), despite neither receiving an
official release in that country; indeed, ­screenings of both films were later
banned (see Hukum Online, 5 January 2015). Both films have, in the last few
years since their release, drawn greater attention to the mass killings of 1965
both domestically in Indonesia and internationally and have been the topic
of numerous academic and activist discussions (Mack 2016).
Another significant event that propelled increased public discussion
about 1965, particularly in Indonesia, was the October 2012 release of a
comprehensive report on the mass killings by the Indonesian national
magazine, Tempo. The special edition, entitled ‘Requiem for a Massacre’
(Indonesian release title ‘Pengakuan Algojo 1965’), covered perpetrators’
testimonies, details of mass graves, and how victims had been systemati-
cally murdered and their bodies dumped. The special edition also featured
a number of interviews with elderly former perpetrators from a number of
regions in Java, Flores, and Bali (‘Requiem’ 2012). The Tempo special re-
port quickly sold out across Indonesia and prompted fierce debate amongst
a number of groups whose members had taken part in the killings, such as
amongst members of Indonesia’s largest Muslim organisation, Nahdlatul
Ulama (McGregor 2013).
Thus, the Foundation IPT 1965 was formed just as public interest in, and
debate about, the events in 1965–66 gained momentum in Indonesia and
internationally. It was this momentum, along with the approaching 50th an-
niversary of the killings, which led those who established the Foundation to
set up the Tribunal. The primary impetus for establishing the Foundation
and the Tribunal was to confront the ongoing impunity for the crimes com-
mitted by state and civilian actors following the 1965 coup and, indeed, for
subsequent state-led atrocities committed since that time under the New
Order regime (Meijer 2006).
The primary responsibility for ending the impunity for perpetrators and
providing justice for victims lies with the Indonesian state (Orentlicher
2004). When the Foundation IPT 1965 was formed in 2014, it was clear that
no administration since the end of the New Order was willing to investi-
gate, let alone redress, the crimes perpetrated in 1965–66 (ICTJ & KontraS
2011; Wahyuningroem 2013; Pohlman 2016). For more than 50 years, the
­Indonesian state has failed to investigate the extent and nature of these
crimes, to prosecute perpetrators from all ranks and backgrounds, to apol-
ogise for these atrocities, or to provide reparations or any other meaning-
ful remedies to the victims and their families. These failures by respective
­Indonesian administrations, and their clear unwillingness to act, have per-
sisted in spite of repeated demands for action made by victims’ groups, hu-
man rights activists, and scholars over the past two decades since the end of
the New Order in 1998 (Wahyuningroem 2013; Suh 2015).
There were hopes that the election of the current President of I­ ndonesia,
Joko Widodo (known as Jokowi), would open up a new era of open discussion
8  Saskia E. Wieringa et al.
about past atrocities; during his Presidential campaign in 2014, Jokowi
claimed that he would address serious human rights violations, including the
1965 massacres (Setiawan 2016). Since Jokowi’s election at the end of 2014,
however, those hopes have been disappointed. In 2015, Jokowi set up a Rec-
onciliation Committee, headed by retired General Luhut Pandjaitan, the
then Coordinating Minister for Political, Legal and Security Affairs. Partly
as a response to the International People’s Tribunal’s ‘public hearings’ which
had been held in November 2015 in The Hague, Pandjaitan and the Com-
mittee then held a ‘national symposium on the 1965 tragedy’ in April 2016
­(Wahyuningroem 2016). The national symposium was attended by more than
200 people, including government officials and survivors, the purpose of
which was to hold an official discussion about the killings (Soloway 2016). The
tone of the symposium was set, however, when Pandjaitan opened the event
by making it very clear that there would be no apologies from the Jokowi
administration for the massacres (Heryanto 2016; McGregor & Purdey 2016).
The April 2016 government symposium provoked a strong reaction from
a variety of conservative and hard-line groups in Indonesia. A group of
military personnel (active and retired) and hard-right religious leaders held
their own symposium in response in early June. These military leaders in-
cluded numerous key New Order-era generals, such as Try Soetrisno and
Sayidiman Soerjohadiprodjo, as well as Islamic leaders such as Muhammad
Rizieq Shihab from the ultraconservative and hard-right Islamic Defenders’
Front (Front Pembela Islam, FPI). At this June symposium, these groups re-
jected any attempts to investigate or redress past crimes, particularly those
committed in 1965–66, and reaffirmed their commitment to preventing the
return of communism to Indonesia (‘Symposium nasional’ 2016). The reac-
tion by these hard-line groups was not surprising; these groups are, in many
cases, the same groups which have conducted various repressive and violent
measures against survivors, community groups, and human rights activists
who campaign for truth-telling and justice for past violations (see Jakarta
Globe, 24 February 2015). These measures include the violent disruption of
meetings of former political prisoners, as well as other forms of intimidation
against victims’ families, such as regular harassment by police and other
security personnel, particularly in rural areas.6
Since the April 2016 national symposium, there have been no further
moves by the Jokowi administration to address past human rights viola-
tions. In the two years since the release of the Tribunal’s judgement, no one
from the current government has made any move to take up the recommen-
dations made by the Panel of Judges, including that the AGO should accept
the Komnas HAM 2012 report and carry out criminal investigations (Foun-
dation IPT 1965 2016b, p. 83). In March 2017, survivors’ groups together
with a number of human rights organisations, including the Indonesian Na-
tional Legal Aid Foundation (Yayasan Lembaga Bantuan Hukum Indonesia,
YLBHI) and the Commission for the Disappeared and Victims of Violence
(Komisi untuk Orang Hilang dan Korban Tindak Kekerasan, KontraS), held
 The Indonesian genocide and the IPT 1965  9
a three-day ‘Road to Justice for Survivors’ seminar in Jakarta. At this event,
the organisers called on the Jokowi administration to consider the findings
of the IPT 1965 and to redress the crimes of 1965 (Erdianto 2017). At the
time that this volume was compiled, victims and the families continue to
wait for a response.

Historical background: the coup and its aftermath

To contextualise the crimes examined in this volume, we offer here a brief
historical background on the 1965 coup and the killings and mass arrests
that followed. The events of 1 October 1965 and the propaganda created by
the Army to incite popular participation in the killings have been discussed
in further detail elsewhere (see, for example, Roosa 2006; Pohlman 2014).
In the early morning of 1 October 1965, a group of middle-ranking
­Indonesian national army officers, led by Colonels Untung and Latief and
calling themselves the 30th September Movement (Gerakan 30 September,
‘G30S’), abducted and murdered six top Army generals. Three of the gen-
erals were killed during their kidnapping, and the other three murdered af-
ter their arrival at Halim, an air force base and training ground in south
Jakarta. The conspirators were strong supporters of President Sukarno
and claimed to have taken the President under their protection to prevent a
military coup against him (see Roosa 2006). The actions of the Movement
were blamed on the PKI. While PKI Chairman, DN Aidit, and PKI Special
Bureau member, Sjam, were involved in the planning of the group’s actions,
the military was aware that the PKI’s mass membership knew nothing of the
Movement’s plans (American Embassy, Telegram, 20 November 1965). The
surviving military leadership under General Suharto deliberately used the
actions of the Movement as a ‘pretext’ to launch its long-planned-for attack
against the Left in Indonesia (Roosa 2006).
It has been alleged that Suharto, the then leader of the Jakarta-based
unit, the Army Strategic Reserve Command (Komando Cadangan Strategis
Angkatan Darat, Kostrad), was informed by Latief (and possibly also Un-
tung) of the impending action by the Movement but took no measures to
inform or protect his superior officers (see Kasenda 2002; Soebandrio 2006).
Regardless of whether or not Suharto had fore-knowledge of the Movement,
he took control of the Army directly after the G30S coup attempt, despite
repeated orders from Sukarno that he should stand down. The military
then proceeded to launch an attack against Movement members in Jakarta,
before launching an aggressive nationwide attack against the PKI and all
those alleged to be associated with the party. There were some scattered
attempts by groups supporting the Movement’s attempted coup to resist the
military’s attack in a few other cities in Indonesia, but these were quickly
put down (see Wertheim 1966). Although many details remain unclear, it
seems that only some men from the Army’s Tjakrabirawa unit (tasked with
protecting the President), as well as some volunteers from the PKI’s youth
10  Saskia E. Wieringa et al.
wing, Pemuda Rakyat (People’s Youth), actually took part in the Move-
ment’s kidnapping and execution of the generals (Roosa 2006).
The events that took place on the night of 30 September/1 October
have been known in Indonesia as the ‘1965 incident’ (peristiwa 1965), and
they remain a topic of ongoing scholarly debate and conspiracy monger-
ing (see, for example, Wertheim 1970; Anderson and McVey 1971; Crouch
1978; ­Sundhaussen 1982). Until the recent discovery of thousands of pages
of ­classified military documents, produced during the time of the killings
in Aceh, it remained unclear exactly how the military had coordinated its
attack against the PKI (Melvin 2018). Several events and actors remain
unknown or unclear, including the role of General Suharto. The stated
­intention of the Movement was to bring the kidnapped generals before Pres-
ident Sukarno; why some of them were shot when they resisted arrest and
the others murdered on a training field for nationalist volunteers in South
­Jakarta remains a topic of debate (Crouch 1978; Sundhaussen 1982; Roosa
2006). The lieutenant in charge of the abductions, Dul Arif, went missing,
and so his statement was never recorded. PKI Chairman, Aidit, went on the
run but was captured a few weeks later and killed extrajudicially, and so his
statement was never recorded either.7
A recent analysis of the trial of Colonel Untung suggests that the order to
kill the generals came from ‘trusted sources,’ sources which are described
as higher-ranking officers who may have headed the military operations of
the G30S Movement (Holtzappel 2015). During his trial, Colonel Latief re-
vealed that he himself had gone to Suharto and informed him of the Move-
ment’s plans (Latief 2000). Suharto swung into action only after he learnt
that the country’s top generals had been killed (excluding General Nasution,
who had managed to escape), and that President Sukarno did not support
the G30S Movement. Suharto’s handling of the situation was so uncannily
effective that some observers suspect that he may not have been improvising
(Kasenda 2002; Roosa 2006; Suroso 2008). Indeed, it is now clear the mili-
tary had been actively preparing to seize state power prior to 1 October 1965
(Melvin 2018).
At the time the attempted coup was launched by the G30S group at the
end of September 1965, Indonesia was experiencing crises on several fronts.
In domestic politics, tensions between political groups had grown stead-
ily worse, particularly during Sukarno’s ‘Guided Democracy’ period since
1959, a period which had also seen the growing influence of the Indonesian
military in civilian governance (Lev 1966; Cribb 2001). In particular, deep
cleavages had formed in society along sociopolitical lines, with enmities
growing between the mass-supported PKI, various religious groups, and
the group which Cribb calls the ‘developmentalists,’ which were essentially
pro-capitalist forces who became increasingly identified with Indonesian
Army interests (Cribb 2001). These political tensions were in part fuelled
by rumours of Sukarno’s ill health and the worsening economic crisis in
Indonesia. By 1965, Indonesia was experiencing triple-digit inflation and
 The Indonesian genocide and the IPT 1965  11
deepening economic stagnation. The threat of a rice shortage and mass
starvation immanent, poor economic planning, and years of financial mis-
management was driving Indonesia into abysmal levels of widespread pov-
erty (Mackie 1964; Mears 1984).
In this climate of worsening sociopolitical relations and fears of an eco-
nomic collapse, there was strong contention over who would take over the
leadership of Indonesia after Sukarno and how this takeover might be
achieved (Roosa 2006). Added to these internal dynamics was interference
by foreign powers, including the US. At the height of the Cold War, President
Sukarno’s increasingly close links with the PKI, the third l­ argest commu-
nist party in the world and an ally of China, caused great concern amongst
Western powers. When Suharto took over, the US and other ­Western coun-
tries quickly gave support for his leadership (Scott 1985; Simpson 2008;
­Suroso 2008).
Immediately on 1 October 1965, General Suharto claimed a coup attempt
had occurred and vowed to annihilate those involved in the G30S Move-
ment. On 5 October, it is likely that Suharto and the Army leadership met
and decided to launch an open offensive on the PKI (Roosa 2006, p. 63). On
6 October, the party was specifically linked to the G30S Movement in the
now Army-controlled media (Melvin 2018, p. 43). In the meantime in Aceh,
a province in a state of high military alert as a result of Sukarno’s policy
of Confrontation (Konfrontasi) with Malaysia, it had already become clear
which group was targeted for annihilation, and the killing of PKI mem-
bers had already begun (Melvin 2018). Indeed, the whole of Sumatra was
placed under martial law from 1 October in order to facilitate the military’s
annihilation campaign against the PKI (American Embassy, Telegram, 18
November 1965; Melvin 2018). The PKI was totally unprepared to respond
to the military’s aggressive attack (see Cribb 1990). On 6 December, Gen-
eral ­Suharto established the Command for the Restoration of Security and
­Order (KOPKAMTIB), an extraconstitutional security and intelligence
agency in charge of political prosecution and control with extralegal pow-
ers8: their first task was to destroy the PKI and hunt down and arrest its
members and sympathisers (see Crouch 1978; Southwood & Flanagan 1983).
From early October, the Indonesian Army fabricated and disseminated
a propaganda campaign designed to incite popular loathing and violence
against the PKI and its supporters (Wieringa 2002; Henry 2014; Pohlman
2014). This campaign was strongly misogynist in nature; in particular, a
mass campaign of sexual slander was carried out against members of the
progressive women’s organisation, Gerwani (Gerakan Wanita Indonesia,
­Indonesian Women’s Movement), whose members were accused with en-
tirely false allegations that they had castrated and tortured the generals on
the night of 30 September (see Wieringa 2002). The propaganda was ex-
tremely successful, the effects of which persist more than five decades later.
The PKI and its supporters were depicted as having betrayed the nation and
as being dangerous atheists who were against religion (Islam) and against
12  Saskia E. Wieringa et al.
the national ideology, the Pancasila (the five pillars, the first of which is be-
lief in one god) (Melvin 2018).
This propaganda was accompanied by a campaign of terror against sus-
pected communists and alleged associates of the party, including socialist
women (Wieringa 2002; Pohlman 2015), left-wing activists, progressive art-
ists and intellectuals, members of peasant groups and labour unions, sym-
pathisers of President Sukarno in general (Cribb 1990), as well as against
members of the Chinese community (Melvin 2013). In addition, artists and
groups associated with popular culture and those who practised animist
religions were harassed (Ross 2011). As will be explored in further detail
in this volume, those targeted in the purges were imprisoned in inhumane
and overcrowded conditions, tortured, and forced to perform labour, and
many of them were murdered in extrajudicial executions, and their bodies
were dumped in rivers and mass graves across the archipelago. From mid-­
October 1965 onwards, the Army trained and armed militia units and re-
cruited religious groups, student organisations, and right-wing trade unions
to help implement the massacres. These killings were under way in many
parts of Sumatra and Java by mid-October and continued apace across
most regions of Indonesia over the following six months; the mass arrests
lasting through to the end of the 1960s. It is estimated that between 500,000
and one million people were killed, and more than 1.7 million people were
imprisoned without trial (Cribb 2001; Kammen & McGregor 2012). Those
connected to the PKI or with other communist and socialist movements
who were travelling outside Indonesia at the time of coup were also affected;
as discussed in Chapter 7 (Saptari), the New Order government revoked the
passports of hundreds of students and others; many of them were eventually
granted asylum in other countries.
In 1966, Suharto managed to officially oust President Sukarno from
power, and the following year he was inaugurated as the new President. He
established a repressive military regime which lasted until 1998 when he was
forced to resign. The political, military, and economic machinery he estab-
lished, however, has largely remained intact, and this partly explains why
the ghost of communism can still be conjured up when elite groups deem it
necessary, and why the stigma of being associated with the PKI still remains
strong (Heryanto 2006; Wardaya 2007). Until today, the victims of the mass
killings and other crimes against humanity which followed the ‘events of
1965’ are blamed for their suffering, while the perpetrators walk free.

Judgement of the IPT 1965

The Prosecution for the IPT 1965 submitted that inhumane acts were com-
mitted in Indonesia and that these acts constituted crimes against humanity
under international law. The Prosecution also argued that, under customary
international law, the prohibition of crimes against humanity is a jus cogens
norm and derogation is not permitted under any circumstances (Foundation
 The Indonesian genocide and the IPT 1965  13
IPT 1965 2016a; see also Bassiouni 2011, p. 263). Crimes against humanity
in customary international law are fundamentally inhumane acts that are
crimes in most national criminal law systems and committed as part of a
widespread or systematic attack against civilians.9 Over the four days of the
public hearings in November 2015, the Panel of Judges considered testimony
from survivors and expert witnesses, as well as the arguments presented by
the Prosecution, arguing that a range of acts committed by state actors con-
stituted crimes against humanity.
After some months of deliberation, the panel of judgements handed down
their findings. Their report, which was launched in five cities around the
world on 21 July 2016, was accompanied by a video made available on You-
Tube in which Presiding Judge Zak Yacoob read the major conclusions and
recommendations (Foundation IPT 1965 2016b).10 In summary, the Panel of
Judges concluded that

The State of Indonesia is responsible for and guilty of crimes against

humanity consequent upon the commission and perpetration, particu-
larly by the military of that state through its chain of command, of the
inhumane acts […]. All these acts were an integral part of a broad and
widespread systematic attack against the Communist Party of Indone-
sia (Partai Komunis Indonesia, PKI), its affiliate organisations, its lead-
ers, members and supporters and their families (as well as those alleged
to have been sympathetic to its aims), and more broadly against many
people having no connection at all with the PKI, in what became a wide-
spread purge, which included many supporters of President Sukarno
and progressive members of the Nationalist Party of Indonesia, PNI.
Each inhumane act was, in addition, a crime in Indonesia and in most
civilised countries of the world. The attacks began with the false propa-
ganda discussed below and consisted of […] inhumane actions that were
part of the broader attack.
(Foundation IPT 1965 2016b, p. 79)

The Panel of Judges further condemned the Indonesian state for having
‘failed to prevent the perpetration of these inhumane acts or to punish those
responsible for their commission’ (Foundation IPT 1965 2016b, p. 79). In
so doing, the judges upheld the Indonesian state’s responsibility to prevent
these crimes against their citizens, both those committed by the state’s se-
curity services and those acts committed by non-state actors; ‘to the ex-
tent that some crimes were committed independently of the authorities, by
so-called “spontaneous” local action, this did not absolve the state from
the obligation to prevent their occurrence and to punish those responsible’
(Foundational IPT 1965 2016b, p. 79).
Of the nine forms of crimes against humanity from the original indict-
ment, the Panel of Judges upheld that the state of Indonesia must be held
responsible for mass killings, imprisonment, enslavement, torture, enforced
14  Saskia E. Wieringa et al.
disappearances, and sexual violence (Foundation IPT 1965 2016b, pp. 79–
81). These findings were consistent with the evidence collected and presented
in the 2012 Komnas HAM report (Komnas HAM 2012). These crimes, as
well as the treatment of exiles, the role of the military’s propaganda in incit-
ing the violence, and the complicity of other states in the killings, will each
be explored further in this volume.11

Conclusion: a People’s Tribunal and a culture of impunity

Although the IPT 1965 was not a formal juridical institution, its pronounce-
ments carry weight and will be recognised in international and national fora
for many years to come. Certainly, the Final Report by the Panel of Judges
contains a number of controversial findings that will spark further debate,
particularly the findings regarding genocide (see Chapter 12).12 Undoubt-
edly, the findings of the Panel of Judges, along with those of previous reports
conducted by Komnas HAM (2012) and the National Commission on Vio-
lence against Women (Komisi Nasional Anti-Kekerasan Terhadap Peremp-
uan, Komnas Perempuan) (2007), and in addition to the findings by human
rights organisations and researchers from their own investigations into the
mass violence (for example, Sasongko & Budianta 2003; Roosa, Ratih &
Farid 2004), all add to the mounting―and undeniable―weight of evidence
that Indonesian state forces led a campaign on terror and mass murder
against their own citizens and that these crimes demand redress.
What impact the Tribunal will have in Indonesia remains to be seen (dis-
cussed further in the epilogue of this volume by Brad Simpson). The culture
of impunity for gross human rights violations is strong; as one recent report
described, Indonesia has a seemingly ‘impenetrable climate of impunity’ for
past crimes which is unlikely to be breached in the near future (Hernawan &
Walsh 2015, p. 3). The utter lack of leadership or political will by successive
administrations since the fall of the New Order to deal with past crimes is
produced by, and significantly exacerbates, this culture of impunity. Thus
far, in their reactions to the Tribunal and other recent calls for justice, gov-
ernment officials and lawmakers in Indonesia have gone to great pains to
avoid any concrete measures to deal with the 1965 case or, indeed, to ad-
dress any of the other cases of past gross violations. The rhetoric invoked in
the barely disguised back-stepping on human rights protections privileges
perceived ‘local values’ over universal human rights and pointedly avoids
putting into effect the laws and protections promulgated during the early
Reformasi period, including by establishing ad hoc human rights courts
under Law No. 26 of 2000 (see, for example, Mahatma 2016). Worse still,
hard-line religious and conservative forces remain powerful in Indonesia
and show their willingness to use violence and intimidation to repress any
attempts to deal with this past.
It is therefore clear that, if left up to the Indonesian government, there is
likely never to be any form of official redress or remedy for past crimes. This
 The Indonesian genocide and the IPT 1965  15
injustice of justice delayed―and therefore denied―is precisely the reason
that the IPT 1965 was established. As Simm and Byrnes have argued, there
is a ‘gap’ in the official structure of accountability for grave human rights vi-
olations, as the international human rights structures built to ensure peace
and security often fail to do so, particularly when states refuse to uphold
their responsibility to protect their own citizens (2014). People’s tribunals,
such as the one established for 1965, both expose the inadequacy of inter-
national legal standards and, in their very recourse to international human
rights law, attempt to strengthen the legitimacy of this system. Both victims
and human rights activists have a ‘desire for law’ and demand accountability
of the state for past suffering. If the state, in this case Indonesia, is unwilling
to provide truth and justice, a people’s tribunal can validate experiences of
suffering and humiliation and confirm the hope that justice is still possible
through international recognition (Byrnes & Simm 2013, p. 743).
It will remain impossible to seek true justice for the events of 1965–66 as
long as perpetrators of this event continue to enjoy complete impunity for
their actions. In such a climate, the IPT 1965 could only ever hope to take
small and imperfect steps towards exposing this dark and silenced period in
our shared Cold War past. This book is but another small contribution to
this process.

Notes
1 For a full account of the public hearings on 10–13 November 2015, see the ‘nar-
rative report’ (Foundation IPT 1965 2016a).
2 For background information on each of the judges, please visit the Tribunal web-
site, available at: <www.tribunal1965.org/1965-tribunal-hearings-the-judges/>
(viewed 5 March 2017).
3 For a background on the Prosecuting team, see the Tribunal website, available
at: <www.tribunal1965.org/1965-tribunal-hearings-the-prosecutors/> (viewed 5
March 2017).
4 Only the Executive Summary of the 2012 Komnas HAM report is available pub-
lically (Komnas HAM 2012).
5 For a report on their investigation into the Tanjung Priok case, see Komnas
HAM (2000).
6 Cases of violent intimidation by hard-line conservative and religious groups
against survivors of 1965 and their families have been a feature of human rights
activism in this area since before the end of the New Order regime, for example,
see McGregor (2010) and Safari (2015). During the lead-up to the IPT 1965, a group
called the ‘Forum 1965,’ which is an alliance of various victims’ organisations, held
a number of meetings. As reported to Saskia Wieringa (through personal commu-
nications), a number of these meetings were broken up by hard-line groups.
7 It is also unclear why Aidit was brought to the Halim base (see Roosa 2006,
pp. 42–44).
8 Suharto first announced his intention to establish the KOPKAMTIB on 10
­October 1965, it would take two months before it was established. This meant
the early stages of the military campaign were coordinated centrally from Ja-
karta using a range of military command structures that operated in different
territories. See Chapter 3 (Melvin).
16  Saskia E. Wieringa et al.
9 Under Indonesian domestic law, see Article 9 of Law No. 26, Year 2000, Estab-
lishing the Ad Hoc Human Rights Court (UU Nomor 26 Tahun 2000 tentang
Pengadilan Hak Asasi Manusia); under international criminal law, see Article 7
of the Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court (1998) (see ICC 2000).
10 This video is available online; see Foundation IPT 1965 (2016c).
11 In their findings, the Panel of Judges also made recommendations for further
investigation into exile, propaganda, and the complicity of other states as crimes
against humanity, as well as addressed whether the 1965–66 mass killings should
be understood as genocide (see Foundational IPT 1965 2016b, pp. 79–82). Re-
garding exiles, for example, the judges found that they had been
deprived of their full and unconditional rights of citizenship. The policy of
involuntary or forcible exile, apart from being inhumane conduct, formed
part of a widespread systematic state attack against a substantial and sig-
nificant targeted sector of the civilian population, and may well be a crime
against humanity in the form of persecution.
(Foundational IPT 1965 2016b, p. 81)
12 For a discussion of how the term ‘genocide’ has been used in relation to the
1965–66 killings, both within Indonesia and by Indonesia and genocide scholars
internationally, including by the IPT 1965 see Melvin (2018).

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20  Saskia E. Wieringa et al.
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 The Indonesian genocide and the IPT 1965  21
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2 Organisation and impact of the
International People’s Tribunal
on 1965 crimes against
humanity in Indonesia
Nursyahbani Katjasungkana and
Saskia E. Wieringa

Introduction
The Foundation for the International People’s Tribunal on the 1965 Crimes
against Humanity in Indonesia (hereafter ‘IPT 1965’) was formally estab-
lished in March 2014.1 The hearings of the Tribunal were held in N ­ ovember
2015 in the Netherlands. The Final Report of the Panel of Judges was pre-
sented in July 2016 and was published in early 2017. This ad hoc Tribunal
was organised to break the silence around the crimes against humanity
committed by the Indonesian military as it rose to power during the after-
math of the actions of the 30 September Movement on 1 October 1965 (see
Melvin, this volume). It also sought to lay bare the continued humiliation
and stigma faced by its victims, and to expose the impunity the perpetrators
have enjoyed until the present day.
The IPT 1965 in Indonesia was, like the first international people’s
­tribunal—the Russell Tribunal on the war in Vietnam—set up to ‘prevent
the crime of silence’ (Byrnes & Simm 2018b, p. 12). The Russell Tribunal
provided the inspiration for the holding of other tribunals in which inter-
national legal standards were applied to the (past) actions of governments.2
As Zunino (2016) argues, the Russell Vietnam War Crimes Tribunal was
an early instance of transitional justice, in its critique of legalism and the
judicial monopoly of the state. So far, over 80 people’s tribunals have been
held. In the wake of the Russell Tribunal, in Rome in 1979, the Permanent
People’s Tribunal (PPT) was established by the Italian Senator Lelio Basso.
It has held over 40 hearings since then (Tognoni 2018). The PPT has been
criticised as being ideological and not basing its conclusions on formal le-
gal arguments; Moita (2015), however, disagrees and points to the ability of
these tribunals to move people’s conscience and for offering legally innova-
tive arguments. An international peoples’ tribunal can be defined as a ‘civil
society initiative establishing a forum for a body of eminent persons and/or
experts to consider allegations of violations of specific standards of inter-
national law in the light of documentary and other forms of evidence pre-
sented to them in formal proceedings’ (Byrnes & Simm 2018b, p. 14). This is
an apt description for the hearings held by the IPT 1965. Its Panel of Judges
 The Organisation and impact of IPT 1965  23

Figure 2.1  The witness Martono, by Koes Komo, reproduced with permission.

and the team of prosecutors were all highly respected persons in their fields.
The hearings had the form of a formal session, and the judges based their
judgement on international legal standards (Figure 2.1).
International people’s tribunals have used a variety of evidentiary and pro-
cedural rules (see Libaridian 1985; Nayar 2001; Klinghoffer & K ­ linghoffer
2002; Clark 2011; Simm & Byrnes 2014; Simm 2016; Akhavan 2017; Byrnes &
Simm 2018a; Dolgopol 2018). People’s tribunals have, however, also been
criticised as wanting in terms of legitimacy and authority, and are some-
times seen as biased and as impotent ‘kangaroo courts’ (Chinkin 2006). The
IPT 1965 followed closely the format of a formal court but, as with most
people’s tribunals, did not seek to judge individual perpetrators but to inter-
rogate state responsibility. As in other peoples’ tribunals, the IPT 1965 was
also unable to formally prosecute individual perpetrators. But, as advocates
of such tribunals argue, they fill in the gap between the international legal
system and domestic courts, demanding recognition of crimes against hu-
manity which are not recognised elsewhere and by creating an archive of the
crimes committed. Critically, as these advocates argue, people’s tribunals
also highlight the harm done to the other victims of such crimes, the fam-
ily members confronted with stigma, and the brave human rights defenders
who advocate transitional justice (see Dehm 2018).
In this chapter, we discuss how the IPT 1965 juggled the strong and
weak points of people’s tribunals. We focus on the organisation and im-
pact of the IPT 1965 and ask, what authority and legitimacy did it have?
Was it just a kangaroo court or an important step in achieving justice
for the victims of 1965? We begin with a discussion of the rationale, the
24  Nursyahbani Katjasungkana and Saskia E. Wieringa
organisation, and the impact of the IPT 1965. Like other people’s tribu-
nals, the IPT 1965 was relevant not only for assessing past crimes against
humanity. As outlined in Chapter 1 of this volume, after 1 October 1965,
the Indonesian Communist Party (Partai Komunis Indonesia, PKI) was
annihilated, its members and sympathisers slaughtered or imprisoned
(Kammen & McGregor 2012). Yet present-day propaganda still paints
the PKI as anti-religion and against the state philosophy, the Pancasila
(see Wieringa & Katjasungkana 2018). Although the party was banned in
1966, to this day the military continues to insist that a ‘New Style Commu-
nist Movement’ (Komunis Gaya Baru) is waging a proxy war with the help
of human rights activists in Indonesia (see Miller 2018). Speaking truth to
power, as the IPT 1965 did, is therefore pertinent not only to expose the
continued impunity of the perpetrators but also to reveal the fabrications
about the genocide and other crimes against humanity that are still being
spread by hardliner groups.3

Setting up the tribunal

In March 2013, a group of human rights activists, exiles, and researchers
decided to organise an international people’s tribunal. This group was
convinced that the failures of the Indonesian state to deal with the crimes
against humanity committed during the aftermath of 1 October 1965 must
not be allowed to silence the voices of victims and their families, nor al-
low the Government of Indonesia to escape accountability for these crimes.
They had come together after the Dutch launch of the film, The Act of ­Killing
(TAOK).4 Also present at this meeting were the film director, Joshua Oppen-
heimer, and a former member of the National Human Rights Commission,
who had worked on the report of the 1965 mass crimes against humanity.
In Indonesia, TAOK had led to much debate, as the film was widely shown
on university campuses and amongst activist circles. The conclusions of the
2012 report produced by the National Human Rights Commission on past
human rights violations had also alerted a wider public to the crimes com-
mitted by the military. But the Prosecutor’s Office of the Attorney General
had returned the report, citing lack of evidence. The report had also been
submitted to the UN Human Rights Committee, which advised the Gov-
ernment of Indonesia to set up a joint investigation team.5 This advice was
not followed up.
In the light of these developments, those at the meeting in March 2013
decided to act. Considering that even after the end of the military dictator-
ship in 1998 (a period known in Indonesia as Reformasi), the government
had taken no action to end the impunity of the perpetrators and, in view of
the unlikelihood that a domestic solution for the crimes committed would
be reached, it was felt by those at the meeting that an international people’s
tribunal was the only path still open to bring attention to these crimes. Two
people’s tribunals served as immediate examples (Figure 2.2).
 The Organisation and impact of IPT 1965  25

Figure 2.2  Prosecutor Team 1, by Koes Komo, reproduced with permission.

The IPT 1965 general coordinator, Nursyahbani Katjasungkana, had

served as the Indonesian prosecutor for the Tokyo Women’s Tribunal.
Its formal setup, its rigorous examination of evidence, and its emphasis
on truth-telling inspired the organisers of the IPT 1965.6 In the following
months under her guidance, a small group of activists compared the formats
of various people’s tribunals, including that of the PPT. It was ultimately de-
cided to establish an ad hoc tribunal for the crimes against humanity com-
mitted in Indonesia.
Another source of inspiration was the Iran People’s Tribunal held in The
Hague in 2012. The Iran Tribunal had sought to address the impunity for
the extrajudicial execution of young activists after the 1979 Islamic Revolu-
tion. As in the case of Indonesia, the International Criminal Court could
not prosecute the perpetrators and the Iranian government refused to do
so as well. The Iran Tribunal was established to fill that gap and to provide
‘grassroots justice’ to the mourning mothers. As Akhavan (2017) concludes,
‘healing past wounds, speaking truth to power, holding leaders accountable
for crimes against humanity is about achieving national reconciliation and
building a better future, liberated from hatred and violence’ (p. 36).
Over the following months, Katjasungkana prepared a Charter for the
Panel of Judges and a Concept Note. The latter document stated that the
aim of the 1965 Tribunal was to ‘redress the tendency to trivialise, excuse,
marginalise and obfuscate this genocide and the other crimes against hu-
manity, particularly the rapes and other forms of sexual violence and tor-
ture of women prisoners,’ and further, that ‘out of the belief, expressed
repeatedly by the victims as well as their families, that acknowledging and
26  Nursyahbani Katjasungkana and Saskia E. Wieringa
assigning responsibility for the crimes will help to ensure that they live out
their remaining years in greater dignity, peace and security.’7 In March
2014, the Foundation for the International People’s Tribunal was formally
established, chaired by Saskia Wieringa.
Acquiring enough funding was very difficult. Many potential donors were
hesitant to touch this issue, fearing that the Indonesian government would
be offended. The Dutch government, afraid of rousing anti-colonial senti-
ments and mindful of the large business interests between the two countries,
was concerned that the hearings would be held in The Hague and suggested
that they be held in Jakarta. The organisers explained that they would prefer
that as well, but that it would be much too dangerous to hold the hearings
in Jakarta, and that The Hague, with its image as the City of International
Justice, the seat of the Yugoslav Tribunal, and the International Criminal
Court, would be best qualified.
Initially the organisers harboured the hope that the excellent 2012 report
by Indonesia’s National Human Rights Commission (Komisi Nasional Hak
Asasi Manusia, Komnas HAM) could be used as the basis for the informa-
tion for the Prosecution.8 As stated above, so far the Attorney General has
not accepted the report nor acted on its recommendations; one impact of
this is that the full report cannot be released to the public. Therefore, the
research coordinator (Wieringa) had to start from scratch in preparing a
research report for the Prosecution on which it could base the indictment.
Wieringa approached as many researchers and activists who had collected
data on the crimes against humanity in Indonesia as possible. In the end,
40 researchers and activists collaborated, sending in whole chapters based
on the template sent out, summaries of their research work, or sometimes
databases.
More than half the researchers were Indonesian, and most of those sub-
mitted their work in Indonesian. In the end, the research team prepared a
report of some 1,000 pages, less than half of which was still in Indonesian,
which most of the prosecutors but not the judges could read. A small group
of editors worked almost non-stop for a year and a half to prepare this evi-
dence report.9 The challenge was whether sufficient data could be produced
to substantiate the charge that the human rights violations that had occurred
after the ‘events of 1965’ were systematic and widespread. The researchers
were able to present to the Prosecution data from 13 geographically diverse
regions of Indonesia, ranging from Aceh and Nias in the ­western part of the
country to Alor in the eastern part of Indonesia (the Komnas HAM report
collected evidence on six locations).
The authority of an international people’s tribunal to a large part depends
on the political, moral, and legal prestige of its Panel of Judges and its prose-
cutorial team. IPT 1965 organisers were fortunate that seven renowned per-
sons accepted the invitation to act as judges. Judges Zak Yacoob and Geoffrey
Nice had eminent legal backgrounds. Judges Helen Jarvis and Mireille
Fanon Mendès-France had distinguished careers in other international
 The Organisation and impact of IPT 1965  27
courts. Judge Cees Flinterman is a leading international rights expert.11
10

Shadi Sadr is an expert in advocacy on human rights, whereas Judge John

Gittings is a highly respected scholar on Asia and ­human rights.12 The team
of prosecutors was likewise outstanding. The Tribunal’s Chief Prosecutor
was Indonesia’s leading human rights lawyer, T. Mulya Lubis. The other
Indonesian prosecutors were all respected human rights lawyers as well: Uli
Parulian Sihombing, Suparyati, Bahrain ­Makmun, and Antarini Arna. The
prosecutorial team was completed by Silke Studzinsky, an internationally
respected authority on sexual violence.

The indictment and the conclusions of the Panel of Judges

Based on the data collected in the research report, the prosecution
­submitted that the inhumane acts committed in Indonesia after the ‘events
of 1965’ were crimes against humanity under both domestic and interna-
tional laws. It also argued that because, under international customary
law, the prohibition of crimes against humanity is a peremptory norm ( jus
cogens), ­derogation is not permitted under any circumstances (Bassiouni
2011, p. 263). Crimes against humanity in international customary law are
­fundamentally inhumane acts that are crimes in most national criminal law
systems and committed as part of a widespread or systematic attack against
civilians.13 Written material submitted to the Tribunal was supplemented by
four days of hearings in November 2015 in The Hague at which testimonies
of both live and expert witnesses were heard and further arguments were
presented to the judges.14
When considering the work of the Tribunal, we must first ask, was the
evidence brought before the Panel of Judges sufficient? The researchers had
only been able to work for a year and a half, on a voluntary basis beside
their other jobs. Fortunately, two commissioners from both Komnas HAM
and Komnas Perempuan (Indonesia’s National Commission on Violence
against Women) were also able to attend the hearings. Mariana A ­ maruddin
of Komnas Perempuan had received official permission to attend the hear-
ings. Her testimony was impressive, and she fully confirmed the materi-
als on sexual violence that had been compiled by our researchers. Sadly
­Komnas HAM did not accept our invitation to have a commissioner attend
our hearings. Yet Commissioner Dianto Bachriadi came of his own accord.
He too testified that the material brought before the judges was consistent
with the report of the Commission. These two testimonies supported the
case the prosecutors brought before the judges (Figure 2.3).
After some months of deliberation, the Panel of Judges of the Tribunal
presented its final conclusions in a report that was launched in five cities
around the world on 21 July 2016.15 The launch was accompanied by a video
in which Presiding Judge Zak Yacoob read the major conclusions and rec-
ommendations. The organisers had hoped to be able to organise a small
formal session with some members of our Panel of Judges and some victims
28  Nursyahbani Katjasungkana and Saskia E. Wieringa

Figure 2.3  Prosecutor Team 2, by Koes Komo, reproduced with permission.

and witnesses present, but the political situation at the time did not allow
that: the safety of those present could not be ensured. The organising team
opted to launch the Final Report simultaneously in Jakarta, Amsterdam,
Melbourne, Stockholm, and Phnom Penh, for two reasons. In the first place,
if the event was disrupted in Jakarta, the report would still be launched in
the other cities. Second, in this way a broader audience would be reached.
Following the live broadcast of the event, press statements and seminars
were held. The Final Report was published in both English and Indonesian
in early 2017.
As discussed more extensively in the introductory chapter, the Panel of
Judges concluded that the State of Indonesia was responsible for crimes
against humanity consequent upon the commission and perpetration, par-
ticularly by the military of that State through its chain of command, of the
inhumane acts detailed in their report (Foundation IPT Final Report 2016,
p. 79). On four issues the judges were able to go beyond the conclusions
of the Komnas HAM report.16 Unlike Komnas HAM, the judges deliber-
ated the situation of exiles affected by the events of 1965–66 (see Saptari,
this volume). The judges also fully supported the emphasis the prosecutors,
basing themselves on the researchers’ report, had laid on the critical role
the propaganda campaign played in facilitating the violence of 1965–66 (see
Wieringa & Katjasungkana 2018). A third issue that the Panel of Judges em-
phasised, which cannot be found in the Komnas HAM report, is the count
regarding the complicity of other states, notably the US, Great ­Britain, and
Australia (see Henry, this volume; Scott 1985; Simpson 2008). All three coun-
tries were invited to defend themselves at the hearings, as was Indonesia,
 The Organisation and impact of IPT 1965  29
but none accepted this invitation. Lastly, the Panel of Judges concluded,
based on the Tribunal’s research report and an amicus curiae letter from the
­Argentinian genocide specialist, Dr Daniel Feierstein, that the mass killings
by the army and the militias from 1 October 1965 constituted genocide (see
Jarvis & ­Wieringa, this volume).

Practical matters
Several factors enabled the organisation of the hearings in 2015. In the first
place, the political timing seemed ripe. The submission of the 2012 ­Komnas
HAM report had been preceded by the Report on Sexual Violence by the Na-
tional Commission on Violence against Women (2007) which had received
far less attention.17 Both reports contain detailed analyses of the types of
violence and violations committed by the state after 1 October 1965. This
momentum was further increased by the wide attention received by the two
documentaries directed by Joshua Oppenheimer. His second film, The Look
of Silence (Indonesian title, Senyap), was released in 2014 and was circulated
internationally and in circles of students and activists in I­ ndonesia, where
it was later banned.18 Within Indonesia, the influential magazine Tempo de-
voted two issues to the 1965 crimes against humanity which were widely
read among circles of victims, intellectuals, and human rights activists.19 In
2014, a new President was elected, Mr Joko Widodo (Jokowi). In his cam-
paign, he had promised to prioritise the investigation and reconciliation of
past human rights abuses.20 This promise was repeated in his Declaration,
the ‘Nawacita.’ This Sanskrit term means nine dreams or priorities. Prior-
ity number four, on the reform of law enforcement agencies, includes the
intention to resolve past human rights violations. Unfortunately, he did not
follow this up with concrete actions.21 The timing of the Tribunal was also
important. Held 50 years after the killings started and the rise of the New
Order regime to power, the Tribunal was able to draw on the slogan ‘break-
ing 50 years of silence.’
The success of the Tribunal was also aided by the willingness of so many
specialists, victims-survivors, and students to contribute their expertise,
experiences, and time to help organise the Tribunal. Researchers under-
took research, film-makers documented the process and prepared the live
streaming, and media specialists ran the social and other media and set
up the website. Furthermore, security experts devised a security plan, the
prosecutors and the registrar gave legal advice and prepared the indict-
ment, the translating team worked as hard as they could to translate In-
donesian materials into English for the judges, and the student volunteers
made themselves helpful in numerous ways. And, of critical importance,
the judges devoted their time and expertise prior to, during, and after the
hearings and finalised the report which was released in July 2016. During
the hearings, some 100 volunteers were working towards the success of the
Tribunal. They had come from all over the world; some had even risked
30  Nursyahbani Katjasungkana and Saskia E. Wieringa
their Indonesian scholarships, following a threat to that effect from the
Indonesian embassy in The Hague.22
A major concern of the organisers of the Tribunal was to guarantee the
safety of the victims-survivors. They and their families have suffered dis-
criminatory policies, and violence perpetrated by Muslim hardliners and
members of other anti-communist groups in Indonesia until today. The
spectre of a communist revival is still used by particular military or political
groups, who control the militias of thugs who carry out raids or other forms
of violence (Wieringa & Katjasungkana 2018). Consultations had to be held
with the victims but those meetings attracted the attention of such mili-
tias (see Wahyuningroem, this volume). Several planned meetings had to be
cancelled. For instance, on 27 October 2013, the Anti-Communist F ­ orum
(Forum Anti-Komunis Indonesia, FAKI) attacked and broke up a meeting
organised by victims and survivors in Yogyakarta. Similarly, a meeting or-
ganised in Bukittinggi on 22 March 2015 was forcibly disbanded by thugs,
forcing Nursyahbani Katjasungkana to return without meeting the victims.
In Salatiga the following day, right-wing militia supported by the police dis-
solved the meetings organised by the victims’ support organisation, Foun-
dation for the Service of Rights in Indonesia (Yayasan Pengabdian Hukum
Indonesia, YAPHI) in collaboration with the victims’ organisation, Founda-
tion for Research on the Victims of the Killings of 1965 (Yayasan ­Penelitian
Korban Pembunuhan 1965, YPKP 1965). This meeting was attended by
members of Komnas Perempuan, Komnas HAM, and the Victim and Wit-
ness Protection Institute (Lembaga Perlindungan Koran dan Saksi, LPSK).
The purpose of this meeting had been to discuss a new regulation on health
allowances for victims of past human rights violations. These attacks were
reported to President Joko Widodo, the Chief of Police Headquarters, and
the Chief Military Commander in Jakarta, but there was no response.
In the second half of 2015, tensions increased. The major issues trigger-
ing these strains were the 50th anniversary of the ‘events of 1965’ and the
impending hearings of the Tribunal. For example, on 2 July 2015, members
of the mass organisation Ansor (the youth wing of the Muslim mass organ-
isation, Nahdlatul Ulama, which had been heavily involved in the killings),
and leaders of other religious groups attacked people whom they identified
as making up a ‘New Style’ Communist Movement. These latter groups
were identified as various human rights organisations which had been sup-
porting victims of the crimes against humanity after 1 October 1965. The
attackers had prepared themselves by watching the notorious film, The Be-
trayal of the G30S/PKI, which was compulsory viewing during Suharto’s
New Order (McGregor 2007; Herlambang 2013). They burned so-called PKI
flags in the centre of Blitar.23 The yearly presidential address to the nation
on 17 August 2015 (Independence Day) was also very tense. Victims of the
1965 crimes against humanity hoped the President would apologise, while
right-wing groups fiercely protested. In the end, human rights activists were
disappointed, and the President did not apologise.24
 The Organisation and impact of IPT 1965  31
Ultimately, Nursyahbani Katjasungkana and other activists managed to
hold a series of successful preparatory meetings in Solo, Jombang, C ­ irebon,
Jepara, Kupang, Surabaya, Bali, Aceh, Semarang, and Medan in 2014 and
the beginning of 2015 to discuss the idea of holding a people’s tribunal. The
members of the various victims’ organisations welcomed the idea of the
Tribunal, though they were warned that the Tribunal would not be able to
ensure any perpetrator would be brought to justice or that they would get
compensation. They were pleased that international attention would be paid
to their plight and hoped it would minimally reduce the stigma they still ex-
perienced. Most of the human rights activists also welcomed the efforts of
the IPT 1965 to break the 50 years of silence surrounding the massacres and
other human rights violations after the murder of the generals on 1 October
1965. They agreed that internationalising the violations might be the best
way forward. A few other organisations were afraid to provide support, out
of concern that a narrow form of nationalism would rear its ugly head. It did
indeed, but xenophobia has been part of the arsenal of conservative forces
in Indonesia for a long time and the Tribunal organisers did not want to be
deterred by that.25
The team preparing the hearings in Jakarta was also directly targeted.
The General Coordinator was called a ‘traitor to the nation’ by hardcore
retired General Kivlan Zen on a TV show on 29 September 2015 (Inter-
national Lawyers’ Club). Conservative generals accused human rights ac-
tivists working on the ‘1965 case’ of waging a ‘proxy war.’26 Human rights
lawyers accompanied the witnesses to and from the Tribunal. During the
sessions themselves, extra security officials were employed, and the police
were on standby. For each charge or crime, at least one direct and one expert
witness were invited and prepared. Ultimately, seven factual/eye witnesses
appeared before the Tribunal at its hearings from 10 to 13 November 2015.
Due to the quickly deteriorating security situation prior to the hearings, a
number of witnesses were forced to use a pseudonym or to testify behind
a screen. Fortunately, no incidents occurred during the sessions, and all
witnesses and prosecutors were able to leave the Netherlands and to return
home safely.
Members of the Indonesian Anti-Communist Alliance (Aliansi Anti-­
Komunis Indonesia) were waiting at the gate of Soekarno-Hatta Airport
when the delegation arrived back in Jakarta on 16 November 2015, where
they unfurled a big banner reading: Welcome Home Traitors of the Nation
(Selamat Datang Pengkhianat Bangsa) and Don’t Come Back to Indonesia,
Traitors (Pengkhianat Jangan Kembali ke Indonesia).27

Organisational matters
People’s tribunals are, by definition, set up by members of civil society. The
organisers of the IPT 1965 started from scratch; they had no prior asso-
ciation they could fall back on. Their motivation was the shared anger at
32  Nursyahbani Katjasungkana and Saskia E. Wieringa
the long silence of the respective Indonesian governments on the gross hu-
man rights violations committed after 1965. The management structure of
the IPT 1965 was quite horizontal and based on trust. This fitted the social
movement character of the organisation. All members of the organising
committee, including the general coordinator, the leaders of the working
teams, and most members of those teams themselves, were working on a
voluntary basis and recruited to do what they were best at.
Submitting a solid amount of evidence to support the indictment was crit-
ical. However, there was no budget at all for research, so the team had to
rely on voluntary submissions of data. The challenge was that the evidence
provided should relate to all counts, and that the materials collected would
be presented in such a way that they could be digested by the judges in a
short period.
The media team, both in Indonesia and in the Netherlands, was techni-
cally and politically strong. Because the issue was politically sensitive, the
website was attacked constantly, particularly during the hearings. Strikingly
most attacks were recorded during the sessions on sexual violence and the
slander campaign against the progressive women’s organisation, Gerwani.28

Impact of the tribunal: moral and political issues

Naturally, the significance of the IPT 1965 cannot be estimated according to
the number of convictions, as there were none. Its impact must be judged in
different ways: in its moral and political consequences and in its legal argu-
ments. As a People’s Tribunal, it derives its power from the voices of victims
and from national and international civil societies. Though the Tribunal had
the format of a formal court, it was not a criminal court.29 Conservative gen-
erals and political leaders continued to point this out after the hearings were
over. The Indonesian Vice President, Jusuf Kalla, called it a mock trial (pen-
gadilan semu).30 Coordinating Minister for Politics and Security, Luhut B.
Pandjaitan, opined the Tribunal had just been a joke (dagelan).31 The same
opinion was voiced by Prof. Dr Mahmud MD, former Chair of the Consti-
tutional Court, who stated, ‘this is just a joke, some foolishness ­(lucu-lucuan)
of an NGO.’32 But convictions of perpetrators had never been the intention
of the organisers and judges of the IPT 1965. Its goal was to raise interna-
tional attention about the crimes committed; to restore the agency of the
victims, who spoke out and helped provide evidence; and to contribute to
the ‘archive of truth’ around the massacres. As a People’s T ­ ribunal, its power
lies in its capacity to examine evidence, develop an accurate historical re-
cord of the genocide and other crimes committed, and apply principles of
international law to the facts as found. Further, the Tribunal stepped into
the lacuna left by the State of Indonesia but it did not purport to replace the
role of the State in the legal process. Other international people’s tribunals
have contributed to creating a climate of respect for human rights and to the
healing process of the victims and their families.33 In that sense, it can be
 The Organisation and impact of IPT 1965  33
asserted that the IPT 1965 was a meaningful intervention as it had tangible
results, some of which will be mentioned below.
The Tribunal has had success in breaking the silence around the genocide
and other crimes against humanity. As discussed above, this was a major
motivation for other people’s tribunals as well. Hundreds of articles have
been written on the IPT 1965, particularly in online media but also in main-
stream print media in Indonesia.34 Some major international papers also
reported on the Tribunal, such as The Guardian.35 Approximately 300 par-
ticipants attended the tribunal daily, including about 30 representatives of
the media, both from Indonesia and from other countries. The sessions were
live-streamed and were accessible all over the world. In Indonesia in several
places collective screenings were held, with moderators from various asso-
ciated human rights organisations. Tens of thousands of people watched
the sessions which are still accessible via YouTube.36 In Indonesia, nobar
(watching together) sessions and discussions were organised in several cities.
In Yogyakarta, the nobar was banned by a fundamentalist group and people
from the intelligence services. Film-makers and photographers were invited
to make a visual documentation of the Tribunal and its background.37 This
will serve as documentation, educational, and advocacy material.
The nationalist backlash after the November 2015 hearings, however, had
an unexpected result.
To prove Indonesia could resolve its own outstanding human rights issues,
Coordinating Minister of Politics, Law and Security, Luhut B. ­Pandjaitan,
ordered his staff to organise a national seminar on the topic which took
place in 18 and 19 April 2016. It generated enormous media exposure.38 Both
victims and supporters of the New Order participated. Through online me-
dia, TV shows, and news reports, hundreds of thousands of Indonesians
were able to listen to the gripping stories of some survivors. Angry that
the national seminar generated sympathy for the victims, conservative re-
tired Generals such as Kivlan Zen and the Minister of Defence, Ryamizard
Ryacudu, then organised a counter seminar on 1 and 2 June 2016, in which
only military and other supporters of the New Order participated.39 Many
concluded on social media that the djinn (genie) was out of the bottle, and
that the silence behind which New Order strongmen could hide the crimes
committed by the army and militias trained by them after 1 October 1965
had definitively been broken. Both seminars sent their conclusions and rec-
ommendations to the President. So far, these have not been made public.
After the April symposium, news of a ‘red scare’ began to spread (again) in
the media. A group of the FPI (Front Pembela Islam) led by Syeik ­Misbahul
Anam Attijani produced a book with ‘proof’ that the PKI was organising
itself underground. In a news conference, he handed it over to General Agus
Sutomo.40 The book was reported to contain photos from a Facebook ac-
count with two young men wearing a t-shirt with the hammer and sickle im-
age. Another ‘proof’ of the rise of the PKI was that they had organised the
April symposium because they wanted to push the President to apologise.
34  Nursyahbani Katjasungkana and Saskia E. Wieringa
This campaign is in line with statements of the virulent anti-communist
leader Habib Rizieq who claimed this ‘new style PKI’ was linking up with
the ‘liberal movement’ so they could spread books, have seminars, and show
films.41 Therefore, the FPI and the army should work together to stem the
growing influence of the new PKI, he concluded. Meetings were again dis-
rupted. When 80 victims from all over Indonesia came together on 14 April
2016, organised by the YPKP in Cipanas, Cianjur, they were told to disband
by the FPI and Pemuda Pancasila.42
Has the dignity of the victims been restored? Based on discussions with vic-
tims’ organisations, we can conclude that the process of the IPT 1965 has in-
deed contributed to reducing the shame and guilt many victims experienced.
The violence of the militia against them may not have been reduced but more
and more people are beginning to realise the effects of New Order propa-
ganda. Also, from being passive victims some of them have claimed agency in
denouncing the crimes they have been subjected to. The realisation that the
outside world has not forgotten them and that their suffering has been and
will continue to be documented, even after they will have gone, gives them
some peace. A new umbrella organisation has been formed, Forum 1965, in
which representatives of various victims’ associations come together with hu-
man rights activists and members of the IPT 1965. Due to divisive tactics
of the regime, infighting, and discouragement, they had not come together
earlier. In discussions prior to and directly after the Tribunal, routinely mem-
bers of all victims’ groups were invited. The Forum 1965 meets regularly and
discusses issues of general interest to the victims at the national level.

Legal issues
One of the major objectives of the Tribunal was to fight against the persis-
tent impunity for the crimes of 1965. As proposed by Orentlicher (2004),
impunity involves the following aspects:

– A failure by States to meet their obligations to investigate violations and

to take appropriate measures in respect of the perpetrators, particularly
in the area of justice. This could be done by ensuring that those suspected
of criminal responsibility are prosecuted, tried, and duly punished;
– A failure to provide victims with effective remedies and to ensure that
they receive reparation for the injuries suffered;
– A failure to ensure the inalienable right to know the truth about vi-
olations and to take other necessary steps to prevent a recurrence of
violations.43

Key concepts thus are the right to truth, to justice, and to rehabilitation and
the guarantee of non-recurrence. Even in the more liberal Reformasi era
(after the fall of Suharto in 1998), the Indonesian state has done virtually
nothing to guarantee these rights.
 The Organisation and impact of IPT 1965  35
In a formal sense, impunity still continues. Nobody has faced criminal
charges for involvement in the events of 1965–66. But the Tribunal did con-
tribute to creating an ‘archive of truth,’ and the researchers and activists
involved will continue to extend that archive. Through publications, social
media, and our website, those involved in the IPT 1965 process will con-
tribute to the rewriting of Indonesian history which so far has been dom-
inated by New Order historians, who wrote a ‘history of the winners’ (see
­McGregor 2007). This public ‘archive of the oppressors’ (the Indonesian
military archives are still closed) must be replaced or at least complemented
by an ‘archive of the oppressed.’44 The massacres and mass incarcerations
took place over such an enormous region and over such a long time that only
a massive research project, preferably instigated by the Indonesian state,
will ever be able to account for the magnitude. So far, it has not cared to
do so, so that even now there is no certainty about how many people were
murdered or imprisoned.45 As is outlined in Chapter 8, even the locations of
victims’ graves are often not known.
After the two seminars in 2016, the Indonesian government has seemingly
closed ranks and decided that the truth would not be revealed, as far as they
are concerned. Instead of a formal investigation by the National Prosecutor’s
Office or a truth commission, in January 2017, a ‘National Harmony Coun-
cil’ (Dewan Kerukunan Nasional) was established, the purpose of which was
not made clear at the time.46 What did transpire was that it would not offer
a judicial response and would not engage in formal truth-seeking. Thus,
impunity would not be lifted, and the truth about the genocide and other
crimes against humanity committed in 1965–66 and the years thereafter
would not be revealed through this Council. In communication about this
Council, the government again used the term ‘horizontal conflict,’ a term
consistently deployed by the New Order ideologues, to hide the command
structure behind the military involvement in the genocide and to present the
mass killings as the outcome of tensions between supporters of the PKI and
Sukarno and their civilian opponents (see Melvin, this volume).
In the absence of a judicial state response to the massacres, the Final
Report of the IPT 1965 contains legal arguments on the application of inter-
national customary law to the massacres and other crimes against humanity
committed by the military and the militias trained by them. The argumen-
tation of the Panel of Judges of the IPT 1965 supports the conclusion of the
2012 Komnas HAM report that widespread and systematic crimes against
humanity were committed in that period. But the report of the IPT 1965 goes
beyond the report of Komnas HAM. It considers four more counts than the
Komnas HAM commissioners did: the plight of the exiles, propaganda as
incitement to mass murder, the complicity of other states, and it argues that
the massacres fall under the 1948 Genocide Convention. Apart from ortho-
dox legal analysis, the judges also advanced arguments to extend the scope
of the law. The pronouncement of the Panel of Judges on the applicability of
the term ‘genocide’ for the mass killings in Indonesia after 1 October 1965 is
36  Nursyahbani Katjasungkana and Saskia E. Wieringa
significant, as further discussed in Chapter 12 of this anthology. The Final
Report of the IPT 1965 contributes to the arguments advanced by Feierstein
(2012) to expand the scope of the 1948 Genocide Convention in that it also
refers to the elimination of a national group not solely based on criteria of
ethnicity and religion.47 Complicity of other states and the situation of the
Indonesian exiles are also discussed in this volume.
The propaganda campaign is the topic of Propaganda and the Genocide
in Indonesia: Imagined Evil by Wieringa and Katjasungkana (2018).48 The
judges carefully considered the evidence presented by the prosecution. They
concluded that

the false propaganda campaign was essential to the widespread system-

atic attack on the PKI and all those deemed to be connected with it. The
false propaganda campaign was the first significant step in the attack
and is therefore a crime against humanity. The propaganda version of
the events of 30 September – 1 October 1965 had a significant dehu-
manising impact, helping to justify the extra-legal persecution, deten-
tion and killing of alleged suspects and particularly to legitimise the
use of sexual violence against women. Unchallenged for more than five
decades, this propaganda also contributed to the denial of civil rights of
survivors, and the absence of any attempt to remedy injustices against
them.
(IPT 1965 2017, pp. 93–94)

Conclusion
Although the Tribunal was not a formal juridical institution, its pronounce-
ments carry weight and will be recognised in international and national fora
in times to come. As most other people’s tribunals, the IPT 1965 interro-
gated the responsibility of the state, not that of individual perpetrators. It
was set up as domestic mechanisms to end the impunity of the perpetrators
had been exhausted, in spite of pressure from Komnas HAM, as well as na-
tional and international activists and the promises of the President. It was
a ‘one-off tribunal’ not a ‘repeat player’ such as the PPT. A characteristic of
such repeat players is that they are able to develop their own ‘jurisprudence’
to make the international legal system better able to respond to the needs of
victims whose call for justice is ignored by their own states.49 Yet this one-
time tribunal has contributed to the growing body of arguments to broaden
the definition of genocide and to include national groups defined by their
political views.50
The Final Report of the Panel of Judges of the IPT 1965 contains some
other interesting arguments which will spark further debate. These concern
the role of propaganda in relation to incitement to hatred and mass mur-
der and to the position of the exiles who lost their citizenship. The Tribu-
nal has been a meaningful intervention in a world in which impunity from
 The Organisation and impact of IPT 1965  37
prosecution for the perpetrators of the genocide and other crimes against
humanity in Indonesia still continues and in which the victims are still ex-
periencing shame, stigma, and humiliation. The international recognition
of the suffering of victims and survivors helps them hope that in the future
the injustice done to them will be formally acknowledged, also within In-
donesia. In contrast to formal tribunals, no immediate consequences will
follow from the IPT 1965 process. But as with other people’s tribunals, its
impact will be more gradual and indirect. Evidence has been brought into
the public domain.51
The lack of enforceability of the carefully argued judgement of our Panel
of Judges is of course deeply regrettable but the Final Report will continue
to shame Indonesia internationally. How the Indonesian state will react ul-
timately is not known as yet. The establishment of the National Harmony
Council is an indication that the government is not interested in truth-­
finding, an essential requirement for reconciliation. Narrow nationalist
forces at the time of writing this chapter call for the uniqueness of Indone-
sian human rights as opposed to the alleged foreignness of international hu-
man rights standards.52 The lawmakers who advance these arguments are
apparently unaware that the present Indonesian human rights law is based
on the Rome Statute.53 So when they denounce human rights as foreign,
they also ignore their own national law. Whether Indonesia will resort to the
international or domestic adjudication of its past human rights abuses in the
near future is doubtful, but the Final Report of the Judges of the IPT 1965
strengthens the demands of both National Human Rights Commissions to
deal with these past abuses. It has already boosted the morale of victims and
will help ensure that the world will not forget these crimes.
We conclude that the IPT 1965 has produced an important body of legal
arguments. It has helped restore the dignity of the victims-survivors who
by their appearing at the hearings reinstated a sense of agency. The formal
surrounding of the impressive church in which the hearings were held aug-
mented the spectacle of justice for the many thousands who watched the live
streaming (Simm & Byrnes 2014). The IPT 1965 has also disrupted the he-
gemonic image of the rise to power of the military after 1 October 1965. The
museums, films, and other means of propaganda they produced, demon-
strating their power as conquerors, have been challenged by the moving mu-
seum of the hearings, available via film and video. This living archive of the
oppressed augments the documents collected, which in their turn build on
the work of activists and researchers preceding the IPT 1965.
The IPT 1965 was no kangaroo court; the dignity of the court process, the
moving testimonies of the witnesses, the impressive venue, the convincing
arguments of the prosecutors, and the sharp legal analysis of the Panel of
Judges exposed the travesty of justice the Indonesian state so far has seen
fit to display. It also provided the legal arguments Indonesian state prose-
cutors could use if they decide to prosecute the perpetrators. The IPT 1965
is part of an ongoing process to demand justice for the genocide and other
38  Nursyahbani Katjasungkana and Saskia E. Wieringa
crimes against humanity committed by Indonesia’s military against un-
armed civilians. As such the work of the IPT 1965 is not yet over. The results
of the Tribunal must be made more widely known both within Indonesia
and internationally. In Indonesia, advocacy to stimulate the development
of a political, legal, and sociocultural process to deal with the genocide and
other crimes against humanity committed after 1 October 1965 will have to
be continued, in collaboration with other organisations working on human
rights, in order to help create a climate in which truth can be established, the
victims and their families rehabilitated, their dignity restored, and possibly
reparation effected. This may stimulate a process of reconciliation in the
country. Also, educational materials for various target groups must be pre-
pared, as knowledge of this period is still dominated by army propaganda.
The members of the IPT 1965 will stimulate efforts to build an integrated
documentation and archive system and assist where possible with various
national, international, and local efforts at memorialisation.

Notes
1 Parts of this chapter, particularly the sections ‘setting up the tribunal,’ ‘indict-
ment and conclusions,’ and ‘practical matters’ have been based on Wieringa’s
earlier analysis of the IPT 1965 process (Wieringa 2018).
2 Since then four more Russell Tribunals have been held. See for a list of the
­Russell Tribunals and the sessions of the Permanent People’s Tribunal, Byrnes
and Simm (2018a, pp. 274–77).
3 The relationship between truth and reconciliation is complex. As Clark (2011)
argues, though it is clear that denial of truth obstructs reconciliation, whether
and to what extent the utterance of truth helps reconciliation must be further re-
searched. The author includes in her discussion an evaluation of South Africa’s
Truth and Reconciliation Commission.
4 In the ‘Movies That Matters’ festival organised by Amnesty International.
5 Indonesia has ratified the ICCPR (International Covenant on Civil and Political
Rights) and is obliged to report regularly to its Human Rights Committee in a
procedure called the Universal Periodic Review.
6 See Dolgopol (2018) and Dudden (2001) for an analysis of the Tokyo Women’s
Tribunal.
7 See Concept Note, available in the Narrative Report of the IPT 1965, written by
Nursyahbani Katjasungkana and Saskia E. Wieringa (2016).
8 This report is officially only available in summary form (KomnasHAM 2015). It
is based on over 349 detailed interviews in six regions in Indonesia. It concludes
that the Indonesian state is responsible for grave human rights violations.
9 Co-editors were Sri Lestari Wahyuningrum, the late Wijaya Herlambang, Ratna
Saptari, Annie Pohlman, and Jess Melvin.
10 Both have been involved in the PPT and in various other international, national
and hybrid tribunals and inquiries.
11 As a member of the ICCPR Human Rights Committee, Flinterman had been
involved in the Universal Periodic Review in which the Komnas HAM report
was discussed.
12 For a fuller background of the Panel of Judges of the Tribunal, see the 2016
Narrative Report, accessible via www.tribunal1965.org (Katjasungkana &
Wieringa 2016).
 The Organisation and impact of IPT 1965  39
13 Article 9 of Law No 26, Year 2000, Establishing the Ad Hoc Human Rights
Court; Article 7 of the Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court (1998);
Article 5 of the Statute of the International Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia
(1993); and Article 3 of the Statute of the International Criminal Tribunal for
Rwanda (1994).
14 See for a summary the 2016 Narrative Report (Katjasungkana & Wieringa 2016).
15 The final editing was largely completed by John Gittings and Helen Jarvis.
16 Although the full report is not yet released, the executive summary, officially
released in 2012, here cited in the 2015 version, is lengthy and gives an excellent
and detailed overview of the results of the research.
17 Komnas Perempuan (2007). The full title of Komnas Perempuan is Komisi Na-
sional anti Kekerasan terhadap Perempuan (National Commission on Violence
against Women). It was set up in 1998 after the so-called May riots of that year
in which many ethnic Chinese women were raped. It is an independent state
institution, based on Presidential Decree 181/1998, renewed by Presidential Reg-
ulations 65 and 66 of 2005.
18 www.thejakartapost.com/news/2015/01/10/lsf-moves-silence-senyap.html.
19 In the first week of October 2012, the special issues ‘Pengakuan Algojo 1965’
(Acknowledgement by Butchers of 1965) was published. In the first week of
­September 2013, a special issues on ‘LEKRA dan Geger 1965’ (LEKRA and the
Tumult in 1965) was issued. Later, Tempo published an issue on the ‘Footsteps
of the CIA in the 1965 Tragedy’ (Jejak CIA pada tragedi 1965), first week of
October 2015.
20 See, for example, www.thejakartapost.com/news/2015/10/27/jokowi-human-rights-
and-us.html.
21 Nawacita literally means ‘nine dreams.’ On the President’s inaction after the
promulgation of this grand vision, see, for instance, www.thejakartapost.com/
news/2014/12/10/time-jokowi-resolve-past-human-rights-abuse-cases.html.
22 www.thejakartapost.com/news/2015/11/05/embassy-tells-ri-students-not-attend-
1965-tribunal.html.
23 www.adakitanews.com/ormas-di-blitar-aksi-perangi-pki-gaya-baru. Accessed
July 2 2015. The flags were brand new; as the PKI does not exist any more and
it is very dangerous to produce or to be seen with such a flag, activists suspect
that the security services produced the flags as a provocation.
24 www.ifex.org/indonesia/2015/08/17/jokowi_shackle_pressfreedom/.
25 See Katjasungkana and Wieringa (2016) for several xenophobic press statements
of conservative generals. See also, for instance, <https://asiancorrespondent.
com/2016/11/xenophobia-rears-ugly-head-streets-jakarta/#ZPrUDXvITAjB
flE6.97>.
26 See, for instance, www.thejakartapost.com/academia/2016/12/22/a-case-against
-the-militarys-newfound-proxy-war-obsession.html. Strikingly, the other group
singled out for accusations of waging a proxy war against the Indonesian state
is LGBTI activists. See Wieringa (2017) for an analysis on the relation between
communist phobia and homophobia.
27 www.rappler.com/indonesia/112911-aliansi-anti-komunis-indonesia-tim-
ipt-1965.
28 See for literature on that topic Wieringa (2002, 2003, 2011) and Wieringa and
Katjasungkana (2018). On sexual violence, see Pohlman (2015).
29 There was a Panel of Judges, a team of prosecutors, a Registrar with her own
team and eye, and expert witnesses. The only element lacking was the defence.
We had asked lawyers of Leiden University to prepare an amicus curiae letter
stating the position of the Government of Indonesia, but they were unable to
do so.
40  Nursyahbani Katjasungkana and Saskia E. Wieringa
30 w w w.cnnindonesia.com /nasional/20151111181158-20 -91088/jusuf-kalla-
soal-sidang-rakyat-1965-itu-pengadilan-semu.
31 Newspaper Tempo, 21 July 2016.
32 www.suaramuhammadiyah.id/2016/07/24/mahfud-md-ipt-itu-pengadilan-
dagelan/.
33 A broader perspective on a number of People’s Tribunals can be found in Byrnes
and Simm (2018b).
34 Media statistics released at the end of November 2015: During the hearings,
32 journalists themselves registered their presence, for instance, from Antara,
Tempo, Kompas, and The Jakarta Post. The BBC, CNN, and Deutsche Welle re-
ported the trials in their Indonesian channels. During the hearings, the ranking
of IPT 1965 on YouTube was the highest, 1227 with a total number of 773 visitors.
The live stream IPT 1965 was accessed 19,802 times. The total number of visitors
to our website was 84,494 from August till November. Our website was attacked
continuously, most frequently the writings on Gerwani by Saskia ­Wieringa, with
4,966 attacks. For details, see the Narrative Report of the IPT 1965.
35 In its issue of 11 November 2015.
36 The tag IPT 1965 lists a number of testimonies, documentaries, and other prod-
ucts many of which were prepared by our media team, with English subtitles
where necessary. Narrowing down to live stream gives access to the hearings,
including the testimonies in Indonesia.
37 Lexy Rambadetta (‘Road to Justice’) and Stéphane Roland (‘The Mutes’ Solilo-
quy’) have produced documentary films on the IPT 1965.
38 See, for instance, http://time.com/4295474/indonesia-1965-1966-killings-pki-
massacre-reconciliation/.
39 See, for instance, https://nasional.kompas.com/read/2016/06/02/18240131/kivlan.
zen.biar.saya.ajari.luhut.soal.pki.
40 www.kaskus.co.id/thread/57461bdbc0d770183b8b4567/fpi-bekerjasama-
dengan-tni-siap-antisipasi-lahirnya-pki/.
41 See, for instance, a book he published with Suara Islam Press (Jakarta), entitled
Hancurkan liberalisme tegakkan syariat Islam (2011).
42 http://historia.id/modern/pertemuan-penyintas-1965-dibubarkan-­kelompok-
antidemokrasi.
43 Diane Orentlicher, Report of the independent expert to update the Set of Princi-
ples to Combat Impunity, UN Doc E/CN.4/2005/102/ Add.1, 7.
44 Louis Joinet, ‘Le rôle des archives dans la lutte contre l'impunité’ (2003) 72
Matériaux pour l'Histoire de Notre Temps 50, 50, cited in Simm (2016, pp. 250–51).
45 See Cribb (1990, 2002) for discussions on the magnitude of the massacres.
46 www.thejakartapost.com/news/2017/03/10/wiranto-backtracks-on-­h armony-
councils-purpose.html.
47 See Chapter 12 for a discussion on the arguments of Feierstein.
48 Apart from the false accusation that communist girls had castrated and mur-
dered the generals in the morning of 1 October 1965, the campaign also accused
the PKI of being against Islam and against the national philosophy.
49 See Byrnes and Simm (2018c) for an analysis of the spectrum of international
peoples’ tribunals.
50 See Feierstein (2012) for a further elaboration of these arguments.
51 Discussions are underway to digitise the evidence brought before the Panel of
Judges. See Byrnes and Simm (2018c) for a discussion on the indirect impact of
peoples’ tribunals.
52 www.thejakartapost.com/news/2016/12/23/lawmakers-want-nationalist-­figures-
for-komnas-ham.html.
53 See Wieringa and Katjasungkana (2018).
 The Organisation and impact of IPT 1965  41
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3 How the military came
to power
Jess Melvin

For the past 50 years, the Indonesian military has disguised its accountability
for the 1965–66 genocide.1 This obfuscation began with its insistence that the
‘1965 Affair,’ as events surrounding the genocide are known in Indonesia,
began with a ‘communist coup’ (Staf Angkatan Bersendjata 1966). In fact,
it was the military that launched the coup. This chapter will explain how the
military came to power. It will examine the military command structures that
existed on the eve of 1 October, before detailing how Suharto was able to take
advantage of the situation presented to him. I argue that Suharto’s actions
from 1 October represent the culmination of two distinct, yet overlapping pro-
cesses: one, a long-term plan developed by the military leadership under then
Army Commander Yani to confront and seize control of the state through
the activation of existing military command structures; and the other, a reac-
tive and largely opportunistic course of action undertaken by Suharto when
he found himself in control of the Indonesian armed forces following Yani’s
murder. This military coup led to a brutal, self-described, ‘annihilation cam-
paign’ that was centrally coordinated by the surviving national military lead-
ership under Suharto. The new information contained within this chapter
has been drawn from internal military documents, produced during the time
of the genocide. The first and only of their kind to so far be discovered, these
documents have become known as the Indonesian genocide files. Written in
the military’s own words, they break through 50 years of public misinforma-
tion.2 The IPT 1965’s findings on command responsibility behind the 1965–66
killings are, in part, based on my early analysis of these files. Since the time
of the Tribunal, I have been able to extend this analysis to provide a more
comprehensive explanation of the military’s actions nationally. The following
chapter provides an overview of these findings.

What did the military command look like on the eve

of 1 October 1965?
On the eve of 1 October 1965, the military command was headed by
Sukarno, in his position as Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces. Di-
rectly under him stood General Ahmad Yani, Commander of the Armed
 How the military came to power  45
Forces (Pangad), who had practical control over the armed forces. Since the
time of the national revolution (1945–49), the Indonesian military has been
organised along a territorial warfare structure, meaning that an internal
command, known as the Kodam (Komando Daerah Militer) command, par-
alleled civilian government down to the village level. Yani, as Commander of
the Armed Forces, had control over the Kodam territorial command struc-
ture. He also had control over a number of special command structures,
including the Komando Cadangan Strategis Angkatan Darat (Kostrad) stra-
tegic command, which was headed at the operational level by Major Gen-
eral ­Suharto, and the Resimen Para Komando Angkatan Darat (RPKAD)
Special Forces, which was headed at the operational level by Colonel Sarwo
Edhie Wibowo. Yani was additionally the Chief of Staff of the Supreme
Operations (Komando Operasi Tertinggi, KOTI) command. The KOTI com-
mand had been established in 1960. Originally created to coordinate the
military’s campaign to seize West Irian from the Dutch (known as Trikora),
the KOTI command was repurposed in 1964 to coordinate the military’s in-
volvement in the ‘Crush Malaysia’ (Ganyang Malaysia) campaign (known as
Dwikora) (Sundhaussen 1982, pp. 155–56). On 1 January 1965, the Mandala
Vigilance Command (Komando Mandala Siaga, Kolaga) was established
under the KOTI chain of command to facilitate the ­G anyang Malaysia cam-
paign at the local level (Crouch 2007, p. 78). The Commander of the KOTI
and Kolaga commands was Air Marshal Omar Dhani (who would later be-
come involved in the 30 September Movement), with Suharto as his First
Deputy. The territories of Sumatra and Kalimantan were the most heav-
ily affected by this campaign due to their physical proximity to Malaysia.
The military’s campaigns in these two territories were coordinated through
two ‘Mandala’ commands: the Mandala I command in Sumatra and the
­Mandala II command in Kalimantan.
The KOTI command was of major strategic importance to whichever po-
litical faction wished to control the military. This was because of the major
powers that it had accrued to itself. Indeed, it would appear that a long-term
struggle for control over the Indonesian state was being played out through
control over the KOTI command. The military leadership had originally
shown no interest in participating in Sukarno’s Ganyang Malaysia campaign,
which had first been supported by the Indonesian Communist Party (Partai
Komunis Indonesia, PKI). It would seem, however, that the military leader-
ship became aware that its participation in the Ganyang Malaysia campaign
could be useful. The campaign presented the military leadership with the
ability to restore to itself the powers it had lost following the conclusion of
the West Irian campaign, when martial law had been repealed nationally
(Melvin 2018, pp. 65–66). New legislation passed in September 1964, known
formally as the ‘Decision to Enhance the Implementation of Dwikora,’ pre-
sented the military leadership with new powers akin to ­Indonesia’s exist-
ing State of Military Emergency and State of War Legislation (‘Keputusan
­Peningkat’ 1964, p. 1244). Most significantly, it enabled military commanders
46  Jess Melvin
under the KOTI and Kolaga structure (specifically those in areas under the
control of the two Mandala commands) the ability to implement martial law
internally, without first having to seek approval from Sukarno. Following
the activation of Dwikora legislation in Sumatra and Kalimantan, civilian
rule was subordinated to military rule, with the local Regional Authority to
Implement Dwikora (Pepelrada), a position held by the local military com-
mander, becoming the supreme local authority under the command of the
KOTI commander nationally (Melvin 2018, pp. 68–71).
The military leadership was not the only group to be aware of the new pos-
sibilities that this legislation presented. Indeed, it is possible that Sukarno
saw the KOTI command as the route through which he would funnel fur-
ther power to left-wing forces in the country to counter the control of the
national military leadership. It would otherwise appear inconceivable that
Sukarno would knowingly consent to such an undermining of his own pow-
ers. Similarly, this can help explain why Dhani, a staunch critic of the army
leadership (Crouch 2007, p. 84), was appointed to the position of KOTI com-
mand leader by Sukarno, though this suggestion remains conjecture. Mean-
while, documents from the Indonesian genocide files show that the military
leadership was actively positioning itself to make use of these new powers.
The Mandala I commander in Sumatra, Lieutenant General Ahmad Junus
Mokoginta, was a staunch anti-communist known as Yani’s ‘right hand man’
in Sumatra (Evans 1989, p. 28). From March 1965, he began implementing
dry-run tests to mobilise the civilian population throughout Sumatra as if
the Dwikora legislation had been activated. This training, known as ‘Oper-
ation Singgalang’ (Operasi Singgalang), included exercises between civilian
militia groups and local military commands in order to institute a work-
ing chain of command able to reach down to the village level (Melvin 2018,
pp.  71–74). Participants in these training exercises in North Sumatra and
Aceh, where internal military documents and a memoir by one such civilian
militia leader have been recovered, show that these same individuals were
later mobilised by the military as its shock troops from 1 October (Melvin
2018, pp. 71–74). On 1 August 1965, the military leadership established a new
chain of command known as the Kodahan (Komando Daerah Pertahanan)
command under the KOTI command, and parallel to the Kolaga command,
to coordinate these new efforts. The military would later activate this new
chain of command during the morning of 1 October 1965, changing its name
to the Kohanda command, for the specific purpose of implementing the mil-
itary’s annihilation campaign (Kodam-I 1966, pp. 16–17).3
But how did Suharto seize control of the armed forces? It is well known
that during the early hours of 1 October, Suharto assumed the position of
Commander of the Armed Forces after he learnt that Yani had been kid-
napped by the 30 September Movement. In doing so, he did not initially step
outside official military protocol. His actions became insubordinate when
he refused to relinquish this position when ordered to do so by Sukarno
at 4pm (Roosa 2006, p. 58; Crouch 2007, p. 129). It is less well known that,
 How the military came to power  47
in addition to assuming the position of Commander of the Armed Forces,
Suharto also assumed the position of KOTI commander during the morn-
ing of 1 October. There is no record that Dhani attempted to mobilise the
KOTI command, although it was theoretically under his control as he be-
came embroiled in the actions of the 30 September Movement. This meant
that Suharto now had direct control over the Kodam territorial command;
the Kostrad command; the RPKAD, which remained headed at the oper-
ational level by Wibowo; and the KOTI, Kolaga, and Kodahan/Kohanda
commands. He was thus able to coordinate domestic military operations,
special operations, and ‘external’ operations, which included the ability to
declare martial law over large swaths of the population, without so much as
needing to request the permission of Sukarno. It was through his seizure
of these multiple chains of command that Suharto implemented his unde-
clared coup during the morning of 1 October.

Intentions of the military command and its power

struggle with the PKI
It is worth reflecting on the intentions of the military command during the
lead-up to 1 October. It is known that the military and Indonesia’s commu-
nist forces were engaged in a contest to wrest control over the Indonesian
state (Melvin 2018, pp. 62–109). This was not, however, an overt contest. The
PKI was, by early 1965, the largest communist party in the world outside the
USSR and Communist China. Like all communist parties, it desired to one
day come to power. This was not, however, its short-term aim. Similar to the
Chinese Communist Party, the PKI sought to work together with Indone-
sian nationalists to create an anti-imperialist state (Törnquist 1984). It saw
Sukarno as an ally rather than an adversary and had thus supported the end
of parliamentary democracy in 1957, despite this being its only foreseeable
peaceful road to power. Instead, the PKI positioned itself as a protector of
the Indonesian state. Aware that it could not directly confront the military,
not least due to its lack of arms, the PKI placed all its bets on the hope that
Sukarno would reward the party for its loyalty with greater influence within
his cabinet, such that the party could seize the state from within (Mortimer
1974, p.  58). This hope was not so far-fetched. A self-­declared Marxist,
Sukarno had indicated that he considered communism to be a fundamen-
tal stream within Indonesian political identity that should be protected and
allowed to grow in influence. Enshrined within his ‘­Nationalism-Religion-
communism’ (NASAKOM) policy, Sukarno proposed that Communist ide-
ology be propagated not only within Indonesia’s civil service but also within
the armed forces.4
The military leadership, meanwhile, was deeply ideologically opposed
to the spread of communism within Indonesia. Following a string of re-
gional rebellions during the 1950s and early 1960s, which had been led by
dissenting military commanders who resented the Java-centric nature of the
48  Jess Melvin
postcolonial state, the national military leadership had staved off national
disintegration by projecting this frustration against Sukarno, who was ac-
cused of being under the sway of the communists (Kahin & Kahin 1995).
Behind the scenes, this position was encouraged by the US government,
which had initially helped to arm the rebel military commanders (Kahin
& Kahin 1995, p. 170). Following the reunification of the nation’s military
leadership, the US continued this influence by offering special training to
the cream of the Indonesian officer corps at Fort Leavenworth (Evans 1989,
pp. 25–48). From January 1965, the military leadership began to develop
a plan to seize control of the state (Roosa 2006, pp. 189–91). In order to
implement this plan, the military was to establish itself as a ‘state within a
state’ and then wait for an appropriate pretext, such that the military’s ac-
tions could be portrayed as defensive rather than offensive in nature (Roosa
2006, pp. 177–78). This defensive stance was considered necessary due to the
widespread popularity of both Sukarno and the PKI.
The actions of the 30 September Movement presented the military lead-
ership with its longed-for pretext to attack the PKI. The military leadership
helped to provoke the 30 September Movement by spreading rumours that
the military was planning to launch a coup. This ‘Council of Generals’ (De-
wan Jendral) plot was the official rationale for the 30 September Movement’s
decision to move against the military leadership during the early hours of
1 October. It can be assumed, however, as John Roosa has proposed, that
the military leadership was not aware of the 30 September Movement’s
plans in advance, or, at least, that the 30 September Movement went be-
yond its original plan and acted in an improvised manner that exceeded the
bounds of what had been predicted by the military leadership, as it is highly
unlikely that the military leadership foresaw its own kidnap and murder
without acting to forestall such an eventuality (Roosa 2006, p.  129). This
curious situation, in which the military’s actions from 1 O ­ ctober appear
both pre-planned and spontaneous, and in which the military was both pre-
paring and hoping for an action that could be blamed on the communists,
while being caught off guard by just such an action, has led several scholars
to speculate that Suharto may have, in fact, orchestrated or have had fore-
knowledge of the actions of the 30 September Movement in order to dou-
ble-cross his superiors and bring himself to power. While this is possible,
I do not believe such an explanation is necessary to explain the military’s
actions from 1 October. As noted above, it is my contention that the mili-
tary’s actions from 1 October were the result of two separate but overlap-
ping processes: both a long-term plan by the military leadership under Yani
to seize control of the Indonesian state, and an opportunist and at least par-
tially spontaneous response by Suharto to events as they unfolded during
the morning of 1 October.
When the 30 September Movement kidnapped and murdered six key
members of the military leadership along with a lieutenant taken instead
of the Army Chief of Staff, General Abdul Haris Nasution, it decapitated
 How the military came to power  49
the national military leadership. In severing the national leadership of the
Kodam territorial command structure, the 30 September Movement effec-
tively broke the nation into its four component territories: Sumatra, Java,
Kalimantan, and Eastern Indonesia. It released Kostrad and the RPKAD
to act independently and decapitated the KOTI, Kolaga, and Kodahan
commands. What was it hoping to achieve by doing this? It is likely that
these most significant consequences of the Movement were unintended.
There is certainly no indication that the Movement attempted to take ad-
vantage of this situation in any meaningful way. During the morning of
1 October, the 30 September Movement asked Sukarno to replace Yani with
a more sympathetic Army Commander but it did not dictate who this re-
placement should be. Nor did it attempt to make use of the KOTI command
that was already theoretically under its control. Indeed, the Movement does
not appear to have had any specific plan for controlling the military other
than hoping that it would be swayed to support the Movement through a
last ditch announcement that sympathetic officers who came out in support
of the Movement would be rewarded with promotion (‘Decision No. 2’ 1965,
p. 139). The Movement had not planned to murder the kidnapped generals,
but rather to convince Sukarno to move against the armed forces leadership
(Roosa 2006). It was thrown into a deep and paralysing confusion when its
plans went awry.
Suharto emerged out of this vacuum of power created by the Movement’s
actions to seize not only Yani’s position of Commander of the Armed Forces,
but also to replace Yani and Dhani as KOTI commander. In conjunction
with his position as Kostrad commander, Suharto now had unparalleled
control over the armed forces. Instead of relinquishing these powers when
ordered to do so, he established himself as the uncontested kingmaker of
the moment. In doing so, he built upon the preparations made by Yani and
the national military leadership while making some adjustments of his own.
Not content to punish the handful of individuals involved in the 30 Septem-
ber Movement and enact Yani’s plan to activate martial law, he chose to
launch a bloody campaign of terror against the entire Indonesian Left such
that his reign might remain unopposed.

National coordination of the genocide

The military’s attack against the PKI was coordinated from the morning of
1 October by Suharto through his positions as Army Commander, Kostrad
commander, and KOTI commander. Until the discovery of the Indonesian
genocide files, it was believed that Suharto’s main activities on this day were
conducted through the Kostrad command, which he mobilised to rout and
then crush the 30 September Movement at the Halim air base and Merdeka
Square. These actions were localised to the city of Jakarta and began at
5.30am, when Suharto is believed to have first become aware of the actions
of the Movement (Roosa 2005, p. 59). It was likewise known that Suharto
50  Jess Melvin
acted in an overtly insubordinate manner from 4pm, when he refused to fol-
low Sukarno’s order to step down from his assumed position of Commander
of the Armed Forces. Little else, however, was known about his actions and
communications on this day other than that he subsequently issued an or-
der at 9pm declaring that ‘now [the Army] are able to control the situation
both in the centre and the regions’ (‘Pidato Radio’ 1965, pp. 59–60). It was
not known what was meant by this order as it was not known what interac-
tions Suharto had with regional military commanders on this day. It is now
known that Suharto engaged in far more extensive communications on this
day than it has previously been possible to prove.
The document trail discovered in Aceh—the most comprehensive ever
to be found from the time of the genocide—shows that communication be-
tween the surviving military leadership was much more intense than previ-
ously known. Suharto began to coordinate with regional and interregional
Kodam commanders from the early hours of 1 October, when he sent tel-
egrams to regional military commanders throughout the country declar-
ing that a coup had occurred in the capital (‘Chronologis’ 1966, p. 92). In
­Sumatra, Mokoginta, acting in his capacity as Mandala I commander un-
der the Kolaga command (Panglatu), then relayed this order to the regional
military commanders under his command, with the added instruction that
they should await further instructions from him (‘Chronologis’ 1966, p. 92).
The significance of this order is that it signalled to Kodam commanders in
­Sumatra that Dwikora legislation and thus the Kodahan command had been
activated—a fact verified by the command’s name change to the Kohanda
command during the morning of 1 October. The military’s long-term plan to
seize state power in Sumatra was now being put into action. It is significant
to note that it is possible that Mokoginta was acting out of loyalty to Yani,
rather than to Suharto, who, until that morning, was Mokoginta’s junior.
Acting under the authorisation of Suharto in Jakarta, Mokoginta would
issue his promised orders at midnight that night, declaring, ‘it is ordered…
all members of the Armed Forces resolutely and completely annihilate this
counter-revolution’ (‘Tetap tenang’ 1966, p. 152). This is the first-known ­order
issued by the military announcing that it was mandatory for the military to
‘annihilate’ the 30 September Movement. By this time, the 30 September
Movement in Jakarta had been isolated and for all practical purposes de-
feated. It had issued its final radio announcements at 2.05 and 2.10pm dur-
ing the afternoon of 1 October, while Suharto had retaken Merdeka Square
and the radio station by 6pm (‘Decision No. 1’ 1965, pp. 136–39; Roosa 2006,
p. 222).5 Regardless of whether or not the military leadership truly believed
that the 30 September Movement still presented a national security threat
during the evening of 1 October, it was abundantly clear over the next 24–
48 hours that the Movement has been effectively crushed. Yet, it is from
this time that the military began to accelerate its attack, not only against
members of the 30 September Movement, but against anyone who was con-
sidered to be identified with the PKI and Indonesia’s communist group in
 How the military came to power  51
6
general. By midnight, the military had already stated that it intended to
launch an annihilation campaign against this group. By 4 October, as will
be outlined in further detail below, the military would begin to announce
that it was mandatory for civilians to participate in the military’s annihila-
tion campaign.
It is thus clear that Suharto’s seizure of the position of Commander of the
Armed Forces was important, as it allowed him to communicate directly
with each of Indonesia’s interregional and regional military commanders.
It is also clear that the other, less well-known, military chains of command
he now controlled were just as important. A division of labour began to
develop across the country, based on the existing resources and chains of
command available. In Sumatra, it made most sense for the military leader-
ship to make use of the KOTI, Kolaga, and Kodahan/Kohanda commands,
under the Sumatra-wide leadership of Mokoginta. Internal US embassy files
produced during the time of the genocide suggest Sumatra was being used
as a ‘test case’ by the military at this time, as it was the area where the mil-
itary had the greatest freedom of operation due to its ability to internally
implement martial law (Melvin 2017b). The fact that Suharto did not openly
declare a coup on 1 October can, I believe, be largely attributed to the fact
that this was made unnecessary by his ability to seize such wide control
over the armed forces and—through these commands—control such large
sections of the civilian population.
On Java and Bali, the military coordinated its attack through the K ­ ostrad
and RPKAD commands. These special commands were, by nature, highly
mobile. They were also able to operate independently of local Kodam com-
mands, which, in places on Java at least, were considered to have been
compromised by sympathy towards the 30 September Movement. The only
area nationally where local military commands came out in support of the
30 September Movement was Central Java (Roosa 2006, p. 222). Both Bali
and North Sumatra hosted PKI-affiliated governors; they did not, however,
pledge their support for the Movement. While Kostrad was used primarily
to put down the 30 September Movement in the capital, the RPKAD under
Wibowo was used, first, to assist in the crushing of the Movement, before it
was used to spearhead the military’s subsequent annihilation campaign in
Central Java from 18 October (Roosa 2006, p. 222). In December, the RP-
KAD would move on to Bali (Crouch 2007, p. 154). Wibowo was addition-
ally tasked with coordinating a national network of civilian death squads
that helped to lead the military’s annihilation campaign around the country
(Melvin 2018, p. 300).
When it came to military operations in Kalimantan and Eastern Indone-
sia, Kalimantan, like Sumatra, possessed its own Mandala command under
the KOTI and Kolaga commands. Yet, although the Mandala II command
under Major General Maraden Panggabean possessed the same operational
potential as the Mandala I command, it does not appear that the military’s
annihilation campaign began in earnest in the territory until October 1967
52  Jess Melvin
(Davidson 2008, pp. 60–80; Komnas HAM 2012, p. 185). This outbreak of
violence occurred relatively late and was aimed primarily against the ar-
ea’s Chinese population. Similarly, the military’s annihilation campaign in
Eastern Indonesia did not begin until December 1965 (Lamasitudju 2014;
McGregor, Melvin & Pohlman 2018, p. 13). The reason for this delayed
start appears to be the diminished strategic importance of these areas to
the central government. Both Sumatra and Java were the nation’s two key
population and economic centres. Sumatra, in particular, due to its large
plantation economy and oil reserves, was closely integrated into the interna-
tional, capitalist economy.7 Sumatra and Java thus became the primary fo-
cus of the military’s initial attack. Bali, a well-known PKI hotspot, became
the priority of the military’s second-wave attack.
By late 1965, an attempt was made at the national level to centralise
the military’s annihilation campaign. Suharto established the Operations
Command to Restore Security and Order (KOPKAMTIB) on 6 December
(Komnas HAM 2012, p. 163).8 Although the KOPKAMTIB command has
received much attention for its role in coordinating Suharto’s attack, it was,
in fact, irrelevant to the early initiation and coordination of the military’s
annihilation campaign. The worst of the killings in Aceh, for example, were
over by the time KOPKAMTIB was established in Sumatra. That the mili-
tary should choose to coordinate its annihilation campaign through a series
of semiautonomous and territory-specific military chains of command does
not lessen the centralised nature of military coordination behind the geno-
cide. Nor is such a multi-chain of command approach unique to Indonesia.
To provide only the most well-known example, the Nazi Holocaust was also
coordinated through a number of different military chains of command
that operated semiautonomously in their various areas of operation.9 Not
only is it now clear that Suharto played a central coordinating role behind
the military’s annihilation campaign, it is also clear that this coordination
was replicated at the local level before local level decisions were relayed back
up the chain of the command. The Indonesian genocide files show a so-
phisticated system of two-way communications that reached from Suharto
as Commander of the Armed Forces and de facto arbiter of the Indone-
sian state down to the village level in even the most rural and isolated areas
of Aceh: a pattern that can be expected to have been repeated around the
country. It is also now possible to prove, from examination of these same
documents, that the military clearly understood its ‘annihilation campaign’
to be a national campaign (Melvin 2018, pp. 298–302).

From intent to actuality: phases in the military’s

annihilation campaign
The fact that the national military command under Suharto issued state-
ments from 1 October declaring its intent to annihilate Indonesia’s com-
munist group is not, by itself, able to explain the scale and intensity of the
 How the military came to power  53
subsequent killings. These statements needed to be disseminated down to
the local level, and coordination was required to mobilise not only local mil-
itary personnel but also local civilian groups to participate in the killings.
Indeed, it is possible to see four clear phases in the military’s annihilation
campaign as it was implemented in Aceh province, the only area so far where
detailed records of the military’s internal communications from the time of
the killings have been recovered. The first of these phases was an initiation
phase, which began on 1 October and continued for the first two weeks of
this month; the second phase was a period of public violence, which began
on 7 October; the third was the phase of systematic mass killings, which, be-
ginning on 14 October, can be understood as the genocide proper; before a
fourth and final consolidation phase that lasted into 1966. During this final
phase, civilian participants in the killings were demobilised as the military
turned into attention towards governing (Melvin 2018, pp. 290–95).
During the first, initiation phase, the military leadership communicated
its orders to launch an annihilation campaign. These orders were passed
down the military chain of command to the village level. Civilian govern-
ment was also brought under the control of the military as coordinating
meetings were held at the provincial, district, and sub-district levels. It was
at one of these coordinating meetings on 4 October in Banda Aceh that
Aceh’s top executive body, the Aceh Pantja Tunggal (which had been placed
under military control from 1 October), declared it was mandatory for civil-
ians to participate in the military’s annihilation campaign (‘Pengumuman’
1965). Aceh’s military commander, Djuarsa, helped to coordinate these
meetings throughout the province. He engaged in a coordination tour be-
tween 4 and 8 October for this purpose (Melvin 2018, pp. 138–61). In each
district, the military leadership met first, before the military leadership met
with the local civilian leadership. A public meeting would then be called,
usually in a sports field, where the local civilian population was ordered to
participate in the military’s annihilation campaign; there they were warned
that if they did not assist the military, they themselves could expect to be
targeted for attack (Melvin 2018). In each of Aceh’s districts, public killings
began after these coordination meetings: in no area did killings erupt before
these coordination meetings were held.
Similar coordination can be seen during the second phase of public kill-
ings. Following the public meetings called by Aceh’s military commander,
public demonstrations were held in each of Aceh’s districts. These demon-
strations, held under the watchful eye of the local military leadership,
marched on the offices and homes of suspected communists and quickly
descended into pogrom actions (Melvin 2018, pp. 162–93). These offices and
homes were often ransacked and burnt, while their occupants were driven
out into the streets. Some were killed by the demonstrators, and their bodies
left in the streets. Others were abducted by civilian militia groups and taken
to be detained and tortured before they were killed, and their bodies like-
wise dumped in the streets (‘Death Map’; Kodam-I 1966, pp. 6–7). Civilian
54  Jess Melvin
perpetrators from this time explain that the military, despite ordering ci-
vilians to participate in the military’s ‘annihilation campaign,’ attempted
to distance itself from this first phase of violence, either by refusing to ac-
cept the detainees—telling the militia groups that they should ‘deal’ with
the detainees themselves—or by encouraging targeted individuals to sur-
render themselves to the military as a means of escaping the violence on
the streets (Melvin 2018, pp. 166–71). Contradicting this public stance, the
military established a large network of civilian death squads and militia
groups during this period and armed these groups with machine guns for
the explicit purpose of carrying out the military’s annihilation campaign
(‘Pertahanan Sipil’ 1966). As noted above, it appears that this national web
of death squads was coordinated by Wibowo in his position as RPKAD
commander. Large-scale arrest campaigns were also conducted during this
period for the purpose of bringing surviving members of the PKI and other
individuals associated with Indonesia’s communist group into military cus-
tody, where they were held in military-controlled jails and other govern-
ment-owned buildings (Melvin 2017a, p. 498). As a consequence, not only
was violence normalised during this period, but the military now found it-
self with a large detainee population which it needed to decide how to deal
with. The military chose to systematically murder this prison population.
The military became directly involved in the killings from 14 October.
Under the cover of darkness, truckloads of detainees were transported from
the above-mentioned military jails and government buildings throughout
the province to killing sites. Detainees were systematically killed there, of-
ten directly by the military or by its civilian proxies by being shot by firing
squad or decapitated (Melvin 2017a, pp. 498–99). The bodies were routinely
buried in mass graves dug by surrounding civilian populations, dumped
off cliff faces, or thrown into rivers. Similar patterns in these systematic
killings can be seen not only throughout Aceh, but throughout Indonesia
­(McGregor, Melvin & Pohlman 2018, pp. 13–15). It was this aspect of the kill-
ings that was most widely known to the international community as stories
of public killings and night-time executions began to trickle out of Indonesia
from the late 1960s and especially from the early 1990s, though the specif-
ics of how the military coordinated and implemented the killings remained
unknown (Rey 1966; McVey & Anderson 1971; Cribb 1991). Indeed, until
the discovery of the Indonesian genocide files, it was unknown whether the
military had produced any written orders during the time of the killings.10
In Aceh, as the genocide files show, the start of direct military involvement
and the beginning of systematic killings coincided with the establishment
of a ‘War Room’ by Djuarsa on 14 October (Melvin 2018, pp. 194–240). The
stated purpose of this ‘War Room’ was to enable the local military command
to ‘carry out non-conventional war in accordance with the Concept of Terri-
torial Warfare [and enabled it to] succeed in annihilating them ­[Indonesia’s
communist group] together with the people’ ­(Kodam-I 1966, p. 17). It is thus
now possible to prove that the genocide in Aceh was conducted as official
 How the military came to power  55
state policy. The creation of this War Room was not kept secret. News of
its creation was transmitted back up the national chain of command to
­Suharto.11 It can be assumed that similar orders were issued in other regions
of Indonesia.
The killings in Aceh were brought to an end in December 1966, after both
Djuarsa and Mokoginta toured the province (Melvin 2018, pp. 226–29). The
killings, it was ascertained, had achieved their purpose of destroying In-
donesia’s communist group and terrorising the remaining population into
submission to military rule. A second wave of violence would erupt in early
1966, aimed specifically at Aceh’s Chinese community, who were targeted
for killings and mass expulsion (Melvin 2018, pp. 246–64). This second wave
of violence was led by civilian militia groups who resented being told to de-
mobilise by the military. This violence was brought to an end when Djuarsa
forcibly expelled Aceh’s Chinese population from the province and brought
key civilian militia leaders into leadership positions within the new regime.12
In other areas of Indonesia, where the killings had been less intense,13 once
the military’s main target group had been destroyed, the mass killings tran-
sitioned into long-term detention of second- and third-tier target groups.14 It
is believed that approximately one million political prisoners (known in In-
donesia as ‘tapol,’ an abbreviation of tahanan politik or ‘political prisoner’)
were detained nationally, many of whom were tortured during this period
(van der Kroef 1967; Komnas HAM 2012). Most tapol were released during
the 1970s after a sustained campaign by international human rights groups,
though some would remain in detention until the 1990s.15
Although the files discovered in Aceh provide more internal documen-
tation of the killings in that region than in other areas of Indonesia, there
is every indication that the killings in other areas were just as coordi-
nated. Indeed, not only do the documents from Aceh show that the killings
throughout Sumatra were coordinated, they provide evidence that from
1 October, ultimate chain of command responsibility for the killings lay
with Suharto. Not only was Suharto informed of developments in the re-
gion, the military’s entire annihilation campaign was conceptualised as a
national campaign. Not once, in the thousands of pages of documents that
have now been recovered and analysed, is the military’s annihilation cam-
paign depicted as a regional campaign. Instead, it is consistently described
as a campaign intended to secure the entire Indonesian state from the per-
ceived threat of a communist coup.
It is now clear that it was the military itself that conducted the actual
coup on 1 October. In mobilising the KOTI, Kolaga, and Kohanda chains
of command in Sumatra, unleashing Kostrad against the Movement in the
capital, and the RPKAD against key population centres in Java and Bali
(before activating the KOPKAMTIB chain of command to centrally coordi-
nate the military’s campaign nationally, including in Kalimantan and East-
ern Indonesia, from 6 December), Suharto enacted the military’s long-term
plan to wrest control over the Indonesian state as a whole. The actions of the
56  Jess Melvin
30 September Movement during the morning of 1 October not only acted as
the pretext for this military coup, they launched this plan into hyperdrive,
allowing the military to not only seek further control for itself but to bru-
tally murder anyone who might stand in its way.

Conclusion
In seeking to understand how the military came to power, it is vital to under-
stand the resources it had available to it during the lead-up to 1 ­October. It
is also important to understand the military’s plans prior 1 October to seize
state power for itself. Not only had the military leadership been waiting for
a pretext event for it to launch its own bid for power, it had been actively
preparing the KOTI, Kolaga, and Kodahan/Kohanda chains of command
to act as a mechanism through which the military could declare martial
law without first having to seek the permission of Sukarno. Although the
military leadership under Yani was caught off guard by the actions of the
30 September Movement, this potentially catastrophic severing of the mili-
tary’s national leadership did not succeed in freezing the surviving military
leadership, as the 30 September Movement had hoped. Indeed, surviving
military commanders under the Kodam, Kostrad, RPKAD, and KOTI
structures continued to function with renewed determination under the
leadership of Suharto. The utter failure of the 30 September Movement to
achieve its goal of halting a military coup, while ironically intensifying the
coup it sought to forestall, should serve as a reminder of the capacity of the
Indonesian military. Enabled though its territorial warfare structure and
radical politicisation, the Indonesian armed forces was able to operate at
every level of Indonesian society to seize power for itself. By 1 October, the
Indonesian military had established itself as a ‘state within a state.’ Suharto
did not declare a military coup on the morning of 1 October because he had
no need to. Although the military justified its subsequent annihilation cam-
paign as necessary to halt a ‘communist coup,’ it was, in fact, the military
that launched the coup on 1 October 1965.

Notes
1 This chapter builds on the ‘Responsibility and Chain of Command’ section in
the ‘Final Report of the IPT 1965.’
2 I discovered the Indonesian genocide files in the former Indonesian Intelligence
Agency’s archives in Banda Aceh in 2010 during research for my doctoral the-
sis. I was additionally sent a copy of the ‘Complete Yearly Report’ (Laporan
Tahunan Lengkap) of the Aceh military command for the year 1965 by my col-
league Douglas Kammen. A full account of how these documents were discov-
ered, along with an analysis of their content, can be found in Melvin (2018).
3 The command’s name change was presumably implemented to indicate that the
command had been activated. That it was activated on this morning, at a time
when the military leadership was ostensibly still deciding how to react, suggests
the military’s actions were, at least in part, pre-planned.
 How the military came to power  57
4 The PKI described this campaign as ‘Nasakomisation in all fields’ (Crouch 2007,
pp. 87–88).
5 Radio communications would later become a central component of the mili-
tary’s propaganda campaign. To assist in this effort, the US government sup-
plied the military leadership with state-of-the-art mobile radios, flown in from
Clark Airbase in the Philippines, in late 1965. This occurred after the majority
of events discussed in this chapter.
6 For a discussion of the composition of Indonesia’s communist group and how
it might constitute a protected group under the 1948 Genocide Convention, see
Melvin (2018, pp. 43–46).
7 As noted above, anti-communist elements within the national military leader-
ship, along with their allies in the US government, had previously attempted to
separate Sumatra from Java in an attempt to ‘stem’ their losses should Java fall
to the communists.
8 Suharto first announced his intention to establish the KOPKAMTIB on 10
­October 1965.
9 Four battalion-sized (Einsatzgruppen) killing units, for example, were deployed
from 1941 in the Soviet Union. Each of these units reported directly to the Reich
Main Office in Berlin. These units were not used outside this territory (Rozett &
Spector 2013, pp. 201–202).
10 Crouch, for example, proposed in 1978: ‘Suharto did not send formal, written
orders instructing [regional military commanders] on how to deal with the PKI’
(2007, pp. 141–42). Cribb echoed this statement in 2010 (p. 453).
11 The War Room was implemented through an ‘Instruction’ issued by Djuarsa,
acting in the position of Pangdahan ‘A’ (Instru-1/10/1965 tanggal 14-10-1965) un-
der the KOTI/Kohanda commands.
12 This expulsion order was issued by Djuarsa on 8 May 1966 (Coppel 1983, p. 69).
13 Adjusted for population size, the intensity of killings seen in Aceh was similar
to that in Central Java, one of the worst affected areas nationally (Melvin 2018,
pp. 298–99).
14 A formal list of organisations deemed to be ‘affiliated’ with the PKI was signed
by Suharto on 31 May 1966. This list included groups that were not officially
affiliated with the PKI, such as the Indonesian Women’s Movement (Gerwani)
and the Consultative Body for Indonesian Citizenship (Baperki). (‘Keputusan
Presiden’ 1966, pp. 190–94).
15 Former political prisoners (‘ex-tapol’) continue to face discrimination to this day
(Bedner 2015).

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sah dalam memimpin Pemerintahan Kabupaten Aceh Utara mulai April 1965 s/d
Mei 1965 disampaikan dalam Sidang Paripurna ke 1/1966 DPRD-GR Kabupaten
Aceh Utara di Lhokseumawe, tanggal 15 Juni 196[6].
 How the military came to power  59
‘Pidato Radio Pimpinan Sementara Angkatan Darat Major Djendral Soeharto’,
Pimpinan Sementara AD Republik Indonesia, Major Djeneral Soeharto, 1 Octo-
ber 1965, in Dinuth, A (ed.) 1997, Dokumen Terpilih Sekitar G.30.S/PKI, Intermasa,
Jakarta.
Rey, L 1966, ‘Dossier of the Indonesian drama’, New Left Review, vol. 36, no. 1,
April, pp. 26–40.
Roosa, J 2006, Pretext for mass murder: the September 30th movement and Suharto’s
Coup d’Etat in Indonesia, University of Wisconsin, Madison, WI.
Rozett, R & Spector S 2013, Encyclopaedia of the holocaust, Routledge, New York.
Staf Angkatan Bersendjata 1966, 40 Hari Kegagalan ‘G.30.S’: 1 Oktober-10 Novem-
ber 1965, Pusat Sedjarah Angkatan Bersendjata, Jakarta.
Sundhaussen, U 1982, The road to power: Indonesian military politics, 1945–1967,
Oxford University Press, Kuala Lumpur.
‘Tetap tenang dan penuh kewaspadaan terhadap setiap anasir jang merusak dan
ingin menghantjurkan Pantjasila-Revolusi Negara dan Bangsa Kita, baik dari
luar maupun dari dalam’, in Letdjen AJ. Mokoginta 1966, Koleksi Pidato2/ Kebid-
jaksanaan Panglima Daerah Sumatra, Koanda Sumatera, Medan.
Törnquist, O 1984, Dilemmas of third world communism: the destruction of the PKI
in Indonesia, Zed Books, London.
4 Mass torture in 1965–66
A continuing legacy
Galuh Wandita, Indria Fernida,
and Karen Campbell-Nelson

Sujilah was an 18-year-old student when she was first arrested and tortured
as part of the anti-communist purges that began in 1965. She was eventually
released but arrested and tortured again in 1969 at which time she was preg-
nant with her second child.

I was bombarded with questions: ‘Were you involved in the killings of

the generals?’ I kept answering that I didn’t know … Then I was beaten,
burned with cigarettes. My hand was burned with a cigarette, then I was
hit with a doorknob, and was stripped naked … [In 1969] they told me to
take off my clothes, and began to shout out instructions. They shouted,
‘Sideways, on your back, on your stomach.’ [Then they] touched me
everywhere, stripped me, while I was three months pregnant.
(Wandita et al. 2015, p. 43)

Those who study, document, and defend human rights may unwittingly suc-
cumb to a hierarchy of violations in which genocide trumps all. This may
be the case with the anti-communist purges in Indonesia that began in 1965.
A preoccupation with ‘proving genocide’ may eclipse other serious crimes
that occurred and whose legacy continues, such as torture. A study of the
breadth and forms of torture and ill treatment by Indonesian security forces
in 1965 helps us to better understand its reproduction in subsequent armed
conflicts that have contributed to a culture of impunity and a weak judicial
system in Indonesia.
Since 2014, Asia Justice and Rights (AJAR) and partner non-­governmental
organisations (NGOs) have been compiling testimonies of torture and ill
treatment experienced by victims detained during the 1965 atrocities.1 By
gathering interviews from different areas of Indonesia—­Lampung in South
Sumatera; Jakarta, Bogor, Tangerang, and Bekasi in West Java; Yogyakarta
in Central Java; Kutai Kartanegara and Balikpapan in East Kalimantan;
Central Sulawesi; Minahasa in North Sulawesi; Bali; Kupang in East Nusa
Tenggara; and Buru Island in Maluku—we were able to get a bird’s eye view
of a practice that has become entrenched in Indonesian society.
 Mass torture in 1965– 66  61
In this chapter, we outline the findings of the project, which were given as
evidence to the Prosecutor for the International People’s Tribunal for 1965.
These findings were used to support the charge of torture as a crime against
humanity in the indictment against the Indonesian state. The data collected
and presented to the Prosecutor shows clear evidence of the systemic abuse
of political prisoners at the hands of Indonesia’s security forces and their
proxies following the 30 September 1965 coup. We then outline the forms of
abuse perpetrated and the long-term impacts on survivors and their fami-
lies, drawing on the testimonies of those who participated in our research
throughout. Finally, we reflect on the stagnation of transitional justice in
contemporary Indonesia and the failures of the current regime to redress
these past acts of violence and their legacy of impunity. We argue that the
work of the 1965 People’s Tribunal, as well as other civil society initiatives,
forms critical steps in demanding accountability for the many crimes com-
mitted in 1965, including the widespread and systematic torture of detainees.

Documenting torture and ill treatment in 1965

The evidence gathered and presented by AJAR for the Prosecutor covered
the experiences of survivors and witnesses, and gave detailed information
on the forms of torture and the perpetrators who committed these acts of
violence. Torture and many forms of prohibited ill treatment were perpe-
trated routinely and systematically against political detainees (known as
tapol, an abbreviation of tahanan politik, or political prisoner) rounded up
and illegally imprisoned following the 30 September 1965 coup. Detainees
were held for their alleged connections to the Indonesian Communist Party
(Partai Komunis Indonesia, PKI) and for their supposed ‘involvement in the
30 September Movement’ (see van der Kroef 1976; Fealy 1995). Hundreds
of thousands were illegally detained in the waves of arrests that began in
October 1965 and continued on through to the early 1970s, carried out un-
der the supervision of the military’s newly created Operational Command
for the Restoration of Security and Order (KOPKAMTIB) (Tapol 1976;
­Flanagan & Southwood 1983).
As part of the work to document the experiences of survivors from the
1965 period, we began this project to investigate the forms of torture and ill
treatment used against political detainees. In conjunction with AJAR and
partner NGOs, we began compiling information about torture and ill treat-
ment during political detention through interviews with survivors and wit-
nesses. To date, we have collected information on 295 victims of torture and
ill treatment—235 males (79.7%) and 60 females (20.3%). The data includes
215 cases of forced labour, 9 cases of rape or other forms of sexual violence
(all women victims), and 7 cases of extortion in order to secure release from
detention. Of these, 173 victims had to regularly report to authorities upon
release, while 31 reported that they experienced discrimination. Most of
62  Galuh Wandita et al.
Table 4.1  Perpetrators of torture identified in victims’ testimonies

Perpetrators of Torture

Military Police Prosecutors Civilian Groups

240 51 3 32

the men were victims of forced labour, particularly those detained on Buru
I­ sland; in North and Central Sulawesi; in Yogyakarta, Central Java; and in
East Kalimantan.
From the information provided by the 295 victims’ testimonies, 326 per-
petrators of torture and ill treatment were mentioned. The perpetrators can
be categorised into different groups as seen in Table 4.1.
From this evidence, it is clear that the overwhelming majority of perpe-
trators of torture and ill treatment during this period were members of the
security forces. Civilian groups did not feature consistently in victims’ tes-
timonies and, compared to state actors, were a significant minority of the
perpetrators reported.

The systematic and widespread nature of torture and ill

treatment
From the evidence gathered, we have concluded that members of the
­I ndonesian security forces and civilian militia groups ordered, con-
doned, encouraged, and participated in the widespread and systematic
torture of detainees. Most of the victims suffered arbitrary arrest and
detention without trial. Sometimes victims died as a direct result of the
torture they experienced and sometimes as a result of injuries sustained
during torture that were left untreated. One victim spoke of a detainee
friend who committed suicide after witnessing the brutal torture of an-
other detainee.
Victims were tortured in order to obtain information, and to punish,
threaten, humiliate, and intimidate them or others who shared their polit-
ical allegiance (or were suspected of doing so). They were accused of plot-
ting rebellion against the government and being members of the PKI or its
affiliates, including Gerwani (the Indonesian Women’s Movement).2 The
victims were also tortured to force them to change their political loyalties.
Torture and ill treatment also occurred outside detention sites. For ex-
ample, victims were assaulted in public spaces, in their homes, in fields and
other places of work, or during the journey to a detention location. Torture
and other cruel, inhuman, and degrading treatment usually took place when
detainees first arrived at a detention centre or during interrogation. It was
perpetrated in cells, in front of other detainees, and in specific interrogation
rooms or buildings (Roosa 2008; Pohlman 2015).
 Mass torture in 1965– 66  63
Women victims experienced sexual violence such as rape or attempted
rape, sexual harassment, forced nudity, being accused of prostitution, and
other sexual forms of torture and ill treatment. For some, this sexual vio-
lence caused serious injury and trauma. Most women victims were accused
of being Gerwani members. Gerwani was targeted because some of its
members were accused of being involved in the murder of army generals as
part of the so-called attempted communist coup. The women were beaten,
stripped, and groped as soldiers claimed to be searching for a communist
hammer and sickle tattoo on their bodies (see Komnas Perempuan 2007;
Pohlman 2015). One victim spoke out about her experience of sexualised
torture at a public hearing of the National Coalition of Justice and Truth
(KKPK) with the theme ‘Violence against Women,’ held in Jakarta on 25
November 2013:

During the investigation (in 1968) I was stripped naked on a table.

They burned my pubic hair and the hair on my head. I passed out
and when I woke up I was herded to the Military Police Corp jail in
Yogyakarta at four in the morning. I was put in a cell and handcuffed
to a man who was in there. On the second day we were interrogated to-
gether. They said whether we confessed or not we were political agita-
tors and we would be forced to admit that we were PKI. They stripped
both of us. I was ordered to sit on his lap naked, or confess. Then they
picked me up and put me on his lap in a sexual position. They laughed
in satisfaction.
One time when I was called back (in 1971), I was forced to confess
that I had implemented political guerrilla acts. In that interrogation
I faced great inhumanity; I was stripped and my head was forced down.
They ordered me to kiss their genitals one by one, all eight people in the
room. My spirit was broken and I couldn’t walk, but they forced me to.
Then they lay me down in the middle of the room and shaved my head.
I couldn’t do anything but beg the Lord for strength.

The use of torture and other cruel, inhuman, and degrading treatment by
security forces during the 1965 atrocities was common. From the informa-
tion contained in survivors’ accounts, we know that victims were

• Kicked, including around the head, eyes, face, hands, and feet, usually
by men wearing heavy military or police boots;
• Punched and slapped;
• Beaten with an object: objects included belts, large wooden rulers,
wooden clubs, tree branches, rattan, rifle butts, electric cables, chains,
the tail of a stingray, and a stick covered in barbwire. Some victims were
forced to beat one another;
• Electrocuted: victims received electric shocks, including by being forced
to sit on an electrified chair;
64  Galuh Wandita et al.
• Forced to work without rest: victims were forced, for example, to farm
in gardens and rice paddies; build roads; dig trenches; clear forest; work
on construction sites, including building a dam; and work in the houses
of security personnel;
• Whipped;
• Crushed: victims’ toes were placed under the leg of a chair or table that
one or more people then sat on;
• Subjected to having their hair pulled;
• Forced to eat hot chilli peppers and rotten, dirty food, sometimes mixed
with rocks or glass shards;
• Soaked in a river or cold water;
• Burned: victims reported being burned on their cheeks and fingers with
cigarette butts;
• Stoned: some victims were stoned with pebbles and rocks; and
• Subjected to sexual violence: women victims experienced rape or at-
tempted rape, sexual harassment, groping, and being stripped naked.

In addition to physical abuse, detainees were subjected to mental and psy-

chological cruelty that included the following:

• Arrest without trial;

• Indefinite detention without access to family and friends;
• Extended periods in solitary confinement in dark cells with poor
ventilation;
• Verbal abuse that included insults (degrading remarks about a victim’s
religion), threats (threatening to torture victims in front of other vic-
tims), harassment, intimidation, and scolding;
• Interrogation under the threat of a drawn sword or traditional dagger;
• Interrogation or torture in a room with blood-spattered walls;
• Forcing victims to beat one another;
• Sexual abuse including sexual harassment, being stripped naked, being
accused of prostitution;
• Torture of other victims in an adjoining room so that screaming and
other sounds of the torture were clearly audible to victims;
• Being forced to clean up urine or faeces;
• Being forced to view the bodies of other victims who had been tortured
and killed; and
• Detention in a small, empty cell without proper light, ventilation, or
sleeping mat.

These practices of mass torture and ill treatment were reproduced by

I­ ndonesian security forces in conflict areas at other times during its his-
tory. As we discuss below, the forms of torture perpetrated routinely against
those detained in 1965 were often replicated during the conflicts in East
Timor and in Aceh.
 Mass torture in 1965– 66  65
Ongoing discrimination against victims after release
Authorities often exercised extortion, such as a demand for payment in cash
or kind, upon a victim’s release. Once released, most victims still had to
report to authorities on a regular basis, sometimes for years, and were also
forced to make payments to them. Furthermore, official government poli-
cies restricted the access of victims and their families to jobs, education, and
social services. In 1981, the Ministry of the Interior issued an instruction
(No. 32/1981) that called upon provincial governors and local administra-
tive officials, in coordination with security forces, to conduct surveillance
and reconstruction of all aspects of victims’ lives, including their attitude;
behaviour; and all social-cultural, political, and economic activities (Birks
2006). For decades, victims suffered discrimination; they were prohibited
from voting and from pursuing professions such as the civil service, mili-
tary, teaching, and journalism. They were also prohibited from engaging
in normal civic activities such as meeting with other survivors. The homes,
land, businesses, and/or government pensions of many victims were confis-
cated and never returned. They were also subjected to heavy surveillance
and travel restrictions. Under various policies, victims of 1965 suffered from
purgings of Indonesia’s civil service and government agencies, ideological
screening, vetting, and disenfranchisement (see Flanagan & Southwood
1983; Asia Watch 1988; Heryanto 2006).
Survivors continue to suffer physical trauma resulting from ill health and
socio-economic deprivation as a consequence of their previous torture and
ill treatment. Many of those who took part in our research spoke about the
long-term physical, psychological, and emotional trauma. Some have ur-
gent needs that are not being addressed; for example, they have not received
medical assistance and trauma counselling for injuries resulting from vio-
lence, torture, and detention.
Discrimination against victims continued throughout the New Order.
They also received a stamp on their identity cards that marked them as for-
mer political prisoners, had their marriage certificates marked as ‘detain-
ees of the Communist/30th September Movement,’ and were not permitted
to vote or run for political office. They often faced great difficulties in ob-
taining study and work opportunities. Victims’ ownership documents and
certificates for houses, land, and farms were also confiscated by military
officers. In some cases, they were forced to sign a letter stating they had
given their land to the state.
The labelling and stigmatisation of the 1965 victims were established
through the teaching of an undisputed version of history in Indonesian
schools, and perpetuated in popular culture through memorials and a
state-commissioned film. This film, entitled The Betrayal of the 30th Sep-
tember Movement/PKI (Noer 1984), was televised annually and its message
incorporated into the standardized school curriculum (Sen & Hill 2000,
p. 148). Since the start of Reformasi in 1998, the film is no longer officially
66  Galuh Wandita et al.
shown. However, since the campaign in 2015 to push for acknowledgement
around the 50th commemoration of these atrocities, military officers, with
support from militant anti-communist groups, have sought to revive a fear
of communism by showing the film again (Mukti 2015).

Generational impact of unlawful detention, torture,

and ill treatment
Family members such as the spouses and children of communists or alleged
communists also suffered discrimination (ICTJ, IKOHI & KKPK 2011).
AJAR’s documentation of women’s and men’s experiences of 1965-related
torture, intergenerational discrimination, and victims’ struggles to survive
make clear that these traumas have had a lasting impact on their families.
Findings based on participatory research with hundreds of survivors con-
firm that the practice of torture in 1965 bears a legacy.

Survivors of past abuses continue to suffer discrimination, poverty, psy-

chological trauma and health issues long after their release. Thousands
of survivors of torture from the 1965 atrocities continue to struggle on
their own against ongoing discrimination in politics and society as they
become increasingly elderly and infirm.
(AJAR & KontraS April 2016, p. 7)

AJAR’s 2016 joint submission to the Special Rapporteur on Torture includes

a sample of case studies that document experiences of torture and their leg-
acy. One participant in our research, ‘BU,’ describes how he dropped out of
school when his father was arrested as a communist supporter. BU was later
arrested and tortured in North Jakarta.

I was shocked … they wrapped a cord on my left and right index fin-
gers; the cable was connected to some sort of engine battery. [The shock
caused] an unusual taste and I became unconscious. My armpits felt
like they were being hit repeatedly. My clothes were stripped [off]. I was
also beaten and whipped. They used rattan, the tail of a stingray, and
chains to hit me.
(AJAR 2016b, Appendix case study, p. 9)

Due to poor nutrition, forced labour, and torture, BU was unable to walk
for a period of time during his detention. As with the majority of 1965
detainees, his identity card was also marked with ‘ET,’ eks tapol, former
political prisoner. This branded him for continual discrimination after his
release.
A particularly significant finding from AJAR’s research is that most
1965 torture victims were economically disadvantaged even before
they suffered conflict-related violence. The experience of torture and
 Mass torture in 1965– 66  67
systematic discrimination as former political prisoners, however, made
their poverty even worse.

The loss of family (especially husbands, fathers or sons), destruction

of property, lack of access to land and livelihoods, and exclusion from
educational and employment opportunities, and basic services all un-
dermined their socioeconomic wellbeing. The impact has often ex-
tended over many years, if not decades.
(AJAR 2015, p. 344)

Kina (Frankina) Boboy’s story describes the intergenerational impact on

family members of detainees and how the vicious cycle of poverty—and lim-
ited access to justice— exacerbates the negative effects on women victims.
Kina’s father was arrested in October 1965 as an alleged member of the PKI.
Although his detention was brief, he was essentially held under house arrest
for many years. Kina’s story of survival as a teenage girl who had to support
her family marks the beginning of a lifetime of hard labour. Because of her
father’s status as a former political prisoner, she and her sisters lost access to
his land that was appropriated by distant male relatives.

[After his arrest and release, my father] was not allowed to work outside
the house. If they saw him, they could beat him to death. Mama was
nursing the baby. I was 15 years old. That’s why I had to be the father.
I worked in the rice paddies and broke land. Just imagine a tall sugar
palm … I had to connect two pieces of bamboo [and lash them to the
trunk] so I could climb to the top [to tap its sap]. I had to earn a living,
working like an adult … I took bananas and firewood to sell in Kupang
… I went by boat from Pariti. Because I worked like that I usually wore
shorts like a young boy … At the time there was an exceptionally harsh
famine, but I tried, so I could provide enough food.
We were always considered PKI. I felt like we were powerless … We
were forbidden from church. I approached the pastor … ‘What is the
reason we are forbidden to attend church?’ He started crying and an-
swered, ‘It is a matter of the state.’ When I went to church, people said,
‘What is the PKI child going to church for?’ Once I asked my father,
‘What have we done wrong? What is the PKI?’
… We were always hated; I don’t know what we did wrong. People
always scoffed at us, our lives, our income, even the education of our
children. But I remained staunch and calm because I know that when
you lean on God there is always a way out. When I became old in the
1980s, my husband and I still faced this burden. But we do not feel de-
prived even though we were hated.
My father had land in Lasiana—a house and rice fields—but because
he was accused of being PKI, his family took it. We [my husband and I]
had nothing, and had to squat on land that was actually owned by my
68  Galuh Wandita et al.
parents … When my father wanted to report them, they said, ‘To hell
with the PKI!’ … When people accused my father, he was just quiet and
submissive.
Distant relatives from the same clan as my father assume their en-
titlement as men … They just came from Rote Island to this place.
They have already sold the land. I feel that since dad and mama died
there is no longer violence, but we don’t have rights to anything that
we owned. We are no longer called PKI, but everything we owned has
been taken…
(AJAR 2015, pp. 82–83)

As if it were not enough to endure a lifetime of hardship, Kina went on to

lose her livelihood as a traditional midwife in 2010 when the government
forbade the practice. That is when she returned to doing farm labour, much
as she did when she was a teenager. She also relies on support from her two
sons who send her a little rice and money every month. She quips, ‘But not
to worry, I still have legs and arms to work.’

Mass torture reproduced in other conflicts

In the early years of Reformasi, a commitment to acknowledge the truth
about atrocities committed by the New Order was articulated by the high-
est institutions of the country. A resolution by the Upper House (Maje-
lis Permusyawaratan Rakyat, MPR) in 1999 recognised the New Order’s
‘fractured protection and promotion of human rights, demonstrated by
various human rights violations, in forms that include violence, discrim-
ination, and abuse of power,’ and called for a ‘just solution’ and the es-
tablishment of ‘a legal system that guarantees the supremacy of the rule
of law and human rights based on justice and truth’ (cited in ICTJ &
KontraS 2011, p. 13). However, two decades later, Indonesia has yet to
come to terms with its past. Smaller (and partial) truth-seeking initiatives
have taken place in various contexts, such as an independent commission
established by President Habibie in July 1999 to investigate violations in
Aceh (Presidential Decree 88/1999). In Timor-Leste, a truth commission
examined the patterns of human rights violations that took place between
1974 and 1999 (Chega! 2005). Unsurprisingly, both truth-seeking mecha-
nisms independently found a similar list of acts of torture to those perpe-
trated in 1965 (Table 4.2).
As our research into the experiences of victims from 1965 has shown, the
patterns of torture and ill treatment which they experienced were repeated
against other victims; in the military campaigns in Aceh and occupied East
Timor, thousands of civilians were also rounded up and tortured. Given
the similarities between the methods of torture used in 1965, Aceh and
­Timor-Leste, these illegal forms of violence are likely to have been trained
techniques within Indonesia’s security forces (Berueh 2013).
Table 4.2  Patterns of torture committed in Aceh and Timor-Leste
Presidential Commission on
Violence in Aceh (1999)
A. Types of torture and ill
treatment conducted by
the military/TNI (Tentara
Nasional Indonesia):
• Stripped naked;
• Stripped naked inside a room
(a daughter and father);
• Ordered to commit immoral
acts with other victims;
• Kicked without shoes and
with shoes;
• Electrocuted;
• Beaten with empty hand;
• Beaten with thin rattan;
• Beaten with wooden plank;
• Beaten with the tail of a
manta ray full of thorns;
• Beaten with water hose;
• Beaten with iron bar with 10
mm diameter;
• Ordered to beat each other,
with an object or empty
hands;
• Put on a cross;
• Hanged;
Chega! Truth Commission Report on Timor-Leste (2005, Vol. III, Part 7.4)
The following acts of torture and other cruel, inhuman, and degrading treatment were commonly
used by the security forces:
• Beating with fists or with implements such as a wooden club or a branch, an iron bar, a rifle butt,
chains, a hammer, a belt, and electric cables;
• Punching and slapping;
• Kicking, including around the head and face, usually while perpetrator is wearing military or
police boots;
• Whipping;
• Cutting with a knife;
• Cutting with a razor blade;
• Placing the victim’s toes under the leg of a chair or table and then having one or more people sit on
it;
• Burning the victim’s flesh, including the victim’s genitalia, with cigarettes or a gas lighter;
• Applying electric shocks to different parts of the victim’s body, including the victim’s genitalia;
• Firmly tying someone’s hands and feet or tying the victim and hanging him or her from a tree or
roof;
• Tying the victim behind a car and forcing him or her to run behind it or be dragged across the
ground;
• Using water in various ways, including holding a person’s head underwater; keeping a victim in a
water tank for a prolonged period, sometimes up to three days; soaking and softening a victim’s
skin in water before beating the victim; placing the victim in a drum filled with water and rolling
it; pouring very hot or very cold water over the victim; pouring very dirty water or sewage over the
victim;
• Placing lizards with sharp teeth and claws (lafaek rai maran) in the water tank with the victim
and then goading it to bite the softened skin on different parts of the victim’s body including the
victim’s genitalia;
(Continued)
Presidential Commission on
Violence in Aceh (1999)
• Neck pulled by rope;
• Neck is wounded;
• Buried alive;
• Held in a sewage hole;
• Verbal abuse;
• Legs in chains; and
• Pinned under a big piece
of wood that was sat on by
members of the special forces.
Chega! Truth Commission Report on Timor-Leste (2005, Vol. III, Part 7.4)
• Sexual harassment, sexual forms of torture and ill treatment, or rape while in detention. Women
were the main victims of this kind of abuse;
• Humiliating detainees in front of their communities, for example, by making them stand or walk
through the town naked;
• Cutting a victim’s ear to mark the victim;
• Pulling out a victim’s fingernails and toenails with pliers;
• Running over a victim with a motorbike;
• Forcing a victim to drink a soldier’s urine or eat non-food items such as live small lizards or a pair
of socks;
• Leaving the victim in the hot sun for extended periods; and
• Threatening the victim or the victim’s family with death or harming a member of the victim’s
family in front of them.
 Mass torture in 1965– 66  71
Rehabilitation still denied
Although mostly for show, the Suharto regime ratified two human rights
treaties that recognise the right to rehabilitation for victims of human rights
abuses (Redress 2009).3 Needless to say, this right was never upheld during
his rule. After Reformasi, a human rights amendment that was grafted onto
the Constitution, and Indonesia’s ratification of two more treaties—the Con-
vention against Torture (28 October 1998) and the International Convention
on the Elimination of Racial Discrimination (25 June 1999)—strengthened
the right to rehabilitation. Triggered by international pressure in response
to the atrocities committed in East Timor in 1999, Law 26/2000 was passed
to establish, for the first time in Indonesian history, a human rights court
with jurisdiction over crimes against humanity and genocide. The catch,
however, is that the court can only prosecute crimes that take place after
the promulgation of this law (see Herbert 2008). Exceptions can be made by
Presidential Decree and if sanctioned by Parliament, as in the case of the
ad hoc trials on crimes committed in Tanjung Priok (1984) and East Timor
(1999). In Article 35(1), the law states that ‘Every victim of a violation of
human rights and/or his/her beneficiaries shall receive compensation, res-
titution and rehabilitation.’ It further stipulates that the court must grant
such measures in its ruling.
In response to relentless advocacy by victims, their families, and civil
society, the Indonesian National Commission on Human Rights (Komnas
HAM) formed an ad hoc team to investigate serious human rights violations
related to the 1965 tragedy, the first step under this law towards the creation
of an ad hoc human rights court. The team worked for nearly four years,
from 2008 to 2012, conducting interviews with 349 survivors, with special
attention to crimes in seven locations believed to be representative of similar
crimes throughout Indonesia. Serious human rights violations documented
by the Commission included extrajudicial killings, enforced disappearance,
torture, and slavery (Komnas HAM 2012). However, the Attorney General
has essentially paralysed the judicial potential of this initiative, saying evi-
dence in the report was insufficient to warrant an official legal investigation
(Prakoso et al. 2012). Thus, this stalemate has blocked any effort to push
for formal reparations, as Law 26/2000 requires a conviction by the human
rights court in order to grant reparations.
There is little precedent to receive compensation for crimes under the
­Indonesian civil procedure.4 Victims of 1965 filed a class action suit at the
­Jakarta District Court on March 2005. However, the suit claimed to represent
an estimated 20 million victims and demanded compensation for violations
of social economic rights against those detained in 1965 and their families.
The civil suit claimed the responsibility of five presidents—Suharto for his ac-
tions, and the following four for failing to rehabilitate victims’ rights (Conroe
2017). The court, however, declared that it had no jurisdiction to rule on this
claim. A precedent for rehabilitation by Presidential Decree does, however,
72  Galuh Wandita et al.
exist. In 1961, President Sukarno issued a decree to provide amnesty and abo-
lition to those who were involved in the Permesta/Revolutionary Government
of the Republic of Indonesia (Pemerintah Revolusioner Republik Indonesia,
PRRI) rebellion, a secessionist movement on the island of S ­ umatra (Kemen-
terian Dalam Negeri September 2011). The Supreme Court, in a letter dated
12 June 2003 to then President Megawati Soekarnoputri, reiterated Presiden-
tial discretion to grant rehabilitation ­(Danusubroto 2013).
Although the government has yet to provide 1965 victims with repara-
tions, some civil society groups have worked to ensure that the victims can
access basic services and assistance from government agencies. Some vic-
tims’ groups are challenging regulations that deny them rights, particularly
abuses related to identity; pension claims; and the appropriation of land,
buildings, and businesses (KontraS & ICTJ 2012). Hundreds of survivors of
torture related to the 1965 atrocities have been able to access psychosocial
support and medical services through the Witness and Victim Protection
Agency (see Wahuningroem, this volume). This is mainly because the Na-
tional Human Rights Commission completed its investigation of these cases
and has formally recognized them as victims of gross human rights viola-
tions, including torture (see Evanty & Pohlman 2018).
At the local level, too, survivor groups and their advocates have worked
to provide support for victims and their families. In Palu, Central Sulawesi,
SKP-HAM (Solidarity for Victims of Human Rights Violations), together
with another victims’ association, worked with the mayor of Palu to help
the city provide redress and services to victims of unlawful detention and
torture related to the 1965 atrocities. This has included assistance such
as home repairs, scholarships, and access to government health services,
sanitation facilities, clean water, and economic empowerment training for
victims (Kutner 2016). In Maluku, victims received new official marriage
certificates to replace those that had identified them as a political prisoner.
In Yogyakarta, some victims have also received medical assistance from the
local government (see ‘Documentation’ 2013; Wahyuningroem 2018). These
local efforts to support survivors and their families, however, are few and
far between; the vast majority of 1965 survivors have no access to any form
of reparations.

Acknowledgement, then denial

Dealing with past human rights violations was a campaign promise made by
President Joko Widodo (Jokowi) under his Nawacita program (see Evanty &
Pohlman 2018). On 9 December 2014, President Jokowi spoke for the first
time after his election on the plight of victims of human rights violations at
an event organised by Komnas HAM in Yogyakarta. Jokowi reiterated his
commitment to human rights, but neither apologised to victims nor made
any mention of accountability for serious crimes affecting tens of thousands
of Indonesian citizens (see Rosana 2014). Although a presidential committee
 Mass torture in 1965– 66  73
‘to resolve past human rights violations’ is written into the national plan and
budget, to date there has been little progress.
In April 2016, the government organised an unprecedented national sym-
posium on 1965 bringing together state officials, academics, survivors, and
civil society. One stated aim of the symposium was to recommend that the
government seek a comprehensive resolution to gross human rights viola-
tions related to the 1965 atrocities that could include rehabilitation, com-
pensation, and other remedies (see the Introduction, this volume). However,
several current and former high-ranking officials speaking at the sympo-
sium voiced their reluctance to acknowledge and apologise for the violence
of 1965. Some asked that the nation merely forget the past (AJAR 2016a).
Retired Army General Luhut Panjaitan, the then Coordinating Minister
for Politics, Law, and Security, questioned the extent of the 1965 massacres
(Harsono 2016). Following the symposium, Panjaitan challenged human
rights organisations to ‘show [...] where the mass graves are,’ presenting it
as a condition for issuing a government apology for 1965 (BBC Indonesia,
25 April 2016). Several civil society organisations responded to the govern-
ment’s challenge by submitting lists of massacre sites, but the President’s
reshuffle of the cabinet seems to have pre-empted any official response (see
Chapter 8, Wieringa, this volume).
Refuting the symposium’s findings and, more broadly, as retrenchment
from democratic reforms, government and military proponents of denial
held their own counter-symposium within weeks of the first. In his open-
ing address at the second symposium, Defence Minister Ryacudu sought to
obscure history with ideology, conflating demands for historical truth and
justice with an accusation of the resurgence of the Indonesian Communist
Party (Firdaus 2016). These two conflicting government positions as seen in
the public events on 1965—one offering space for victims’ participation, the
other denying victims’ history—may suggest some cracks are beginning to
appear in the armour of government propaganda about 1965. Nevertheless,
the state continues to officially deny the event itself, for without the event of
a widespread or systematic attack against a civilian population (IPT final
report 2016) there are neither victims nor a need for formal reparations.5
Efforts at a national level to discredit calls for truth and justice (­Ismail
2016) have been accompanied by communist fear-mongering (Harahap
2016) at a local level, causing new trauma among victims. In 2016, ban-
ners warning off a resurgence of communism emerged in Yogyakarta
(P. ­A mbarmirah 2016, pers. comm., 21 November), while local news in the
eastern province of NTT (Nusatenggara Timor, East Nusatenggara) re-
ported the arrest of several youth in remote villages for wearing T-shirts
bearing a hammer and sickle symbol, and calls by police and military of-
ficials to beware of a new style of communism (Malehere 2016; Redaksi
2016). Despite some expressed concern regarding violations of civil liberties
(Saragih 2016), the anti-communist posturing has had some effect. In Yogy-
akarta, efforts to access aid for 1965 victims from the Witness and Victims’
74  Galuh Wandita et al.
Protection Agency were curtailed when the emergence of anti-communist
banners frightened some victims and their families into withdrawing from
the process. Voices seeking accountability and reparations for victims of
1965 have become more circumspect, if not silenced, as they are also in-
creasingly drowned out by the broadcasting of fundamentalist agendas,
both religious and political. Interviewed by AJAR on 29 November 2016,
Nurlaela Lamasitudju stated,

I am worried about the current political situation. I see that efforts to

resolve cases of past human rights violations will have to take a back
seat as long as the government must respond to the current political
situation... I’m worried that the government will be more serious about
Jokowi’s campaign [for re-election] than giving serious attention to re-
solving past human rights violations.

Torture still not a crime, not learning from our past

This climate of denial has another far-reaching impact. Indonesia’s ju-
dicial system does not recognise torture as a crime. Consistent with
­I ndonesia’s denial of mass torture that took place in 1965, there is no
specific legal provision in Indonesia that criminalises torture, despite the
ratification of the Convention on Torture (1998), and provisions that pro-
hibit torture found in Indonesia’s Human Rights Law (1999) and in the
human rights amendment to the constitution (2000).6 However, neither
the judicial system nor Indonesia’s criminal code complies with these hu-
man rights obligations.
According to Indonesia’s criminal code, the only offense that covers acts
similar to torture is penganiayaan, which means ‘maltreatment’ or ‘assault.’
The severity of punishment for this crime depends on the state of mind with
which the perpetrator committed the maltreatment and the degree of harm
that results. Additional penalties for officials who use maltreatment as a
means of coercion to extort a confession or obtain information are recog-
nised, yet anyone who acts under the authority of official orders will not be
convicted. Because the act of torture per se is not recognised as a crime, it
cannot be prosecuted.
Although the government claims that the criminalisation of torture is
included in the planned overhaul of the criminal code, progress has been
delayed for many years. The police and military have taken the initia-
tive to produce internal regulations designed to end torture, such as the
Chief of National Police Regulation on Human Rights (Perkap No.  8,
2009). This regulation prohibits torture during investigation, prosecu-
tion, and detention, yet does not establish torture as a criminal offence.
The Commander of the Indonesian Military has issued a similar pro-
hibition of torture in investigations, prosecutions, military courts, and
 Mass torture in 1965– 66  75
military prisons (Perpang No. 73/IX/2010). However, without official ac-
knowledgement of the widespread and systematic torture that took place
in 1965, the practice of torture persists. In reality, torture is widely used
as a tool for ‘investigation’ and continues to be tolerated as ‘business as
usual.’

Without a way to reckon with Indonesia’s systematic use of torture and

assert institutional reform, the practice of torture lingers. It is still rou-
tinely used to force confessions and extract information from detainees
during criminal investigations. Accountability is lacking in state policy
and practice, with a culture of impunity and denial of past crimes form-
ing a foundation for continued torture.
(AJAR & KontraS April 2016, p. 3)

The 2015 indictment on torture by the Prosecutor for the International Peo-
ple’s Tribunal on 1965 states,

In many cases, the torture carried out by Indonesia’s military forces

led to death as a result of the torture itself and at other times death oc-
curred due to wounds sustained during torture being left untreated. The
torture took place in a widespread and systematic manner...

The Tribunal goes on to emphasise that torture is considered a crime against

humanity, that there are provisions in Indonesian law that should protect in-
dividuals from torture, and that torture is included among crimes to be retro-
actively applied according to Law 26/2000 (IPT final report 2016, pp. 45–46).
A challenge for Indonesian civil society is to continue leveraging these
important findings by an international forum, not only for government ac-
knowledgement of serious crimes committed in the past, but to develop a na-
tional movement against torture and legislation that will recognise torture
as a crime in the present. As Indonesia faces the challenges brought about by
the rise of violent extremism and moves into a period of contentious political
debate leading up to another Presidential election (in April 2019), strong leg-
islation on torture and the implementation of it is an ­urgent need.

Notes
1 From 2014 to 2015, AJAR, together with LAPPAN (Women’s Empowerment Cir-
cle; Ambon, Maluku), JPIT (Women’s Research Network of Eastern I­ ndonesia),
SKP-HAM (Solidarity for Human Rights Victims of Central Sulawesi), ­KontraS
(Commission on the Disappeared and Victims of Violence), and KIPPER (Wom-
en’s Progress; Association of Women Survivors of 1965 in Yogyakarta, Central
Java) have submitted reports on this work to the National Coalition for Justice
and Truth (KKPK), the research team of the International People’s ­Tribunal,
and the UN Special Rapporteur on Torture and Other Cruel, Inhuman, or De-
grading Treatment or Punishment.
76  Galuh Wandita et al.
2 Gerwani aimed to achieve ‘equal labor rights for women and equal responsi-
bilities with men in the struggle for full national independence and socialism’
(Wieringa 2003, p. 74).
3 Indonesia ratified the Convention on the Elimination of all Forms of Discrimi-
nation against Women in 1984 and the Convention on the Rights of the Child in
1990. Indonesia is also signatory to the Geneva Conventions of 1949 that were
signed on 30 September 1958 under the Sukarno government. Furthermore, Law
39/1999 on Human Rights states that international law ratified by Indonesia is
recognised as legally binding.
4 In accordance with the Indonesian civil code, compensation can be claimed for
any unlawful act. The state can be held responsible for the conduct of its employ-
ees. Compensation can also be claimed, under Law No. 14 on Judicial Authority
of 1970, for unlawful arrest, detention, or prosecution. According to Govern-
ment Regulation No. 92 related to implementation of the Indonesian Criminal
Procedural Code (KUHAP), victims of false arrest and detention can submit a
petition for damages in the amount of IDR 500,000 to IDR 100 million (~USD
36 to USD 7000), whereas victims of false arrest and detention who suffer severe
injury may seek damages from IDR 25 million to 300 million (~USD 1800 to
USD 21,800) (see Pramuditya 2017).
5 The IPT 1965 triggered a chorus of government protest and denial. For a
compiled selection of this response, see Weekly Update Human Rights in
­Indonesia—16-11-2015, online at: <http://stopimpunity.org/content/­stopimpunity/
weekly_update_16-11-2015.pdf>.
6 The Second Amendment to the 1945 Constitution, Article 28G (2) states: ‘Each
person shall have the right to be free from torture or inhuman and degrading
treatment, and shall have the right to obtain political asylum from another
country’; Human Rights Law No. 39/1999, Article 33(1), states: ‘Each person
has the right to be free from torture, cruel, inhuman or degrading punishment
or treatment’ (our translations). Furthermore, the definition of torture found
in Law 5/1998 conforms to the international definition of torture. On this, see
Pohlman (2013).

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5 Suharto’s grievous human
rights abuses
The case of Buru Island
Asvi Warman Adam

The Panel of Judges of the International People’s Tribunal for 1965 (hereaf-
ter ‘IPT 1965’) gave close and particular attention to the treatment of politi-
cal detainees in many detention camps set up by the Indonesian government
across the archipelago following 1965. After consideration of the evidence
presented before the Tribunal on the conditions within their camps, the
Panel came to the following conclusion:

Given the extreme work requirements and inhuman working conditions

and the total control exercised by military and civilian officers of the
state, it is clear that the prisoners or inmates of what may have been
known as ‘labour camps’ were subject to enslavement, a crime against
humanity and a crime under Indonesian domestic law No. 26/2000,
­Article 9 (c).
(IPT 1965 2016, p. 70)

The Panel reached this conclusion after consideration of the conditions pre-
vailing in various prison camps in Indonesia set up after the 1965 k ­ illings,
such as Monconglowe in South Sulawesi, Buru Island, Nusa ­Kambangan,
Balikpapan in East Kalimantan, and the women’s prison camp of
­Plantungan in Central Java. Research by a team of experts in the early
2000s, ­i ncluding the present author, under the auspices of the Indonesian
­National Commission for Human Rights (Komisi Nasional Hak Asasi Ma-
nusia, Komnas HAM), had earlier reached this conclusion (see also ­Komnas
HAM 2012).
This chapter discusses the mass incarceration of thousands of political
detainees between 1969 and 1979 on Buru, an island located in Maluku
province, eastern Indonesia. Held for their alleged political affiliation with
the Indonesian Communist Party (Partai Komunis Indonesia, known as the
PKI), these political detainees (known as tapol, an abbreviation of tahanan
politik or ‘political prisoner’) were imprisoned without due process and
many experienced torture and ill treatment, starvation, and forced labour.
This chapter draws on the findings of an investigating team established
by Komnas HAM in the early 2000s into human rights abuses committed
 Suharto’s grievous human rights abuses  81
during former President Suharto’s regime, the ‘New Order’ (1965–98). These
findings were presented to the Prosecutor of the IPT 1965 and brought be-
fore the Panel of Judges; they documented the evidence of grievous abuses
against political detainees held on Buru Island during this period. This
chapter argues that the forced transportation of political prisoners from the
island of Java to the island of Buru and the inhuman conditions under which
they had to work constitute crimes against humanity. In the Final Report of
the IPT 1965, the Judges concluded that this represents the crime of enslave-
ment, as a crime against humanity (2016). This chapter details the human
rights violations committed on the island of Buru and focuses on the chain
of command.

Investigating grievous human rights abuses during Suharto’s

New Order
The Team to Investigate Grievous Human Rights Abuses committed by
­Suharto (Tim Penyelidikan Pelanggaran HAM Berat Suharto) was estab-
lished by Komnas HAM in January 2003. The team was made up of 15
people; four commissioners from Komnas HAM in addition to 11 inves-
tigators drawn from civil society (including the author).1 The team knew
that the period under investigation, General Suharto’s New Order regime
(1965–98), was long and that it would not be possible to include all cases
of human rights abuses which had been committed during this time. The
team therefore divided their investigation into four chronological periods:
­1965–75, 1975–85, 1985–95, and 1995–98. For each of the four periods, one
or two cases of grievous human rights abuses were selected for investigation.
The criteria used to select the cases were that they had to be considered rel-
evant and significant towards the larger investigation.
For the first period under investigation (1965–75), the mass killings of
1965 and the political detentions on Buru Island were chosen. For the sec-
ond period (1975–85), the ‘Petrus’ or ‘Mysterious Killings’ (pembunuhan
misterius) case was selected, investigating the kidnap and murder of thou-
sands of alleged ‘criminals’ whose mutilated corpses were then displayed
in town centres, particularly during the early and mid-1980s in Java (see
Bourchier 1990; Barker 1998). For the third (1985–95), two cases were inves-
tigated: first, the Tanjung Priok ‘incident’, in which hundreds of civilians
were killed, disappeared, and tortured in the northern Jakarta area (see
Burns 1989; Friend 2003); second, the state-sponsored ‘military operation
regions’ (daerah operasi militer, DOM) in Aceh and Papua provinces (see
Robinson 1998; Human Rights Watch 2007). Meanwhile, for the fourth pe-
riod (1995–98), two cases were investigated: the 27 July 1996 ‘incident’—in
which security services attacked the Jakarta office of the Indonesian Dem-
ocratic Party (Partai Demokrat Indonesia, PDI), which was followed by a
widespread crackdown against students and democracy activists (Heryanto
1997)—and the mass violence of May 1998 (see Siegel 1998; Purdey 2002).
82  Asvi Warman Adam
Members of the team were divided into sub-teams, each to investigate
one of the periods. The sub-team assigned to the early period chose not to
pursue an investigation into the mass killings of 1965–66 as a whole; given
how widespread the killings had been, it was decided that it would not be
possible to carry out research across so many regions in the short amount of
time the team had in order to prepare the report. Given too the complexity
of the killings across these regions and the variety of actors involved, the
sub-team felt that an investigation into the full extent of the 1965–66 killings
was not possible.
Instead, the sub-team elected to focus its attention on a particular case,
the mass detention of political prisoners on Buru Island. In the Buru case,
the violations of the law which had been perpetrated were very clear. These
violations had occurred in a set location (the island of Buru, in the Maluku
Province), at a set time (between 1969 and 1979), and there was a clear set of
victims (the roughly 10,000 mostly men who were forcibly transported to this
island, many of whom were alive to testify). The perpetrators and those re-
sponsible for these violations were also clear: in particular, they were members
of the former Buru Island Resettlement Implementation Body (Badan Pelak-
sana Resettlement Pulau Buru, BAPEPRU), which was formed by the Attor-
ney General on the order of the Operational Command for the Restoration of
Security and Order (Komando Operasi Pemulihan Keamanan dan Ketertiban,
KOPKAMTIB), the military agency set up by Suharto in October 1965 which
oversaw much of the subsequent massacres (TAPOL 1976; Kessler 1978). The
team therefore gathered materials from in and outside the country, and inter-
viewed a range of survivors who had been detained on Buru Island. The sum
of this evidence gathered by the sub-team on the Buru violations found that
alleged crimes against humanity had been carried out and should be investi-
gated further under Law No. 26/2000 regarding a Human Rights Court.

Background: the ‘resettlement’ of political prisoners

to Buru Island
The mass killings of 1965–66 were a tragedy that affected all parts of the
­nation. This tragedy was accompanied by the mass incarceration of thou-
sands, for instance, on the Buru Island detention camp between 1969 and
1979. According to the analysis of Herb Feith, there were three main pillars of
political power in the mid-1960s: the PKI, Sukarno and the Army ­(Angkatan
Darat, AD) (Feith 1964). As Cribb explains, tensions between these three
powers drove a process of political ‘pillarization’ whereby Indonesian society
became increasingly divided along sociopolitical lines (Cribb 2001). As dis-
cussed in Chapter 1 of this volume, these societal tensions were exacerbated
by several factors, including regional land disputes in some areas incited by
the PKI’s land reform agenda (see Fealy & McGregor 2010), and the rumours
that the PKI was planning to arm a ‘fifth force’ made up mostly of workers
and the landless poor with Chinese weapons (see Crouch 1978).
 Suharto’s grievous human rights abuses  83
The actions of the G30S Movement were used by the Army to consoli-
date their power and to destroy their political enemies, the PKI. The dis-
astrous economic conditions at the time, in addition to the deep political
divides in society and the prevailing international context of the Cold War,
all provided the conditions for the Indonesian military to take over the
government. As outlined in the opening chapters of this volume, the mass
killings which followed swept across the archipelago, with some of the high-
est death tolls in Central and East Java, Bali, and North Sumatra (see also
Cribb 2001; Kammen & McGregor 2012). Although civilians, particularly
youths from various militias, were involved in the killings, in numerous
places, there was evidence that the violence only began after the arrival of
the Army Para-Commando Regiment (Resimen Para Komando Angkatan
Darat, RPKAD) or other military troops in those areas. RPKAD, a Spe-
cial Forces paratrooper unit, was led by Colonel Sarwo Edhie Wibowo and
was sent into Central and East Java provinces in October 1965 by Suharto
(see Jenkins & Kammen 2012; McGregor 2013). ‘Destroying the PKI down
to their roots’ (hancurkan PKI sampai ke akar-akarnya) reportedly was the
command for the RPKAD troops in the field (see Robinson 2017).
The number of victims killed during the massacres is estimated between
78,000 (according to the Indonesian government’s official fact finding
commission) and three million, as boasted by the RPKAD Commandant,
Sarwo Edhie (Cribb 1990, pp. 12–13). While the majority of the killings
were over by the first half of 1966, in some areas, the violence continued
through to the late 1960s. In the southern areas of Blitar, East Java, for
example, there were killings of Leftists in 1968 as part of Operasi Trisula
(Operation Trident), aimed at wiping out remaining ‘PKI bases’ in the re-
gion (see Hearman 2010).
The New Order regime’s warnings of a potential return of the PKI were
reinforced with a range of official measures against former Leftists, their
families, and associates (Southwood & Flanagan 1983). These restrictions
began with those imprisoned in the waves of arrests after the coup. Those
arrested and accused of involvement in the 30 September coup because of
their affiliation with the PKI were divided by level of perceived guilt: Cate-
gory A prisoners were those against whom there was sufficient evidence to
be brought to trial; Category B were those against whom there was insuffi-
cient evidence to be put on trial but who still remained in custody for a dec-
ade or more, whereas Category C were those ‘fellow travellers’ of the PKI
who were influenced by communist ideology (Amnesty International 1977;
Fealy 1995). Category C detainees were by far the largest group, numbering
in their hundreds of thousands; they were mostly released by the late 1960s
(van der Kroef 1976). Category A prisoners were the select few who were put
on trial periodically during the New Order for political purposes and who
spent decades in detention (Heryanto 2006). The Category B detainees were
never put on trial; they numbered in their tens of thousands and many of
these prisoners were held until the mid-to-late 1970s.2
84  Asvi Warman Adam
Those held as Category B prisoners were amongst those detainees sent
to Buru Island from 1969 onwards. Around 11,500 people were ‘thrown
away’ in waves on boats to Buru (the Indonesian euphemism used, dibuang,
means to be ‘thrown away’ like refuse). The detainees were not told for how
long they would have to remain on the island; it was only due to interna-
tional pressure from a range of countries in the 1970s that Indonesia was
forced to release the political prisoners detained there in 1979 (Fealy 1995;
Glasius 1999).
The removal of a large number of the Category B political prisoner popu-
lation from Java to a more remote part of Indonesia must also be considered
in light of the Indonesian government’s planning for the elections in 1971. In
1966, the upper house of the national parliament (Majelis Permusyawaratan
Rakyat Sementara, MPRS) had decreed that national elections would take
place in July 1968 (Pauker 1967, p. 148). By March 1968, however, when Gen-
eral Suharto was invested with full presidential powers (he had held de facto
presidential power since March 1966), he decided that Indonesia was not yet
ready for elections and that they should be delayed (Feith 1968). In order to
ensure the ‘safety’ (read the victory of Suharto) of the upcoming elections,
therefore, more than 10,000 Category B tapol were thrown away onto this
small island in the eastern part of Indonesia. Many of them were influential
intellectuals, who, it was feared, might have an impact on the elections. This
move was in part justified by the government at the time as they were in
the middle of Operation Trident (Operasi Trisula), the military campaign
to wipe out remnants of the PKI in South Blitar (see Liem 2004; Hearman
2010).

Why Buru?
By the late 1960s, the Indonesian government viewed the large political pris-
oner population as a problem which could be solved by sending detainees
to more remote areas of the archipelago. As reported by Amnesty Interna-
tional in the 1970s,

The Indonesian Government’s tendency to think in terms of penal set-

tlements for political prisoners has been evident for a number of years.
Instead of releasing prisoners, the Government has conceived plans to
remove them from their home provinces, transport them to penal set-
tlements, and to explain such projects as ‘transmigration’ in further-
ance of national development schemes. In this way, the Government
has hoped for several years to ‘solve’ the problem of political prisoners.
(Amnesty International 1977, p. 90, emphasis in original)

The transmigration program, originally introduced under the Dutch in

the early part of the twentieth century, was expanded by the independent
Indonesian state (Jones 1979). Sukarno had planned to resettle millions of
 Suharto’s grievous human rights abuses  85
people from the overpopulated islands (including Java, Madura, and Bali)
to areas in the outer islands (such as Sumatra, Kalimantan, and S ­ ulawesi),
but had failed to implement such a large-scale programme (­Budiardjo
1986). During the early years of the Suharto era, the transmigration pro-
gram was expanded, with the programme tied to each of the five-year de-
velopment plans of the New Order (Repelita) (Fearnside 1997). With the
transmigration scheme underway, the removal of the thousands of Cate-
gory B tapol who were filling up the prisons and other detention centres on
Java to more remote areas of the archipelago was a welcome solution for
the government.
According to Soegih Arto, a former Army General and later Attorney
General partly responsible for setting up the prison camp on Buru ­Island,
the Indonesian government felt burdened by having to look after as many
as 120,000 political prisoners after the 1965 mass arrests (Arto 1989,
pp.  289–98). As Arto recalls, to alleviate the costs, the military govern-
ment decided to move as many as 11,611 Category B political prisoners—
those who were considered still dangerous to society—to a resettlement
area, which would be isolated, far from the political centre (Jakarta), have
few inhabitants, and have fertile land that could be made into productive
farms. Thus the island of Buru was selected; with 13,200 km 2 of land, the
island was the third largest in Maluku, yet it was sparsely inhabited, with
only 47,700 people.
The specific area where the prisoners were to be located was carefully se-
lected. The low-lying Wai Apu valley forms a natural prison. It is bordered
by the sea, an impenetrable wall of prickly underbrush and a steep moun-
tain range (Toer 1988; Krisnadi 2001). Many of those sent there had be-
longed to intellectual and artistic circles. All of a sudden, they were required
to do hard physical labour under inhuman circumstances.3 They had to first
clear the soil from alang-alang (sharp strong grass) and jungle; build bar-
racks, roads, and other infrastructure; and grow their own food. Later they
also cut wood which was sold by the soldiers, as was the surplus from their
agricultural labour. The prison camp was first called Tefaat (Tempat Pe-
manfaatan, meaning ‘place for the utilization of labour’) and later renamed
Inrehab (Instalasi Rehabilitasi, meaning ‘Rehabilitation Installation’; see
Setiawan 2003, p. 287). This shift indicates the rhetorical change from view-
ing the camp as a productive place, to the camp as a site of indoctrination.
According to Soegih Arto,

the Government created the Buru ‘Inrehab’ not with the intention of
wreaking vengeance, but with the wish to ‘release’ its inhabitants back
into an environment where they could actively participate in the coun-
try’s development. The government’s aim was to create good citizens,
who believed in the Pancasila. The methods that were used weren’t co-
ercive methods, but rather they were persuasive ones.
(Arto 1989, p. 298, emphasis in original)
86  Asvi Warman Adam
To look after the health of all those who were ‘released,’ only six doctors
were employed.
What the former Attorney General Soegih Arto claims were the inten-
tions and methods of the Indonesian government are at odds with the reality
of the prison camp. Based on the findings of the investigating team, several
serious human rights violations are alleged to have occurred at the deten-
tion camp on Buru Island. With reference to those violations, as defined in
Law No. 26 of 2000 on a Human Rights Court, the investigating team found
evidence of the following crimes against humanity:

• Forced transfer of persons (Section 3, Article 9-d, regarding crimes

against humanity);
• The detention of persons in an isolated camp, which constituted an ar-
bitrary deprivation of liberty and a deprivation of their physical free-
doms in a way which violated international legal norms (in violation of
Section 3, Article 9-e);
• Enslavement and forced labour (violation of Section 3, Article 9-e);
• Violence perpetrated in the detention camp on Buru Island included
killings, persecution/mistreatment, torture, and isolation (in violation
Section 3, Article 9-a, f, h, and i);
• Other inhumane acts, including attrition of food and health facilities.

Further, these acts were carried out in a systematic and widespread fashion.
The Buru detainment complex itself grew to include numerous sections
and buildings over time. It lay at the south side of the bay; on the north side
was the capital, Namlea. A total of 22 units were built, dotted along the riv-
ers that crossed the valley, each housing around 500 prisoners. The original
landing place, Jiku Kecil, on the main river, Kayeli, was turned into a penal
camp. In 1974, it was cynically renamed Ancol, after a recreation area along
the beach in North Jakarta. The camp was led by a commander and his dep-
uty. They had assistants for intelligence, logistics, mental guidance (that is,
Pancasila indoctrination), and planning. Every unit had its own commander
with a platoon of 20–40 soldiers (Krisnadi 2001).

Widespread violations
The crimes listed above were carried out repeatedly on a massive and wide-
spread scale. More than 10,000 detainees were unlawfully imprisoned on
Buru Island. While some wives, children, and other family members of some
male detainees were later also sent to the island, this should not be seen as al-
leviating conditions; rather, this further infringed the rights and freedoms of
those forced to move there. As an 1976 Amnesty International report details,
in July 1972, the first group of 84 women and their children (some of whom
were conceived by being raped by security personnel) joined their husbands
on Buru Island. In February 1974, a second group of 62 women arrived. The
 Suharto’s grievous human rights abuses  87
last group of women joined their husbands in 1975 from J­ akarta. The fam-
ilies were all placed in unit 4, known as Savanajaya. In 1976 a total of 400
children were in the camp. The women and children shared the same condi-
tions as their husbands and fathers. The relatively small number of women
who agreed to be resettled illustrates that most of the women refused to
be relocated to the slave labour camp. One prisoner, the renowned author
Pramoedya Ananta Toer (1988), called it immoral to invite his wife to join
him. Neither women nor children were allowed to leave the island. The few
women who ultimately did come arrived under pressure: either direct force
or, because of the desperate circumstances under which they lived, with their
property confiscated, and many stigmatised by neighbours.4
These crimes were carried out in a continuous manner. For ten years, the
tapol on Buru were forced to carry out the work of developing the island, un-
der threat of death, torture, and ill treatment. Of the 334 cases of death doc-
umented by Toer and his colleagues, most were from preventable illnesses.
There were also 17 cases of suicide. The following case is an illustration of
the conditions under which such a suicide took place:

Kayun was a cheerful hard-working young man from Malang. One day
he fell ill and had to be hospitalized. He felt so guilty that his comrades
had to look after all his needs that he ended up in a severe depression.
In this condition he was beaten up by our commander. Two days later he
ran away and hid in a corn field. There he drank Endrin [an insecticide]
and died under the most horrible pains, on 11 March 1972.5

Most tapol were forced to perform labour for ten hours per day, much of it
under close control and supervision by guards and armed soldiers. The la-
bour which the detainees were forced to perform was also on a massive scale
and involved building the essential physical and agricultural infrastructure
of Buru Island. Initially, this involved building the essential buildings of the
detention camp and its surroundings, such as the barracks where the detain-
ees and their guards would live. The land was also developed for agriculture,
so detainees were forced to break ground in order to sow wet rice sawah
and other crops. Later, as the various building projects progressed, detainee
labour was also used to build roads and other infrastructure on the island,
such as a primary school in the village of Savanajaya, about 20 km from the
main camp area (Setiawan 2015).
These various forced labour projects were all part of a wider system of vio-
lence against, and infringement of the rights of, the political detainees held on
Buru Island. At all times, this forced labour was accompanied by the threat
of, and actual, murder, torture, and various forms of unlawful ill treatment.
The conditions under which the detainees performed this forced labour was
also inhumane: starvation was rife amongst prisoners, with inadequate food
rations provided, and minimal health facilities set up to care for those af-
flicted with the numerous forms of injury, diseases, and illnesses on the island.
88  Asvi Warman Adam
Systematic abuses
The materials presented to the Prosecutor at the IPT 1965 in relation to
crimes perpetrated on Buru Island included their widespread and system-
atic nature. As crimes against humanity, one element of the crimes is that
they are systematic in nature and perpetrated on a widespread scale against
a civilian population. These acts of enslavement, murder, torture, and other
serious human rights violations were systematic in the sense that they were
planned and organised, and were perpetrated regularly and routinely over
the ten years that the camp was operational.

Forced labour
Detainees on Buru Island were forced to perform labour according to an
organised schedule of work. This work was carried out under the control
of the Commandant of each unit. Each morning at 4am, the Commandant
of the unit would make a morning roll call (apel pagi), which would signal
the start of the work day. An evening roll call at 6.30pm marked the end of
work for the day. At certain times throughout the day, the Commandant
might make other roll calls, should he need to give further orders or assign
new tasks. The Commandant would nominate one of the tapol from each
set of barracks to be the ‘head of the barrack,’ who would be responsible
for rounding up his fellow detainees and ensuring that they were ready to
perform their work. Meanwhile, platoon guards would escort the detain-
ees and watch them perform the labour each day. The prisoners performed
this labour without pay and under conditions of extreme coercion. If they
were unable to work, or refused to work, they would receive harsh physical
punishments.

Ill treatment, torture, and killings

Acts of torture, ill treatment, and murder were mainly perpetrated by pla-
toon guards, who were tasked with carrying out and performing guard du-
ties, patrols, and ensuring the security inside and around the Tefaat Buru
complex (Krisnadi 2001). These acts of violence were also on occasion per-
petrated by the unit Commandant and other officers, particularly as part
of punishments for detainees. On a number of occasions, when one of the
Tefaat officers deemed that a detainee had broken the rules or made some
infraction, an operations or intelligence assistant, sometimes aided by in-
telligence officers from the Namlea prison or Jakarta, would interrogate
and torture the detainee. The operations or intelligence assistant would also
be the one to determine whether the detainee was to be sent to the Jiku
Kecil interrogation house or to Namlea prison.6 The interrogation and tor-
ture would be carried out by the unit Commandant, who was tasked with
planning and organising safety, security, surveillance, and patrols (Krisnadi
 Suharto’s grievous human rights abuses  89
2001). The torture and ill treatment meted out to detainees included a wide
range of physical and mental forms of violence, including beatings, caning,
and a range of deprivations. The operations and intelligence assistants were
also tasked with surveillance and monitoring of the platoon guards and
with organising their rotations, though these tasks were often given over to
the Tefaat Commandant.

Other inhumane treatment

There were numerous acts of inhumane treatment, including through the
deprivation of food and adequate healthcare, which were intentional on the
part of the Tefaat officials. Every tapol received 500 g of food per day, with
salted fish for the first six to eight months. After that they had to find or
grow their own food. If tapol were absent or late for the daily roll call, or
violated some other Tefaat rule, the punishment was collective: the food of
all tapol in that unit was reduced (Krisnadi 2001, p. 127).
The unit Commandant not only allowed but actively encouraged acts of
violence, including against people suffering from illness, forcing them to say
that they had recovered under threat of exiling them to another location.
The personnel and logistics assistants, who were tasked with planning, pre-
paring, and provisioning the Tefaat Buru complex, were in charge of look-
ing after all facilities but did nothing to improve them or prevent these acts
of inhumane treatment.
Food deprivation was perhaps the most pervasive intentional act of in-
humane treatment for detainees on Buru Island. The production and mar-
keting assistants were in charge of planning and providing all advice on and
facilities for food production. They were derelict in this duty, allowing food
rations to fall to extremely minimal levels. They even appropriated a large
proportion of the food produced on the island.
These acts of forced labour, ill treatment, torture, murder, and other
inhumane forms of treatment continued throughout the period that Buru
Island was maintained as a prison camp, between 1969 and 1979. These ac-
tions were all taken in accordance with a decree, issued by the head of KOP-
KAMTIB, or the Operational Command for the Restoration of Security and
Order (Keputusan Pangkopkamtib SK No. Kep-044/Kopkam/12/1970), which
laid out the duties and organization of Tefaat Buru. Under this decree, the
political prisoners were under the command of the unit Commandants,
working together with the platoon guards and other officials in the camp.
The unit Commandants were responsible for submitting regular reports to
the Commandant of Tefaat. The Commandant of Tefaat was responsible for
coordinating the various assistants who worked in the units. This included
coordinating acts of murder, such as in the Wanareja Unit II in 1974. On
12 November of that year, 48 prisoners from that unit attempted to escape.
Of these, 21 were immediately arrested and taken to the prison at Namlea,
whereas 27 were killed while on the run. On that same night, a soldier was
90  Asvi Warman Adam
shot dead, but that death had nothing to do with the escape; it was the con-
sequence of a brawl after a card game. The next day from evening until the
following morning, all prisoners in the Wanaraja unit had to stand on roll
call. They were beaten by the guards, until some of them fainted (Toer 1988).

The chain of command on Buru

Part of the evidence presented to the Prosecutor for the IPT 1965 related to
the chain of command on Buru Island. It was through this chain of com-
mand, involving several layers of military and bureaucratic personnel, that
the crimes against humanity detailed above were perpetrated. These acts
were enabled though the chain of command on Buru, which included a
range of violations:

A The forced removal and isolation of political prisoners to Buru Island

was carried out as part of the policies issues by the head of KOPKAM-
TIB. These forced removals were ordered under a policy of detaining
Category B political prisoners on Buru Island (Surat Pangkopkamtib
no. Kep-009/Kopkam/2/1969), signed by General Panggabean, in the
name of General Suharto. In this policy statement, endorsed by the
then Attorney General, these political prisoners were to be detained
and put to work on Buru Island; the cost of carrying out these orders
was borne by the Attorney General’s Office, which was responsible to
the head of KOPKAMTIB.
  To carry out this decree, the Attorney General established Bapreru
(Badan Pelaksana Resettlement Buru), or the Buru Resettlement Imple-
mentation Body. Bapreru was tasked with evaluating, planning, and
implementing these forced removals. In a decree issued in 1970 by the
head of KOPKAMTIB (Keputusan Pangkopkamtib SK No. Kep-044/
Kopkam/12/1970), the tasks assigned to Bapreru were then given over
to another body based in the Buru region, the Special Implementation
body of the Maluku region’s KOPKAMTIB (Pelaksana Chusus, or Lak-
sus Pangkopkamtib), headed by the regional commander of the Patti-
mura Army Division. Thus the regional commander of Pattimura was
also the head of the Special Implementation body and the head of the
Bapreru implementation body.
  The forced removal and isolation of prisoners on Buru Island was
overseen by a chain of commands which was as follows: the unit Com-
mandant was responsible for reporting his activities to the Tefaat Buru
Commandant, the Tefaat Buru Commandant was responsible for giving
periodical reports to the head of the implementation at Bapreru, the
head of implementation at Bapreru was responsible for reporting all
activities to the head of Bapreru, and the head of Bapreru was, in turn,
responsible for making reports to the head of KOPKAMTIB. Thus
all activities on Buru Island, including the forced removals, the forced
 Suharto’s grievous human rights abuses  91
labour, murders, torture, ill treatment, and other inhumane acts were
known of and approved by the head of KOPKAMTIB.
B Those who were forcibly removed to Buru Island came from the Cate-
gory B group of political prisoners. These prisoners were categorized
as ‘B’ not as a result of legal evidence or procedure but according to
the results of a psychological test, which was carried out under another
government decree (Kebijakan Inpres No. Instra-13/Kogam/7/1966).
This testing was conducted by a university psychology team along with
the security services in each detention centre. The university team was
headed by Professor Fuad Hasan, Dean of the psychology department
of the University of Indonesia. The prisoners were tested several times,
as the accounts of ex-Buru prisoners Toer (1988) and Setiawan (2004) tes-
tify. Their wives were investigated by psychologist Dr Saparinah Sadli,
of the same psychology department, during a 1974 visit (­ Wieringa  &
Katjasungkana, 2018).
C The mass detention of thousands of political prisoners was carried out
under a decree signed by the head of KOPKAMTIB, dated 18 February
1969 (Kep. Pangkopkamtib no. Kep. 007/Kopkam/2/1969), regarding the
‘Resolution Organising Team for G30S/PKI Detainees,’ and was also
signed by Suharto. This mass detention was without due process and
was for an unspecified length of time, all violations of human rights
under the 1999 Human Rights Law (specifically, Article 18 (1 and 4)).

From the activities and structure of the detention camp system of Buru
I­ sland, it can be argued that these many grave human rights abuses com-
mitted were known about and endorsed by KOPKAMTIB and its policy
makers. From this, it can also be argued that Suharto was involved in these
abuses on Buru. Based on this analysis of the structure of KOPKAMTIB,
which was under the direct authority of the President, and given the clear
chain of command from the head of KOPKAMTIB to those carrying out
these actions on the ground on Buru Island, Suharto must be seen to hold
command responsibility for these abuses. Suharto was responsible for these
abuses, therefore, by commission. Based on the facts uncovered, S ­ uharto
knew about the process of imprisonment on Buru Island from the start.
This indicates that he also allowed these violations to occur on Buru by
omission.

Conclusion
Significant and systematic human rights abuses were committed against
the approximately 11,500 Category B political prisoners detained on Buru
­Island between 1969 and 1979. The forms of these abuses—including forced
labour, torture, and ill treatment—were detailed in the report given to the
Prosecutor and used as evidence of crimes against humanity perpetrated on
Buru in the IPT 1965. The IPT 1965, as a non-judicial but people’s call for
92  Asvi Warman Adam
justice, stands as the only court to date which has considered the widespread
and systematic crimes committed against thousands on Buru Island. Based
on the evidence presented, the Judges at the IPT 1965 found that crimes
against humanity had been perpetrated on Buru (2016).
These forced removals of political prisoners to Buru Island were later
followed by other examples of the New Order government’s removing and
isolating unwanted prisoners. The detention centre of Atauro Island, off
the coast of Timor Leste, is another example of how the regime forci-
bly isolated political prisoners, this time during the occupation of East
­Timor (1975–99). The Atauro Island prison held thousands of prisoners
between 1980 and 1987. Even after the end of the New Order, this pattern
of forcible isolation of prisoners continues, such as on Nasi island, off the
coast of Aceh, which was prepared as a site for holding political prisoners
from the Free Aceh Movement (Gerakan Aceh Merdeka, GAM) (Adam
2003). It is therefore important to reveal the full truth about these slave
labour camps, so as to help prevent the recurrence of these crimes against
humanity.

Notes
1 Parts of this chapter are drawn from the Epilogue to Hesri Setiawan’s Memoar
Pulau Buru (Memoir of Buru Island, Adam 2004). Other parts of this chapter are
drawn from the report written by the Subcommittee on 1965 of the Team to In-
vestigate Grievous Human Rights Abuses committed by Suharto, written by Ita
F Nadia, MM Billah, Asvi Warman Adam, Agung Putri, Ahmad Suaedi, and
Elfansuri. This chapter was translated from Indonesian into English by Saskia
Wieringa and Annie Pohlman.
2 See Wieringa and Katjasungkana (2018), for a further discussion of the classifi-
cation system.
3 As Pramoedya Ananta Toer bitterly writes, in relation to the conditions of star-
vation under which the prisoners had to toil,

to hope for compassion from the New Order was like dreaming that you saw
a goat with a moustache. A system of power that is built on massacres will
always be extremely busy with cleaning its own conscience. Don’t hope that
they can be bothered to think about your food.
(Toer 1988, translated from the 1989 Dutch version by
Saskia Wieringa, pp. 68–69)

4 The Military commander on Buru, General Wasli Prawirasupradja, declared

in October 1972 that the government aimed that ultimately all prisoners would
be joined by their families, although the government would not be able to guar-
antee the food security of the total expected population of 50,000 inhabitants
(Amnesty International 1976, p. 16).
5 Translated and paraphrased by Saskia Wieringa (Toer 1989, p. 100).
6 The isolation camp Jiku Kecil on the border of the sea and the Kayeli River was
notorious. Of the 11 cases of death recorded for that unit, only 1 was because of
ill health (asthma), the others were murdered or committed suicide, usually after
heavy torture (Toer 1989).
 Suharto’s grievous human rights abuses  93
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6 Sexual slavery, enforced
prostitution, and forced
marriage as crimes against
humanity during the
Indonesian killings of 1965–66
Annie Pohlman

This chapter examines some of the tensions between conceptualisations of

crimes against humanity in contemporary international criminal law and
the prosecution of historical cases of this violence. In particular, I discuss
these tensions in light of how crimes related to sexual enslavement were
prosecuted at the 2015 International People’s Tribunal for the Indonesian
killings of 1965–66. Extant international criminal law at the time of the
­Indonesian killings classified all sexual crimes as ‘other inhumane acts’
­under crimes against humanity. In the five decades since then, gender juris-
prudence has progressed considerably: if these same acts of sexual violence
occurred today, were they investigated for a criminal tribunal, they would
likely be prosecuted as separate, named charges.
Based on the evidence which I gathered as the investigator into sexual
crimes for the 1965 Tribunal, I argue that there was sufficient evidence for
three separate, yet closely-related offences: sexual slavery, enforced pros-
titution, and forced marriage, each as a crime against humanity. The evi-
dence gathered for the Tribunal on sexual offences, collected mostly from
the testimonies of women survivors, showed clearly that grouping these
offences together as ‘other inhumane acts,’ as they were charged at the
­Tribunal, was insufficient to describe and prosecute these offences. I argue
that the I­ ndonesian case, though charged in a people’s tribunal and non-­
legally binding, lends weight to arguments within feminist jurisprudence for
­gendered forms of violence to be conceptualised and prosecuted as separate
violent crimes within international criminal law.
In this chapter, I begin by drawing a broad sketch of sexual violence per-
petrated against predominantly women and girls during the 1965–66 kill-
ings and how evidence of this violence was collected and presented to the
Prosecutor of the International People’s Tribunal for 1965 (IPT 1965). I then
move on to describe briefly how gender jurisprudence has developed over the
past few decades, focusing on how sexual violence charges and prosecutions
have evolved in recent cases before international and hybrid national tribu-
nals. I focus on how there is growing recognition of the need to distinguish
 Sexual crimes in 1965– 66  97
and separate sexual crimes by type, with particular attention paid to the
separation of the three closely related but distinct crimes against humanity:
sexual enslavement, enforced prostitution, and forced marriage. I then move
on to outline the evidence collected and given to the Prosecutors of the In-
ternational People’s Tribunal for each of these sexually based crimes. Last,
I revisit the dilemma of applying current-day gender jurisprudence to an
historical case of mass violence. I argue that sexual enslavement, enforced
prostitution, and forced marriage were closely connected crimes against hu-
manity perpetrated after 1965 in Indonesia, but that they should and must
be understood as separate crimes.

Sexual violence during the 1965–66 mass killings in Indonesia:

evidence before the IPT 1965
Sexual violence was pervasive during both the massacres of 1965–66 and the
mass political detentions that followed the 1 October 1965 coup in Indonesia.
This violence took many forms including rape, sexual violence as torture,
sexual enslavement, enforced prostitution, forced marriage, and other forms
of sexual violence, including sexual assault and other forms of degrading
treatment.1 These forms of sexual violence were perpetrated predominantly
against women and older teenage girls; however, there were rarer cases of
some of these forms of sexual violence perpetrated against men, boys, and
younger girls. Sexual and gender-based crimes were committed in a wide
range of settings: in victims’ homes, in public, in prisons, police or military
barracks, and in the many ad hoc facilities used to hold people illegally de-
tained following the 1965 coup (on these facilities, see Margiyono & Yunanto
2007; Kammen & Zakaria 2012). The time frames for these crimes also var-
ied considerably: from individual assaults, to repeated assaults over days and
weeks, to conditions of sexual enslavement, enforced prostitution, and forced
marriage, lasting months or years (Komnas Perempuan 2007; P ­ ohlman
2015a, 2015b).
The range of sexual offences, and the many conditions in which they
were perpetrated, are evidence for the widespread and systematic nature
of sexual violence as crimes against humanity during the anti-communist
violence in Indonesia. The forms of sexualised crimes perpetrated after 1965
in Indonesia were inhumane in nature and character, and caused great suf-
fering and/or serious injury to the body and to the mental or physical health
of the victims. As argued by the Prosecutor of the IPT 1965, these acts were
committed as part of widespread or systematic attacks directed against a
civilian population, that is, against civilians deemed ‘communist sympa-
thisers’ following the 1965 coup in Indonesia (IPT 1965 Foundation 2016; see
also Chapters 1 and 2, this volume).
Count 5 of the indictment for the Tribunal was sexual violence as crimes
against humanity. It was decided by the Prosecutor that these sexual
98  Annie Pohlman
offences would be charged as ‘other inhumane acts’ because, at the time
that these offences were committed in the mid-to-late 1960s, sexually based
crimes against humanity such as rape, sexual slavery, forced prostitution,
and others did not yet exist in international criminal law (Askin 2003; de
Brouwer 2005; see also IPT 1965 Foundation 2016). There was, however,
sufficient evidence for each of the types of sexual violence enumerated in
the evidence brief on sexual violence for the Prosecutor so that each could
have been considered a separate and distinct crime against humanity. As
has been the trend in gender jurisprudence for international crimes over
the last two decades, by separating these crimes based on the forms of sex-
ual and gender-based violence, this aids both to define these crimes and to
raise them to the level of a jus cogens norm, perhaps therefore increasing
the means to prevent these crimes in the future (see Sellers 2002; MacKin-
non 2006).
The evidence presented to the Prosecutor of the IPT 1965 regarding
sexual and gender-based violence was drawn from the research of aca-
demics, non-government organisations, community and survivor advo-
cacy organisations, and one of Indonesia’s two national human rights
institutions, ­Komnas Perempuan (the National Commission on Violence
against Women) (Komnas Perempuan 2007).2 Most cases of sexual and
gender-based crimes presented in this evidence brief were taken from oral
history testimonial accounts given by survivors to these researchers, ad-
vocates, and commissioners. In most cases, these testimonial accounts
were recorded on voice recorders and transcribed over the past two dec-
ades since the end of the New Order regime in 1998. These testimonial
sources were obtained from, among others, the oral historical records col-
lected by Komnas Perempuan, the Lontar Foundation, LPR-KROB (the
Institute for Struggle for the Rehabilitation of the New Order Regime’s
Victims, Lembaga Perjuangan Rehabilitasi Korban Rezim Orde Baru),
ISSI (the Indonesian Institute of Social History, Institut Sejarah Sosial
­Indonesia), and as part of the interview work conducted by myself and
other researchers over the past 15 years (Pohlman 2015b). Around 300 tes-
timonial sources were consulted in preparing the evidence brief on sexual
violence, though only 58 of these were entered as individual cases in the
brief (see Pohlman 2017).
These individual case files that made up the evidence brief on sexual vi-
olence for the Prosecutor were listed under the categories of rape, sexual
violence as torture, sexual slavery, ‘other’ sexual violence, forced pregnancy,
and forced abortion. The category of ‘other’ sexual violence covered a range
of sexual assaults and other outrages against personal dignity, including
sexualised forms of mutilation and other acts meant to demean and humili-
ate victims.3 For the purposes of this chapter, however, the acts which were
grouped under the category of ‘sexual slavery’ will be explored in further de-
tail, that is, the cases of sexual enslavement, forced prostitution, and forced
marriage.
 Sexual crimes in 1965– 66  99
A new era of gender jurisprudence and separating sexual
and gender-based crimes
It has only been in the last three decades that specific attention has been
paid to defining and prosecuting sexual and gender-based violence in inter-
national criminal and humanitarian law (see Hagay-Frey 2011). This new
era of ‘gender jurisprudence’ has been developed primarily at the interna-
tional and hybrid tribunals since the mid-1990s, including at the Interna-
tional Criminal Tribunals for Rwanda (ICTR) and the former Yugoslavia
(ICTY), the Special Courts for Sierra Leone (SCSL), and more recently at
the Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia (ECCC) and the
International Criminal Court (ICC), amongst others (see Askin 2003; de
Brouwer 2005; Halley 2008; Killean 2015; Oosterveld & Sellers 2016). As
feminist legal scholar Fionnuala Ní Aoláin has argued, these tribunals over
the last 25 years have made great progress ‘addressing women’s experiences
of war and conflict and inserting them into the material scope of application
engaged by [these] International Tribunals’ (2014, p. 625; see also Ní Aoláin,
Cahn & Haynes 2011).
A core component in the development of this new gender jurisprudence
has been the recognition and prosecution of some of the many sexual and
­gender-based forms of violence commonly experienced by women and girls
during conflict (de Brouwer 2005, 2009; Chinkin 2014). While much of this case
law has focused on sexualised forms of violence with less attention paid to a
more nuanced range of gendered harms, the development of this jurisprudence
has nevertheless done much to define the range and scope of these crimes com-
mitted during wars, mass atrocities, and other conflicts (Henry 2014).
One of the outcomes of these prosecutions of sexual crimes has been to
expose how sexual violence includes a wide range of offences. Up until the
1990s, if sexual violence were mentioned at all, it was discussed in either gen-
eralised terms of outrages against ‘honour’ or as a blanket charge of rape
(­Brownmiller 1975; Sellers 2007; Koenig, Lincoln & Groth 2011). Not all sex-
ual violence, however, should be understood as rape. Rather, sexual violence
during wars and mass atrocities is better understood as a spectrum, with
rape one of the numerous sexualised and gender-based crimes perpetrated
predominantly against women and girls (Wood 2006, 2008). To see the many
forms of sexual and gender-based violence as a group of related but separate
crimes (rather than all violence of this nature undifferentiated as rape), neither
denies the serious harm caused by these offences nor hierarchies one above
others. Rather, the gender jurisprudence of the last few decades has shown
that sexual and gender-based crimes require separate and special attention
if we are to understand, punish, and hopefully prevent, these many forms of
harm perpetrated during wars and mass atrocities. The complex relationship
between the crimes of sexual enslavement, enforced prostitution, and forced
marriage exemplifies this need to separate and define closely-related, but es-
sentially distinct, crimes against humanity (O’Brien 2016).
100  Annie Pohlman
Sexual enslavement, enforced prostitution, and forced marriage
as crimes against humanity: elements of crime and case law
Sexual enslavement, enforced prostitution, and forced marriage were three
very similar yet different crimes perpetrated against women and girls dur-
ing the mass violence that followed the 1965 coup in Indonesia. Each was
a crime against humanity which was used against an unknown number of
women and teenage girls across various regions of the archipelago. The el-
ements of each crime, while overlapping in many respects (as do the acts of
crime themselves), need to be distinguished in order to understand better
the harms that each causes. In addition, it is important to understand how
each of these crimes has undergone considerably different paths of devel-
opment in terms of its treatment in the relevant case law over the past two
decades. This case law is instructive when considering these three crimes in
the Indonesian context.
Across these three crimes against humanity, there are key elements in
common. First, as crimes against humanity, they necessarily occur in the
context of a widespread or systematic attack against a civilian population,
and the perpetrator must know this context and that his acts were part of
this attack (van Schaack 1999). Second, all three, where they have been
defined in either relevant statutes or case law, involve ongoing abuse of a
sexualised nature as well as some element of deprivation of liberty and/or
enslavement.4 Although not defined by the length of time endured by the
victim, all three crimes tend to involve repeated acts of sexual and other
violence over an extended period or periods. In the Indonesian case, dis-
cussed in the following section, women survivors have described conditions
of sexual slavery and enforced prostitution lasting months or years and, in
the case of forced marriage, sometimes decades.
Third, the elements for all three crimes are also similar in that the per-
petrator exerts control over the victim in some way. In cases of sexual
slavery, the perpetrator exercises ‘powers attaching to the rights of own-
ership’ over the victim to ‘engage in an act of a sexual nature by force,’
often also ‘exacting forced labour or otherwise reducing a person to a
servile status’ (ICC 2000, cited in Oosterveld 2011b, p. 62).5 These ele-
ments which involve the deprivation of liberty and power over the victim
are key in understanding the force used against the victim to engage in
sexual acts: this definition thus places the sexual abuse at the heart of
the crime, while also emphasising the removal of the victim’s autonomy.
Further, by drawing out the conditions of enslavement which characterise
this crime, these elements also highlight that other abuses may be fun-
damental aspects of the experiences of victims of sexual slavery. These
include a range of other ‘tasks’ that women held in such conditions are
likely also forced to perform, such as domestic chores (cleaning, cooking,
washing), as well as giving birth to and raising children (see Oosterveld
2003–2004; Park 2006).
 Sexual crimes in 1965– 66  101
The elements of enforced prostitution and forced marriage are strikingly
similar to those of sexual enslavement, but each also involves further distin-
guishing elements. As would be expected, the element which differentiates
sexual slavery from enforced prostitution is the monetary or other advan-
tage which the perpetrator obtains from forcing the victim to perform sexual
acts. In most cases, this crime involves a victim being forced by the perpe-
trator to perform sex acts on others, and the perpetrator receiving money
or goods in exchange for these sex acts. As discussed in the ICC’s Elements
of Crimes document, under Article 7(1)(g)-3, a key element involves how the
perpetrator ‘obtained or expected to obtain pecuniary or other advantage in
exchange for or in connection with the acts of a sexual nature’ (ICC 2000).
The elements of forced marriage as a crime against humanity—and
whether or not it should even be considered a separate crime from sexual
slavery or as an ‘other inhumane act’—remain a highly controversial area
in gender jurisprudence (Gong-Gershowitz 2009; Oosterveld 2011a, 2012;
Clark 2012; O’Brien 2016). The Special Court for Sierra Leone (SCSL) has
made a range of somewhat contradictory judgements on forced marriage,
all to redress the crimes perpetrated against ‘bush wives’ during the con-
flict in Sierra Leonne (see Coulter 2009). In these various judgements, the
elements of crime which distinguish forced marriage from sexual slavery
revolve around the harm inflicted through ‘forced conjugal association.’
While still somewhat unclear in these judgements, forced conjugal asso-
ciation is tied to arguments made in these trials before the SCSL, amongst
others, that the imposition of the label ‘wife’ for the victim carries with it
a separate form of harm and stigma for the victim (Clark 2012; Oosterveld
2012). These arguments have attempted to highlight that forced marriage
is a compounded form of crime against humanity, which involves many of
the elements of sexual slavery as well as other crimes, including enslave-
ment, forced labour, and often forced pregnancy, over long periods of time
(­Oosterveld 2012).6
When reflecting on the case law, it is clear that these three crimes have
undergone very different trajectories over the past few decades. Sexual en-
slavement and enforced prostitution, since the late 1990s, have both been
recognised as crimes against humanity. Both were included in the 1998
Rome Statute for the International Criminal Court; previously, provisions
for sexual enslavement had been listed in the Statutes for the tribunals for
Rwanda and the former Yugoslavia, while the ICTR Statute had also rec-
ognised enforced prostitution (de Brouwer 2005).7 Sexual enslavement and
enforced prostitution were also listed as crimes against humanity in the
Statute for the SCSL set up in the early 2000s, but only enslavement was sub-
sequently listed at the Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of C ­ ambodia
(ECCC).8 By comparison, while forced marriage has been successfully pros-
ecuted in Sierra Leone, provisions for this crime were not included in the
SCSL ­Statute and have not been included in any other statutes for interna-
tional or hybrid courts to date (Oosterveld 2011a).9
102  Annie Pohlman
Sexual enslavement and forced marriage have both featured heavily in
the case law as part of the post-1990s development of gender jurisprudence.
Sexual enslavement as a crime against humanity was successfully prose-
cuted for the first time in the Foča case before the ICTY in 2001. In this
case, the Prosecutor argued that two of the accused, Kunarac and Kovać,
had treated women and girls as personal property, detained them over a
period of months and forced them to perform acts of sexual nature, as well
as domestic labour; acts which the court accepted amounted to sexual slav-
ery (Sellers 2011).10 Subsequently at the SCSL, sexual slavery has also been
prosecuted in three major cases, each judgement reinforcing the enslave-
ment of victims, and the sexual nature of the acts these victims were forced
to perform (Sellers 2011; Oosterveld 2012). As mentioned, the prosecution of
forced marriage at the SCSL has caused considerable legal conjecture over
whether forced marriage should be considered a separate crime against hu-
manity in its own right or subsumed within the elements of sexual enslave-
ment. This debate continues as the jurisprudence around forced marriage in
its many and different forms is taken up in ongoing tribunals. At present,
this is particularly the case at the ECCC, where the Court (potentially in
Case No. 002/02) will need to consider the very different dimensions of male
and female victims forced into marriage by the Democratic Kampuchea re-
gime (Christensen 2015; O’Brien 2016).
In stark comparison to the development of case law regarding sexual slav-
ery and forced marriage, although recognised as a crime against h ­ umanity
in the Rome Statute since the 1990s, enforced prostitution has yet to be in-
dicted or prosecuted at any of the international or hybrid tribunals set up
since that time. The only times when this crime has come under investiga-
tion have been in relation to the treatment of the so-called comfort women as
war crimes by the Japanese army before and during the Second World War.
These were addressed first at the largely forgotten Temporary Courts Martial
­located in Batavia (Jakarta) in the Dutch East Indies (now ­Indonesia), which
were unique among the post-Second World War trials to examine enforced
prostitution as a war crime in four trials in the mid-to-late 1940s, though
they only addressed the victimisation of Indo-European and Dutch nationals
(Jөrgensen & Friedmann 2014). The second time was before another People’s
Tribunal, the Women’s International War Crimes Tribunal for the Trial of
­Japan’s ­Military Sexual Slavery established in 2000. Although also a non-­
legally binding judgement, as is the case for the IPT 1965, the Women’s Tribu-
nal delivered a landmark judgement condemning the kidnap and enslavement
of hundreds of thousands of women who were repeatedly raped at Japanese
military ‘comfort stations’ (Chinkin 2001; Knop 2011).11
Thus, although very similar in scope and nature, these three crimes
against humanity—sexual slavery, enforced prostitution, and forced
­marriage—have distinguishing features, and the elements of crime for each
reflect this. Each has also undergone very different paths of development in
the relevant case law. When considering the experiences of women and girls
 Sexual crimes in 1965– 66  103
who were forced to perform sexual acts over weeks, months, and years in the
aftermath of the 1965 coup in Indonesia, these elements of crime and argu-
ments in the case law help to illuminate both the similarities and differences
between the experiences of being forced into sexual slavery and prostitution,
and forced into marriage.

Evidence of sexual enslavement, forced marriage, and enforced

prostitution at the IPT 1965
In the evidence brief on sexual violence prepared for the Prosecutor at the
IPT 1965, a wide range of acts was listed under a group heading of ‘sexual
enslavement.’ These acts, described in accounts given by mostly women sur-
vivors and witnesses, involved cases of what should be understood as sep-
arate crimes of sexual slavery, enforced prostitution, and forced marriage,
each as a crime against humanity. Each of these cases listed involved acts
of sexual violence against the victim perpetrated over prolonged periods
of time; each case was also inhumane in nature and character, and caused
great suffering and/or serious injury to the body and to the mental or phys-
ical health of the victims. Here, I discuss each of these crimes in turn and
draw on some of the cases presented as evidence for the Prosecutor at the
IPT 1965 to illustrate the nature of these crimes.

Sexual slavery
For the 25 cases of sexual slavery listed in the evidence brief for the Prose-
cutor, all involved repeated acts of sexual violence over extended periods of
time (weeks, months, sometimes years) as well as some form of deprivation
of liberty. In most cases, this meant detention of some form, whether at one
of the prisons, guard posts, or one of the many ad hoc detention centres
across Indonesia, or at another location where the victim’s movements were
restricted (for example, at the home of a soldier). In all cases, it was clear
that women and girls were forced or coerced, through violence or threat of
violence, to remain in these conditions of enslavement. In many cases also,
aside from experiencing repeated acts of sexual violence, women were addi-
tionally forced to undertake some form of forced labour, including cooking
and cleaning.
In many of these cases listed, the women who experienced sexual slavery
were also detained at some point by members of the security services. Some
women, for example, described shorter periods of initial detention in a camp
or prison which was followed by some other form of detention at their own
house or the house of the perpetrator who kept them enslaved. Other women
described their sexual enslavement lasting throughout the period of their
detention at a camp or prison, including cases lasting months or years.
The case of Ibu ‘K’ is an example of the former. After the coup in October
1965, Ibu K’s husband, a member of a communist-aligned association, went
104  Annie Pohlman
into hiding, and she never saw him again. ‘The military was searching for
her husband for more than a month and could not find him. Around the end
of November, the security services captured her to “replace” her husband.’12
Detained for over a month at her local military command post in East Java,
she was then forcibly removed to the home of one of the soldiers from the
command post, a Lieutenant ‘L.’ She was forced to remain at Lieutenant
L’s home for nine years ‘where she had to work as a maid. She washed and
cooked and had to submit to the sexual wishes of Lieutenant L. K was not
allowed to leave the house, not even to see her family’ (Komnas Perempuan
2007, p. 107). During that time, she gave birth to and raised two children, a
girl and a boy. When Lieutenant L was transferred to a new post in 1975, he
gave Ibu K a small amount of money to look after their daughter, and took
their son with him. She never saw either again (Komnas Perempuan 2007,
pp. 107, 157).
The testimony of Ibu ‘B’ is one of several cases listed which describe
long periods of sexual slavery during detention. Ibu B was a university stu-
dent in a town in Central Java in 1965 and a member of a Partai Komunis
­Indonesia-aligned youth organisation. About a month after the coup, she
was arrested and taken first to the local military command post, where she
was kept for three days without food or water before being transferred along
with a group of other women to an Army barracks in a nearby city. Ibu B
recalled what happened to her at these barracks:

[Myself and the women with me] were raped by many men there almost
every night. I don’t remember how many times I had to submit myself
for those soldiers, and I can’t recall all their faces. When I was called at
night, I had to submit to the sexual desires of those soldiers. I would lie
there with my eyes closed and try to kill all of my senses. This was the
only way I could resist their treatment, and it was a way to avoid being
killed.
(cited in Komnas Perempuan 2007, p. 97)

Ibu B and the other women held with her were kept in conditions of sexual
slavery for several months at the Army barracks. Later, she was moved to
another prison camp, where she remained until her release some years later
(Komnas Perempuan 2007).

Enforced prostitution
Amongst the cases listed under sexual slavery, there was a handful of testi-
monies in which women recalled being ‘rented out’ (disewa), ‘called’ (diapel),
or ‘picked up’ (dijemput) during their time at particular detention facilities.
Such cases described women raped and forced to perform sex acts either
at the detention facility itself (for example, in an interrogation room, or
in the sleeping quarters of the guards) or at another location. During my
 Sexual crimes in 1965– 66  105
research interviewing women survivors in West Sumatra, for example, Ibu
Tati (a pseudonym) talked about how she and other women who were being
kept at a local police headquarters were ‘lent out’ to visiting policemen and
other men. As she explained, ‘[the women] were “borrowed” (dibon), lent out
at night. First they’d be taken. Then the next day, they’d be returned to [the
police] headquarters.’13 This ‘lending’ or ‘borrowing’ of women detainees
from the police headquarters was a regular occurrence organised by the
policemen who were in charge and went on for the several months that Ibu
Tati was imprisoned there.
In cases such as the one described by Ibu Tati, it was clear that these
women were sexually enslaved by their guards, and that they were forced
to perform these sex acts with not only the men who ran these detention
centres but also other men to whom they were ‘rented out.’ In very few of
these accounts, however, were women explicit about any monetary or other
advantage gained by the soldiers or guards running these detention facilities
in exchange for this ‘renting out’ of women political prisoners. Certainly,
as in the experience of Ibu Tati and the other women held at that police
headquarters, there was some benefit derived by the officers in charge, but
rarely did women mention this aspect of pecuniary or other benefit in their
accounts.
One woman who did discuss the direct benefits derived by a perpetrator
and whose account was included in the evidence brief was Ibu ‘C.’ In her
account, Ibu C describes what happened to her after many years of political
detention. Originally arrested in 1965 at the age of only 14, she spent 12 years
in various detention centres in Java. In 1977 when she was finally released,
she ‘had nothing and no one to support her,’ and there was no ‘transitional
process to help former prisoners’ (Komnas Perempuan 2007, p. 107). Ibu C
described what happened to her after this:

A prison guard, Pak H, offered to let me stay at his house. I accepted the
offer because I had no other choice. The rented house was very simple.
He did not live there, but stayed at his wife’s house. On the first day of
my stay there, Pak H raped me. Then he took me to his wife’s house
to use me as a maid, but I was not allowed to stay there. After that,
every morning at four I went to the home of Pak H’s wife and worked
as a maid. After completing my work, I would return to Pak H’s rented
house and had to submit to his sexual desires. I could not refuse because
I had no other choice.
(cited in Komnas Perempuan 2007, p. 107)

Sexually enslaved by Pak H, and forced to perform free domestic labour

every day, after one month, Pak H then began inviting colleagues to the
house which he had rented for Ibu C. Initially ‘two of his military friends’
came to the house, and she was forced to ‘serve’ them as well. Later, more
and more men came to the house every night.
106  Annie Pohlman
Sometimes it was three or four men a night. Later on I found out that
Pak H was receiving money from these men I’d had to serve. I felt like
Pak H made me into a whore. For a year [… he made me] a woman
who’d been traded in exchange for money.
(cited in Komnas Perempuan 2007, p. 107)

As Ibu C made clear, Pak H first sexually enslaved her and then prostituted
her for his own material gain. Without family or anyone else to turn to, she
was forced to remain at the house for over a year; there are no details in the
account about how or under what conditions Ibu C’s enforced prostitution
ended.

Forced marriage
While there is a long history across all human populations of women being
taken as ‘wives’ during conflicts and genocides, it is only in recent years
that forced marriage has been understood as a crime (Askin 1997). Forced
marriage is also a crime which must be understood in terms of the circum-
stances in which it is perpetrated. In Sierra Leone, prosecutions for forced
marriage have related to women and girls who were abducted during re-
bel attacks and forced to become ‘bush wives’ to men in these rebel forces
(see Coulter 2009; Oosterveld 2011a). In Cambodia during the Democratic
Kampuchea regime, by comparison, both men and women were forced into
marriages by Angkar officials, with estimates that 400,000 men and women
being forcibly married during the regime (Oosterveld & Sellers 2016, p. 325).
The evidence collected thus far towards ongoing cases before the ECCC
(Case 002/02 and potentially Case 004) describe a set of circumstances in
which forced marriage, forced conjugal and sexual relations between men
and women were regulated by the regime in Cambodia, which is quite differ-
ent from the kidnap and forced marriages perpetrated against women and
girls in Sierra Leone (Oosterveld & Sellers 2016; O’Brien 2016).
The cases of forced marriage which were listed in the evidence brief for the
IPT 1965 reflect the circumstances and the context of the Indonesian case,
and bare closer resemblance to the forms of this crime in Sierra Leone than
in Cambodia. In the Indonesian case, forced marriages were perpetrated
against women and older teenage girls and were described by survivors and
witnesses in a variety of ways. Most were cases in which the wives of men
who were either detained or killed were diambil (‘taken’) by other men. These
included both official second marriages, women becoming second wives in
polygamous Muslim marriages, as well as women being kept as ‘secret’ or
unofficial wives (sometimes called istri gelap). The women most often ‘taken’
were the wives of men killed or imprisoned, as well as other female relatives,
particularly daughters, as well as women detainees. The circumstances in
which these women entered these marriages varied widely: in some cases,
women chose to enter into new relationships as a means of protection for
 Sexual crimes in 1965– 66  107
themselves or children, but it seems that, in the majority cases, these women
were clearly forced or coerced (see Budiawan 2012; Pohlman 2015a, 2016).
The testimony of Ibu ‘HII,’ listed in the cases of forced marriage in the
evidence brief, illustrates some of the coercive conditions in which women
were forced into marriage. As she explains in her testimony, many members
of Ibu HII’s family were imprisoned or murdered during the anti-­communist
purges, including her husband and almost all of her siblings. A man from
the local village soldier’s unit in their little hamlet in East Java preyed upon
her, threatening her only remaining sibling if she did not consent to sex and
to marriage.

That soldier knew that all my family was gone, I only had my younger
brother [CI] left. The soldier kept coming to my house and trying to
force himself on me, to go along with what he wanted, to serve him.
I would try to avoid him, or refuse him, so then the solider along with
another man from the village council came and threatened me, [saying]
‘I’ll put CI in prison, and then I’ll kill him if you don’t come with me!’
I was distraught, what would they do? My younger brother was only
little, and even now I hurt to think of it. But I thought to myself, I can’t
let my brother be killed, because all my other siblings, and my husband,
all of them had already been killed, and all I had left was CI. So in the
end I was forced to go along with what the solider wanted, and finally
we were married.
(cited in KontraS 2012, pp. 38–39)

Conclusion: people’s tribunals and the question of retrospective

application of modern laws to address historical cases
This chapter has explored three specific yet closely related crimes against
humanity committed against women and girls during and after the 1965–66
mass killings in Indonesia: sexual slavery, enforced prostitution, and forced
marriage. All three affected an unknown number of women and girls across
Indonesia and yet all were subsumed under a blanket indictment of ‘sexual
crimes’ in Charge 5 at the IPT 1965.
While the development of the growing body of case law at the interna-
tional and hybrid tribunals gives much hope that these crimes will be pun-
ished, and perhaps prevented, in the future, the core dilemma to be faced
in this chapter remains that these acts were not defined as crimes when they
were perpetrated in Indonesia. Sexual enslavement, enforced prostitution,
and forced marriage were not crimes in the mid-1960s, either in international
criminal law or domestically in Indonesia. While rape was prohibited at this
time under international humanitarian and international law (Sellers 2007;
O’Brien 2016)14, and non-marital rape under the domestic criminal code in
Indonesia (Idrus & Bennett 2003; Blackwood 2007), none of these could
be used to prosecute adequately the crimes described in the survivor and
108  Annie Pohlman
witness accounts discussed in this chapter. So how do we redress acts which
are crimes today but which were not crimes when they were committed?
One of the core safeguards in criminal law is that there is no crime with-
out a law which criminalises it, nullum crimen sine lege. This principle goes
to the heart of protections of the rights of a defendant to know the charge
brought against him and, critically, to not be held criminally responsible for
a crime that did not exist at the time when he committed it (see van Schaack
2008). Yet, as various legal scholars have shown, arguably from the begin-
ning of the modern international criminal law system with the Post-Second
World War Tribunals, and certainly in the post-Cold War renaissance of
this law at the various international and hybrid tribunals since the 1990s,
these courts have continuously pushed the boundaries of this principle with
retrospective condemnations of past crimes (Boot 2002; van Schaack 2008).
In order to try defendants for the crimes they committed before these crimes
were specifically articulated, these modern tribunals have invoked ‘a com-
plex interplay among immorality, illegality, and criminality,’ and drawn on
a host of human rights instruments to show that although acts may have not
have been outlawed as crimes at the time of their commission, they were
unlawful and immoral (van Schaack 2008, p. 133).
There is another pressing reason the violent acts committed against the
women and girls discussed in this chapter should be understood as crimes,
and should have been considered with greater weight at the IPT 1965: simply
because acts have not been prosecuted in the past does not mean that they
were lawful when committed. As Oosterveld and Sellers have convincingly
argued regarding the lack of charges relating to sexual crimes before the
ECCC, ‘impunity does not prove that a law does not exist’ (2016, p.  341).
They make this argument regarding acts committed under the Democratic
Kampuchea regime between 1975 and 1979, most of which would also be
applicable when considering the 1965–66 massacres in Indonesia. They out-
line how sexual violence as a crime against humanity, specifically rape, was
explicitly prohibited in international law from 1945, though (for a long list of
reasons), was substantially ignored in the post-Second World War tribunals’
case law. Oosterveld and Sellers’ argument is that, by ignoring these sexual
crimes, this perpetuates this ‘historical wrong’ of impunity for these crimes,
privileging ‘formalist considerations of whether the crime against humanity
of rape was explicitly delineated as such in international law’ at the time
above the fact that ‘the conduct itself was unlawful’ (­Oosterveld & Sellers
2016, pp. 341–42).
When reflecting on the crimes committed against women and girls in
­Indonesia, and how these crimes were dealt with at the IPT 1965, I believe
more could have been done. The IPT 1965 was a significant step in the very
long road for justice for the crimes committed against millions in Indonesia,
yet more could have been done. Specifically, more could have been done
to address the range of sexual and gender-based crimes presented as evi-
dence for the Prosecutor, such as by separating the three crimes discussed in
 Sexual crimes in 1965– 66  109
this chapter. For is that not the purpose of a people’s tribunal, to seek justice
for crimes in a non-judicial people’s forum in the absence of any judicial
measures for redress?
In seeking that justice, we must be careful not to perpetuate the historical
harms of impunity for crimes against women. Modern gender jurisprudence
has shown us that, in order to redress gender-based and sexual crimes, we
must understand, and prosecute, the separate and distinct harms of each.
The cases of sexual slavery, enforced prostitution, and forced marriage
which women and girls endured for weeks, months, and years following the
1965 coup in Indonesia were distinct crimes and should have been treated at
the IPT 1965 as separate, named charges. The purpose of a people’s tribunal
is to seek justice for historical harms and, in doing so, should not perpetuate
the inequities and impunities for crimes against women.

Notes
1 This chapter draws some materials from the Evidence Brief on Sexual Violence,
a 200-page document which I prepared for the Prosecutor of the IPT 1965, deliv-
ered in October 2015 (unpublished, Pohlman 2015b). I wish to thank Cassandra
­McConaghy and Nikola Care from the University of Queensland Pro Bono ­Centre
for their kind assistance in the preparation of a guide to preparing evidence of
crimes against humanity. In particular, I wish to thank Cassie and Nikola for their
attention to detail in providing details on the relevant case law. On sexual violence
as torture as a crime against humanity in 1965, see Pohlman (2017).
2 The Indonesian National Commission for Human Rights (Komnas HAM) has
also prepared an extensive report on the mass violence of 1965–66. This report was
presented to the Indonesian Attorney General’s Office in July 2012. The report
includes numerous findings of sexual violence but, as the report remains unpub-
lished and closed (after being rejected by the AGO), these findings were unable to
be included in the evidence brief for the Prosecutor (see Prakoso et al 2012).
3 On recent jurisprudence on how such acts have been prosecuted as outrages upon
personal dignity in the Charles Taylor case before the Special Court for S ­ ierra
Leone (Prosecutor V. Charles Taylor, Case No. SCSL-03-01-T, Trial Chamber II,
Sentencing Judgement, 30 May 2012), see Oosterveld (2012, pp. 24–25).
4 Article 7(1)(g)-2 of the Rome Statute addresses sexual slavery and Article 7(1)
(g)-3 with enforced prostitution as crimes against humanity. Specific elements
of sexual slavery and enforced prostitution are given in the ICC’s Elements of
Crimes document in 2000: Report on the Preparatory Commission for the Inter-
national Criminal Court, Finalized Draft Text of the Elements of Crimes, add.
Part II, UN Doc. PCNICC/2000/1/Add.2 (2000), p. 13 (ICC 2000). The elements
of crime for forced marriage have been seriously contested, but most clearly de-
fined in the SCSL Appeals Chamber Judgement in the AFRC case, see Prosecu-
tor v Alex Tamba Brima, Brima Bazzy Kamara and Santigie Borbor Kanu (Case
No. SCSL-04-16-A), Appeals Chamber Judgement, 22 February 2008, at paras.
195–196.
5 ICC’s Elements of Crime document (2000), Art. 7(1)(g)-6. As Oosterveld (2011b,
p. 62) notes, this definition also draws strongly on elements of enslavement and
makes an additional footnote regarding the deprivation of liberty of the victim.
6 In this article, Oosterveld compares the previous judgements in the AFRC Ap-
peals and RUF Trial Chambers, with how forced marriage was reassessed as
110  Annie Pohlman
‘conjugal slavery,’ making a critique of each approach. As she explains, ‘conjugal
slavery’ takes on the formula of ‘sexual slavery plus enslavement’ (see Oosterveld
2012, pp. 20–22).
7 Article 7(1)(g) of the Rome Statute lists sexual enslavement, and Article 7(1)(g)-3
lists enforced prostitution. For the elements of each under the Statute (Interna-
tional Criminal Court 2011: Article7(1)(g)–7(1)(g)-3). For the ICTR, see Statute
of the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda, annexed to Resolution 955, SC
Res 955, UN SCOR, 49th sess, 3453rd mtf, UN Doc S/RES/955 (1994) (amended
in 1998, 2000 and 2002). For the ICTY, see Statute of the International Criminal
Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia, annexed to Resolution 827, SC Res 827, UN
SCOR, 48th sess, 3217th mtg, UN Doc S/RES/827 (1993), amended in 1998, 2000
and 2002. The ICTY and ICTR statutes contain enslavement as CAH (Articles
5(c) and 3(c), respectively). Enforced prostitution was listed in the ICTR Statute
as an ‘outrage upon personal dignity’ in IHL; it was not included in the ICTY
statute.
8 Article 2(g) as crimes against humanity, see Statute of the Special Court of Sierra
Leone, annexed to the Agreement between the United Nations and the Govern-
ment of Sierra Leone on the Establishment of a Special Court for Sierra Leone
on 16 January 2002, pursuant to SC Res 1315, UN SCOR, 55th sess, 4186th mtg,
UN Doc S/RES/1315 (2000), 14 August 2000. The ECCC’s statute and rules of
procedure combine domestic and international law, as at the time that the crimes
were committed, thus the exclusion of more recent developments, see Law on
the Establishment of Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia for the
Prosecution of Crimes Committed During the Period of Democratic Kampuchea
(2004). Article 5 deals with CAH, in which enslavement is listed. See Studzinsky
(2012) and Meisenberg and Stegmiller (2016).
9 The Appeals Chamber at the SCSL first upheld forced marriage as a distinct
CAH, despite its not being listed in the Statute, see Prosecutor v. Alex Tamba
Brima, Ibrahim Bazzy Kamara and Santigie Borbor Kanu [2008] SCSL-2004-
16-A (Special Court for Sierra Leone, Appeals Chamber), 28 May 2008, at paras.
187–203 (the ‘Armed Forces Revolutionary Council’ or ‘AFRC’ case).
10 These acts were charged as enslavement (Article 5(C) of the ICTY Statute), see
Prosecutor v. Dragoljub Kunarac, Radomir Kovač and Zoran Vuković (2001),
­ICTY-IT-96-23-T & IT-96-23/1-T, Trial Chamber Judgement, 22 February 2001,
at paras. 883 and 886. This case was followed by Prosecutor v. Jonkovic et al.,
in which one of the accused, Radovan Stanković, was charged with the crimes
against humanity of enslavement and rape. The original indictment listing eight
accused became known as the Foča indictment, which became the Kunarac et
al. case (IT-96-23). Two of the accused died before they could be transferred
for prosecution, and so the remaining six were separated into two cases, the
­Kunarac et al. case and Prosecutor v. Jankovic, Zelenovic and Stankovic (IT-96-
23/1, IT-96-23/2), which was later separated again.
11 Prosecutors and Peoples of Asia Pacific Region v Japan, Summary of Findings
and Preliminary Judgement, Women’s International War Crimes Tribunal, Case
No. PT-2000-1-T, Judgement, 4 December 2001. Please note that the Tribunal ad-
dressed the experiences of ‘comfort women’ as sexual enslavement, not enforced
prostitution.
12 The information on Ibu ‘K’ (the initial is used in the source documents) was gath-
ered by researcher Ita F. Nadia from her interviews with the victim in 1997, and
sourced from two documents, the Komnas Perempuan report (2007, pp. 107 and
157), and from a document supplied to me by the interviewer for the purposes
of preparing the evidence brief, entitled ‘Daftar Narasi Perempuan ­Korban ‘65’
(undated). This quote is from that document (my translation).
 Sexual crimes in 1965– 66  111
13 Interview with Ibu Tati and Ibu Susi (both pseudonyms), together with Narny
Yenny and myself, West Sumatra, September 2005. This interview is also dis-
cussed elsewhere (Pohlman 2015a, pp. 157–59).
14 With regard to international humanitarian law (to govern the wars and con-
flicts), the Leiber Code, drafted for the Union army during the American civil
war, outlawed rape specifically, while the 1907 Hague Convention and the 1949
Geneva Conventions categorised sexual violence as ‘outrages against personal
dignity.’ Post Second World War, rape was listed as a crime against humanity in
the Allied Local Council Law No. 10, thought there was no case law stemming
from this (see Sellers 2000; Oosterveld & Sellers 2016).

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pp. 605–52.
Oosterveld, V 2011a, ‘Forced marriage and the special court for Sierra Leone: legal
advances and conceptual difficulties’, International Humanitarian Legal Studies,
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Oosterveld, V 2011b, ‘The gender jurisprudence of the special court for Sierra
­Leonne: progress in the revolutionary United front judgements’, Cornell Interna-
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Oosterveld, V 2012, ‘Gender and the Charles Taylor case at the special court for
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pp. 7–33.
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the 1965–66 killings in Indonesia’, Journal of Genocide Research, vol. 19, no. 4,
pp. 574–93.
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Sellers, PV 2000, ‘The context of sexual violence: sexual violence as violations of
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7 Persecution through denial
of citizenship
Indonesians in forced exile post 1965
Ratna Saptari

Introduction
Between 1965 and 1967, hundreds to thousands of individuals who happened
to be abroad at the time lost their Indonesian citizenship because they were
alleged to be communists by Suharto’s newly established regime.1 The Inter-
national People’s Tribunal for 1965 (IPT 1965) gave specific attention to the
plight of those exiled from Indonesia following the coup in 1965, finding that

Upon consideration of the evidence presented before the Tribunal, the

fact was established that many Indonesians were subjected to forcible
exile, which constitutes deprivation of right to free passage, right to re-
turn and enjoyment of full citizenship rights (fundamental rights laid
down in international customary or treaty law), and this may well reach
the same level of gravity as other forms of persecution as a crime against
humanity.
(IPT 2017, p. 82)

Most of those who became exiles during this period were students supported
by individual scholarships or the government student exchange program
(Mahasiswa Ikatan Dinas, Mahid), journalists, or official delegates who
were invited as guests to attend official commemorations or international
conferences in various parts of the world, particularly in the communist or
left-leaning countries. Since the second half of the 1950s and early 1960s,
Sukarno’s foreign policy had been to endorse various agreements and col-
laborations with non-aligned governments in Asia, Eastern Europe, and
Latin America to organise activities which would strengthen the bond be-
tween these countries.
In practice, this meant encouraging young political leaders to partici-
pate in conferences and solidarity organisations to increase their organi-
sational or political skills or sending students to further their knowledge
in various disciplines. Within this political framework, scholarships and
grants were offered to these young Indonesians with the hope that they
would contribute to the development of the Indonesian Republic when they
116  Ratna Saptari
came back. Others who were already leaders or members of organisations
were sent as delegates to specific events such as Chinese National Day on
1 October 1965;2 the 1966 Tricontinental Conference in Havana; the 1965
International Organisation of Journalists Conference in Santiago, Chile;
or the 1965 Conference of the Afro-Asian People’s Solidarity Organisation
in Algeria.
Following the downfall of the Sukarno government and the takeover
by the Suharto regime, the structures of power within the Indonesian em-
bassies abroad also changed as the military attachés took over control of
these offices abroad. In 1966, screening processes were conducted by the
Indonesian embassies and the passports of those considered to be in the
‘wrong’ political category were revoked, bringing them into a position of
statelessness. This was either because they were unwilling to let go of their
loyalty to President Sukarno or because they were alleged to be involved in
organisations directly and indirectly affiliated with the Indonesian Com-
munist Party (Partai Komunis Indonesia, PKI). For all of them, not return-
ing to Indonesia was not a matter of choice but of state intervention and
exclusion.
Through the stories of exiles who after the 1965 purge eventually came to
reside in countries which at the time provided opportunities for exiles, such
as the Netherlands, Germany, and France, one can obtain a notion not only
of their formal deprivation of citizenship but also their tenacious sense of
belonging and affinity with the Indonesian nation. This condition of depri-
vation has been particularly augmented by the fact that the stigmatisation
attached to those who were considered part of the communist movement
affected the lives of their family members back home.
In this chapter, I focus on the experiences of exiles and their strategies
to deal with the political and social barriers which they faced as a conse-
quence of institutional and social exclusion not only of themselves but also
of their family members both at home and abroad. This involves examining
the conditions under which they could not return home, the consequences
for their relations with family and friends back home, and their movement
from country to country in search of safety and a viable existence.3
The involuntary or forced migration of people due to conflict or war sit-
uations has been a recurrent phenomenon in global history, and the cir-
cumstances under which this has occurred varies from country to country.4
In broadly defining the condition of exiles and the politics of exile in Latin
America, Sznajder and Roniger stated that

The broadest analytical elements denoting exiles are, first, their forceful
institutional exclusion and displacement … under constraining condi-
tions and persecution. The second is their move to a foreign environ-
ment …. The third is their impaired yet persistent will to return to the
home country.
(Sznajder & Roniger 2009, p. 23)
 Persecution through denial of citizenship  117
In the case of the Indonesian exiles, since their departure to foreign coun-
tries was mainly undertaken prior to the October 1965 massacres and vio-
lence, their becoming exiles was, in general, as Hill and Dragojlovic have
emphasised, ‘not a conscious decision to emigrate … or fleeing an outbreak
of war or violence in their homeland’ (Hill & Dragojlovic 2010, p. 1). As
Hearman has argued, in contrast to the situation of Vietnamese refugees
for instance, who left their homeland because of their rejection of the newly
formed nation, the prevention of Indonesians abroad to return home or the
revocation of their citizenship status was more a rejection by the Indonesian
New Order state, which made them ‘accidental exiles’ (2010, p. 84). Wrapped
within the rhetoric of ‘maintaining national security’ and ‘saving the na-
tion,’ the Suharto regime legitimised the persecution of anyone associated
with leftist (whether nationalist or communist) organisations. It was indeed
the profound institutional exclusion and stigmatisation of those who hap-
pened to be in socialist or communist countries during this period, which
characterised the condition of Indonesian exiles who could not return home
after the state induced violence of 1965. Djumaini Kartaprawira, who stud-
ied to be a teacher in Solo and was then sent to West Sumatra for four years
to teach, was offered a scholarship by the Ministry of Higher Education
and Science and sent to the Lumumba University in Moscow to study law.
He asserted that although they did not experience the same physical abuse
and torture as those who were persecuted in the homeland during that pe-
riod, the experience of being suddenly excommunicated from one’s family
and community was equally torturous.5 Not only was the act of returning
home considered to be dangerous, since it would imply immediate impris-
onment or torture, but it could also mean the possibility of the Indonesian
government tracing the exile’s network of friends and family, which would
be dangerous for them.
Since the post-New Order period, popular and academic attention to-
wards the 1965 purge, and the various forms of human rights violations
perpetrated by the regime has increased significantly, but it is only in
the last decade that scholarly work on the position of Indonesia’s exiles
has started to emerge.6 These studies provide revealing stories of the
­Indonesian exiles and the geopolitical conditions which have shaped their
lives. Despite obvious commonalities in the process of exclusion, the stories
of these exiles who were at the time in the Soviet Union, China, Romania,
Hungary, Bulgaria, Albania, Cuba, or Vietnam, among others, also show
somewhat different trajectories in their political, social, and personal lives
following the revocation of their passports. For those who were members
of left-wing organisations, this can also be seen by the different degrees of
involvement they had with the organisations, where some were non-­active
official members and others were active members or organisers.7 There
were also differences in discipline and specialisations chosen, whether it
was medicine, engineering, art and cinematography, chemistry, law, or po-
litical science (Hill 2014, p. 625). However, studying or being abroad at a
118  Ratna Saptari
particular time and place in history and being placed within particular
stigmatised categories apparently had fatal consequences for their (public
and private) life trajectories.

Indonesian politics in the Cold War period

Sukarno’s attempt to strengthen Indonesia’s position within global politics
especially vis-à-vis the western world can clearly be seen in his promotion of
Indonesia as host of the 1955 Bandung Conference. Despite the significant
differences between the Asian and African countries, the Bandung confer-
ence was ‘a watershed moment’ which served as a critical historical juncture
connecting ‘anticolonial activism with visions of future accomplishments’
(Lee 2010). It was in this spirit also that the Afro-Asian Peoples’ Solidarity
Organisation (AAPSO) was founded in 1960, and its Permanent Secretar-
iat was then established in Cairo. Ibrahim Isa, who additionally served as
the secretary of the Indonesia Peace Committee, established in 1951, was
appointed by Sukarno as the Indonesian Permanent Representative to the
Secretariat of the AAPSO and therefore sent to Cairo.8
Navigating between the competing powers of the two major communist
countries, Indonesia opened up formal diplomatic relations with China in
1953 and with the Soviet Union in 1954. Ever since Sukarno’s visit to the
­Soviet Union in 1956, Indonesian civilians were encouraged to study there
with scholarships from Khrushchev’s government, and by 1965, Indonesians
were the Soviet Union’s largest foreign student population.9 Sungkono, the
son of small farmers from Binjai, North Sumatra, for instance, obtained a
scholarship from the Department of Higher Education and Science (PTIP)
and left for Moscow in August 1962 to study mechanical engineering. ­Ahmad
Supardi also went that same year to study economics at the L ­ omonosov
University and with a grant from the Soviet government managed to con-
tinue with his PhD in the history department, whereas Soeranto went to the
Patrice Lumumba Friendship University to study English (Hill 2014, p. 623).
Similarly, the Chinese government, also eager to promote its alliance with
the Indonesian government, offered support and funding for young Indo-
nesians to study in China or to offer Indonesian language lessons in their
Foreign Language Institute based in Beijing (Hill 2010, p. 29). These grants
were allotted to those who were already linked to government departments
and the students were sent as Mahid (in-service students) (Hill 2010, p. 29).
Other students were sent to China because they were members of organisa-
tions affiliated with the PKI, which had sister organisations in that country.
Sarmadji, who was a reporter and editor of the rubric on children’s edu-
cation in the newspaper Harian Rakyat, was sent by the ­Indonesia-China
Friendship Institute (Lembaga Persahabatan Indonesia-Cina) to study the
children’s educational system in Beijing (Fanggidaej 2006). Tom Iljas, who
was a member of the Pemuda Rakyat and also the Indonesian Youth Stu-
dent League (Ikatan Pemuda Pelajar Indonesia, IPPI), was also one of those
 Persecution through denial of citizenship  119
who obtained a scholarship from the Indonesian Department of Education
to study agriculture at the Agricultural Institute, also in Beijing (Hill 2010,
p. 47, n. 62).
Political fluctuations and competition between China and Russia in defin-
ing the direction of the communist bloc shaped the circumstances in which
Indonesian students found themselves when they were sent abroad. As Hill
has shown, Sukarno’s initial orientation towards the Soviet Union slowly
shifted towards China. This adjustment was manifested in the formation of
the Conference of the New Emerging Forces (CONEFO) which was meant
to include the developing countries outside the Soviet and US blocs. The dif-
ferent political orientations of the students were also reflected in the split be-
tween those who considered themselves as the PKI’s representatives abroad,
namely between Adjitorop who was the head of the PKI ‘Delegation’ based
in Beijing and Sinuraya who positioned himself as the Secretary of the In-
ternational Bureau of the PKI based in Moscow (Hill 2010, p. 33).10 The
Indonesian students who later became exiles were confronted with these dif-
ferent political orientations and the larger Sino-Soviet tensions. This also
resulted in tensions and splits between these students where political bound-
aries became strongly defined.
Even within the PKI itself, there were already tensions regarding the pol-
icy to follow, so that it was not only between those who were party mem-
bers and non-members that differences in attitudes ensued but also between
those who were active in left-wing organisations. Dharmawan Ishak, who
was part of the Indonesian delegation to participate in the commemoration
of Chinese National Day on 1 October 1965, stated that two weeks after the
commemoration, of the 40 PKI members who came, only one went back
home and among those who stayed, there was a split between those who
agreed to be sent to the rural areas following the instruction of the PKI
Delegation under Adjitorop and those who did not agree (Hill 2010, p. 33).
Later on, when the situation became untenable and the move to leave China
became a major pattern, those who were collaborating with the Delegation
would also be financially supported and given funds to set up small enter-
prises in Europe. Others went to the Soviet Union, which was eager to wel-
come them since their rival country was in political turmoil and the Soviet
Union wanted to maintain relations with Indonesia (Panggabean 2015).

Becoming an exile
The 1965 purge brought a dramatic change to the lives of the hundreds to
thousands of students or members of organisations who were sent abroad
to the Socialist- and communist-bloc countries during this period. The
shift in the fate of the nation that started with these waves of state-induced
violence became further endorsed by the introduction of the 11 March 1966
Letter of Command (Surat Perintah Sebelas Maret 1966, Supersemar) by
President Sukarno to General Suharto.11 This letter gave the latter the
120  Ratna Saptari
authority to take the necessary steps to regain stability in the country. On
5 July 1966, a Decree was passed by the Provisional People’s Consultative
Assembly (No. XXV/MPRS/1966) which stated that (a) Communist-­Marxist-
Leninist teachings were against the national Pancasila philosophy; (b) those
individuals or groups who followed the Communist-Marxist-­Leninist ide-
ology, particularly the Indonesian Communist Party, had, since the time of
the national revolution, clearly shown attempts to demolish the legitimate
government of the Republic of Indonesia through violent means; (c) there-
fore, firm measures should be taken towards the PKI and also towards their
activities to spread Communist-Marxist-Leninist ideology.12
Based on this Decree, the PKI was disbanded, and all the organisations
directly or indirectly affiliated to the PKI were prohibited and their mem-
bers screened and persecuted. Control and surveillance of Indonesians
abroad were conducted through all Indonesian embassies. Although there
were some variations in the procedures, the screening process adopted by
the Indonesian embassy in the Soviet Union provides a good example of
how it was conducted. During the screening in the embassy, Indonesians
living in the Soviet Union were given forms which they had to fill in, which
said that they were loyal to the Sukarno government. Many of the students
signed these forms. Those who had or were to finish their studies abroad
received reminders from the Indonesian embassy to report immediately to
prepare their return home. As Sungkono, who was summoned by the Indo-
nesian embassy in Moscow to undergo screening along with other Indone-
sian students, states,

In 1966, at the time I had not finished my study programme, suddenly

we were summoned to go through a screening process. At that time,
I had already heard that a big incident had happened in the homeland
(di tanah air). This screening was meant to determine who had to go
home and who didn’t have to. We were asked to fill in a form with ques-
tions around the G30S events, I was asked what my views were regard-
ing the events. I said that I didn’t know exactly what had happened
because I was far away. But I did say that I have a strong belief that
Sukarno would be just.
(Sungkono 2017, p. 9)

However, by June 1966, he and other students, whose loyalty to the (new)
Indonesian government was in doubt, had their passports revoked. This
meant he was supposed to return home (with a laissez-passer letter) and
could certainly expect harsh treatment on arrival. In an official letter, the
Deputy Minister of Higher Education also stated that all students in com-
munist countries had to be returned home to undergo ‘intensive indoctrina-
tion’ (Kurasawa 2015, 141).
A more specific, step-by-step procedure can be seen in the case of So-
eranto, who was a student of the English Faculty of the Patrice Lumumba
 Persecution through denial of citizenship  121
Friendship University in Moscow. In a letter, written on 4 June 1966 and
signed by the Indonesian Cultural Attaché in Moscow, it was stated that the
Central Government in Jakarta requested (without any explicit reason why)
that he should go back to Jakarta and report to the Ministry of Higher Ed-
ucation and Science. If by the end of July 1966 he was not yet in Jakarta, the
Indonesian embassy was ordered to revoke his passport. On 28 June 1966, a
reminder (Surat Peringatan) was then sent to him, signed by Brigadier Gen-
eral M Jasin, who was the military attaché in Moscow and also the head of
the screening team, stating that Indonesians should report to the embassy at
the latest by 15 July 1966 (Letter No. 828/C/1966). It was stated in the letter
that if they failed to report, their passports would be revoked by 1 August. It
was also declared that Soeranto’s passport had been revoked as of that date,
and that a certificate for Soeranto’s return to Indonesia would be available
until the end of August.
Simultaneously, a list of 25 students whose passports had also been re-
voked was circulated in a written announcement to the Indonesian com-
munity in the Soviet Union. The announcement also warned that ‘the
Indonesian community … should not give any help to these persons, either
material or moral in nature (Letter No. 852/R/1966).’13 Other students who
heard about this process were dissuaded from complying with the request
by the embassy to come and report themselves, and therefore they became
stateless as soon as their passports expired, irrespective of whether they
were part of an organisation affiliated to the PKI.
The Soviet Union, with which Sukarno initially had good relations, was
also the country to which DN Aidit, the head of the PKI, had sent his family
prior to the military’s rise to power. His wife, Soetanti, studied medicine
in Moscow and their two daughters had accompanied their mother since
their primary school years. They would continue their student years in exile
(Ibarruri 2015). Their mother returned to Indonesia on 27 September 1965,
just a few days before the killing of the generals and although she went into
hiding, she was eventually captured in December 1966 and imprisoned for
11 years (Isnaedi 2010). It was evident after the summary execution of DN
Aidit on 22 November 1965 (Ricklefs 2001) that neither of his daughters
could return home, not only because their passports were revoked but also
because of the threat to their safety. In her testimony during the IPT 1965’s
website launch, held on 17 December 2014, Ibarruri stated how being the
daughter of Aidit was a guarantee for being excluded and excommunicated
from the Indonesian community abroad.14
In Bulgaria, Aminah had obtained her scholarship to study medicine not
from the Department of Higher Education and Science but from a grant
provided within the framework of a collaboration between Gerwani (the
­Indonesian Women’s Movement) and the Bulgarian national women’s organ-
isation. In 1966, students received invitations for a meeting at the embassy
in Sofia which was followed up by subsequent meetings. These meetings
usually took hours each time. If a meeting started early in the morning,
122  Ratna Saptari
it would end late afternoon and if it started in the afternoon, it would end
late at night. Sometimes the students had difficulty getting back to their
dormitories because they closed at midnight. In the meantime, the embassy
requested the students’ passports with the excuse that they would get new
passports. The students subsequently received papers which were valid for
three months. After a few days, when the students did not send statements of
support for the new regime, their passports were revoked and new passports
were not given to them. Only a few people who stated their support for the
new regime got their passports back.15
Aware of the disappearances and violence already occurring in I­ ndonesia
during that time, many of the students who were loyal to Sukarno were
afraid and unwilling to report to the embassy. Since the summons were not
all implemented at once, these individuals heard from others who had been
interviewed and screened what the questions were that the embassy officials
had asked them. These were, among others, their place of origin in Indone-
sia, the names of their parents and other family members, where they lived,
where they worked, and which parties they were members of. For their own
safety, and for the safety of their families, many were unwilling to respond
to these summonses. Through this screening process, the Suharto regime
would be able to obtain data regarding who they felt should be detained and
discharged from their jobs. Relatives of exiles still living in Indonesia also
faced problems if found to have contact with these individuals. In contrast,
those who were able to prove their loyalties to the new Indonesian govern-
ment were allowed to return home safely.16
In Romania, the procedure was conducted differently than in Bulgaria.
The Indonesian embassy invited students to come to the embassy to be
screened.17 A few students who were considered communists did not receive
the invitation and most of those who did get invitations did not want to
come. A decree issued by the embassy on 24 March 1965, signed (on behalf
of the Indonesian Ambassador in Romania) by the TNI (Tentara Nasional
Indonesia) Major General, Sambas Atmadinata, stated in summary that

1 Since the G30S/PKI, there was a group of Indonesians, specifically stu-

dents in Romania, who showed their sympathy to the G30S/PKI;
2 The activities, attitude, and statements made by this group of students
were hostile towards the Indonesian government;
3 There were no good intentions from this group of students despite at-
tempts by the Indonesian government as represented by the embassy in
Romania;
4 In an attempt ‘to prevent the political movement of the G30S/PKI,’ the
passports of this group of students were to be revoked as of 24 March 1967.

As was the case for all the students or individuals who had gone through this
screening process, this decree instigated and reinforced the process of exclu-
sion and stimulated also their alienation from the homeland. Chalik Hamid,
 Persecution through denial of citizenship  123
who was in Albania at that time, recalls that the passports of 15 people were
revoked by Indonesian embassy officials.18 Having lost their Indonesian cit-
izenship, they were given a permit by the Albanian government to stay in
Albania for 25 years, but they were not allowed to travel more than 50 km
outside Tirana, so that they never left Albania during all those years. He
worked as an Indonesian translator for Tirana radio and also had to work in
the iron factory producing tractors. Many Indonesian Student Association
(PPI) members were also unable to return to Indonesia as they did not feel
comfortable visiting the embassy to extend their passports, which expired
after a number of years.19 Ibrahim Isa, who at the time was a representa-
tive of the AAPSO, attended the Tricontinental Conference in Cuba with
nine other Indonesian students. Not long after he made a presentation at
the conference, he was declared a ‘Gestapu agent’ and his passport was im-
mediately revoked. The passports of students as well as representatives who
had come to Cuba to attend the Tricontinental Conference were revoked in
January 1966.20 In an interview with Endang Nurdin (2015), he stated,

When my passport was revoked and my identity was eliminated (di-

cabut) it was as if I had lost my soul. It was very painful…. Since I was
15 I was already part of the Badan Keamanan Rakyat (People’s Secu-
rity Council) which later became the Tentara Rakyat (People’s Army).
I participated in the struggle against Dutch colonialism. My life is for
Indonesia. I was also a teacher to educate … how come it can be like
this now?

Ibrahim Isa himself remained in Cuba for some time before moving to
China for his own safety. He was offered work at the Asia Africa Research
Institute in Beijing and stayed there for 20 years before he eventually moved
to the Netherlands in 1986.
Others in China also went through a similar process.21 Some were mem-
bers of left-wing organisations or media, but others had been officially sent
by the Sukarno government. Among the first category was Tom Iljas, a mem-
ber of Pemuda Rakyat and IPPI at the time, who went to study at the Agri-
cultural Institute in Beijing. Following the 1965 purge, he could not return to
Indonesia and moved to Sweden in 1972 (Hill 2010, p. 47, n. 62). Among those
who were sent to China by the government in December 1964 was Sarma-
dji. As already noted above, he was a school teacher and journalist who was
in charge of the children’s rubric in Harian Rakyat (Aleida 2017, p. 52) and
wanted to further his knowledge on extracurricular child education. When
the military attaché took over the Indonesian embassy and the students were
screened one-by-one, Sarmadji did not want to submit his passport, insist-
ing he was a Sukarno loyalist. When he lost his right to Indonesian citizen-
ship, he then lived in the school dormitory of the Peking National University
(Aleida 2017, p. 53). Another example of someone who could be brought un-
der both these two categories (as part of non-government and government
124  Ratna Saptari
exchange) was Sobron Aidit, the brother of DN Aidit, who was a journalist
for the Harian Rakyat and Bintang Timur newspapers and who had addi-
tionally worked as a high school teacher in Jakarta until 1963. He received
an invitation to become a Professor in Indonesian Literature and Language
at the Foreign Language Institute in Beijing in 1964. He additionally kept
his role as a journalist, working for the Peking Review and later became a
teacher at the Foreign Language Institute (Isa 2007). At first he stayed in
Peking with his family, but during the Cultural Revolution (1966–76), many
party members were sent to the rural areas to work as peasants, and he was
also forced to stop his teaching and go to an isolated village about 220 km
from Nanchang. As Hill recounts, he spent the mornings having to learn the
theory of the Indonesian labour movement and the thoughts of Chairman
Mao and in the afternoon he had to work in the fields (Hill 2010, p. 35).
Slightly different from the experiences of those who came to study abroad
with scholarships was the case of Suparna, one of the founders of the planta-
tion union Sarbupri (Sarekat Buruh Perkebunan Republik Indonesia), estab-
lished in 1947. He had become the Sarbupri secretary general in 1965 and a
member of the Central Committee of the Central All Indonesian Workers Or-
ganisation (Sentral Organisasi Buruh Seluruh Indonesia, SOBSI). Being part
of the Gotong Royong Parliamentary delegation,22 he left for North K ­ orea
and China in September 1965, and it was during his visit to China, where he
had to be hospitalised for health reasons that the putsch occurred. He could
not return to Indonesia and spent the next 12 years in China, during that
time, he could not have any contact with family members. He was one of the
first of the 1965 exiles to obtain asylum in the Netherlands in 1978.23
Within Asia, apart from China, Vietnam was also a major receiving
country for young students. One female student was sent to Vietnam by the
­Indonesia-Vietnam Friendship Association to study history in 1964 when she
was about to turn 20.24 When the 1965–66 purge occurred, the ­Indonesian
Ambassador, unwilling to accept the takeover of the government by the
­Suharto regime, resigned from his position, and the Embassy was then placed
under the control of the military attaché. She only got information from the
Japanese newspaper Asahi Shin Bun and from other Indonesians in Vietnam
and decided not to come to the embassy for the screening process. Neverthe-
less, when an official form, which was a statement supporting Sukarno, was
circulated by the Indonesian embassy in Hanoi for the students to sign, she
still signed it, which further determined her fate of becoming an exile.25
In Japan, when the G30S purge occurred, Indonesia’s Minister of Reli-
gion, Saifudin Zuhri happened to be in Tokyo for medical care and dis-
covered that he was placed on the list as a member of the Revolutionary
Committee (Dewan Revolusi). Harsono, the ambassador in Japan, who was
also a Sukarnoist, made a statement on 14 October 1965 that Sukarno had
scorned the sadistic killing of the generals and rejected the Dewan Rev-
olusi. When the Supersemar was announced in March 1966 and the news
was received in Japan, the right wing PPI members attacked the Indonesian
 Persecution through denial of citizenship  125
embassy and took down the photo of Sukarno from the wall (Kurasawa
2015, p. 140). In the screening process, which was conducted by the Indone-
sian military attaché, the PPI leaders who were anti-communist, and who
supported the decision to form an investigation team, were requested to
make a list of names of those to be screened. In a PPI meeting on 21 May
1966, a resolution, mentioning 17 names of those who were thought to be
‘Gestapu puppet’ (antek Gestapu), was announced and signed by the head
and the secretary general of the PPI.26
Twenty-five years after the screening process by the embassies abroad,
these same lists of names of students whose passports had been revoked
were sent to Indonesian embassies in Western Europe because it was known
that many had moved there with the disintegration of many socialist coun-
tries following the dissolution of the Soviet Union in 1991. However, investi-
gating the whereabouts of these former students was not an easy task, since
many had died and others had moved from one place to another such that
their residence could no longer be located.

The sound of silence: the family situation of the exiles

The forced exile of those who were abroad during the 1965–66 purge had
clear and direct psychological, social, and political effects on them and
their family members back home. When Chalik Hamid became an exile
in ­Albania, his wife who had remained in Indonesia and who was seven
months pregnant was taken away and put into prison. He was not able to be
present not only when his wife gave birth but also when his mother, father,
and brother died (Nurdin 2015). He explains,

During the period in Albania, when my mother, father and brother

died, I could not see them. Not only that, I also heard that my brother
was hacked to death, and he was buried but then because they were not
sure of his identity, they dug him up again and then just left him without
burying him again. It is constantly in my thoughts, but what can I do?27

Sungkono, the student from North Sumatra who became an exile in ­Moscow,
only heard about his mother’s death months after she had passed away. His
brother communicated to him that his mother had gone to the Russian con-
sulate in Medan a number of times to find out where her son was, but during
that time, they could not make any contact at all.
In other cases, communication was avoided because either the family in
Indonesia did not want to run the risk of endangering their lives, or the ex-
iles did not want to put their family at risk of being taken away by the New
Order state apparatus. This is the case of one female exile who during her
14 years of exile in Vietnam intentionally did not try to contact her family
and friends in Indonesia because she did not want to put them at risk. High-
lighting the situation at the time she explained: ‘well, as you know, I lived
126  Ratna Saptari
in the country of Ho Chi Minh, which was despised by Suharto.’28 It was
in the last months of 1965 that a Vietnamese man who had just returned
from his official post in Indonesia gave her letters from her family mem-
bers. During this period, her father still took the risk of writing a short
letter to her which said that she should stay in Vietnam and integrate with
the ­Vietnamese community to struggle against American aggression there.
Her mother also wrote to encourage her to stay optimistic. Many years
later, in 1992, when her mother was able to visit her in the Netherlands, she
told her that some military people had come to her house and said that her
daughter’s passport was no longer valid and that she should return home.
They also insisted that once she was home her mother should report her to
state officials. Her mother answered them by saying, ‘please Sir look for my
daughter and bring her back to me because I really don’t know where she is.
I fear she has been killed by one of those horrible US bombs!’ According to
her mother, the men left her alone after that. It was only after she managed
to move to the Netherlands in 1981 under the family reunification policy
that she and her husband were able and dared to get information about her
family in ­Indonesia through her friends in Europe.29
Persecution by the state towards those who were labelled as ‘communists’
established political and psychological barriers on both sides, as exiles did
not want to place their family members at risk by directly communicating
with them while family members in Indonesia did not want to make any con-
tact with those abroad for the same reason. In some cases, family members
still in Indonesia knowingly misstated that their family members abroad
were already dead. In the latter case, the psychological erasure of the exist-
ence of a living family member from their collective memory was done to
protect their position within their own community. At the soft launching
of the IPT 1965, held on 17 December 2014, Yusuf Sudrajat, as one of the
younger generation of survivors, gave testimony to the fact that during his
youth he was always told by his parents that his grandfather Suparna, who
as noted earlier was a founder of Sarbupri (the plantation workers’ union)
and also a PKI member, had died, although in fact he was still alive and
had been in exile since 1965.30 It was only when he went to Holland to stay
with his father who had moved to the Netherlands to further his studies,
that he found out that his grandfather was still alive. Yusuf had always been
taught in school about the horrendous cruelty of the PKI and therefore was
at first scared to communicate further with his grandfather, but when he
had learned more about the real history of 1965 he regretted that he had not
been able to get to know him and his past more intensively.31
In some cases, it was only through support and intervention from interna-
tional organisations or from other concerned individuals that the exiles were
able to obtain information regarding their family members. Aminah who
went to Bulgaria to study medicine in late September 1965, lost contact with
her family members not long after she arrived in Bulgaria. She only learned
about her father who died in 1966 and about her sister, a prominent member
 Persecution through denial of citizenship  127
of Gerwani, who was persecuted and imprisoned since 1966, from a member
of Amnesty International, who went to Indonesia in the 1970s to visit her sis-
ter. In a somewhat different situation, Ibrahim Isa, who was living with his
family in Cairo, but, as explained earlier, was attending the Tricontinental
Conference in Cuba, had his passport revoked by the Indonesian embassy
in Cuba. Being stateless in Cuba but under protection from the Cuban gov-
ernment, he then moved to China. After his move to China, he obtained
information that his wife and children were to be arrested by the Indonesian
military representative in Cairo and were to be brought back to Indonesia to
force him to come back to Jakarta. However, with the help of his friends, his
family were able to move to China and reunite with him there.32

The move to Western Europe

After having resided for years in the socialist countries, with the upheavals
in international politics, the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989, the dissolution
of the Soviet Union in 1991, and also the transformations in the relations
between both Russia and China and the Indonesian government, the posi-
tion of the Indonesian exiles in these countries became more vulnerable. In
the late 1980s, the Indonesian government demanded that the Chinese gov-
ernment no longer protect the 1965 exiles (Hill 2014; Gurning 2011, p. 45).
Letters coming from China were censored and the recipients of these letters
were exposed to the risk of being linked to communism. Therefore, most
of these exiles decided to move to Western Europe, in the hope that they
could be safer there because of the idea that stateless people would be given
some protection. In the period between the mid-1970s and early 1990s, many
moved to the Netherlands because of Indonesia’s historical link with the
Netherlands but also because of Dutch policy that immigrants born before
1949 in the (then) Netherlands Indies would be granted Dutch citizenship
without too much difficulty. They were eventually able to obtain citizen-
ship in these countries, but rarely could obtain jobs that matched their ed-
ucational qualifications. Sungkono, who moved to the Netherlands in 1981
asserted that many Dutch people were sympathetic to the ­Indonesians who
migrated to the Netherlands during that time. He stated that the head of
the Dutch immigration department used to be a police commander in In-
donesia and according to him this historical connection made it easier for
them to follow the integration process. After arriving in the Netherlands
and searching for employment left and right, he worked in a flower auction
in Aalsmeer (Sungkono 2017, p. 10). Sarmadji was one of the first to move
to the Netherlands from China, in 1976. He was able to obtain a residence
permit and not long after that he found a job in a glass company where his
daily task was to cut glass. Later, he became acquainted with a Surinamese
group who could speak Javanese and was then asked to teach them how to
write in Javanese (Nurdin 2015). One female exile arrived in the Netherlands
in 1981 from China (and before that Vietnam) and was given refugee status.
128  Ratna Saptari
As a refugee, she was allowed to take Dutch lessons in Nijmegen, and within
three years she was able to get Dutch citizenship. In the same way, Ibrahim
Isa, after having lived for 11 years in China with his family, decided to ask
for asylum in the Netherlands in November 1987. Chalik Hamid moved to
the Netherlands in 1989, because of the economic crisis in Albania, and not
long after that took up Dutch citizenship because that was the only way for
him to obtain the right to work and live in the Netherlands.
In a situation where they were able to escape further persecution by the
Suharto regime, many exiles initiated various organisational activities to
highlight human rights issues and reflect on social and political condi-
tions in Indonesia. Chalik Hamid, for instance, having studied literature
and arts in Albania also became a member of the Indonesian History and
Culture Foundation (Yayasan Sejarah dan Budaya Indonesia, YSBI) and
has remained active in writing and reflecting on the political situation in
­Indonesia. Sarmadji attempted to provide a counter to the New Order ver-
sion of the history of 1965 by setting up the Indonesian Documentation
Association (Perkumpulan Dokumentasi Indonesia, Perdoi), which aimed
to collect archives and documentation on Indonesian history related to
the 1965–66 tragedy. A number of volunteers were mobilised to help in set-
ting up a library consisting of documents related to the 1965–66 period. In
France, Umar Said set up the Political Prisoners Committee in Paris to-
gether with Philippe Farine (head of the Catholic Committee against Hun-
ger and for Development). They collected signatures from many prominent
members of the French Socialist Party in a campaign for the rehabilitation
of ex-­political prisoners and against the prohibition of Pramoedya Ananta
Toer’s books. Not all activities organised collectively were aimed at focusing
on the history of 1965. For many, the past was too painful to constantly be-
come the focus of attention and therefore some organisations concentrated
more on social and cultural activities such as the Brotherhood Association
(Perhimpunan Persaudaraan), chaired by Sungkono, and the Dian Founda-
tion, which focuses on women’s issues and activism in Indonesia and also
welfare policies for migrants in the Netherlands.33

Indonesian government responses in the post-New Order era

During the New Order period, the political narrative and moral order main-
tained by the government prevented any form of contact between the former
Mahid, the Persons Prevented from Returning Home (Orang Terhalang Pu-
lang, OTP), and the Indonesian government. But during the presidency of
Abdurrahman Wahid (1999–2001), this situation started to change. To deal
with the situation of the OTP, Abdurrahman Wahid sent the then Minister
of Law and Human Rights, Dr Yusril Ihza Mahendra, to the Netherlands in
early 2000 to conduct a dialogue with political exiles regarding the rehabili-
tation of their political and civil rights. Prior to the arrival of Dr ­Mahendra,
meetings had already been held in Jakarta on 6 January 2000 between the
 Persecution through denial of citizenship  129
Minister and exile representatives, including Gustaf Dupe and other ac-
tivists from the Committee for the Release of Political Prisoners (Komite
Pembebasan Tapol-Napol), Rahlan Nashidik, and others from the Indone-
sian Legal and Human Rights Support Association (Perhimpunan Bantuan
Hukum dan Hak Asasi Manusia Indonesia, PBHI) and Wiyanto from the
Indonesian Legal Reform Working Group in the Netherlands. The meeting
between Yusril and exiles in the Netherlands was organised by the Indone-
sian embassy in The Hague. As many as 200 invitations from the embassy
were given to MD Kartaprawira to distribute to exiles in Europe (includ-
ing in the Netherlands, Germany, France, Sweden, and Czechoslovakia).
The Indonesian ambassador at the time, Abdul Irsan, managed to improve
relations between the embassy and the OTP community during his period
in office (1998–2002) (Kartaprawira 2000). Abdurrahman ­Wahid, while
President, intended to allow Indonesians who had been exiled to return
to ­Indonesia and reclaim Indonesian citizenship.34 However, by the time
­Yusril Mahendra returned to Indonesia real change had yet to be imple-
mented. This would remain the case until Wahid was removed from power
and the cabinet fell in 2001.
During the presidency of Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, Law No. 12/2006
on Indonesian Citizenship was introduced. This law was an attempt to find
a middle road to deal with Indonesians living abroad who had lost their cit-
izenship, by giving them the opportunity to apply for a passport under the
condition that they do so by 2009. According to this law, they were consid-
ered to have lost their citizenship because they had been away for five years
or longer without reporting themselves to an embassy. In September 2008,
Mohammad Andi Mattalatta, the Minister of Law and Human Rights,
came to the Netherlands to conduct a ‘Socialisation of the Law on RI Citi-
zenship.’35 The Indonesian exiles themselves had prepared an agenda to dis-
cuss with the Minister an alternative to the Citizenship Law. However, from
the beginning, this event was clouded with a specific agenda. The Minister
did not invite representatives from the exile organisations such as LPK65
(Institute for the Defense of 1965 Victims) and the Indonesian Brotherhood
Association (Perhimpunan Persaudaraan Indonesia). This raised various
questions among the exile communities, who asked whether this oversight
implied their exclusion from those entitled to recognition.
In 2010, another meeting was held in the Netherlands between Indonesian
government officials and the exiles. Those present were the Director General
of Public Law Administration of the Ministry of Law and ­Human Rights,
Aidir Amin Daud; the Immigration Attaché, Sarno Wijaya; and staff and
members of the LPK65, represented by MD Kartaprawira, Sungkono,
­Ibrahim Isa, and Gde Arka. The question raised by the Ministry was why
the OTP issue had not been resolved, even though there had been opportu-
nities to obtain passports and citizenship according to the procedure stated
in the Citizenship Law No. 11, 2006. The answer given by ­Kartaprawira was
that this meant they could go home but there would be no acknowledgement
130  Ratna Saptari
that their statelessness and forced exile was a gross violation of human
rights. The idea behind the provision of these passports at the time was,
first of all, that there should be acknowledgment that a grave humanitarian
injustice had been perpetrated against them and that there must be an
apology to those whose rights had been transgressed. Furthermore, these
­violations should be resolved with the recognition and reinstatement of full
civil, economic, and political rights. Therefore, the restitution of their citi-
zenship is only one part of the resolution of this situation.
They did not want their status to be considered as identical with those
who had just disappeared or did not report to the embassy. There was also
a suggestion by the Director General of the General Legal Administration
(AHU) that they should write a petition to various state institutions includ-
ing the President, The Constitutive People’s Assembly (MPR), People’s Rep-
resentative Council (DPR), and Komnas HAM (National Commission on
Human Rights). This suggestion was well received by the exile community.
The exile representatives also stated that data regarding the 1965–66 mass
killings had been circulating for the last 45 years and published in various
media outlets, which should be sufficient grounds to enact a just and hu-
mane policy. However, there has yet to be a resolution to this issue.

Conclusion
It is clear that those who happened to find themselves outside Indonesia
at the time of the 1965 purge continue to face many challenges. They also
struggle to trace family members that disappeared during the 1965 purge.
When Tom Ilyas, the exile who lived in Sweden, together with other family
members, visited a mass grave in West Sumatra on 11 October 2015 with
the hope of knowing where their father was buried, they were confronted
by the local police and taken away for interrogation. This interrogation was
conducted not only by the police but also by immigration officials which
lasted for four days, eventually resulting in Ilyas’s deportation and prohi-
bition from entering the country again. His two family members who lived
in the area also heard that their houses were visited by military officials
who approached the village head and questioned their neighbours regarding
their daily activities in the neighbourhood. They were also warned that they
would be regularly monitored. This case, together with the other narratives
presented above, symbolically represents the persistent denial by the Indo-
nesian State of the extreme injustice conducted by the state towards those
considered to be communists or left wing who happened to be abroad dur-
ing the 1965–66 purge.

Acknowledgement
I would like to express my deepest gratitude to Saskia Wieringa, Annie P
­ ohlman,
and Jess Melvin for their efforts in editing this book, and particularly to Jess
 Persecution through denial of citizenship  131
Melvin and also to Ben White who have carefully edited this chapter. My
respect and admiration also go to the exiles, who have shown their persever-
ance throughout these years.

Notes
1 The actual figures of these involuntary exiles are difficult to determine and can
only be deduced from diverse sources, written or verbal. Referring to various
sources, Hill estimates that the numbers were between 600 and 800 students by
1965. However, this may also have been an underestimation (Hill 2014, p. 624,
n. 11). Agnes T Gurning, in her MA thesis on the 1965 ‘Political exiles in the
Netherlands’ points to a government report on Indonesian Communism pub-
lished by the Pusjarah TNI (2009), which stated that the number of Indonesian
PKI members who were abroad during the regime change was as follows: 700 in
China, 120 in the USSR, 11 in Czechoslovakia, 11 in Poland, 11 in Bulgaria, 5 in
Hungary, and 16 in East Germany (Gurning 2011, p. 7).
2 According to Dharmawan Isak, an Indonesian delegation of around 40 people
attended this event (Aleida 2017).
3 Apart from the scholarly work done by Hill, Dragojlovic Hearman, Mudzakir,
and others, the data obtained for this chapter is based on interviews conducted
in the Netherlands, in preparation for the 1965 International People’s Tribunal,
between April and June 2015 and also in the period after the Tribunal.
4 A few examples can be mentioned. For the exile question in Chile, see Angell
& Susan (1987) and Wright & Zúñiga (2007); for Latin America, Sznajder &
­Roniger (2009); for South African exiles in the UK, see Israel (1999).
5 Personal interview with MD Kartaprawira, 20 June 2015. This idea can also be
seen in Ibrahim Isa’s choice of title for his book: Bui tanpa jerajak besi (Prison
without Iron Bars) (Isa 2011).
6 Of particular significance are the works of David Hill (2010, 2014), Ana Drago-
jlovic (2010), and Vannessa Hearman (2010).
7 These organisations included among others: the Indonesian Youth Student
League (Ikatan Pemuda Pelajar Indonesia, IPPI), People’s Youth (Pemuda Rak-
yat), Concentration of Indonesian Student Movement (Consentrasi Gerakan Ma-
hasiswa Indonesia, CGMI), Institute for People’s Culture (Lembaga Kebudayaan
Rakyat, Lekra), Indonesian Women’s Movement (Gerakan Wanita Indonesia,
Gerwani), or the PKI itself. Both Hill (2010) and Hearman (2010) also address the
fact that there were internal tensions between the Russian- and Chinese-based
exiles because of their different political orientations.
8 Personal communications with Ibrahim Isa before his passing in 2016. He was a
school teacher from 1949 and then moved with his family to Cairo in 1960. Until
his death in 2016, he was consistently active in following and commenting on
human rights’ violations in Indonesia. See also Triyana (2011) and Isa (2011).
9 As Hill has also pointed out, the exact figures, based on country of origin, are
difficult to obtain (2014, p. 624).
10 This conflict only to a certain extent reflected the ideological dimension rep-
resentative of the different approaches of Russia and China. The Communist
Party in Russia emphasised a more diplomatic approach, whereas the Chinese
Communist Party emphasised a more militant approach. Both Sinuraya and
Adjitorop wanted to be the ‘true’ representative of the PKI abroad (Hill 2010,
p. 33).
11 There has been much debate and controversy regarding this document as (copies
of) three versions have been found. These show, among other things, different
formats, types of signatures by Sukarno, wording and length (both one and two
132  Ratna Saptari
page versions have been found). Pambudi, among others, questions whether the
disappearance of the original Supersemar document was intentional (2006, p. 90).
12 This decree was signed by General AH Nasution as the Chair of the MPRS and
also by the vice chairs: Osa Maliki, HM Subchan, M Siregar and Brigadier General
Mashudi. See www.hukumonline.com/pusatdata/download/lt50768aac11ee6/node/
lt50768a41ad5ab
13 The letter is dated 1 August 1966 and signed by the Indonesian Ambassador in
Moscow.
14 Report by Hendra Pasuhuk, at the Soft Launching of the IPT 1965, 19 December
2014. See also, Pasuhuk (2014).
15 Personal communication with Aminah, 9 May 2015.
16 Personal communication with Aminah, 9 May 2015.
17 In 1965, according to the memories of the exiles, there were around 40 students.
18 He was the head of the Medan branch of LEKRA (Institute for People’s Culture)
and was already involved in organising theatre events, and poetry readings in
Medan. He then obtained a scholarship to study cinematography in Albania.
These officials came from Czechoslovakia because the Indonesian embassy in
Czechoslovakia and Albania were amalgamated.
19 Chalik Hamid was the head of LEKRA in Medan. See Mudzakkir (2015, p. 177).
20 For a study on the Indonesian exiles in Cuba, see Hearman (2010).
21 The Indonesian ambassador to China, who was considered to be pro-­communist,
was replaced by the pro-Suharto military attaché who took over control of the
embassy (Nurdin 2015).
22 The Gotong Royong Parliament (or the DPR-GR, People’s Representative Coun-
cil of Mutual Assistance), was established in 1960 by Sukarno. The members of
this parliament were appointed by the President during the Guided Democracy
Period (1959–66) (Feith 1963).
23 See www.vijfeeuwenmigratie.nl. The documents are also kept at the Interna-
tional Institute of Social History in Amsterdam.
24 She was given a scholarship to study history and to investigate the question of whether
the people of the archipelago were descendants of Vietnam or vice versa. Her name is
kept anonymous upon request. Personal communication, 9 March 2016.
25 Personal email communication, 2 April 2017.
26 Kurasawa also referred to an announcement, made by the government through
the national media, that those who were not willing to be repatriated would be
dealt with accordingly. The national newspaper Harian Angkatan Bersendjata
(21 May 1966) reported that 28 diplomats would be sent home, including one
from Japan.
27 Due to the economic crisis in Albania, Chalik Hamid moved to the Netherlands
in 1989 and became the editor of the YSBI (Nurdin 2015).
28 Personal email communication, 2 April 2017.
29 Personal email communication, 2 April 2017.
30 Suparna was part of the Indonesian DPR-GR delegation that went to North
Korea in September 1965. He was hospitalised in China during the 1965 putsch.
31 International People’s Tribunal 1965 website launch, 17 December 2014. See also,
https://socialhistory.org/en/events/international-peoples-tribunal-1965-website-
launch
32 Personal communication, 22 March 2015.
33 Discussions with Sungkono and Aminah, 16 February 2018. Today, according to
them, most second-generation exiles are rather distant from the history of their
parents. However, there are signs that the third generation is more interested in
finding out the background of their grandparents.
34 Abdurrahman Wahid went further and gave permission for 1,400 exiles to re-
turn home: 400 in Holland, 500 in Germany, 200 in England, 50 in Sweden, 100
 Persecution through denial of citizenship  133
in France, 50 in Poland, 20 in Italy, 20 in Rumania, and 50 in Russia. They were
mainly former diplomats, students, and journalists (Budiawan 2004, 44).
35 It was also during this period that Law No. 27 of 2004 on a Reconciliation and
Truth Commission was annulled by Indonesia’s Constitutional Court.

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Nurdin, E 2015, ‘Kisah para eksil 1965: Mereka yang ‘dibui tanpa jeruji’, BBC In-
donesia, 29 September, viewed 27 August 2018, <www.bbc.com/indonesia/berita_
indonesia/2015/09/150928_indonesia_lapsus_eksil_bui>.
Pambudi, A 2006, Supersemar palsu: kesaksian tiga jenderal, Media Pressindo,
Jakarta.
Panggabean, R 2015, ‘Eksil’, 1000 kata, viewed 27 August 2018, <www.1000kata.
com/2015/02/eksil/>.
Pasuhuk, H 2014, ‘Waktu tau saya anak Aidit, teman saya lari…’, DW, 19 December,
viewed 27 August 2018, <www.dw.com/id/waktu-tau-saya-anak-aidit-teman-saya-
lari/a-18139880>.
Pusjarah TNI 2009, Komunisme di Indonesia jilid V: penumpasan dan pemberonta-
kan PKI dan sisa-sisanya 1965–1961, Pusjarah TNI (Center for the History and
Tradition of the Indonesian National Army), Jakarta.
Ricklefs, MC 2001, A history of modern Indonesia since c. 1200, 3rd edn, Palgrave
Macmillan, New York.
Sungkono, 2017, ‘Transparansi adalah tekanan kuat’, in Santoso, A, Mualim, Y &
Pamungkas, L (eds.), Friends of International People’s Tribunal 1965, Dari beranda
tribunal: bunga rampai kisah relawan, Friends of International People’s Tribunal
1965 & Ultimus, Bandung, pp. 8–12.
Sznajder, M & Roniger, L 2009, The politics of exile in Latin America, Cambridge
University Press, Cambridge.
Triyana, B 2011, ‘Pengantar: sekelumit kisah Ibrahim Isa’ in Isa, I, Bui tanpa jerajak
besi. pikirian seorang eksil Indonesia di luar negeri, Klik Books, Jakarta.
Wright, TC & Zúñiga, RO 2007, ‘Chilean political exile’, Latin American Perspec-
tives, vol. 34, no. 4, pp. 31–49.
8 Mass graves, memorialisation,
and truth-finding
Saskia E. Wieringa

On 2 May 2016, Bedjo Untung, Chair of the YPKP 1965 (Yayasan Penelitian
Korban Pembunuhan 1965, Foundation for the Research on the 1965 Mur-
der Victims), handed over to the National Commission on Human Rights
(Komnas HAM, Komisi Nasional Hak Asasi Manusia) a list of 122 mass
graves across Java and Sumatra which are estimated to contain the bodies
of at least 13,900 victims of the 1965–68 massacres (Sapiie 2016).1 This num-
ber, though in itself staggering, may only be the tip of the iceberg. The list
includes graves in 12 provinces across the archipelago; the highest number
is in Central Java with 50 graves alone. But in each region, the number of
mass graves is high. In Tuban, East Java, the site of one of the case studies
discussed in this chapter, informants said they knew the location of 20 mass
graves.2 Only a few mass graves in Kalimantan, Sulawesi, Bali, or further
to the east of the archipelago have found a place on the list, which suggests
that there are many more than the ones included in the list supplied by the
YPKP 1965.3
Why did Bedjo Untung entrust the data to the National Human Rights
Commission and not to the then Coordinating Minister of Security and De-
fence, Luhut Panjaitan, who had asked for them? Sadly, the reason is that
the integrity of the graves cannot be guaranteed if the armed forces, via the
Ministry of Defence, gets a hold of the data. The Minister had expressed
his doubt that there were any massacres after the 30 September 1965 coup
and had denied the existence of any mass graves (Jong 2016). He had also
expressed his distrust of the often-cited number of 400–500,000 murdered
after the 1965 coup, on the occasion of the National Symposium on 1965,
held 16–18 April 2016. This National Symposium had been organised by
the government in reaction to the hearings of the International People’s
Tribunal for 1965 (IPT 1965) in November 2015. The activists from YPKP
1965, IPT 1965, and other human rights organisations were afraid that if
they handed over the data on the mass graves, the YPKP 1965 had collected
to the Ministry, the graves would be disturbed or even made to disappear
before they could be properly investigated.4 In this way, important evidence
of crimes against humanity might be destroyed, as happened in the process
of exhuming the mass grave in Wonosobo, discussed below.
136  Saskia E. Wieringa
This episode is symptomatic of both the silence which surrounds the ex-
istence of the many mass graves in Indonesia and the importance they have
for both survivors and right-wing deniers of the genocide that began after
the alleged 1965 coup (known as the ‘G30S Affair’; G30S—an acronym for
the ‘30 ­September Movement’). Mass graves are both proof of the extraju-
dicial killings that were carried out at this time and proof of potential lieux
de mémoire as sites of genocide (Nora 1984). To date in Indonesia, only a
limited number of mass graves have been discovered, and even fewer are
publicly acknowledged or have been exhumed.
This chapter examines mass graves of victims from the 1965–68 genocide.
I first discuss some issues around mass graves in Indonesia more ­generally:
as genocide sites, as elements in the incomplete and halting process of
truth-finding, and as locations for memorialisation. I will then discuss three
mass graves located in Java: in Plumbon, near Semarang, Central Java; in
Purwodadi, East Java; and in Tuban, East Java.

Mass graves in Indonesia

On the basis of the IPT Research Report and the 2012 Komnas HAM Re-
port, the Panel of Judges of the IPT concluded that enforced disappear-
ances occurred in the period following the G30S Affair (Gitting & Jarvis
2017, p. 75).5 Not only were the disappearances a serious violation of h ­ uman
rights, but the bodies of those victims were concealed and their names not
released to relatives.6 This in itself is a violation of the G
­ eneva Conventions.
Under international customary law, the dead must be buried, if possible,
according to the rites of the religion to which they belonged and, in prin-
ciple, burial should be in individual graves.7 These graves should also be
respected, marked and protected, and made accessible to relatives. None of
this occurred in Indonesia.
Probably, all those who disappeared were murdered and their bodies
dumped in mass graves, rivers, deep wells, caves, or ravines. In contrast
to Cambodia and Rwanda, where comparable genocides have taken place,
there is scant attention paid in Indonesia to the mass graves and other gen-
ocide sites. In these two countries, the perpetrators of the genocides were
defeated. In Indonesia, even after the fall of the military dictator, Presi-
dent Suharto in 1998, the power is still in the hands of those who prefer
to deny a genocide took place and who thwart any effort at truth-finding
(see Wahyuningroem 2013). Memories of the human rights violations af-
ter the G30S Affair are still shattered and dominated by the discourse of
the perpetrators who blame the victims for their suffering. The army hides
behind the fiction that the murders took place in a situation of ‘horizontal
conflict,’ whereby the population carried out ‘spontaneous’ killings against
suspected communists (see Melvin 2018). There is no institutional, discur-
sive, legal, or political space in contemporary Indonesia to build a collec-
tive memory (Halbwachs 1992) or, rather, to build counter-memories to
 Mass graves, memorialisation  137
the hegemonic discourse of the army (McGregor 2007; Herlambang 2013;
­Wieringa & ­Katjasungkana 2018). Research on the mass graves might reveal
a different truth and point to army responsibility, so that kind of research is
not welcome in Indonesia.
In Rwanda, the 1994 genocide formed a watershed in its history, which
the state acknowledges in commemorations, memorials, and monuments
(Brehm & Fox 2016). Thanatourism is well developed as every town and
village houses its own genocide memorial, particularly for educational pur-
poses (Friedrich & Johnston 2013). In Cambodia too, genocide sites such as
the Tuol Sleng Museum in Phnom Penh help to establish a genocide narra-
tive that encourages both the survivors and the younger generations to learn
from the country’s genocidal past.8 Cambodia’s ‘killing fields’ have been
extensively documented; hundreds of burial sites, prisons, and memorials
have been recorded under the Cambodian Genocide Program (Jarvis 2002).9
Remembering and commemorating are important practices to create a cli-
mate in which ‘never again’ is a dominant theme. In Indonesia, on the other
hand, while ‘1965’ was also a historical watershed, the victims of the gen-
ocide that followed are perversely still considered to blame for their own
suffering and remain the subject of repression and stigma (Hutabarat 2011;
Adam 2015). Efforts to shatter the hegemonic image of an anti-national,
atheist, hypersexual, and murderous PKI (Partai Komunis Indonesia) whose
members deserved to be murdered, by directing attention to the immense
cruelty of the army and their civil henchmen, are thwarted by all means.
Thus, the genocide sites across Indonesia have remained unmarked, and
the atrocities committed there unremembered or at least unacknowledged,
leaving the perpetrators free to commit more crimes; the sites can even be
reused with impunity. This happened, for instance, in the cave of Luweng
Grubuk, Gunung Kidul (Yogyakarta Special Region, Java), where possibly
thousands of people were murdered and thrown into the 90 m-deep fissure
in 1966. Many bodies were washed out to sea by the underground river that
runs along the bottom of the underground karst system but human remains
still lie scattered amongst the rocks at Luweng Grubuk. For many years
after 1966, the local people refrained from collecting seaweed in the nearby
beach at Baron for fear of coming upon rotting corpses or bones. In the
1980s, the location was seen as a convenient spot for the extrajudicial kill-
ings of criminals in nearby Yogyakarta, during the so-called Petrus killings
(penembak misterius, ‘mysterious shootings’) (see Bourchier 1990).10 When
climbers discovered the bodies, victims from both the 1960s and the 1980s
were found, with bullet wounds in the backs of their heads. Forensic re-
search at this site might yield information on the patterns of killings during
both periods.
Although the exact number of the mass graves in Indonesia is not known,
the existence of genocide sites is an open secret (Roosa 2016). It is likely that
local people all over the archipelago know the location of most sites; such
knowledge has not been collected at the state level. After all, it was villagers
138  Saskia E. Wieringa
who often dug the many mass graves or heard the shootings at night during
the massacres. Or they themselves or relatives, or neighbours, participated
in the killings. But such witnesses have kept quiet for fear of retaliation from
the army or militias and many of them have died in the meantime, taking
their stories with them. Only organisations of victims such as the YPKP
1965 have taken it upon themselves to collect such data. Occasionally,
mass graves are detected when corpses are discovered, such as happened in
­Jembrana, Bali, in October 2015 (see Jaya 2015).
This secrecy at the state level stands in sharp contrast to the shrill ex-
clamations about the actions of the G30S Movement (see Chapter 1, this
volume). The site where their victims were buried at Halim in South J­ akarta
contains a museum and a monument; films were made, novels written, and
history rewritten about these alleged events (Wieringa 2002; McGregor
2003, 2007; Herlambang 2013; Wieringa & Katjasungkana 2018). In contrast
to these loud protestations about the G30S Movement, the actions of the
perpetrators of the genocide were stealthy. Holes were dug at night, and
people were arrested, collected from prisons, and murdered in the dark.11
After the killings, the army made institutional, legal, political, and cultural
arrangements to hide its involvement in the mass disappearances, leaving
families in despair and often destitute. During the New Order, mention of
the killings was censored and public discussions prohibited (see Vickers
2010). Until now the brutal reactions against meetings of victims and ef-
forts at truth-finding such as those of the IPT 1965 are intended to prevent
the hegemonic army version of history from being disrupted (Wieringa &
Katjasungkana 2018).12 These memory wars are intended to keep the New
Order’s ‘cultural archive’ intact (Said 1993). To this day, school curricula re-
cycle the New Order’s version of history. The army is also trained to repeat
the New Order propaganda in their regular training programmes.13
Exhumation of mass graves might disrupt the myth that the main victims
of the ‘1965 tragedy’ were the 12 people murdered by the G30S group and
that the PKI deserved to be annihilated as it was areligious, anti-national,
and sexually perverse (Budiawan 2000, 2004; Wieringa 2002; Wieringa &
Katjasungkana 2018). The Indonesian military power holders and right-
wing religious groups are invested in the denial of the existence of the mass
graves. If they were publicly acknowledged as lieux de mémoire―as sites
where prayers for the dead would be held and flowers strewn―the perpetra-
tors could no longer pose as victims of allegedly evil communists. Instead,
inevitably commemorating the murdered would call attention to the actions
of the perpetrators. The clearly defined New Order ideological dichotomy of
victim/hero would be reversed. What glory is there for an army who shoots
unarmed civilians in the back? What religious justification is there for slash-
ing the throats of neighbours whose hands are tied by their thumbs?
Personal memories are unreliable, seditious, shifting, and tendentious.
But transformed into collective memory they turn into, as Ricoeur (2004)
maintains, the ‘bedrock of history.’ How is this collective memory produced
 Mass graves, memorialisation  139
and reproduced? If they are hegemonic memories, they are consolidated in
textbooks; street names; TV shows; and other cultural, political, and legal
products. For the past must be kept alive, maintaining a community’s cul-
tural archive is an active, conscious process. Identities are formed through
this memory work (Brehm & Fox 2016). As Nandy observes, however, vul-
nerable, silenced communities also have shared memories where privileged
truths are contested. The survivors of the 1965 genocide in Indonesia can be
seen as a mnemonic community which, assisted by human rights activists,
continues to engage with their traumatic past. These ‘memory banks … wait
for appropriate moments to return as a form of resistance, to out manoeuvre
the certitudes of policy elites, official histories and familiar canons of schol-
arship’ (Nandy 2015, p. 598). Through violence, sustained propaganda, and
a hegemonic cultural praxis, the memories of the suffering of the victims
of the 1965 massacres are not so much obliterated as replaced. This defiant
memory is essential for selfhood in order to remind the victims that they are
not evil, less-than-human as the perpetrators have portrayed them (Stone
2010). Or, as Nandy says, ‘the mnemonic does not obediently dissolve itself’
(2015, p. 599). These rebellious mnemonic processes can be brought to life by
genocide sites such as mass graves. This is a major reason for the opposition
by the perpetrators to their exhumation.
Commemoration helps define the past and construct the future. This
work is disrupted for those whose histories are abjected and whose memo-
ries of trauma are ejected from the cultural archive. In the process they are
not only excluded from their own past, the past during their time of suffer-
ing, but also the time that came before, a time when they and their organ-
isations were respected. For many survivors of the 1965 genocide, a proud
history of involvement in the PKI and its associated organisations has also
been lost. They are further denied their part in the present and the future of
their communities. Indonesia has to come to terms with its genocidal past
so that these atrocities may ‘never again’ happen. For this promise to be ful-
filled, the survivors of the Indonesian genocide need to (re)appropriate their
memories, which is an essential process to rebuild their families and their
communities and to bring their defiant memories into the public sphere, so
the Indonesian nation, as a whole, can incorporate them into the ongoing
processes of nation formation.
Genocide sites such as mass graves can help reconstitute the shattered sub-
jectivities of the relatives of those who are no longer alive to bear witness. But
this process is not only one of personal healing. The silence of the dead gives
those muted by the New Order machinery the mandate to speak. Memoriali-
sation then is not only a process of ‘homecoming,’ as Aguilar (2016) realises,
writing about the violent history she experienced, but also of bearing witness
to the atrocities committed. This need to bear witness motivated Sulami,
a survivor of torture and unspeakable humiliation during her 20 years in
prison and former leader of the women’s organisation, Gerwani, to document
the truth about the massacres.14 As one of the founders of YPKP, set up in
140  Saskia E. Wieringa
1999, she initiated the first successful exhumation of a mass grave in the vil-
lage of Dempes, Wonosobo, Central Java, in 2000.15 A list of those murdered
at the site was available, as well as a family member of a victim. With the
help of a forensic specialist (Dr Handoko from the University of Indonesia),
several bodies were identified. The investigation also proved that the prison-
ers were shot with rifles used by the military. Unfortunately, the group did
not manage to get the collaboration of Komnas HAM, so the exhumation
did not fulfil the legal forensic requirements, aborting this effort as a step
towards a judicial process, one of the aims of YPKP (see McGregor 2012).
The remains of the identified victims were given to their families to be
reburied. When the remains of the others were going to be reburied one
year later, the process was brutally disrupted by a mob of militia members.
These militia belonged to the right-wing Muslim group, Forum Ukhu-
wah ­Islamiyah Kaloran (FUIK). Coffins were broken open, and remains
scattered and burnt (Zurbuchen 2002, pp. 579–580; Adhivira 2016). As
­McGregor (2012) suggests, the military was wary of a possible trial in the
future and of the scope for memorialisation that the new burial site might
provide. Yet the initial exhumation was preceded by a careful process of
negotiation with religious and local authorities.16 At the time when this mass
grave was exhumed in 2000, much of post-New Order euphoria after the
disposal of the dictator, Suharto, still lingered. Even members of the youth
organisation of ­Nahdlatul Ulama, Ansor, which had been involved in mass
murders all over Java and Bali, helped in the excavation. Unfortunately, the
possibility of reconfiguring history and memory was only partially realised
in those early years of Reformasi (1998–the present). The most obvious rem-
nants of the mnemonic technologies of the New Order had been removed
(for instance, the atrocious film on the G30S Affair produced during the
New Order was no longer shown on TV and in cinemas, while it had been
compulsory viewing for the nation and particularly its school children since
1983). Yet the military caste has remained in control and educational reform
has been halted, stultifying the capacity of the younger generations to criti-
cally explore their own past (van Klinken 2005; Leksana 2009).
The mass graves in Indonesia resulting from the 1965–68 genocide are
widespread. There are reports of mass graves from the far west of the coun-
try in Aceh to the far east on Alor Island, near Timor. In both cases, the mil-
itary were the perpetrators (see Melvin, this volume; Melvin 2018). As Sir,
Hinadang and Tiluata (2017) write, drawing on the testimonies of women
about the sites in Alor, holes were dug at night in isolated places, where their
husbands were murdered. Only recently have these women dared to visit
them and to share their ‘forbidden memories’ (Kolimon, Wetangterah  &
Campbell-Nelson 2015).17
Mass graves then are sites for research, for truth-finding, and for memo-
rialisation, both for the direct survivors and for younger generations. They
can provide proof of particular overriding patterns the perpetrators used.
They can also become genocide sites for transgenerational education. For
 Mass graves, memorialisation  141
the relatives of those murdered, they are sites of healing where they are able
to honour the dead and conduct proper burial rites. Thus, they are both
possible sites for the reconstruction of crimes and of mnemonic excavation.
These are complex processes, however, and do not necessarily directly lead
to reconciliation or justice. As Müller warns, ‘a shared truth might be im-
possible as long as political opponents remain trapped in collective memo-
ries of trauma and victimhood—or alternatively in the defensiveness and
self-righteousness of the perpetrators’ (Müller 2002, p. 32).

Visiting mass graves in Java

After the wide reports on the militia violence which had affected the at-
tempt to rebury the remains of the unidentified bodies in the mass grave in
Wonosobo, victims’ organisations worked in silence to document the loca-
tions of other mass graves. Around the 50th anniversary of the G30S Affair,
and during the preparations for the hearings of the IPT 1965 in November
1965, political tensions in Indonesia regarding 1965 increased. In October
2015, for example, the IPT coordinator in Sweden, Tom Ilyas, was detained
while trying to visit a mass grave in West Sumatera where his father had
supposedly been buried.18 He was interrogated for 18 hours by local author-
ities then deported. These examples show the great sensitivity surrounding
the issue of the mass graves in contemporary Indonesia. Yet victims, human
rights activists, and researchers are gingerly navigating the resistance of the
army and militias, and several efforts have been made to visit and mark
mass graves. Below I present an account of three mass graves I visited as
part of research on the Indonesian genocide.

Plumbon, Semarang
In the last week of November 2015, Nursyahbani Katjasungkana and I
visited Semarang, on a longer trip to socialise the results of the IPT 1965
hearings. We spoke with a journalist from the newspaper Suara Merdeka,
Yunantyo Adi S, who is the coordinator of the Semarang Society for Hu-
man Rights (Perhimpunan Semarang untuk HAM) and an IPT activist. We
also spoke with a group of students from various universities in Semarang
(among them Rian Adivira, Arifin, Randy, and Unu Herlambang) who had
conducted research around a local mass grave the existence of which was
made public in 2014 (Aditya 2014). Probably, 24 bodies are buried in this
mass grave. The students reported their finding to Komnas HAM so the
mass grave could be legally exhumed, but Komnas HAM did not act. The
group then wanted to rebury the bodies, but that too proved impossible.
In the end, they managed to mark the grave and put up a headstone with
the names of the victims which they had been able to ascertain. The cere-
mony inaugurating the headstone included Muslim, Catholic, and Javanese
­(kejawen) religious elements.
142  Saskia E. Wieringa
As with other locations of mass graves, the site in Plumbon was known
to the villagers as a haunted (angker) place.19 Stories about the mass grave
included that, when it rained softly, a woman’s cries could be heard. She was
identified as having long hair, covering her back. She was the one woman
victim, and a well-known puppeteer (dalang) believed to have strong powers
(kesaktian). She was also a local leader of Gerwani, and it was believed that
she still had those powers. Visitors came from afar to make offerings and
ask for her advice on lucky lottery numbers.20
On 25 November 2015, we visited the site itself. It is located some ten
minutes’ walk into the forest on the edge of the village of Plumbon, in the
Semarang regency of Central Java. We first picked up an older man called
Pak Kelik who had first alerted Adi and the students about the mass grave
in 2014. Pak Kelik is a lean man who was tending to his cassava plants on
the field behind his home. He quickly changed into more formal clothes.
He then guided us along a muddy road along the edge of the forest until we
encountered a wooden sign with an arrow. Veering into the jungle, a narrow
footpath led some 50 m away, invisible from the main path to an oblong
space, surrounded by a low wall of bricks, about 7 × 10 m. In the middle of
the open space, on a raised standard of bricks between two circles of round
stones, a simple headstone is placed with the names of eight people whose
identities the research team managed to ascertain.21 The text above the
names reads: ‘Here lie 12 to 24 corpses.’ Below the names is written: ‘They
fell [gugur] during the events of 1965. May they be received by His side. At
the initiative of human rights activists, historians, journalists, students, reli-
gious leaders, the community and the regional government.’22
The local villagers in Plumbon of course knew all along about the grave.
Out of respect for the dead, they themselves had placed the stones around
the two burial sites. At first the owner of the forest, the state forestry corpo-
ration, Perhutani, was sympathetic to the request of Adi to mark the grave.
Then for eight months he and his group of volunteers visited every house in
the hamlet (dusun) close to the grave, as well as religious leaders and village
and city officials, arguing that this was a humanitarian issue, and that the
dead must be respected and remembered. Finally, these leaders and the vil-
lagers agreed that the grave should be marked.
Though supportive, Perhutani remained wary and did not allow any trees
to be cut down to make space for more people to visit or for the path to be
paved. The civil and religious leaders whom they had approached attended
the inauguration of the simple headstone on 1 June 2015, as did some police
officers.23 Also in attendance were some relatives of the murdered (see also
McGregor 2015). The Catholic priest who attended the ceremony, Father
Aloysius Budi Purnomo, spoke about the need for reconciliation. Even the
leader of Banser of Central Java, Hasyim Ashari, attended the event. Re-
ligious scholar Kyai Hambali and the priest offered prayers, the latter ac-
companying the event with his tenor saxophone. Flowers were strewn. The
kyai also spoke conciliatory words, but added that ‘even terrorists and drug
 Mass graves, memorialisation  143
traffickers’ get proper burials, so these people should be buried properly as
well (see Nurdin 2015).
During the research prior to the inauguration of the headstone, the ac-
tivists and students met Pak Sukar, who as a young villager out of curios-
ity had followed the truck with soldiers and prisoners when they had come
roaring into the village one night. He had been ordered to light the place of
execution with a torch.24 He had seen how the prisoners, between 12 and 24
of them, one of whom was a woman, had been forced to kneel at the edge
of a big hole and were shot. Some died immediately; others, according to
Pak Sukar, had some kind of special power, which made them invulnera-
ble. But, he explained, to prevent them from being tortured they indicated
themselves where their weak spots were so they could be killed straightaway.
Some needed to be shot in their shoulders, others in their genitals. Before
they were murdered the prisoners were allowed to say their prayers. Clearly,
these were not the atheistic devils that the propaganda machinery of the
generals made out. Pak Sukar recalled that he fainted. The military roughly
covered in the holes which held the corpses with mud and left the scene. As it
was the rainy season, the soil sank and feet and legs stuck out. The villagers
then covered it up with a thicker layer of earth.
This hamlet had few internal conflicts in the early 1960s. Most of the vil-
lagers were members of the Marhaen Youth of the Indonesian Nationalist
Party (Partai Nasionalis Indonesia, PNI). They protected their few neigh-
bours who were members of the PKI, Indonesian Farmers’/Peasants’ Front
(Barisan Tani Indonesia, BTI), or any of the other leftist organisations.
When the soldiers or members of Banser came hunting for remnants of left-
ist groups, the villagers hid them. No one in that village was murdered, but
in neighbouring villages all PKI members and sympathisers were slaugh-
tered. The prisoners who were killed in their forest all came from the other
villages in the nearby district of Kendal. Moetiah, the female dalang who
was killed, was also well known to the villagers for her efforts in combat-
ing illiteracy. The men who were killed and buried in the mass grave with
her were members of the PKI, BTI, or Pemuda Rakyat (People’s Youth, the
youth wing of the PKI).
The soldiers who carried out the killings were from the RPKAD (Resimen
Para Komando Angkatan Darat, Army Para-Commando Regiment), the
unit led by Sarwo Edhie.25 They had ordered villagers from a neighbouring
dusun to dig three holes. Eventually, two holes were filled with bodies. The
third one remained empty. The two holes with bodies were marked by the
villagers with a circle of stones. Later the activists added an oblong wall 1
foot high around the whole site.
Adi told us that initially Perhutani was accommodating to their requests
to establish a memorial site at the mass grave, but that their attitude changed
in August 2015 when the military started meddling. According to the group,
this was related to the heightened attention to crimes against humanity com-
mitted after the G30S Affair, when hopes were raised that President Jokowi
144  Saskia E. Wieringa
would offer an apology and when the 50th anniversary approached. Adi and
his group wanted to replace the trees on the site which have long roots with
Cambodja trees which have short roots and which are normally seen at cem-
eteries as they do not damage the bones. So far, however, P
­ erhutani has not
given permission to replace the trees. As far as I am aware, this is the only
marked mass grave in Indonesia which has been officially inaugurated as
a memorial site. The process of researching and commemorating the mass
grave has allowed Adi and his group to increase awareness of the ‘events
of 1965’ among the local population. They held seminars and press confer-
ences, have screened Oppenheimer’s film Senyap (The Look of Silence, 2014),
and organised a book launch of the Final Report of the Panel of Judges of
the IPT 1965.

East Java: mass grave in Kebun Raya, Purwodadi

It has long been known by locals in the area that there was a huge mass
grave in the botanical gardens (Kebun Raya) of Purwodadi, East Java, next
to the village where Nursyahbani grew up. The villagers consider the place
haunted (angker). Journalist and novelist, Nusya Kuswatin, who grew up
close by, had said in the documentary ‘The Women and the Generals’ (2012)
that she had been prohibited to play there when she was a young girl.26 But
until we heard the story of Pak Sakimin (a pseudonym), we had not known
the exact location of the grave in the vast gardens. He was a family friend
and often came to visit Nursyahbani.
On one of his visits (26 December 2013), a conversation began about the
massacres of 1965–66 in the neighbourhood. Nursyahbani and her friend,
Patria, who had been primary schoolgirls at the time, talked of how they
had watched prisoners being forced to crawl along the road to the botanical
gardens, after which they were never seen again. Many perished along the
way, or were murdered and thrown into the river. On their way to school
they often saw decapitated bodies. Pak Sakimin nodded; he had attended
the lower secondary school at the time and had witnessed similar sights.
But this happened before the mass killings, he added. The women then dis-
cussed the fate of Mrs Asiong, who allegedly had been raped and murdered
by one of the killers of her husband. Suddenly, Pak Sakimin spoke up and
gave his own version of the murder of Pak Asiong and the fate of his wife.
He knew what had happened to them, he said, as he had been forced to ac-
company the band of killers that night. We all sat in shock.
That day Pak Sakimin hesitantly, crying at times, told the terrible things
he had witnessed and participated in during the killings in their area in
1966. For almost 50 years, he had told no one that he had been involved in
one of the most gruesome mass murders in East Java. He was afraid that we
would now see him as a butcher (algojo). He worried that his family would
be very upset, and that they would be harassed by the Muslim groups, some
of whose members are their neighbours and were also involved in the mass
 Mass graves, memorialisation  145
murders, when word got out that he had spoken about the ‘open secret’ of
the involvement of Ansor in the massacres in their region.27 He and his
family might be seen as syrik, polytheists. More than six months later, on
9 ­August 2014, he agreed to be interviewed formally.
During this interview, Pak Sakimin spoke about how he had been first
told to join a group of friends of his elder brother to murder the popular Pak
Asiong, the trainer of the village’s Pemuda Rakyat soccer team. Pak Asiong
had been accused of refusing to train the rival team of Ansor members who
now came to take revenge. He was dragged out of his house and brutally
slaughtered in front of the sub-district office. The next day neighbours found
his mutilated body and buried him next to the river in front of the office.
After this gruesome night, Pak Sakimin was ‘invited’ again to join the gang
of murderers. He was told that he would be murdered himself if he refused.
For one month, he was forced to join the gang of Banser murderers and
tasked with carrying the Petromax, the big oil lamp to light the way and the
scene of slaughter. Thus, he saw how people were killed first-hand. As Pak
Sakimin explained, every night for at least 30 days in the months of ­February
and March 1966, a truckload of people―between 20 and 30 men―would ar-
rive, their mouths gagged, and their hands tied behind their backs by their
thumbs. They were sent by military headquarters from nearby villages and
the Koramil office in Purwodadi, where some Banser members would join
in loading them on to confiscated trucks. They were unloaded from the open
truck around midnight in the middle of the botanic gardens.
A rivulet runs through the gardens, which makes a large bent—which was
where a big hole had been dug, 5 × 5 m wide by 3 m deep, to construct a fish
pond. It would never be used for that purpose. Once unloaded, the prisoners
were led to the edge. They were made to kneel and their throats were slit.
Sometimes their ears and noses were also cut off or their genitals. Or their
eyes were gouged out. Thus, hacked to death, they were thrown forward over
the edge, in a neat row. They were then covered with sand, so the next night a
fresh batch of prisoners could be murdered, and their bodies dumped on top.
The prisoners were all classified A, B, or C. Here in Purwodadi, Pak
Sakimin said, most of them were Category C. The Category A group was
mostly in Jakarta or in Surabaya. He described the Category C prisoners as
the ‘lightest’ category, they could still be ‘guided’ (dibimbing), for they ‘could
still become more religious.’ So most of them were saved. That is, they were
not abducted, but detained and guarded by Banser, on the orders of the
soldiers at the Koramil (local military command post).28 So that they would
not revolt. They were all passive, not dangerous (dingin, lit. cold). But class
B prisoners were the leaders of the branches of the leftist organisations so
they were abducted and brought to the Koramil office. There were Category
C people too, particularly those thought to be ‘clever’ (cerdas). Most of them
were later released and had to report to the Koramil every week. But if they
were Category B prisoners, they were taken during the night. They never
came home.
146  Saskia E. Wieringa
Pak Sakimin never went back to the botanical gardens. In May 2014, we
decided to search for the location of the mass grave. We set off in our jeep,
Pak Sakimin nervously looking for signs he remembered from nearly 50 years
­earlier. While we were slowly driving around, Pak Sakimin cried out: ‘There!
That palm tree! That is the border!’ We got off and descended to the small
rivulet, to an open spot surrounded by palm and other trees. A nisan (small
grave stone) was placed by the side, confirming that this was indeed a grave.
We prayed for the souls of those who were so brutally murdered there.
Pak Sakimin passed away in May 2015. In the meantime, he had taken us
to the locations of three more mass graves in the tea plantation of Wono-
sari (on the slope of the Arjuna volcano towering above the nearby village
of Lawang) where he had worked his whole life. Once, after heavy rains,
a landslide had occurred near the upper edge of the plantation. When the
workers went there, they saw the remains of nine people sticking out of the
mud. One of them was a woman. Her pelvis was broken by a bamboo stick.
Their clothes revealed they had belonged to the middle classes. Pak Sakimin
later found out that guards in early 1966 had heard the trucks coming into
the plantation at night but that they had never known the exact location
where they went until the landslide had uncovered the bodies. Nobody knew
the identities of the victims. Pak Sakimin and the other plantation workers
prayed for the dead and covered their bones again. Two smaller graves were
found in the same huge plantation, closer to the houses of the workers. The
plots were left vacant, though the edge of the village was nearby. In the
botanical gardens there is another, smaller mass grave, we later heard, but
we have not yet found the exact location. Villagers living near the edge of
the gardens told us that they heard the trucks, the shouts of the soldiers and
Banser members, and the cries of their victims. The following morning they
found places where the soil had been dug up. We have not yet been able to
interview these villagers.
We discussed the mass grave with a victims’ organisation in Surabaya,
the capital of East Java. On 4 October 2014, members of KontraS Surabaya
(the Surabaya office of the Commission for the Disappeared and Victims
of Violence) and the IPT 1965, accompanied by some survivors from the
region around Surabaya, held a modest memorial service at the mass grave
in the botanical gardens, offering flowers and prayers. When we last visited
the mass grave (17 February 2017), the nisan had been removed again, on
the orders of the director of the gardens. In the deteriorating political cli-
mate following the hearings of the IPT 1965 and the 50th anniversary of the
G30S Affair, he was afraid the nisan would attract undue attention. He did
not want the site to become a lieu de mémoire, nor did he want to attract the
attention of Muslim hardliners. The director of the botanical gardens back
in 1965 was amongst those who disappeared at the time.
It took us some time to find the spot again, as we could not openly in-
quire where the mass grave was. This time we were accompanied by Pak
­Herlambang (a pseudonym). As a teenager, he lived in the village across
 Mass graves, memorialisation  147
from the main gate to the botanical gardens. Pak Herlambang recalled how,
during the massacres, each morning he and some other villagers would go
to find the place where they had heard shouts the previous night. The bodies
were not always covered carefully and one morning he saw two of his uncles
who had disappeared a few months earlier. His father had also disappeared
and, after this gruesome discovery, his mother sent him away; she did not
want to lose her son as well. Pak Herlambang also knew that many members
of the local football team who had been coached by Pak Asiong were bur-
ied there. The leader of the Banser gang responsible for the slaughter, Pak
­Santoso (a pseudonym), had let it be known that anybody who wanted to
join his team had to bring three right ears.29 It did not matter to whom these
ears had belonged. If they could not find members of leftist organisations,
love or business rivals would do just as well.
Thus around the neighbouring villages of Lawang and Purwodadi, there
are at least five mass graves, among which is the large one in the botani-
cal gardens, containing approximately 6–800 bodies. The locations of these
mass graves are still known by plantation workers and villagers, but this in-
formation is not publicly shared. People speak in whispers under conditions
of anonymity. The fear of reprisal, more than five decades after the mass kill-
ings, is still great. None of the bodies have been exhumed and so far hardly
any names of the dead are known. Research in the villages closest to the mass
graves has not yet been carried out, as the atmosphere is still very tense.

Genocide sites in Tuban, East Java

After the hearings of the IPT 1965, a small Dutch feminist funding organisa-
tion offered a modest amount to do ‘something festive and nice’ with women
survivors. The Dutch feminists were shocked by the testimonies of sexual
violence and by the conditions of stigma and poverty in which their Indo-
nesian sisters lived, and hoped that this small gesture might alleviate some
of their pain. After some consultations, we decided that the money could be
most fruitfully used by a group of survivors in Surabaya with whom we had
worked previously. When Nursyahbani and I discussed the offer with them,
they decided their priority was to visit the site where most of them had been
imprisoned in Lamongan, as well as a nearby mass grave in Tuban, where
relatives and comrades had been buried. After their release from the deten-
tion centre in Lamongan, they had never visited those places again. On the
way we could stop for a nice lunch in a restaurant along the beach.
The preparations for the event took many months. Ibu Dewi (a pseudo-
nym), who is the informal leader of the group, went up and down to Tuban
a few times with a friend of hers, Pak Gus (also a pseudonym). During these
consultations, we gradually became aware of the difficulties these women
faced. The difficulties arise, first of all, from the threat posed by exter-
nal groups. The women spoke about how they were all under surveillance
from neighbours or even family members. The threat from fundamentalist
148  Saskia E. Wieringa
groups is real for these women and other survivors of the 1965 genocide.
The threat posed by these groups has been exacerbated in recent years; the
neo-fascist campaign among right-wing groups in Indonesia which began in
mid-2015 called the ‘New Style Communist Movement’ (Komunisme Gaya
Baru, KGB) is one example of recent campaigns which directly threaten
those who would allegedly ‘bring back communism.’ Such campaigns have
incited a new wave of anti-communism in contemporary Indonesia (see
Miller 2018). Survivors fear not only for their personal safety, but also for
the abjection their children and other family members may experience. If it
would become known that a group of ex-political prisoners was planning to
visit mass graves, the trip might be stopped by violent means, as happened
to Pak Ilyas. Thus, the women’s journey to visit the former detention camp
and mass grave sites had to be planned to ensure everyone’s safety.
This was achieved by ensuring that all logistical arrangements were
taken care of by teman (lit. ‘friends’)—in this case, people belonging to
victims’ families or sympathetic rights’ activists. The restaurant chosen for
the lunch, located near the beach, has a chef who is the son of a 1965 victim.
More importantly, the driver of the bus was Pak Herlambang, who had
also accompanied us to search for the mass grave in the botanical gardens
in Purwodadi. Pak Herlambang had been a fugitive from violence himself,
moving around and doing odd jobs all over the archipelago for 30 years. He
had been looking for his father all this time, searching among the labourers
in the harbours he passed through and among the beggars in the streets he
travelled. He never saw his father again. Now he has returned to his village
and found a job as a guard in a newly established Islamic religious school
(pesantren). This school has a big bus, which has been used, for instance,
to transport right-wing Muslim protesters to the mass demonstration in Ja-
karta on 2 December 2016.30 For our event, however, it was rented to drive a
group of survivors of the killings. The bus is green, and has the name of the
pesantren prominently displayed, in Latin and Arabic script. Everybody,
including the film-maker who joined us, was warned not to take pictures
with the name of the school on it, out of fear that the identity of Pak Her-
lambang would be revealed. With this teman as our driver, everybody was
relaxed. It meant we would be able to talk freely inside the bus. The bus
itself was also seen as a type of protection, as it would guard the partici-
pants against the probing eyes of local militia members or of members of
the security apparatus.
But there were also internal difficulties to resolve. Ibu Dewi’s group of
women survivors is a tight-knit one made up predominantly of former
teachers, who all trust one another. Ibu Dewi runs a small fund (arisan)
from which many members profit, but which is always losing money as it
is also used to contribute towards the funerals or medicines of members.
Relations with the teman in Tuban also had to first be established before the
outing could be planned, and a mass grave selected among the many in the
area which would be safe to visit.
 Mass graves, memorialisation  149
We left early in the morning of the event to pick up the old women and men
from nearby Sidoarjo and Surabaya. By noon we had arrived in L ­ amongan,
where the notorious rice warehouse is located and where the women had
been imprisoned in inhumane conditions for many years. Ibu Dewi herself
was only 19 when she was arrested; she had just started her first job as a
kindergarten teacher in a nearby village. She and her fellow detainees were
tortured and starved at the warehouse. From the road, there are no signs
of the atrocities committed behind the row of houses and restaurants. We
parked in front of a bus from a pesantren, full of old people hungry for a
tasty bowl of soto Lamongan (Lamongan soup). While we were waiting for
our soup and drinks, Ibu Dewi and I peeped out the back door. There, she
said, in that far corner, sometimes a sympathetic former employee of the
warehouse would leave some rice for us. We were so hungry, we were even
eating banana leaves at the time. When the employee was discovered, he too
was arrested and later murdered. After a few years, Ibu Dewi was released
with hundreds of other women. The remaining women from the warehouse
detention centre were taken to the women’s concentration camp at Plantun-
gan in Central Java. I walked to the old shed which stands in the middle of a
large yard. Inside, there were a group of men playing snooker. The men only
knew that the old warehouse had been a shed where bicycles were parked for
the cinema next door, which had itself already been demolished.
Tuban was still some way off, and the group decided to skip the planned
early dinner and visit the mass grave first. Before we went to the mass grave
site, we first had to pick up some other teman from Tuban; they were the
ones who would take us to the village where sympathetic inhabitants knew
the location of one of the largest graves in that district. We were interrupted
by a heavy downpour, and it was already late afternoon when we finally
arrived at our destination and we all set off along a 3 km walk into the for-
mer teak plantation. The father of the present owner of the plantation had
heard the trucks and the gunshots. We were brought to a far corner of his
land which, unlike the rest of the former plantation, was not planted with
corn and cassava under the towering teak trees. Instead, the land is covered
with secondary jungle. The plantation owner cut back the bushes for us, and
we filed into the space between two big mounds of clay which had not been
smoothed over; between them was a hole into which the victims had been
thrown. Here too inhabitants of another village had been ordered to dig a
hole 3 m deep and 6 m long. We prayed and distributed the flowers we had
bought along the way. One of the survivors said his elder brother was killed
here. His grandfather was one of the soldiers on duty that night. When he
saw his grandson among the prisoners who were about to be killed, he asked
to shoot him himself, so that he would not have to harbour a grudge against
one of his colleagues. He would rather bear the grief himself. Everybody
was deeply moved.
The teman in Tuban know the locations of some 20 mass graves. But not
all are accessible; some are surrounded by villagers who are not sympathetic.
150  Saskia E. Wieringa
The farmers of the dusun where we visited the mass grave site are helpful;
they are all related, and there are no fanatical Muslims among them. We
thanked them profusely. Though we did not have the lunch on the beach as
planned, the survivors were satisfied. They were happy that they had at least
been able to honour the dead and that they had been together and sharing
stories. The nice lunch could be enjoyed another day. The solidarity from
the feminist friends in faraway Holland was also deeply appreciated: the
world has not forgotten us, though our own country’s leaders do all they can
to intimidate and haunt us, they said.

Conclusion
Of the three mass graves discussed here only one, in Plumbon near ­Semarang,
can be visited openly. Though it is not easily accessible, it is a place of com-
memoration. The names of those who were known to be buried there will be
remembered. Their relatives and other survivors can honour and remember
them. Having a place to mark and commemorate the dead is important for
the surviving family members. As long as they remain uncertain about the
fate of their disappeared relatives, they cannot properly mourn. As Adhi-
vira (2016) reminds us, making the names of those murdered known to the
public also allows the victims themselves to rise from their anonymity and
from their ambiguous state between being alive and dead. As disappeared,
their fate was unknown. As people killed, and buried in a mass grave, their
deaths can be spoken of as a crime, and they become witnesses to the geno-
cide in which they were murdered. The memorialisation can turn an anony-
mous, haunted place into a lieu de mémoire, giving both the survivors space
to mourn and the victims a voice.
At the collective level, these genocide sites should become educational
tools to help the younger generations to understand their own history and to
contribute to a shared commitment to ‘never again.’ In this way, the impu-
nity of the perpetrators is not lifted nor is criminal justice served, but a form
of symbolic justice may be achieved (Wolfe 2014, cited in Adhivira 2016),
and the heavy stigma faced by the survivors lifted.
In another way, the sharing of the stories of those involved in the mass
graves may contribute to some form of reconciliation. This may not be the
case in relation to the direct perpetrators, but perhaps for the many people
who were complicit in the genocide: those forced to dig holes and to hold the
lamps at the places of execution, the guards, the administrators, the judges,
the doctors, and all the many others who have so far not spoken about their
acts during the killings may be encouraged to share their horrific, guilt-­
ridden stories with the survivors and come to some kind of closure. This kind
of memory work is needed to establish mnemonic communities within which
reconciliation can be attempted, even if only at the local level. Pak Sakimin,
for instance, was consumed by shame, fear, and guilt. The horrors of what
he had witnessed weighed heavily on him. He was greatly relieved to finally
 Mass graves, memorialisation  151
be able to share his story. His closeness to the actual horrors of the time did
not allow him to forget or deny the extreme cruelty with which the army and
the associated militia had treated their victims. In him, the continued terror
exercised by the military and the right-wing religious groups among which he
lived effectively caused him to keep his stories secret, even from his beloved
wife and children. His silence during the past 50 years testifies to the effec-
tiveness of the campaign of terror and the hate propaganda of the S ­ uharto
regime. His speaking up allowed his children a unique insight not only into
the history of their father but also into that of the nation. And it allowed us to
better understand the mechanisms which the murderers had used.
Research into these mass graves which lie across Indonesia can bring to
light overriding patterns of the genocide. Even the few examples discussed
above are revealing. In their similarities they clearly suggest common pat-
terns, particularly with regard to how the killings were coordinated by the
military. These patterns also relate to the secrecy of the operations (the
care taken to hide the traces of the mass murders) and to the methods of
killing (only the army had firearms and the militias used sharp weapons).
The mass graves may also reveal more about how the executions were or-
ganised and the logistics of these operations (for example, usually trucks
were confiscated, and prisoners were systematically selected from the over-
crowded prisons where they were held). Preliminary conclusions that can
be drawn from these mnemonic excavations point to a chain of command,
an army hierarchy in which the militias played the role of implementing
orders from above.
The precautions that must be taken to visit these mass grave sites and
make them public expose the continued dominance of New Order ideology
and institutions. Only one mass grave so far has been turned into a lieu de
mémoire, and that only after years of research and work with the commu-
nity. This site is hidden from view, in contrast to the glaring monuments
erected to celebrate the victory over what was the third largest communist
party in the world. It will take many years before all mass graves will be
properly marked and the victims buried in them recognised and honoured.
Then, hopefully, can the memory work needed to heal the nation and to lift
the stigma of the survivors be done in earnest.

Notes
1 YPKP 1965 was formed after YPKP (Yayasan Penelitian Korban Pembununah
1965/66), established in 1999 by the ex-political prisoners Sulami and Pramoedya
Ananta Toer, split. Toer went on to lead the LPKP (Lembaga Penelitian Korban
Pembunuhan, Institute for the Research on Victims of the Killings). See also
Purbaya et al. (2016) which contains a map with the rough locations of the mass
graves Bedjo Untung submitted.
2 Interview by the author with a group of survivors in Tuban, 14 February 2017.
3 In Bali, for instance, only one mass grave is mentioned on the YPKP 1965’s list,
while Leslie Dwyer before the IPT 1965 testified that she and Degung Santikarma
152  Saskia E. Wieringa
knew of some 80 mass graves on that small island alone. See also Chapter 5 in
this collection and Santikarma (2005).
4 These concerns were discussed in several weekly meetings of Forum 1965 in
April and May 2016. Forum 1965 was formed after the hearings of the IPT 1965
and consists of representatives of various victims’ organisations and activists of
IPT 1965. When in Jakarta, I regularly attend these meetings. The members also
have a WhatsApp group of which I am a member.
5 The Komnas HAM 2012 report on 1965 has never been published, see Tim Ad
Hoc Penyelidikan Pelanggaran HAM yang Berat Peristiwa 1965–1966 (2012).
6 Relevant International Customary Law includes the 2006 International Conven-
tion for the Protection of All Persons from Enforced Disappearance, GA Res.
61/177, 20 December 2006, A/RES/61/177; 14 IHRR 582 (2007).
7 See the 1929 Geneva Convention for the Amelioration of the Condition of the
Wounded and Sick in Armies in the Field, Article 17; Second Geneva Conven-
tion, Article 20; Third Geneva Convention, Article 120; and Fourth Geneva
Convention 1949, Article 130.
8 Violi (2012) calls this museum a ‘trauma site’: a material testimony of the vio-
lence and horror that took place there.
9 This programme, with a team of 50 researchers in three locations (Phnom Penh,
New Haven, and Sydney), set up the Cambodian Genocide Databases (CGDB)
using both GPS and local informants (see Jarvis 2002).
10 See the documentary film, Rantemas (2006), on the mass grave at Luweng
Grubug.
11 See, for instance, the accounts of how victims were taken and killed in these
mass graves by members of Indonesia’s military and their co-opted civilian mili-
tia counterparts in the films The Act of Killing (2012), The Look of Silence (2014),
and Jembatan Bacem (2013).
12 See the Narrative Report of the hearings of the IPT 1965 on the website (www.
tribunal1965.org) for an overview of meetings disrupted (Katjasungkana &
­Wieringa 2016). See also Chapters 1 and 2 of this anthology.
13 An example is a PowerPoint presentation probably by the National Intelligence
Agency (Badan Intelijen Negara, BIN)—at least the last slide closed with their
symbol, velox et exactus, to the Army Training Center in Bandung. It circulated
in various WhatsApp groups in February 2017. It calls on the officers to be aware
of the danger of communism, and lists Hitler and Mussolini as socialist leaders
among Stalin, Lenin, Mao, and Pol Pot. The present-day guise of communism
in Indonesia takes the form of ‘soft power’ and allegedly includes NGOs which
fight for pluralism and diversity, and are funded by China, according to these
intelligence personnel.
14 See Wieringa (2002) for a history of Gerwani. See also Sulami (1999).
15 Earlier they had tried to excavate a mass grave in Blora but failed (McGregor
2012, p. 237).
16 This exhumation is well documented. For instance, Lexy Rambadeta produced
a documentary film in 2002, Mass Grave. See also McGregor (2012, 2015).
17 The research carried out about the human rights violations after the G30S
­A ffair in the Eastern Indonesia province of NTT (NusaTenggara Timor) is the
first of its kind there. Besides the military, right-wing Christian groups were
involved in the massacres. Under the guidance of progressive church leaders
such as Mery Kolimon and the Faculty of Theology of the Artha Wacana Uni-
versity, research was carried out by members of the Network of Women of
Eastern Indonesia for the Study of Women in Religion and Culture (Jaringan
Perempuan Indonesia Timur untuk Studi Perempuan Agama dan Budaya, JPIT
SPAB). Women from this project testified during the hearings of the IPT 1965
in The Hague.
 Mass graves, memorialisation  153
18 See Katjasungkana and Wieringa (2016) for references to news coverage. See
also El Faruki (2015).
19 In Pati, for instance, villagers reported having seen ghosts without a head
around the site of a mass grave there. See Priyanto (2016).
20 From interviews with the activists. See also Purbaya et al. (2016).
21 The names read as follows: (1) Moetiah (the Gerwani member), (2) Soesatjo,
(3) Darsono, (4) Sachroni, (5) Joesoef, (6) Soekandar, (7) Doelkhamid, (8) So-
erono, and (9) others. Some family members had known their loved ones were
buried there and had visited the site. The villagers shared their names with the
researchers who then went to visit them.
22 The word gugur is generally used for those who are killed in a war and who are
considered heroes.
23 See for a video of the ceremony, go to https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t
Ce65TLuEgw (‘Peresmian nisan kuburan massal ’65 di dusun Plumbon Kota
Semarang’, Yunantyo Adi S. 2015). See also Parwito (2015).
24 For Pak Sukar’s account, see Parwito (2014).
25 On the role of RPKAD in the massacres, see Jenkins and Kammen (2012).
26 Nusya Kuswatin is the author of Lasmi (2009), a book on an East Javanese leader
of the women’s organisation, Gerwani.
27 After that whenever he visited us, we would discuss the horrifying events of
those years. Once he was accompanied by his daughter and her husband, a mar-
iner. The daughter was very upset that her father told these stories which she had
never heard before.
28 Komando Rayon Militer, military command at the sub-district level.
29 Pak Santoso later raped and killed Ibu Asiong, as she refused to marry him.
30 These mass demonstrations drew more than one million protestors to Jakarta,
where they demanded that the Governor of Jakarta, Ahok, be jailed. He faced
a charge of blasphemy based on the manipulation of a speech he had held in his
campaign for re-election. On these events, see Lim (2017).

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9 Propaganda and complicity,
1965–66
Adam Hughes Henry

The report of the final judgements of the International People’s Tribunal for
1965 (IPT 1965) is an examination of one of the most ignored crimes against
humanity committed during the twentieth century. The Indonesian mas-
sacres of 1965–66, upon which the IPT 1965 report is based, illustrate how
universal human rights (and international law) can be ignored in the pur-
suit of political self-interest and the human consequences marginalised. The
numerous Indonesian victims of this crime have become, in the words of
British foreign policy historian Mark Curtis (2008), ‘unpeople.’ This chap-
ter will examine the use of anti-communist propaganda which was an im-
portant contributor to political instability during the period and provided
justifications for the army-slaughter.
The IPT 1965 exemplifies an important and necessary corrective to the
deliberate silencing of these crimes in Indonesia. By trawling through the
documentary record, collecting eyewitness accounts, and clarifying the na-
ture of these crimes, the IPT 1965 shows that evidence about these atrocities
is, in fact, well documented in Indonesia, the US, the UK, and Australia.
This research has focused on explaining accountability behind the killings,
the methods used, and the demographic scale of the killings. The IPT 1965
found that crimes against humanity had been committed during the time of
the massacres.
The Indonesian military under the authority of Major General Suharto
violated numerous international laws regarding human rights and crimes
against humanity.1 The IPT 1965 details throughout its findings how the
crimes committed breached standard post-Second World War interna-
tional law.2 The IPT 1965 also shows how these crimes were knowingly
supported by outside actors. The army found strong civilian and religious
support within Indonesia which enabled the destruction of the Indonesian
Communist Party (PKI, Partai Komunis Indonesia), the eventual toppling
of President Sukarno in 1967, and the deaths of hundreds of thousands of
Indonesians. The IPT 1965 also demonstrates that these crimes received sig-
nificant outside support from the US, the UK, and Australia among others.
One of the ways in which this support was provided from the outside was by
anti-communist propaganda and related activities.
158  Adam Hughes Henry
The IPT 1965’s findings regarding crimes against humanity and geno-
cide in Indonesia during 1965–66 closely examine the question of outside
complicity (see Katjasungkana & Wieringa 2015, pp. 95–108). In Washing-
ton, London, and Canberra, the Indonesian army found strong support for
their political ascendency, irrespective of the terrible crimes they commit-
ted. These sources of international support go a long way in explaining why
crimes against humanity in Indonesia during the Cold War were considered
irrelevant. One of the ways in which this complicity was demonstrated was
through an anti-Sukarno and anti-communist propaganda conducted by
the Americans, British, and Australians. These activities demonstrated the
willingness of each country to condone, ignore, and even assist the crimes
for political reasons. To explore questions of complicity, the chapter will
briefly highlight the motivations of the Americans, British, and Australians,
which helped justify their support for the perpetrators of the massacres (the
army). Each provided varying forms of assistance such as common propa-
ganda, intelligence, and logistics.

Motivations
The IPT 1965 narrative report and final judgement called on a wide range
of documents, research expertise, and testimony to make its findings (see
Katjasungkana & Wieringa 2015). The motivations of those parties such as
the Americans, British, and Australians who provided support to the In-
donesian army reveal a range of confronting issues of great relevance to
scholars. Their diplomatic support was motivated by the hope of strategic
and political gain even if this came at the expense of ordinary Indonesians
(Hawley 2016). Indifference, or ignoring the suffering of others, when there
is no legal obligation of oversight is unlikely to be a crime. If there is legal
oversight not discharged, then this could become a question of negligence
or at the very least moral cowardice. The complicity (in the context of this
chapter) illustrates that outside parties assisted a third party in the commis-
sion of an egregious crime. The US, the UK, and Australia were complicit
in the mass atrocities in Indonesia in 1965–66 by knowingly aiding the per-
petrators of the massacres while they were occurring. They are complicit in
their failure to condemn these crimes, and they are complicit by embracing
the key perpetrators as an Indonesian government in waiting. These actions
were in knowing contradiction to the relevant UN conventions and any no-
tion of universal human rights.3 To outline how various political and stra-
tegic motivations led to outside complicity in the events of 1965–66, a brief
diplomatic timeline is necessary.
Since the late 1940s, particularly after communist victory in China in
1949, Indonesia became a major preoccupation of US planning (Simpson
2008).4 Once the US used its diplomatic clout to finally end Dutch efforts
at reclaiming the Netherlands East Indies (NEI) in 1949, Indonesia became
central to its regional Cold War planning. The emergence of Sukarno as
 Propaganda and complicity, 1965– 66  159
an independent-minded nationalist in the 1950s (interested in the politics
of non-alignment), and the growth of the Indonesian Communist Party
by the later 1950s and 1960s, corresponded with an uncompromising US
­anti-communism global in its scope and ambitions (see McMahon 1999).
Well before 1 October 1965, Washington, London, and Canberra were hos-
tile toward President Sukarno and fearful of the rise of Indonesian Com-
munism. This hostility had developed throughout the 1950s and was only
heightened by political developments in the 1960s.
By 1957–58, when grievances between the eastern islands, northern ­Sumatra,
and Jakarta led to regional rebellions against the capital, the rebels were
­directly supported by the CIA, and this clandestine US effort was secretly sup-
ported by London and Canberra (Mann 1994; Kahin & Kahin 1997; Curtis
2007). This intervention ultimately failed to break apart ­Indonesia and under-
mine Sukarno, but it did herald a shift in US aid policies toward the ­Indonesian
army.5 Military links through US aid built connections with those in the army
Washington considered more anti-­communist. While the US engineered a set-
tlement on West New Guinea (WNG), ­triggering a human rights catastrophe
for West Papuans and undermining long-­standing ­Australian objections to the
Indonesian claim, by the 1960s there were mounting frustrations that Sukarno’s
Indonesia was not cooperating sufficiently with US Cold War objectives (see
Doran 1999; Saltford 2003).
For the British and Australians, noted allies of the US in the Cold War,
there were anti-communist concerns, but each also had distinct interests in
developments within Indonesia. British strategic and economic interests in
Southeast Asia were heightened (as they were in Africa) with the independ-
ence of India and Pakistan in 1947 (see Curtis 2003, pp. 316–43; Thomas,
Moore & Butler 2008, p. 16). The economic importance of Malaya after
the Second World War saw the British laying the groundwork for maintain-
ing its economic privileges into a post-independence future (Curtis 2003,
pp. 335–36). The British war against a communist inspired Chinese-Malay
anti-colonial rebellion from 1948, for example, known as ‘The Emergency,’
was in many respects a war ‘in defence of the rubber industry’ (Curtis 2003).
In relation to Indonesia, the British also had financial concerns threatened
by Sukarno’s economic policies. Dutch investments continued to dominate
Indonesian economic life after independence but in 1957 Sukarno national-
ised all Dutch-owned plantations (see Redfern 2010). After the failed rebel-
lion of 1957–58, Sukarno (already hostile to colonialism in Asia), hardened
his opinions about US and British power. For the Australians, the growth of
the PKI by 1957 and the strategic reality of Indonesia being on Australia’s
northern approaches had strained relations between Canberra and Jakarta;
Australia’s ongoing opposition to Sukarno’s claim over West New Guinea
being the strongest example of this reality (see Doran 1999). When British
plans to establish The Malayan Federation were opposed by Sukarno as
neocolonialism, he instituted the policy of Konfrontasi (‘Confrontation’).
From 1962, British and Australian forces were engaged in Borneo in limited
160  Adam Hughes Henry
warfare against Indonesian military incursions (see Mackie 1974; Easter
2004). This period was one of grave concern for the British and for the
­Australians who feared the implications of a wider war. Ending Konfrontasi
by force was seriously considered and, by September 1964, the UK with
Australian support had developed plans to attack the Indonesians by de-
stroying its air force and navy, but this plan was not enacted.6 In the case of
the UK, the economic costs of dealing with Sukarno by the mid-1960s were
a serious source of consternation.7

Propaganda
Before 1 October 1965, the US were conducting anti-communist informa-
tion activities in Indonesia.8 On 23 February 1965, the US government ap-
proved continued psychological warfare activities aiming to ‘develop black
and grey propaganda themes for use within Indonesia and via appropriate
media assets outside Indonesia [to] portray the PKI as … increasingly am-
bitious, dangerous.’9 Anti-communist propaganda had become a routine
part of the US and the UK Cold War activities from the late 1940s, and the
UK methods had proved influential in Australia (see Henry 2015). On 3–4
August, there were discussions held between the US, the UK, and Australia
about radio broadcasts into Indonesia (see Easter 2005). Bradley Simpson
noted that these propaganda activities were designed to encourage tensions
within Indonesian society and politics (see Simpson 2008). Political tensions
and developments within Indonesia were closely observed by W ­ ashington,
London, and Canberra, but they were still surprised by the events of 1
­October (see Katjasungkana & Wieringa 2015, pp. 80–81).10 However, they
would not fail to quickly use events in Indonesia to their own advantage.
Almost immediately from 1 October, information guidance from Keith
Shann (Australian Ambassador) framing an anti-communist and ­anti-
Sukarno narrative was provided to the Australian Department of ­External
Affairs (DEA) with the aim of influencing Radio Australia (­Australian
Broadcasting Corporation) news broadcasts in Australia and back into
­Indonesia (see Najjarine & Cottle 2003; Henry 2014). The UK Information
Research Department (IRD) in Singapore, a specialist and secretive prop-
aganda unit within the Foreign Office established after the Second World
War, were advised by the CIA on 1 October of the need for ‘black radio’
and that the Americans were ‘recruiting Indonesian speakers’.11 ­Radio
­Australia, Voice of America and the BBC (and media reporting outside
­Indonesia itself), were naturally important sources of information. The
news organisations broadcasting into Indonesia were viewed differently by
many ­Indonesians from local media, and criticism or hostility from such
sources toward the Indonesian army after 1 October would have been noted.
From 2 October, Shann informed Canberra that the Indonesian ‘army [had]
closed down the communist press while ensuring the continued publication
of military newspapers … and the English language Jakarta Daily Mail.
 Propaganda and complicity, 1965– 66  161
[The army took] control over Radio Indonesia and the Antara news agency,
which was the main supplier of news carried by Indonesian radio stations
and newspapers.’12 The Indonesian army were therefore quickly controlling
the main local press.
While it seemed possible that there was some PKI involvement, assign-
ing clear responsibility for the ‘coup’ was little more than conjecture. For
example, on 9 December 1965, the Australian Joint Intelligence Committee
(JIC) concluded that ‘evidence of actual PKI involvement―that is of prior
planning by the Central Committee―[was] largely circumstantial.’13 Yet
from 1 October the Indonesian army, Australians, British and Americans
(in Jakarta) found no difficulty in assigning blame for the ‘coup’ (see Henry
2016). A lack of clear evidence made little difference to the US, the UK,
and Australian diplomats in Indonesia who were guiding propaganda and
other clandestine measures. Even the muted PKI response on 2 October in
its own newspaper, advising its members that events were an ‘internal army
affair’ and they should not become involved, could be treated as suspicious
(see Roosa 2006, p. 63). The main concern of the anti-communist propa-
ganda campaign was never to establish responsibility, but to discredit and
undermine the PKI and Sukarno. The Indonesian army, positioning itself
to conduct a wide-scale anti-PKI purge, quickly went on the propaganda of-
fensive forming an ‘ostensibly civilian organisation called the Action Front
for Crushing the September 30th Movement’ under army oversight on 2
­October (Roosa 2006, p. 63).14 On 4 October, George Ball, Under Secretary
of State for Economic and Agricultural Affairs in the administrations of
John F. Kennedy and Lyndon B. Johnson, told James Reston from the New
York Times that ‘this is a critical time for the army…If the army does move
they have the strength to wipe up earth with the PKI and if they don’t they
might not get another chance.’15 The events of 1 October would provide an
excellent opportunity to undermine the PKI and Sukarno through informa-
tion warfare.
On 5 October, military parades for Armed Forces Day were cancelled,
becoming a ‘procession for the seven slain’ generals and the army newspa-
per Angkatan Bersendjata published an article accusing women from the
Gerwani organisation of torture and genital mutilation of the dead gener-
als (Roosa 2006, p. 63). As the work of Saskia Wieringa (2002) highlights,
this sexual slander was an integral part of the anti-communist backlash
to come. There was, of course, no corroborating independent evidence to
suggest that this accusation was true, the results of the autopsy were not
made public and, as noted by Wieringa, this story was sensational in its
cultural implications within Indonesia. In fact, the official autopsies, dis-
covered by Anderson over two decades later found no evidence of genital
mutilation at all (Anderson 1987). By 5 October, four days after the actions
of the 30 September Movement, the Indonesian army had outlined an entire
PKI conspiracy, including the mutilation story through a ‘130-page book
that chronicled the events of October 1 and accused the PKI of being the
162  Adam Hughes Henry
mastermind’ (Roosa 2006, pp. 63, 277).16 The Australian and British archi-
val documents highlight there was no interest in testing or being cautious
about the allegations being made by the Indonesian army. On 5 October, Sir
Andrew Gilchrist, the UK ambassador, informed the Foreign Office that ‘I
have never concealed from you my belief that a little shooting in Indonesia
would be an essential preliminary to effective [political] change…’17 Also
on 5 October, Marshall Green, the US Ambassador, advised Washington
about how to ‘shape developments to our advantage’ by [blackening the
name] of the PKI and its ‘protector, Sukarno [by spreading] the story of the
PKI’s guilt, treachery and brutality.’18 Along with the prominent narrative
of communist treachery, the mutilation of the generals would later be explic-
itly highlighted by Gilchrist as a key propaganda theme. The Americans,
British and Australians were quick to support this anti-PKI effort through-
out the period and had no way of corroborating the truth of such allegations
let alone proving any direct PKI conspiracy in the coup.
The PKI had a large membership, but it was certainly not an army de-
signed for military struggle. On 6 October the PKI issued its official denial
of responsibility for the events of 1 October (Roosa 2006, p. 64).19 The one
sided possibilities of widespread repression carried out by the army were
certainly known. On 8 October, the CIA reported that the army leadership
had ‘met on that day and agreed to implement plans to crush the PKI’ (cited
in Roosa 2006, p. 277).20 In this period, the possibility of widespread army
retribution against its perceived enemies was obvious. Shann, the ­Australian
Ambassador, wrote to Canberra on 8 October that ‘if ever there was a time
for the army to act to smash the PKI as an effective political force, it is now.
But will it happen?’ (Roosa 2006, p. 277). On 12 October, Richard Woolcott,
the first specialist Public Information Officer (PIO) in the DEA, briefed su-
periors about the guidance being provided to Radio Australia:

a. Radio Australia should, by careful selection of its news items, not do

anything which would be helpful to the PKI and should highlight re-
ports tending to discredit the PKI and show its involvement in the losing
cause of the 30th September movement.
b.  [Woolcott noted that] the most recent briefing given to Radio
­Australia, yesterday afternoon [11 October], was to the effect that
what was emerging was a struggle between the army and the PKI
with the former holding the initiative and the later somewhat dis-
credited because of its involvement in the 30th September Movement.
Whether or not Sukarno had acquiesced in the Untung coup, his
­p olitical power and prestige had been undermined to a degree which
made it unlikely that it could be restored to its former level even if his
health lasted.21

Woolcott’s briefing closely resembled the ongoing information guidance be-

ing received from Shann in Jakarta.
 Propaganda and complicity, 1965– 66  163
The killings were well underway but there were few concerns from
the British about the potential human costs of army retribution. On 13
­October, Gilchrist advised the Foreign Office that British propaganda ac-
tivities ‘should explore PKI brutality in murdering Generals and [General]
­Nasution’s daughter … PKI subverting Indonesia as agents of foreign com-
munists … But treatment will need to be subtle, e.g. (a) all activities should
be strictly unattributable, (b) British participation or co-operation should
be carefully concealed.’22 The following day the British also assured the In-
donesian army that

[it]would not escalate [UK resistance] to the [policy of] Confrontation

while the [Indonesian] army was dealing with the communists …With
the approval of London, on 14 October [General Nasution’s aide was
informed] that the British did not intend to start any offensive military
action.23

With the pace of the army response against the PKI quickening, the
­Australians, British, and Americans were clearly aligning themselves with
the ultimate objective of the Indonesian army—the destruction of the PKI.
As killings and mass arrests began to increase, contacts between the Indo-
nesian Army and US were emerging; for example, the US embassy compiled
lists of various left-wing Indonesians and provided these names to the army
(­Kadane 1990).24 The killing and repression also corresponded with con-
tinued army propaganda efforts to help justify these drastic actions. On 23
October, Suara Islam reported that

millions of copies of the text of a proclamation of the counterrevolu-

tionary Gestapu…have been recovered…. The text…was obviously
printed in the CPR [People’s Republic of China]. Steel helmets and a
large quantity of military equipment have also been found…. There is
incontrovertible evidence of the CPR’s involvement…. The arms sent by
the CPR were shipped under cover of ‘diplomatic immunity.’ …other
important documents offer irrefutable evidence of the involvement of
the CPR Embassy and the CPR ambassador…
(cited in McGehee 1990, p. 57)

Without verifying or being cautious to disassociate themselves from such

claims, the US, the UK, and Australia continued to undertake their prop-
aganda operations in the face of increasing killings and repression.25 To
enhance British efforts, information warfare specialist Norman Reddaway
took control of the IRD in Singapore. Reddaway wrote that he was sent by
the FO because

Sukarno’s Confrontation of Malaysia and Singapore was costing us

[the UK] about 250 Million Pounds a year in the early 1960s. Under
164  Adam Hughes Henry
[Defence] Ministerial Patronage [Denis Healey] and Ambassadorial
pleas [Gilchrist], I was sent to Singapore in late October 1965 to ‘do
anything I could think of to get rid of Sukarno.26

Reddaway took great pride in his career as an information warfare special-

ist and Indonesia was an episode he recalled with fond memories. In 1996, he
offered a fascinating outline of IRD methods during the massacres:

[Stories] would be offered exclusive to the BBC man in Singapore [by

the IRD] and form the core of his midday report to Bush House [the
headquarters of the BBC]. Their content would come pouring back into
the region in the Overseas’ Service’s evening bulletin and be relayed to
Radio Australia and [Siaran] Malaysia. Sukarno threw all the Western
correspondents out of Indonesia. He hadn’t a clue. The final blow came
when the story of his duplicity over Aidit came out as a traveler’s tale
from the AP man in Hong Kong—straight into the worldwide plumbing
of the news machine.27

Reddaway arrived in Singapore only a short time before Major General

Suharto denounced the PKI in a speech before a military audience on 30
October 1965. Although as Melvin (2018) outlines such denouncements and
calls for ‘annihilation’ had been made previously (particularly through
the chains of military command), Suharto now highlighted that the ‘cap-
tured’ documents (of 23 October) proved PKI guilt and demanded that the
‘­communists be completely uprooted’ (see McGehee 1990). This was an at-
tempt to use highly suspect booklets to justify the killings that had already
taken place and announce that the army would continue its post-1 October
programme of repression not only against the PKI, but potentially against
anyone they considered suspicious. There is no evidence in the US, the UK,
or Australian documents produced by Green, Gilchrist, and Shann advising
any path of neutrality, questioning the validity of army propaganda, or of
condemning the army for the killings—the goal throughout was to take ad-
vantage of the chaos. In November, discussions between Australia, the UK,
the US, and New Zealand were directly concerned with reporting the situa-
tion in Indonesia. The DEA brief for the Australian delegates, which closely
reflected the advice provided by Shann in Jakarta, was clear in its focus. Of
concern was that the Indonesian military should be publicly distanced from
the past policies of Sukarno and painted in a more positive light. The brief
noted:

Agenda Item V—Other ways in which the situation (in Indonesia) might
be influenced or exploited to Western advantages.
The meeting might consider radio broadcasts to Indonesia and exam-
ine the sort of treatment which should be given to news items and com-
mentaries in order particularly to avoid the possibility of compromising
 Propaganda and complicity, 1965– 66  165
the Generals by associating them with [Sukarno’s policy of] nekolim
[neo-colonialism].28

On 2 November, the Indonesian Armed Forces Bulletin asserted that the

PKI had a detailed plan for revolution and published alleged PKI direc-
tives for the period following the October coup attempt (see McGehee 1990).
Although the worst of the killings had largely occurred, such army state-
ments were publicly framing the ongoing slaughter as being justified and
necessary. The document claimed that the PKI would ‘directly confront’
the generals whom the coup leaders had accused of planning to overthrow
President Sukarno. The document also said, ‘when the revolution is directly
led by the PKI, we can achieve victory because our hidden strength is in the
armed forces’ (see McGehee 1990). Using advice provided from the Indo-
nesian army, Shann advised the DEA on 5 November how the Indonesian
military could be presented in a positive light:

(i) Radio Australia should not give the impression that the army alone
was acting against the PKI. Civilian organisations should be men-
tioned as often as possible.
(ii) News items critical, by implication or otherwise, about Subandrio
[Indonesia’s Foreign Minister] should be used.
(iii) Reports on Singapore should always give the impression that the
whole purpose of the [UK] naval base was defensive.
(iv) Reports should suggest that over the years some Indonesians at
least (by implication Indonesian army figures or prominent civilians
supporting the army) had tried to make progress towards economic
development.
(v) Reports should never imply that the army or its supporters were in
any way pro-western or right wing.29

The activities of Shann, Gilchrist, and Green can hardly be considered

benign diplomacy, particularly in conjunction with their hope for the de-
struction of the PKI and abject silence about the killings and other ac-
tivities undertaken by the army and their supporters. The diplomatic
priority was to exploit the situation in Indonesia for their own possible
gain. In N­ ovember, John Gittings notes that in response to requests from
­Indonesian generals, Marshall Green advised that the US should provide
covert aid (Gittings 1999).30
There is no question that the US, the UK, and Australian diplomats were
aware of the killings. On 9 November, Australian documents highlight the
use of knives, machetes, mutilation, stabbings, burning, bayonets, shooting,
and beheadings in the mass killings.31 On 12 November, and aware of the
purposes to which they would be likely used, Shann reiterated earlier British
assurances stating that the Indonesian army ‘would be safe in using their
forces for whatever purpose they saw fit.’32 On 1 and 2 December, further
166  Adam Hughes Henry
discussions took place between the Americans, Australians, ­British, and
New Zealanders about their information efforts related to I­ ndonesia―there
is no record of any concern about what the Indonesian army had been do-
ing. The continuing diplomatic emphasis on supporting the army is high-
lighted by Green’s authorisation of a covert 50-million-rupiah payment
(around $US200,000) for the Kap-Gestapu movement closely involved in
the anti-communist crack down on 2 December (Simpson 2015).
Having taken advantage of the situation for political and strategic
­reasons―and ignoring all concerns for the human cost there was in late
1965 an opportunity for the Australians and British to analyse the car-
nage engulfing Indonesia. On 19 December, Shann informed Canberra
that in ‘many cases the massacre of entire families because one member
spoke to the communists, has occurred. Some of the methods adopted
are unspeakable … [It has been] a bloodbath of savage intensity, remark-
ably unpublicised and locally regarded with a ghoulish cynicism.’33 The
nature of the killings and widespread repression did not modify the over-
all attitude of the Americans, Australians, or British. By February 1966,
when the first of the army-sponsored show trials for those accused of
involvement in the ‘coup attempt’ of 1 October began, the killing and re-
pression showed little sign of abating. In February 1966, Shann outlined
to the DEA in Canberra that the army was in control of the killings and
that he was well aware of the way in which these killings were being con-
ducted. As he explained,

the army was taking the lead, with apparent widespread popular sup-
port, in the methodical slaughter of PKI prisoners. The pattern was one
of nightly mass executions, by beheading, of PKI people, ranging from
groups of two or three to as many as forty or fifty. Arriving in Flores,
for example, the embassy officer happened across the spectacle of two
severed heads on public display in the main park. Everywhere he went
the story was the same. It was necessary, people said, to exterminate
the PKI thoroughly; thoroughly meaning wives and children as well,
as some sort of guarantee against future reprisals. As of last week the
prisons in the area still contained adequate numbers of PKI detainees,
including women, for the grisly process to continue for weeks if not
months to come.34

On 9 February, Gilchrist wrote to Reddaway (both being instrumental in

the propaganda campaign against the PKI and Sukarno), noting that ‘what
have we to hope from the [Indonesian] generals? 400,000 people murdered,
far more than total casualties in Vietnam nobody cares. They were commu-
nists. Were they? And are Communists not human beings?’35 This was an
extremely rare admission of human concern for the killings, yet Gilchrist
had been directly involved in framing the propaganda campaign which
 Propaganda and complicity, 1965– 66  167
helped to justify the slaughter. By 23 February, Gilchrist wrote to the FO
advising deaths in the hundreds of thousands:

[The Swedish] Ambassador and I had discussed the killings before he

left [on his fact-finding tour of Indonesia] and he had found my sug-
gested figure of 400,000 quite incredible. His enquiries have led him to
reconsider it a very serious underestimate. A bank manager in Surabaya
with twenty employees said that four had been removed one night and
beheaded … A third of a spinning factory’s technicians, being members
of a Communist union, had been killed. The killings in Bali had been
particularly monstrous. In certain areas, it was felt that not enough peo-
ple had been killed.36

Such seemingly unhappy reflections on the scale of the atrocities did not
herald a shift in the overall policy. For example, Shann, who at one point
described the killings in December 1965 as ‘unspeakable,’ continued to hope
for the complete destruction of the PKI and fall of Sukarno. On 17 March
1966, he wrote to the DEA in response to Sukarno’s continued attempts
at post-1 October government that ‘we can hope with some confidence for
the end of [Sukarno’s] Dwikora Cabinet, [and] the liquidation, perhaps bru-
tally, of Subandrio, and many of our current extant thugs, and some sort
of new framework of government.’37 While this brief diplomatic summary
is not exhaustive―only hinting at the scope of the available documentary
evidence―it provides more than enough information for the following re-
flections. It is also fitting to conclude this section with Shann’s personal
hope that Subandrio, Indonesian foreign minister, and someone personally
known to him, should be ‘liquidated.’ Shann’s use of such a word in the con-
text of what had been occurring in Indonesia being particularly instructive.

Complicity
The extensive IPT 1965 Narrative Report (2015) and the Final Judgements of
the IPT 1965 (2016), both made after extensive public hearings, highlight com-
plicity by outside parties. The involvement of third parties, particularly the
US, the UK, and Australia, in the events of 1965–1966 are not merely ephem-
eral to the crimes in question, they are the very reason these events have never
been subject to legal sanctions. US and British support for the army shielded
the army from any potential legal sanctions outside Indonesia. This is also
true in relation to the actions of the Indonesian military most notably in Aceh,
West Papua, and East Timor (see Chomsky 2005). The relationship forged by
Washington, London, and Canberra with the Suharto regime from 1967 was
enthusiastic and expansive: large-scale foreign aid, ongoing military support,
and many other forms of diplomatic assistance being prominent features (see
Simpson 2008). The other notable aspect of this relationship was not only
168  Adam Hughes Henry
official silence about the crimes committed by Suharto and the I­ ndonesian
army, but enthused praise for the new Indonesia. The judgement of the IPT
1965 establishes―through a legal formulation of what scholars of genocide,
US foreign relations experts and Indonesian historians have understood for
decades―that the massacres were one of the greatest crimes against human-
ity in the twentieth century.38 This was certainly well known at the time by the
diplomats and media; it was always the potential political outcome, namely
the crushing of the political left in I­ ndonesia, which motivated complicity,
and it was that outcome which justified their subsequent support for the army.
This was the logical extension of the motivations which had inspired their
­anti-communist activities in Indonesia before and after 1 O ­ ctober and
throughout the entire massacre period.
There can always be preferred political, economic, or strategic elements
favoured by governments within international affairs. Yet in the case of
­Indonesia, these ‘preferences’ accepted that the deliberate killing of hun-
dreds of thousands of Indonesians was somehow necessary—because it
brought about a desired political outcome nothing would be said or done
to prevent this slaughter, in fact, it could be encouraged. Scholars as diverse
as ­David Stannard (1992) and Noam Chomsky and Edward Herman (1979)
have noted the ruthless selectivity with which human rights can be over-
looked in history. The US, the UK, and Australia moved beyond merely
disliking Sukarno or the PKI, they moved in 1965–66 to assist and support
the perpetrators of the mass killings. That they had felt justified in doing
so reflected the narratives of Cold War politics and national self-interest
but rendered the lives of Indonesians as being of secondary concern. There
were already indications that outside interference into Indonesian domestic
affairs were considered fair game in the later 1950s. The extent of this hostil-
ity can be seen in US efforts to support Indonesian rebels during 1957–58 to
try to break apart Indonesia and undermine Sukarno (see Kahin & Kahin
1997). This US effort was secretly supported to varying degrees by Can-
berra and London (Kahin & Kahin 1997). By the early 1960s, the Cold War
was providing a range of political developments that heightened sources of
potential hostility toward Sukarno within ­Indonesia and abroad. This his-
tory is outlined in detail in other sections of this anthology. Therefore, it is
neither conspiratorial nor hyperbolic to note here that the US, the UK, and
Australia demonstrated a desire to be rid of the troublesome Sukarno, and
that the events of 1 October provided the opportunity to contribute toward
this outcome.
As noted in the work of Bradley Simpson (2008) and John Roosa (2006),
foreign aid had also been utilised in Indonesia in the form of US foreign
educational programmes designed to train the Indonesian leaders of tomor-
row, particularly in the field of economics and the military. The relationship
between these programmes, particularly through the Ford Foundation, was
connected to US concepts of development economics in the Third world―
these would become the dominant dynamic of Suharto’s Indonesia after
 Propaganda and complicity, 1965– 66  169
1967 (see Simpson 2008; Herlambang 2013). For the Australians and ­British,
the Colombo Program (and other forms of direct foreign aid) became in-
creasingly important for their diplomatic relations with Asia particularly
in projecting a positive image (see Henry 2015). Yet, as demonstrated by the
rebellion of 1957–58, clandestine efforts were also utilised revealing strong
ambitions to destroy Sukarno’s Indonesia. From the end of the failed re-
bellion, the US increased its military assistance to the Indonesian military,
cultivating connections with anti-communist elements in the army (Roosa
2006, pp. 183–188). The greatest motivation for this interest was strate-
gic and economic as Sukarno’s nationalist politics, and engagement with
non-alignment, was (a) denying Washington access to Indonesian resources
while allowing the PKI to gain a popular foothold within Indonesian pol-
itics; (b) creating issues for the British through Sukarno’s hostile attitude
toward colonialism (with implications for continued British economic
and strategic interests in Indonesia and crucially Malaya); and (c) causing
fear in Australia about the threat of communism on its northern door-
step. When Sukarno sought to oppose the amalgamation of the M ­ alayan
­Federation, Singapore, Sarawak, and North Borneo (British Borneo) in
1963 with ­Konfrontasi, armed conflict in Borneo and the prospect of a wider
war between Britain, Australia, Malaya, and Indonesia began. By 1964, a
year described by Sukarno as the ‘year of living dangerously,’ there were
growing economic and political tensions within Indonesia along with seri-
ous ­displeasure from Washington, London, and Canberra toward Sukarno
(see McGregor, Melvin & Pohlman 2018).
As noted, there had long been efforts to influence Indonesian politics
and cultivate networks sympathetic to Western ideologies. Whether outside
interference in another country is illegal under international law will de-
pend on the form of these activities; for example, we can consider the US
actions against Nicaragua in the 1980s which were found to constitute ag-
gression against another sovereign state.39 Before 1 October 1965, therefore,
­Washington, London (and Canberra) had certainly been looking for oppor-
tunities to advance their preferences for Indonesia. Outside interference in
the affairs of another nation (in which the US leads the world by a signifi-
cant margin) may take many forms―both open and clandestine―but is not
uncommon (see Blum 2003). As discussed, diplomatic efforts by the US,
the UK, and Australia to influence events during 1965–66 moved beyond
mere preferences to using propaganda and clandestine measures to become
willing supporters of the Indonesian army. One of the measures that greatly
assisted the slide into their complicity were psychological warfare efforts
that complimented their diplomatic and intelligence objectives.
The IPT 1965’s final judgement regarding outside interference (which
focused on the propaganda campaigns of the US, the UK, and Australia)
found that these actions (among other examples) constituted complicity.
The Tribunal judges found that these states were not neutral in their ac-
tivities and deliberately supported the Indonesian army for political gain,
170  Adam Hughes Henry
and that they were aware of the crimes being committed and failed in any
manner whatsoever to act in accordance with international law (IPT 1965
2016, pp. 62–72). In my own experiences of researching and examining the
­Australian documents, it is obvious that many old diplomats and intelli-
gence figures have excellent memories of the 1965 period. For some, still
convinced of the necessity of anti-communist victory irrespective of the hu-
man cost, they will either reject or ignore the finding of complicity by the
IPT 1965, but for others troubled by their experiences the finding is long
overdue. Yet the evidence for complicity is hardly insignificant as shown in
the documentary record compiled for the IPT 1965. The publication of pre-
viously classified US documents in October 2017 by Bradley Simpson and
the National Security Archive (George Washington University) confirmed
the findings of the IPT 1965 (see Simpson 2017). These documents, and,
no doubt, other still classified documents which await public access, and
unapologetic comments from many figures involved in these propaganda
campaigns (or associated with them) highlight that some still believe that
the Indonesian massacres were somehow necessary because it destroyed the
PKI and the Indonesian left (Henry 2016).
Following the events of 1 October 1965, the Americans, British, and
­Australians saw opportunities to undermine Sukarno and the PKI. Using
propaganda each sought to take advantage of the situation. The documen-
tary record shows that the Americans, British, and Australians all hoped
that the Indonesian army would use the events of 1 October as an opportu-
nity to confront the PKI leadership. Documentary records highlight that the
US, the UK, and Australia knew about the nature of killings, and that the
victims could only be overwhelmingly innocent of any crimes connected to
the 30 September Movement. This detailed information constitutes demon-
strable knowledge of the crimes committed by the Indonesian army. From
1 October, the US, the UK, and Australia aimed to undermine Sukarno
and blacken the PKI for being responsible for the coup; there would in
fact appear to be general indifference even outright enthusiasm about the
prospect of the army arresting or even killing leading members of the PKI.
The Americans, British, and Australians all created deliberate propaganda
which supported or complimented numerous false claims made by the army
and continued to do this when they were aware of mass arrests and killings.
Despite the propaganda campaigns, the diplomats did not know whether
even well-known PKI members were guilty of anything. However, this was
largely irrelevant; communists (and their alleged sympathisers) could be ste-
reotyped as treacherous. The US, the UK, and Australia certainly hoped for
the end of the PKI apparatus and did not shy from this position when it was
obvious that it would involve mass arrests and widespread massacres.
The propaganda campaigns initiated by these foreign states deliberately
smeared the PKI (and Sukarno) with blame for the 30 September Move-
ment’s alleged coup. These were the very same themes used by Indonesian
army propagandists. This was of course undertaken without clear evidence,
 Propaganda and complicity, 1965– 66  171
or legitimate criminal proceedings for the accused communist supporters;
the first trials of those connected with the Movement did not take place un-
til 1966. The US, the UK, and Australia each engaged with the I­ ndonesian
army during the killings in varying ways, seeking opportunities to influ-
ence international and Indonesian opinion to their preferences. In this re-
gard, they cannot be regarded as mere bystanders but should be seen as
siding freely with the Indonesian army. As the killings began to spread to
­Indonesian civilians well beyond the central leadership (and associates) of
the Communist Party, the US, UK, and Australian propaganda efforts con-
tinued. The US Embassy, headed by Marshall Green and along with the
CIA, not only continued its propaganda campaign but were in direct con-
tact with the Indonesian army and its supporters, providing lists of names
and material support, including communications equipment, money, and
armaments. The documentary record reveals that those directly involved
in such activities through the US Embassy felt not only justified by their
actions, but pride (see Henry 2016). The British, through Andrew Gilchrist
(Ambassador) and Norman Reddaway (IRD, Phoenix Park, Singapore),
conducted a relentless propaganda campaign of falsehoods, innuendo and
smears against the PKI, Sukarno, and associated figures. The US, UK, and
Australian propaganda and intelligence efforts were (as shown in the docu-
mentary record) sympathetic to the perpetrators and supportive of the pos-
sibility that they would form a new government. The crimes of the army, the
nature of the slaughter, its victims and perpetrators were known, but this
was irrelevant, as were notions such as crimes against humanity. This was
because, in ideological terms, the propaganda and other forms or support
(and silence) embraced the possible outcome, and later reveled in the ‘vic-
tory.’40 One does not have to be party to the original conspiracy or planning
(in this case a mass slaughter aimed at the Indonesian left) to have engaged
in activities likely to encourage and subsequently support the crimes. If this
support is also compounded by open political sympathy for the perpetrators
and almost total indifference to innocent civilians, this is not only oppor-
tunistic and unethical but constitutes complicity in these crimes.

Conclusion
For scholars of Indonesian studies, international relations, genocide, or hu-
man rights, the Indonesian massacres of 1965–66 are a case study in how
moral relativism attached to political ideology influences and undermines
notions such as the prohibitions against genocide and crimes against hu-
manity in international law. As highlighted by the IPT 1965, this slaughter is
undisputed, and key actors and consequences were well known. As noted by
the CIA in 1968, these killings are comparable to any of the well-established
bloodbaths that form the canon of post-Second World War genocides (CIA
1968, p. 71). The emergence of Suharto and the destruction of the PKI as a
political force in domestic Indonesian politics were welcomed by the US, the
172  Adam Hughes Henry
UK, and Australia (and indeed others). In fact, it was celebrated (shown in
the diplomatic archives), praised in several diplomatic reminisces and the
media (see Tanter 2011; Chomsky 2000, p. 166; Hilton 2001). The New Order
regime of Suharto (and the Indonesian army) was lauded in the wake of the
slaughter; many academics, governments, and journalists looked forward
to a new era elated by the new political landscape. The New Order regime
was more than welcomed, it was diplomatically protected until 1997. The
events of 1965 were not prosecuted or condemned because they did not con-
stitute possible crimes, but because the perpetrators were supported by the
US with the assistance of close allies. Genocide and crimes against human-
ity can therefore be tolerated by the powerful nations and taken advantage
of by smaller ones, if the nameless victims can be considered ideological
enemies and the outcome advantageous. The implications of such selectivity
toward universal human rights is self-evident not only for the analysis of
past events, but in the present tense. The work and judgements of the IPT
1965 are clearly necessary to rectify impunity for crimes against humanity
excused on nothing more than ideological and strategic preferences.
The Indonesian massacres were orchestrated and coordinated by S ­ uharto
and the Indonesian army. Other willing hands were supplied by paramil-
itary, religious groups, and criminal gangs. These mass killings which
claimed the lives of between 500,000 and 1 million people were accompa-
nied by mass imprisonments, torture, repression, and ongoing legal dis-
crimination. The events of 1965–66 are one of the greatest massacres of the
twentieth century and heralded the rise of Suharto’s New Order regime, one
of the most corrupt, brutal, and repressive regimes yet seen in the Asian
region let alone the world. Far from being condemned, the Indonesian army
were seen by ­Australia, the UK, and the US as a government in waiting.
They were not mere bystanders before or during the massacres, these gov-
ernments―through their diplomatic representatives and intelligence ser-
vices―engaged in an active programme of propaganda designed not only
to undermine Sukarno and the PKI, but to augment the objectives of the
Indonesian army even during the worst of the killings.

Notes
1 To examine specific indictments of the IPT 1965, see Nursyahbani ­Katjasungkana
(General Coordinator, IPT 1965) and Saskia E. Wieringa (Chair, Foundation IPT
1965)’s Narrative Report on the public hearings (2015, pp. 111–33). On the Indone-
sian military’s command responsibility for the massacres and arrests, see Melvin
(2018), and Melvin (this volume).
2 See the Final Report of the IPT 1965 (2016). The report is the most comprehen-
sive legal examination of documentary evidence yet put together into a single
collection and covers numerous areas related to crimes against humanity. While
much has been known and written previously by various scholars, the  legal
work of the IPT 1965 has pulled together several strands of expertise, the lat-
est evidence and testimony into its findings. These crimes are also contrary to
various national Indonesian human rights laws which closely mirror the Rome
 Propaganda and complicity, 1965– 66  173
Statute in its language. See Law No. 39 of 1999 on Human Rights, and Law No.
26 of 2000 on Human Rights Courts. See also Evanty and Pohlman (2018).
3 See International Criminal Court, Elements of crimes (2000), pursuant to Ar-
ticles 6 (Genocide), 7 (Crimes Against Humanity). See also United Nations
General Assembly, Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of
Genocide, 9 December 1948, United Nations, Treaty Series, vol. 78, p. 277.
4 For examples of the value of Indonesia as a source of strategic ‘raw materials’
to the US and Western Europe, see Central Intelligence Agency (1948). See also
Acheson (1950).
5 See Expert witness: Dr Bradley Simpson, Testimony 7.3.9, Count 9: Complicity of
other states, in Katjasunkana and Wieringa (2015, p. 78). See also Simpson (2008).
6 See Wilson (2002), Tuck (2016), Easter (2004). See also ‘Plans “Spilikin” and
“Hemley” to counter Indonesian aggression against Malaysia, 1959’, Menzies
and Holt Ministries, Cabinet Files, ‘C’ single number series, 1958– 67, National
Archives of Australia, Canberra, NAA: A4940, C2911, Item 4024; ‘Indonesia,
special actions and operational plans (Confrontation), 1964–66’, Correspond-
ence Files, Annual single number series (classified), 1957-, National Archives of
Australia, Canberra, NAA: A1209, Item 1963/6637, parts 1–5.
7 Sir Norman Reddaway, ‘Letter from Norman Reddaway’, 28 August 1996, Ap-
pendix A, Information Research Department (1948–1977), 4/1/1, Sir Christopher
Mayhew Papers, London: Liddell Hart Papers, Kings College.
8 ‘Political action paper’, Central Intelligence Agency, Washington, November 19,
1964, DDO Files: Job 78-00597R, FE/State Department Meetings, 1964, Foreign
Relations of the United States, 1964–1968, Volume XXVI, Indonesia; Malaysia-­
Singapore; Philippines, Office of the Historian, Department of State, viewed 20
­November 2017, https://history.state.gov/historicaldocuments/frus1964-68v26/d86.
9 ‘Political action paper’, Central Intelligence Agency, Washington, November
19, 1964, pp. 181–84. See also ‘Memorandum prepared for the 303 Committee’,
Washington, February 23, 1965, Foreign Relations of the United States, 1964–
1968, Volume XXVI, Indonesia; Malaysia-Singapore; Philippines, Document 110,
Office of the Historian, Department of State, pp. 234–37, viewed 20 ­November
2017, https://history.state.gov/historicaldocuments/frus1964-68v26/d110.
10 As Brad Simpson noted, while US intelligence officials hoped to encourage
an anti-communist move (through intelligence and propaganda activities), the
events of 1 October and the mysterious 30 September Movement were still unex-
pected. John Roosa also makes this point (2006).
11 See ‘Memo for Johnson, October 1, 1965’, Foreign Relations of the United States,
1964–1968, Vol. 26, pp. 300–301. See also ‘Top-secret telegram from political
advisor to Singapore, October 1, 1965’, Foreign Office 1011–2, United Kingdom
National Archives. Both cited in Simpson (2008, pp. 171–72).
12 Keith Shann, ‘Telegram 1156 Shann to DEA, 2 October 1965, part 1’, Canberra:
National Archives of Australia (NAA), NAA: A1838/3034/2/1/8.
13 ‘PKI responsibility for the attempted coup’, 9 December, Canberra: National Ar-
chives of Australia, NAA: A1838/3034/2/1/8, Part 7. See also Najjarine (2005).
14 Two days later it would hold its first press conference where anti-PKI themes
were prominent. Brigadier General Sucipto [Political Affairs] provided army
leadership.
15 ‘Telephone conversation between Ball and James Reston, 4 October 1965’, Ball
Papers, Box 4, Indonesia, April 1964—November 1965, cited in Simpson (2008,
pp. 177, 313). Reston would later write with great enthusiasm in the New York
Times about the destruction of the PKI in Indonesia and the rise of Suharto.
16 The document cited is Pusat Penerangan Angkatan Darat (1965, pp. 15–18). This
was a monthly series and the Army issued at least two more books, dated 5
­November and 5 December 1965.
174  Adam Hughes Henry
17 Sir Andrew Gilchrist, 5 October 1965, quoted in Pilger (2002, p. 30).
18 Marshall Green, cited in Chomsky (1993, pp. 124–25).
19 The PKI Politburo’s statement said 1 October was ‘an internal problem of the
army and the Indonesian Communist Party does not involve itself in it.’
20 ‘CIA report no. 22 from US embassy in Jakarta to White House, October 8,
1965,’ cited in Robinson (1995, p. 283).
21 Richard Woolcott (Public Information Officer) to Gordon Jockel, ‘Restricted
Radio Australia—Indonesian situation 12 October 1965’, Canberra: National
Archives of Australia, NAA: A1838/280, 3034/2/1/8, Part 2. There had been hopes
in Washington, Canberra, and London that Sukarno would be forced to retire
on health grounds.
22 ‘Telegram 2679 CRO to Canberra’, 13 October 1965, TNA RO 371/181455.
23 ‘Telegram unnumbered’, Jakarta to State Department, 10 October 1965; ‘Tel-
egram 1006 Jakarta to State Dept’, 14 October 1965, Foreign Relations of the
United States (FRUS), Indonesia, pp. 317–18, 321–22.
24 The National Security Archive (George Washington University) noted even
the official historians of the US State Department concluded that lists of
names were passed to the Indonesian army. See Foreign Relations of the
United States (FRUS), 1964–1968, Vol. XXVI, Office of the Historian, De-
partment of State.
25 For some select examples, see R. G. Spivack, ‘What Actually Happened in
­I ndonesian Shake Up?’, Palm Beach Post (USA), 7 November 1965). United
Press International, ‘Indonesia Bares Red Chinese Plot,’ Milwaukee Sentinel
(USA), 15 March 1966; Times Wire Service, ‘Indonesia Foiled Chinese Plot,’
St. ­Petersburg Times (USA), 15 March 1966; Singapore Associated Press, ‘In-
donesians Rally to Back General’s Communist Purge,’ Miami News (USA),
15 March 1966; Creighton Burns, ‘No More Heroes: Our South East Asian
Correspondent Creighton Burns Sees a New Solidarity in Indonesia Following
President. Sukarno’s Overthrow’, Melbourne Age (Australia), 13 March 1967;
A. Friendly Jnr, ‘Army Leak Links Sukarno to Plot Military Publication As-
serts He Was Alerted on Coup,’ New York Times (USA), 24 January 1967.
26 ‘Letter from Norman Reddaway’, 28 August 1996. See Appendix A, ‘The Infor-
mation Research Department (1948–1977)’ in Sir Christopher Mayhew Papers
4/1/1, London: Liddell Hart Military Archives, Kings College.
27 Sir Norman Reddaway, ‘Letter from Norman Reddaway’, 28 August 1996. On 11
February 1966, Sukarno expelled all US foreign correspondents from Indonesia,
see Simpson (2008, p. 201). See also Henry (2014) and Easter (2005).
28 ‘Quadripartite discussions on Indonesia brief for Australian delegates’, Can-
berra: National Archives of Australia, NAA: A1838/280, 3034/2/1/8, Part 2.
29 Ibid.
30 Marshall Green (US Ambassador), Jakarta, telegram of 6 November 1965, cited
in Gittings (1999).
31 ‘Record of a conversation with Marietta Smith’, 9 November 1965, Canberra:
National Archives of Australia, NAA: A1838/3034/2/1/8, Part 5.
32 See Telegram 1383 Shann to DEA, 12 November 1965, Canberra: National Ar-
chives of Australia, NAA: 6364/JA1965/10.
33 See Telegram 1503 Jakarta to DEA, 19 December 1965, Canberra: National Ar-
chives of Australia, NAA: A6364/JA1965/10.
34 Keith Shann quoted by ‘Accomplices in Atrocity’, Hindsight Radio National,
­Australian Broadcasting Commission, 7 September 2008, viewed 25 November
2017, www.abc.net.au/radionational/programs/hindsight/accomplices-in-atrocity-
the-indonesian-killings-of/3182630.
35 ‘Gilchrist to Reddaway’, 9 February 1966, TNA FO 1101/30, cited in Easter
(2005, p. 6).
 Propaganda and complicity, 1965– 66  175
36 See Sir Andrew Gilchrist, ‘Letter’, 23 February 1966, in Personal Papers of Sir
Andrew Gilchrist, Indonesia - Jakarta 1963– 66, Cambridge University: Churchill
Archives, Churchill College, GILC 13Dii.
37 Keith Shann, ‘Inward Cablegram from Australian Embassy—Jakarta 304—­
Secret,’ 17 March 1965, in Radio Australia—Posts—Relations with Indonesia,
Canberra: National Archives of Australia, NAA: A1838, Part 3, 570/7/9.
38 Examples of this work includes: Wieringa (2002), Chomsky and Herman (1979),
Cribb (1990), Roosa (2006), Simpson (2008), Kammen and McGregor (2012),
Melvin (2018), Pohlman (2015), amongst others.
39 See International Court of Justice (1986), and ‘US dismisses world court ruling’
(The Guardian 1986).
40 For example, Reston (1966). In one of the more notorious media examples,
Reston claims that the ‘transformation’ of Indonesia could not have occurred
without the US show of strength in Vietnam and clandestine US support for the
Indonesian army by the US government. Another example is Martin (1966); see
Simpson (2008) for other examples.

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10 What’s in a name? Naming and
shaming in the Indonesian 1965
mass violence discourse and the
IPT 1965
Sri Lestari Wahyuningroem

Kingkin Rahayu (a pseudonym) was one of the survivors who testified at

the hearings for the International People’s Tribunal for 1965 (IPT 1965)
in ­November 2015.1 Towards the end of this testimony, she named one of
the men who had tortured her whilst in detention, stating, ‘The one who
tortured me, the one who was the worst was… can I even say his name?
Am I allowed to say his name, ma’am? His name was… ­Lukman Sutrisno!’
She gave this testimony as part of the hearings related to the charge of
sexual violence, within the indictment of crimes against humanity by
the Prosecutor. ­K ingkin had been detained at the end of 1965, was re-
leased a short time later, but was then re-arrested after four months in
1966 from her boarding house in Yogyakarta. She was accused of be-
ing a member of Gerwani―the mass based women’s organisation with
links to the Indonesian Communist Party (Partai Komunis Indonesia,
PKI)―and of carrying out guerrilla politics.2 At the time, Kingkin had
only recently started studying at university, and was a member of the
League of Indonesian Student Youth (Ikatan Pemuda Pelajar Indonesia,
IPPI), an organisation established in 1948 in support of ­Indonesian in-
dependence from the Dutch. In her testimony, she spoke the name of the
man who had perpetrated the harshest forms of torture against her, L
­ ukman
Sutrisno, a well-known sociology professor at one of Indonesia’s most
prestigious institutions, Gadjah Mada University (UGM) in Y ­ ogyakarta.
Sutrisno had received a western education from Cornell University and
had been active in studying and advocacy on behalf of farmers in Java.
All of a sudden, Kingkin’s testimony became headline news in a number
of Indonesian media outlets, not only in Yogyakarta but also in Jakarta
and several other places in Indonesia. UGM was forced to release a public
statement, saying that the actions of Lukman Sutrisno in the past were in
no way connected to the university (see Fikrie 2015). At the time, Lukman
had been recruited as part of a program to train young university lectur-
ers and had also enrolled to become a member of the military police (the
CPM, Corps Polisi Militer, Military Police Corps). Kingkin had named the
CPM in her testimony for their role in capturing and torturing suspects.
180  Sri Lestari Wahyuningroem
Lukman’s involvement could not be separated from the fact, however, that
the Supreme Operations Command (Komando Operasi Tertinggi, KOTI)
had issued an order on 10 October 1965 to all university rectors, directing
them to ‘cleanse’ their campuses (see Triyana 2016).
Kingkin’s narrative provides a clear example for my analysis of how ‘nam-
ing and shaming’ effects the narration of, and efforts to resolve, the crimes
of 1965–66 within the public sphere in contemporary Indonesia. Naming
and shaming has often been used as a mechanism of transitional justice,
both in prosecutions and truth-seeking, and in reparations and even in the
reform of institutions. Usually, this process is used to name the perpetrators
of crimes, with the aim of achieving accountability in front of a public au-
dience. However, within the context of dealing with the crimes of 1965–66,
naming and shaming has rarely occurred, despite the fact that the names
of some perpetrators are well known (even if only within select circles). For
the victims, naming names has served only to further isolate them, due to
the decades of stigmatization and persecution which they have endured in
Indonesia even through to today.
In this chapter, I address three primary questions. First, what discourses
in Indonesia have emerged related to naming and shaming for both perpe-
trators and victims? Second, what was the impact of the naming and sham-
ing which happened at the tribunal? And third, what effect will this have
for resolving the 1965–66 case domestically? This chapter begins with a dis-
cussion of naming and shaming within the context of transitional justice.
I then focus on the contestation of two different naming and shaming cases
in Indonesia; the first, the government’s hegemonic narrative about the 30
September Movement (G30S, an abbreviation of Gerakan 30 September); the
second, the narration of history by survivors from a human rights perspec-
tive. I also analyse the repressive practices carried out by the ­Indonesian
government and by hard-line elements within civil society to persecute and
stigmatise victims and survivor communities. The following section outlines
how this naming and shaming was practiced within the IPT 1965 and the
effect that this had in Indonesia. I then conclude by arguing that the naming
and shaming performed by the IPT 1965 created a powerful tool for putting
pressure on the Indonesian government to deal with the 1965 events.

Naming and shaming within transitional justice

What’s in a name? Juliet’s question, penned in Shakespeare’s sixteenth-­
century play, reflects a similar sentiment in contemporary Indonesia: what
does a person’s name matter compared to their acts or achievements? Your
name means nothing next to your actions. Yet within public discussion of
the events of 1965–66 in Indonesia, your name could mean everything; it
could determine whether you lived or died.
Within the Indonesian state’s hegemonic narrative, where the PKI were
named as murderers and insurrectionists, the names of the perpetrators of
 Naming and shaming in the IPT 1965  181
the slaughter have been made analogous with and undifferentiated from
those of the heroes of the nation. Meanwhile, the names of those who were
arrested, tortured, and killed are the names of those who deserved the ret-
ribution meted out against them for their insurrection. Conversely, within
the human rights-driven discourse of survivor communities, perpetrators
are named as human rights’ violators who must receive moral, if not legal,
sanction. The names of ‘victims’ (korban) are those who have proven them-
selves survivors. In this chapter, I align myself with the second discourse,
that of a human rights-centred narrative, in order to discuss the importance
of naming names and of naming and shaming within a transitional justice
framework.
In essence, naming and shaming refers to a formal practice of naming
someone in order to shame that person for wrongful acts and, critically, for
that person to then take responsibility for the wrong done. Within a transi-
tional justice framework, this practice is one of the instruments or methods
with the potential to bring about improvements in the respect for and imple-
mentation of human rights. Kinzelbach and Lehmann (2015), for example,
have discussed a range of hypotheses for how shaming can influence the
behaviour of states in the area of upholding human rights. The first hypoth-
esis is that a change in a state’s behaviour will only happen if there is a ma-
terial cost to the state through the human rights case. Another hypothesis
relates to how international institutions might enforce accountability upon
a particular state, depending on the degree to which that state is embedded
within these institutions. Finally, there is the hypothesis that relies on how
strongly a particular state has accepted international human rights norms,
and whether they then comply with those norms, as non-compliance may
affect their reputation (Kinzelbach & Lehmann 2015, p. 12).
Naming and shaming becomes important when we examine the relevance
and currency of international human rights norms, and how these norms are
advocated, within a domestic context. Thomas Risse and Kathryn ­Sikkink
(1999), for example, explain that human rights change can only happen when
domestic actors (pressure from below) collaborate with transnational net-
works (pressure from above) to force the state to change its human rights
behaviours. With this pressure from above and below, the state runs out of
choices and so must make a tactical concession: it must fulfil the demand
for human rights to be upheld while, at the same time, not actually be fully
compliant by actually upholding those rights. Human rights shaming has the
potential to more rapidly change the human rights situation within a par-
ticular state. That said, shaming done by an international actor alone is usu-
ally not enough to affect change. International and transnational actors need
to work together with domestic actors to ensure that this pressure comes
from both above and below. Shaming in this way has two functions: one is
like a megaphone, putting pressure on the state from above, and the other
is a trigger to create mechanisms which might create human rights change,
making shaming in itself an effective mechanism for bringing about change.
182  Sri Lestari Wahyuningroem
Within the field of transitional justice studies more broadly, naming and
shaming has in recent times been studied to see how it has been successful
or not in bringing about change (for example, Friman 2015; de Waardt 2016).
Transitional justice is a response to widespread and systematic human rights
abuses. This response aims to resolve grievous human rights abuses carried
out by a repressive regime by bringing about justice for the civilians whose
rights were abused, to acknowledge the truth of the crimes committed, and
to ensure that these abuses do not occur again in the future. In general,
there are four main mechanisms used in this approach: uncovering the truth
through the investigations of a truth commission; trials or other judicial
mechanisms; reparations as part of restitutions for the victims; and the ref-
ormation of institutions and laws as part of the guarantee of non-recurrence
(see, for example, Teitel 2003).
Naming and shaming is part of the process of achieving the aims of these
four mechanisms. As Wiebelhaus-Brahm (2015) explains, elements of nam-
ing and shaming are often part of three forms of transitional justice: truth
commissions, vetting and lustration procedures as part of institutional re-
form, and prosecutions before international courts. In practice, from these
three mechanisms, naming is never about shaming the perpetrators. Within
truth commissions, non-judicial investigations aim to create an authorita-
tive historical narrative. Stating the names of those involved in abuses in
the commission’s report, however, is an area of controversy in the literature
on transitional justice (Hayner 2010). In a number of cases, such as in the
Guatemalan truth commission, the political and security conditions at the
time made it impossible for the commission to name either the perpetrators
or the victims. In a number of other cases, such as the truth commission in
El Salvador, the perpetrators were named as a central part of uncovering the
truth; to not name the perpetrators would have only ensured their impunity
(Hayner 2010; Weibelhaus-Brahm 2015). Truth commissions are usually cre-
ated when the process of naming has become integral towards pushing the
state to continue with judicial investigations to achieve justice.
Meanwhile, as part of trials or judicial process mechanisms, naming is
done as part of attributing responsibility to perpetrators for the crimes they
have committed. Different from a truth commission, which attempts to pro-
vide a systematic and comprehensive account of the human rights abuses
committed, a court seeks to answer a burden of proof for the indictments
made against the accused, and thus naming names cannot be separated
from the evidentiary tasks of the court itself. Within international courts, as
Weibelhaus-Brahm (2015) finds, naming serves a number of functions. First,
naming the perpetrators is intended as a way to influence their behaviours
and to put pressure on abusers and governments; often called specific deter-
rence, the ‘threat of punishment is meant to compel individuals to moderate
their behaviour’ (Weibelhaus-Brahm 2015, p. 98). Second, naming aims to
compel the international community to bring an end to the violence and to
resolve the abuses committed, and to impose sanctions if these measures are
 Naming and shaming in the IPT 1965  183
not taken. An example of this was when the International Criminal Court
(ICC) issued an indictment against the president of Sudan, Omar al Bashir,
which had a negative impact on the ability of states, corporations, and other
organisations to continue working with the regime (see Human Rights First
2008). The example of Sudan, however, stands out somewhat, as the political
interests of donor states and bilateral cooperation tend to have a greater
influence on the behaviours of states than any naming and shaming actions
(see Esarey & DeMeritt 2017). Aside from this, other studies have shown
that naming and shaming in an international forum may make the public
in that country have a more negative view of human rights (Ausderan 2014).
In addition, naming and shaming is not usually seen as part of repara-
tions. This is because the main aim of naming in reparations is naming the
victims, through a process of acknowledgement of harm and commitment to
providing reparations, such as compensation, rehabilitation, and restitution
(Weibelhaus-Brahm 2015). However, in the Indonesian context, reparations
have become a double-edged issue, because there has been no naming and
shaming for the state. Reparations for the victims of human rights abuses
have taken place without any acknowledgement of wrong-doing by the state,
and although the judicial process demands that naming and shaming of the
perpetrators, instead it has resulted in the defeat of the victims, the result
of which is that the victims are unable to achieve their rights for reparation.

Naming and shaming and efforts to resolve

the 1965 case in Indonesia
Naming and shaming has an entirely different meaning when talking about
the 1965 case. On the government’s side, the practice of naming and sham-
ing has been done to identify communists. The aim of this practice is clear:
to stigmatise, discriminate against, and persecute victims. For civil society,
though, naming and shaming should be for calling out the individual per-
petrators and state institutions who have committed violence, as part of
efforts to achieve dignity for the victims and a resolution of these wrongs
by the State. There have been few such initiatives by civil society involving
naming and shaming, however, repressive actions against them; most attract
condemnation and violent reprisal either from state agents or from hard-
line civilian groups. Although not specifically called naming and shaming,
I argue that there have been a number of civil society initiatives which have
been publically accepted. I elaborate by giving two contrasting examples of
naming and shaming in Indonesia.
The Indonesian government remains, to this day, determined to deny that
the massacres of 1965 were mass atrocities. While state officials should fulfil
their responsibilities by acknowledging this dark past and bringing about
justice, the government continues to justify the massacres; as one Coordi-
nating Minister for Political, Legal and Security Affairs, Djoko Suyanto,
put it, ‘the mass killings were justified to save the country from communism’
184  Sri Lestari Wahyuningroem
(cited in Aritonang 2012). While there has been a range of developments
in the adoption of human rights’ norms―such as through the ratification
of various human rights conventions, and the establishment of human
rights legislation (such as Law No. 39/1999 on human rights and Law No.
26/2000 on a human rights court)―nevertheless the mass atrocities crimes
of 1965–66 remain a Pandora’s box for Indonesia, which must be kept tightly
closed lest it open up innumerable other cases that the State refuses to deal
with. The solution promoted by the government, particularly since Presi-
dent Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono (SBY) came to power in 2004, has been
reconciliation. Reconciliation, that is, through forgiving and forgetting;
this means reconciliation without investigation into or acknowledgement
of the truth of past wrongs (see ICTJ & KontraS 2011). Currently under
President Joko (Jokowi) Widodo, this pattern of privileging reconciliation
as the only way to resolve past abuses has continued. One manifestation of
this approach can be seen very clearly in the government’s current planning
documentation, such as the RPJMN, the National Medium Term Develop-
ment Plan, for 2014–19. In the section which addresses the resolution of past
human rights’ abuses cases (6.4.1(8)), the Plan stresses the need to build a
‘national consensus’ around past cases; any ‘resolution’ of such cases makes
no mention of judicial remedy.3
In reality, the persecution, stigmatisation, and discrimination against in-
dividuals and groups connected to the victims of 1965 continue. Further-
more, the country’s security services often mobilise and coordinate with
hard-right Islamist groups to attack these individuals and groups, such as
with the Islamic Defenders’ Front (Front Pembela Islam, FPI), the Forum
of Believers/Islamic Community (Forum Umat Islam, FUI), and others (see
Jones 2016). Between January 2015 and January 2017, SafeNet (Southeast
Asia Freedom of Expression Network) recorded 42 cases of repression
against events and groups, involving acts of intimidation and forced disper-
sal of groups excising their rights of expression and association. This rate
of attacks on freedom of expression continues to grow by approximately
four to five violent actions each month.4 The majority of these incidents are
related to accusations that such groups are attempting to establish a new
communist party: the acronym used by the hard-rights groups is KGB (Ko-
munis Gaya Baru), meaning ‘New Style Communist,’ but the term is an ob-
vious play on words to incite popular loathing against liberal and survivor
organisations (Miller 2018).
Incidents involving the violent shut down or interruption of meetings are
often directed against those being held by survivor groups. The Foundation
for Research into the Victims of the 1965 Massacres (Yayasan Penelitian
Korban Pembantaian 1965, YPKP 65) is one such organisation whose events
have come under attack by these hard-right and Islamist groups. According
to the YPKP 65, at least 22 of their larger victims’ meetings have been force-
fully broken up by both right-wing militias and the police since they were
founded in the late 1990s (YPKP 65 n.d.). One infamous incident was the
 Naming and shaming in the IPT 1965  185
attack on YPKP members and other survivors at the ceremonial reburial of
remains exhumed from a mass grave outside Wonosobo in Central Java. The
reburial ceremony in 2001 was violently attacked by local thugs, and many
of the remains were destroyed (see McGregor 2012; Wieringa, this volume).
The figure quoted by the YPKP does not include the many repressive and
violent acts committed against individuals and smaller groups of survivors.5
While in general the state’s political and legal institutions have given no
space for the acknowledgement and resolutions of the 1965 case, there are
three independent state bodies which have partly dealt with trying to resolve
abuses committed in 1965–66. These three bodies are the National Commis-
sion on Violence against Women (Komisi Nasional Penghapusan Kekerasan
terhadap Perempuan, Komnas Perempuan), the National Human Rights
Commission (Komisi Nasional Hak Asasi Manusia, Komnas HAM), and
the Witness and Victim Protection Agency (Lembaga Perlindungan Saksi
dan Korban, LPSK). In 2007, Komnas Perempuan released their landmark
report, ‘Gender-based crimes against humanity: listening to the voice of
women survivors of 1965’ (Komnas Perempuan 2007). In this report, based
on interviews with 122 women survivors of the 1965 violence, naming was
limited to instances where the perpetrators of arrests or torture were given
by survivors, or when the names of locations were mentioned, such as par-
ticular interrogation or detention facilities. In such cases, perpetrators were
usually only identified as being ‘soldiers’ or ‘police.’ The names of perpetra-
tors actually mentioned by survivors in their testimonies were written down
as their initials (or with another pseudonym). As the authors of the report
explain, this de-identification process, whereby the names of perpetrators
(and others) were obscured, was done in order to protect the anonymity and
safety of the survivors who shared their testimonies.
Komnas HAM has also conducted research into the human rights abuses
perpetrated in 1965–66. This research began in the early 2000s with an in-
vestigation into the crimes committed against political detainees on Buru
Island (see Adam, this volume). This first report on the atrocities on Buru
identified the command hierarchy of those responsible for creating and ex-
ecuting the military’s plan to exile thousands of political prisoners to the
remote island (Asvi Warman Adam, interview with author in 2012, and tes-
timony before the Public Hearings, IPT 1965). The report, which remains
confidential, recommended that further investigation into the 1965–66 case
be undertaken; this further investigation by Komnas HAM began in 2008.
This second Komnas HAM investigation was much wider in scope; over
nearly four years, the investigating team took 349 witness statements from
six regions of Indonesia (Komnas HAM 2012). This second investigation
was finalised in 2012, and the report named both individuals and institu-
tions involved in the violence. Komnas HAM submitted their report to the
Attorney General’s Office in 2012, but the AGO rejected it and, to this day,
has yet to follow up on the findings or recommendations (Attorney Gen-
eral Letter, no. 56/A/JA/08/2012; see Evanty & Pohlman 2018). The Attorney
186  Sri Lestari Wahyuningroem
General’s office is the only body that can progress the reports compiled by
Komnas HAM to further criminal investigations (see Herbert 2008). The
2012 Komnas HAM report remains under embargo: as an official report,
it cannot be released publically because it may be used in further judicial
investigations (only the executive summary is available online, see Komnas
HAM 2012). As such, this report’s naming and shaming of the individuals
and institutions as suspected perpetrators cannot become public, and there-
fore cannot be used in efforts to hold those individuals and institutions—or,
indeed, the state—responsible for these crimes.
The AGO’s rejection of the 2012 report did not mean that Komnas HAM
stopped trying to initiate alternate efforts for achieving justice for the 1965
survivors. Working together with the LPSK, Komnas HAM recommended
that the survivors who had provided the commission with witness state-
ments be able to access the Agency’s health assistance program. This provi-
sion of health assistance was a significant breakthrough; previously, under
Government Regulation No. 44 of 2008, compensation, restitution, or re-
habilitation could only be extended to those whose cases had some form of
judicial decision. The health care aid, however, was considered necessary
by the LPSK, in light of the serious medical and psychological needs of the
victims of past gross human rights violations.6 By May of the year following
the release of the 2012 Komnas HAM report, the LPSK had provided 409
medical and psychological services for the victims of gross abuses identified
in the report, and aimed to provide a further 1,000 persons with medical
assistance by the end of that year. The number of survivors accessing this
health care assistance has risen each year since, such that the LPSK budget
has required a significant increase in order to cover the costs of the program.7
By the end of 2016, for example, 1,829 people had requested assistance from
the LPSK programs; nearly 90% of those requests granted were in favour of
1965 survivors (see Sukoyo 2016). In providing this health care assistance,
the LPSK works with medical specialists and a range of hospitals across a
number of regions. Interestingly, the LPSK has repeatedly made clear to
the hospitals and doctors participating in the program that the Agency will
cover all associated costs, making this scheme unusually generous, given the
often precarious coverage of health care in Indonesia. Initially, some hos-
pitals in Jakarta and nearby Banten were reluctant to participate, but have
subsequently become supporters of the program.8 In this sense, survivors
were able to receive some individual acknowledgement of having survived
abuses, without naming those responsible for those abuses.9
The elements of naming and shaming used in the initiatives by these three
state bodies were, in the end, unable to resolve the 1965 case. This was be-
cause their naming and shaming was aimed at achieving justice for past
abuses, while the state’s use of naming and shaming has only ever been used
in stigmatising the survivors as communists. In the meantime, civil soci-
ety groups, particularly those which support the 1965 survivors, have used
naming and shaming in a different way again.
 Naming and shaming in the IPT 1965  187
Since the start of the Reformasi movement in the late 1990s, many hu-
man rights groups in Indonesia have focused on efforts for truth-telling and
justice for the 1965 case. Until 2005, the International Centre for Transi-
tional Justice (ICTJ) carried out approximately 200 activities with a range
of groups on resolving cases of past human rights abuses. Most of these
activities were related to dealing with the 1965 case. These initiatives in-
cluded efforts to uncover information about these atrocities (documentation
of victims’ testimonies, exhumations, publications, and memorialisation
activities), mechanisms aimed at achieving justice through judicial means,
reparations for victims, through to reconciliation activities (see Farid &
­Simarmata 2004).
Naming and shaming has always been a main component of these initi-
atives. In truth-finding initiatives, the documentation of victims’ testimo-
nies has included uncovering information on both victims and perpetrators,
both individual and institutional. The documentation undertaken by vari-
ous NGOs usually includes taking down information about human rights
abuses that cover the identities of the victim/s and perpetrator/s, the forms
of violence perpetrated, and where and when these offences occurred. One
way in which many of these documentation projects have been structured
is by employing pure qualitative methods—such as through open-ended
interviews or oral history narratives—to create verbatim records of survi-
vors’ experiences. Examples of those NGOs which have used such methods
in their documentation projects include the Indonesian Institute for Social
History (Institut Sejarah Sosial Indonesia, ISSI), the Lontar Foundation,
and the Institute for Policy Research and Advocacy (Lembaga Studi dan
Advokasi Hak Asasi Manusia, ELSAM). Another way in which these doc-
umentation projects have been designed is through structured interviews
and questionnaires, such as those used by the Jardokber project (Jaringan
Pendokumentasian Bersama, the Joint Documentation Network) and the
YPKP 65.10 This documentation is carried out professionally and follows a
range of protocols in order to ensure the safety of the data collected and of
the survivors who provide their testimonies, the results of which cannot be
freely accessed by the public.
Other documentation initiatives include documentary films, many of
which feature narration by victims (for example, Kado untuk Ibu [A Gift for
Mother] (Syarikat 2004)). The victim’s name is very often obscured in such
films, but there are others which feature well-known figures from amongst
the survivor community, such as Putu Oka Sukanta, the poet and member
of the Leftist artists’ organisation the Institute of People’s Culture (Lem-
baga Kebudayaan Rakyat, LEKRA) who was a political prisoner, and the
late Sulami, a former leader of the communist-aligned mass women’s or-
ganisation, the Indonesian Women’s Movement (Gerakan Wanita Indonesia,
Gerwani), who was also a long-term political prisoner. In addition to these
films, numerous books have been written by survivors, which narrate their
experiences of oppression during and after the 1965 violence, most naming
188  Sri Lestari Wahyuningroem
the names of victims and perpetrators alike (see, for example, Sulami 1999;
Setiawan 2003; Sudjinah 2003). Meanwhile, local initiatives for grassroots
reconciliation facilitated by regional NGOs have also strongly relied on
naming the names of both victims and perpetrators. Syarikat, a local organ-
isation in the central Javanese city of Yogyakarta formed by young members
of Indonesia’s largest Muslim organisation, Nahdlatul Ulama (NU), for
example, have carried out such grassroots reconciliation programs which
bring together victims and perpetrators in dialogue, along with local Mus-
lim leaders (see Sulistiyanto & Setyadi 2009; interview with Rumekso Set-
yadi, 10 May 2012).
In a more recent attempt to bring together a range of these truth-­seeking
and truth-telling initiatives, a civil society coalition was formed in 2008
called the Coalition for Justice and Truth Telling (Koalisi Keadilan dan
Pengungkapan Kebenaran, KKPK).11 One of their main early truth-­telling
initiatives was the ‘Year of Truth’ campaign, which involved a series of
‘Hearing Testimony’ (Dengar Kesaksian) forums in towns across I­ ndonesia
in 2012 and 2013. The Year of Truth campaign culminated with a major
­testimony-hearing forum in Jakarta in November 2013 (see Wahyunin-
groem 2013; Pohlman 2016). These Hearing Testimony forums were a truth
­commission-inspired activity, organised in public spaces so that the public
had the chance to listen to the personal histories, or testimonies, of victims,
and were widely covered by national and local media outlets (for example,
see Aritonang 2013; Khoiri 2013). The forums also involved prominent pub-
lic figures who facilitated the events, called ‘Commissioners’ from a ‘Peo-
ple’s Council,’ including religious leaders, academics, teachers, activists,
and local community leaders. While these hearing testimony forums were
well attended, they did not name individual perpetrators, only institutional
actors, such as police or Army units.
Aside from Komnas HAM’s pro justicia enquiry between 2008 and 2012,
there have been other legal efforts by survivors to obtain justice. One case
involved an administrative action brought against the Indonesian govern-
ment by an individual survivor, Nani Nurani. Nani was a former singer at
the presidential palace who was arrested after 1965 and detained for many
years, and who, like most former political prisoners, experienced a range
of stigmas and restrictions on her rights and freedoms after release. One
such restriction was the failure by the local Jakarta government to provide
her with a life-time identity card (KTP), a card which is normally given to
senior citizens over the age of 60. Nani took the matter to the Jakarta ad-
ministrative court (Pengadilan Tinggi Tata Usaha Negara, PTUN) and won
in 2003, the court agreeing that, under Indonesia’s ratification of the ICCPR
and the National Human Rights Law (No. 31/1999), she had been discrimi-
nated against based on her status as a former political prisoner (Court De-
cision No. 60/G.TUN/2003/PTUN-JKT). Nani Nurani then filed a civil suit,
asking for compensation (Rp. 7.46 Billion) for her detention and resultant
stigmatisation and discrimination; the Jakarta civil court refused the case,
 Naming and shaming in the IPT 1965  189
however, stating that it was beyond the purview of the court (Court Decision
No. 439/Pdt.G/2011/PN/JKT.PST) (see also Prabowo 2016). Another class
action was brought by a group of 16 victims’ representatives in 2005 against
the Indonesian state and five former Presidents over the stigma they had ex-
perienced and a demand for the restoration for their economic, social, and
cultural rights (see ELSAM 2011). This class action failed, however, at the
Central Jakarta District Court, which cited that it did not have the jurisdic-
tional authority to preside over the claim (see Conroe 2017). While none of
the plaintiffs expected to win the class action, it was an important symbolic
attempt to claim back the rights long denied them.
There has been a small number of other claims made by survivors, some of
which have been successful. One very early example was a civil case brought
by Eddy Tanumihardja in Cianjur, who successfully sought compensation in
an error in persona (applied to the wrong person) claim before the Economic
Court of Cianjur (now the District Court), whose properties were seized in
the mass persecution of suspected communists in 1965. The District Court
in Cianjur in 1985 acknowledged the error, and awarded compensation to
Eddy and his wife for those properties confiscated by the state. Another case
was a decision made by the Supreme Court in 2011 on a petition for judicial
review of Presidential Decision No. 28 of 1975 regarding the ‘Treatment of
Those Involved in the G30S/PKI Group C’, which was brought by a group
of victims. In its ruling, the Supreme Court (Decision No. 33 P/HUM/2011)
stated that the presidential decision contradicted higher laws and should
be struck down (see Directory of Supreme Court Decisions 2011). Despite
these successful cases, victims’ rights have yet to be fulfilled. Each of these
cases listed above have been brought to courts without consideration of the
wider context of violations perpetrated in 1965–66, namely crimes against
humanity. In other words, naming and shaming of the main perpetrators of
the 1965 crimes has yet to find a political purchase within legal avenues in
Indonesia.

Naming and shaming at the IPT 1965 and its effects

on domestic truth-telling efforts
The IPT 1965 adopted an approach which fused truth-telling with a demand
for justice, in that it named those individuals and institutions which were
perpetrators of crimes against humanity in 1965. In the IPT 1965’s final
report (2016), a number of institutions, units, and individuals are clearly
named. During the public hearings in 2015 also, these names were stated in
evidence by those called to give testimony, such as in the testimony by Ibu
Kingkin, quoted at the start of this chapter.
Many of these names are not, however, in any way new within discus-
sions of 1965 in Indonesia. The names of individual military units and
commands, for example, are notorious: names such as RPKAD (the red
beret paratrooper unit, Resimen Para Komando Angkatan Darat, Army
190  Sri Lestari Wahyuningroem
Para-Commando Regiment) and Kostrad (Komando Cadangan Strategis
Angkatan Darat, the Army’s Strategic Reserve Command), amongst oth-
ers. The names of some individuals are also familiar, including both mili-
tary and civilian actors. From the military, aside from Suharto and Sarwo
Edhie (who was tasked with leading RPKAD troops into Java and Bali to
carry out the massacres), others were also named as having a pivotal role
in ordering and executing the mass killings. Other military men were also
named, including Soedomo, who signed the order to remove political pris-
oners to Buru Island, as well as other soldiers involved in crimes. Amongst
the civilians named at the Tribunal, there were a number of leaders from
Islamic and other prominent organisations. Those named included Hasyim
Muzadi, an NU leader, Yapto Soemarno, a Pemuda Pancasila (Pancasila
Youth) leader, and Father Beek, a Catholic priest, all of whom were said to
have ordered their followers to carry out killings and arrests as part of the
systematic crimes at the time. The names of civilians are less known, but
were also mentioned at times during the IPT 1965. One was the academic
Lukman Sutrisno, named by Ibu Kingkin in her testimony as a perpetra-
tor of torture, but other University of Indonesia psychologists were also
named, including Fuad Hasan and Saparinah Sadli. Lukman Sutrisno had
been named by other survivors in their memoirs as someone involved in
the detention and interrogation of victims (see, for example, Sriwahyuntari
2004; Bustam 2006).
In her testimony at the IPT 1965’s public hearings, Dutch anthropologist
Professor Saskia Wieringa also named a number of University of Indonesia
psychologists who had carried out psychological tests on detainees, the re-
sults of which determined their category as a political prisoner (see IPT 1965
Foundation 2016, p. 39). Some of these names had been mentioned before in
the books written by survivors of political detention, such as the renowned
author, Pramoedya Anata Toer (1995), Mia Bustam (2008), and Sumiyarsi
Siwirini (2010), and were the subject of investigation for a recent Masters
thesis by Dyah Ayu Kartika (2016). Sumiyarsi in her book mentions some
of these individuals:

Towards the end of 1975 I heard the news that we were going to have a
guest visit […] and who would conduct a psychoanalytic test on us. […]
The group consisted of 25 people who were led by Dr. Zakiah Darajad,
Prof. Saparinah Sadli, and Prof. Brigadier General Sumitro.
(Siwirini 2010, p. 124, my translation)12

The naming of names before the public hearings of the IPT 1965 caused
quite a stir in Indonesia. Particularly within discussions on various social
media platforms in Indonesia, there were active debates about the history of
1965 and the work of the Tribunal on uncovering that history, some prais-
ing the IPT 1965, others condemning it (on these reactions, see Santoso &
van Klinken 2017). Some of those from the UGM community, including
 Naming and shaming in the IPT 1965  191
many alumni and calling themselves the ‘UGM Alliance’ (Aliansi UGM)—­
Lukman Sutrisno’s university—put up a petition which demanded that
the university acknowledge and say sorry for the involvement of its aca-
demic staff in the crimes mentioned at the Tribunal. UGM did not make
a statement on the matter, but one of the university’s rectors, Dwikorita
­Karnawati, said that the university was not in any way connected with the
actions of individual staff members, and that people needed to respect the
presumption of innocence for those accused of crimes (see Yuniati 2015).
Amidst these public debates following the public hearings of the IPT
1965, there were also strong reactions from the Indonesian government, and
particularly from the armed forces. Members of the military in particular
reacted to the naming and shaming done at the Tribunal where the Indo-
nesian state, along with the Army and the police, were specially named as
perpetrators of grievous crimes in 1965. The then Coordinating Minister for
Police, Law, and Human Rights, Luhut Panjaitan, reacted harshly, saying
that the Tribunal was an initiative that brought Indonesia into disrepute
(see, for example, Gumilang 2016). Along with his colleague Agus Wid-
jojo, the head of the National Defence Institute (Lembaga Pertahanan Na-
sional, Lemhanas), they initiated their own national symposium to discuss
the 1965 case. The event, called the ‘National Symposium Dissecting the
1965 Tragedy, Historical Approach,’ held in Jakarta on 18–19 April 2016,
was a clear effort on the part of military men within the government to
direct public discourse around the killings towards a form of ‘reconcilia-
tion’ which privileges forgiving and forgetting above justice (see Kwok 2016;
Melvin 2016). Current and former military officials also felt that the sym-
posium gave too much space to those whom they labelled ‘PKI traitors’ (see
Wahyuningroem 2016). Less than two months later, a group of right-wing
and hardliner leaders, along with a number of retired military officials, held
their own symposium-in-response in June 2016, entitled ‘Securing the
­Pancasila from the Threat of the Indonesian Communist Party and other
Ideologies,’ to counteract the ‘traitorous’ first symposium (see Evanty &
Pohlman 2018). During this period, there were also numerous demonstra-
tions and public book-burnings (of books considered ‘Leftist’) by hard-line
and Islamist groups in Indonesia protesting what they perceived as a re-
surgence in communist ideology; what is popularly known by the deroga-
tive acronym ‘KGB,’ which stands for Komunisme Gaya Baru (‘New Style
­Communism’) (see Miller 2018).
Such harsh reactions were anticipated by the survivors and their advo-
cates who organised the IPT 1965. Those who agreed to give victim testi-
mony did so from behind a black curtain, and used a pseudonym, as was the
case for Ibu Kingkin. To have named those who gave testimony would have
made them, their families, and communities, into targets for the security
services back in Indonesia. This was the case for both those who travelled
from Indonesia to give testimony and those from the Indonesian political
diaspora; those exiles who were often made stateless by fleeing Indonesia
192  Sri Lestari Wahyuningroem
in 1965 (see Saptari, this volume). For many in the exile community, giving
testimony about their experiences in 1965 presented a real threat to their
family members still in Indonesia.
The repressive reactions shown by sectors of the Indonesian government,
I argue, demonstrate the strong pressure felt by the government and by
other institutions, such as UGM, to change their stance and to acknowl-
edge the grievous human rights abuses committed during 1965–66 were in
fact crimes against humanity. According to the ‘spiral model’ for state com-
pliance with human rights norms advocated by Risse, Ropp, and Sikkink
(1999), with ‘pressure from below’ and ‘pressure from above,’ the civil so-
ciety groups and their international networks involved in holding the IPT
1965 were able to create effective pressure on the Indonesian government,
forcing it to concede human rights norms as a form of tactical concession.
The national symposium held by the government in April 2016 was one such
tactical concession made by the Indonesian government in order to demon-
strate its good will for resolving the 1965 case, albeit without any form of
acknowledgement for the harm done. According to this spiral model also, it
must be said that sometimes a government (or elements within the govern-
ment) will initially react repressively after this pressure has been applied,
before coming to a tactical concession. Such repressive gestures were clearly
exhibited by military elements within the government, particularly from the
Army, who also chose to align their interests with the same types of groups
which had helped them carry out the crimes in 1965, such as those from the
hard-line groups, Pancasila Youth and the Islamic Defenders’ Front (Front
Pembela Islam, FPI).
In order to force a significant tactical concession from the Indonesian
government—namely for there to be a meaningful and just resolution to the
1965 case—this pressure must be maintained. There are many ways for this
pressure to be kept up by the civil society groups involved in the Tribunal
and their international networks. Effective lobbying and diplomatic pres-
sure may, for example, convince those within the state’s various institutions
to take responsibility for resolving the 1965 case. For the IPT 1965, naming
and shaming by itself is not enough. There must be further, more creative
efforts made to follow up on the Judges’ decision and to create enough pres-
sure on the Indonesian government to achieve justice for the victims and
their families.

Conclusion
Naming and shaming is one of many strategies used by human rights ad-
vocates and survivors in their attempts to achieve justice for the gross vi-
olations perpetrated in 1965–66. Naming and shaming has been done, for
example, by civil society groups in Indonesia as part of civil suits against var-
ious government bodies. As a crucial part of truth-finding and reparations,
naming and shaming has been used to hold the Indonesian government to
 Naming and shaming in the IPT 1965  193
account. When it comes to the state’s security services, however, naming
and ­shaming has been a form of persecution and stigmatisation. For the
victims, and for whoever else is deemed a threat to national security, to be
named a communist is to be branded a traitor.
In this context, the naming and shaming done by the IPT 1965 has created
strong pressure on the Indonesian state to uncover the crimes committed in
1965–66 and to take responsibility for resolving this case. The IPT 1965 ap-
plied two forms of pressure: pressure from below and pressure from above.
These two pressures make it increasingly difficult for the Indonesian state
to avoid accountability or its responsibility for fulfilling the human rights
of its citizens. The tactical concession made to respond to this pressure by
the state was to hold its national symposium, as a way to show its good in-
tentions for resolving the 1965 case, notwithstanding its focus on reconcilia-
tion about truth or justice. Following the symposium, there have been other
measures announced by the government, notably the proposed National
Harmony Council (Dewan Kerukunan Nasional, DKN), which appears to
be intended as a non-judicial mechanism for resolving cases of past human
rights abuses, including the 1965 violations. And yet these tactical conces-
sions cannot force the Indonesian government to create meaningful human
rights outcomes. These can only come from sustained pressure from survi-
vors, human rights groups—domestic and international—through effective
strategies to force the Indonesian state to come to a full and just reckoning
with the past.

Notes
1 The chapter was translated from Indonesian into English by Annie Pohlman.
2 To read the full transcript of Ibu Kingkin’s testimony (in Indonesian), go to
­‘Kesaksian Ibu Kingkin Rahayu di Tribunal Rakyat Internasional 1965 di Den
Haag’, 11 November 2015, viewed 15 January 2017, <www.tribunal1965.org/­
kesaskian-ibu-tintin-rahayu-di-tribunal-rakyat-internasional-1965-di-den-haag/>.
3 See section 6.4.1 (Improving Just Law Enforcement), part 8 on ‘Handling hu-
man rights’ complaints’, Rencana Pembangunan Jangka Menengah Nasional
­2015–2019, 2015, viewed 20 January 2018, <www.social-protection.org/gimi/gess/
RessourcePDF.action?ressource.ressourceId=50077>.
4 For an update on cases, go to the SafeNet reporting page, accessed 30 January
2018 <http://id.safenetvoice.org/pelanggaranekspresi/>.
5 Personal communication with Bedjo Untung, head of the YPKP 65, 10 May
2017.
6 Interview with Kabul Supriyadi, Commission at Komnas HAM, Jakarta, May
2012, and interview with Edwin Partogi, Jakarta, September 2015, member of
LPSK.
7 Each year, the LPSK requests and is granted a larger budget, and these are re-
ported by the Agency on their website. See, for example, the latest budgetary
release, LPSK (2018).
8 Interview with Edwin Partogi, Jakarta, September 2015.
9 Survivors can only request access to the program if they obtain a letter of rec-
ommendation, stating that they are a survivor of gross human rights violations,
from Komnas HAM. In many cases, in take anywhere from six months to a year
194  Sri Lestari Wahyuningroem
for this request to be processed, partly because of the slow process of obtain-
ing such recommendation letters from the Commission. Interview with Edwin
­Partogi, Jakarta, September 2015.
10 The Jardokber project was a working group set up to compile the existing doc-
umentation of testimonies by 1965 survivors, and was active between 2008 and
2010. Led by KontraS (the Commission for Disappeared Persons and Victims of
Violence), Jardokber’s members included a range of NGOs and victims’ organisa-
tions across Indonesia, such as Solidarity with Victims of Human Rights Abuses
(Solidaritas Korban Pelanggaran Hak Asasi Manusia, SKP HAM Pal), Syarikat,
the Joint Secretariat on 65 (Sekretariat Bersama 65, Sekber 65), Indonesian Foun-
dation Dedicated to Law (Yayasan Pengabdian Hukum Indonesia, YAPHI Solo),
amongst others.
11 The KKPK is made up of more than 50 organisations, including victims’
groups, individuals and other human rights organisations. The KKPK
does not exclusively focus on 1965, and focuses on a range of human rights’
cases. For more information on their programs, go to their website: <http://
kkpk.org/>.
12 The year was more likely 1973, and at time Saparinah Sadli and Sumitro were
not yet professors. For more details on these individuals and their movements,
see Kartika (2016).

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11 Ingat65
How Indonesia’s young
generation share their discovery
of a forgotten massacre
Prodita Sabarini, Ellena Ekarahendy, Ika
Krismantari, Febriana Firdaus, and Rika Theo

Ingat65 (‘Remember 1965’) is a participatory digital storytelling project in

which members of the post-1965 generations share their stories about expe-
riences in their families or communities that were silenced. As a memory
project, it aims to fill in the gaps and to heal the trauma dating from the op-
pressive New Order period (1966–98) and thereafter. This generation grew
up with the state-sponsored propaganda film, The Betrayal of the G30S/
PKI (1984) in which the Indonesian Communist Party (Partai Komunis In-
donesia, PKI) was blamed for the murder of six generals and one lieutenant
on the morning of 1 October 1965. The film contains gruesome scenes of
members of the women’s movement, Gerwani (Gerakan Wanita Indonesia),
mutilating the generals, while PKI leaders are shown plotting to overthrow
the state (Wieringa 2002; McGregor 2007; Wieringa & Katjasungkana
2018). This was the hegemonic version of the ‘1965 incident’ that was end-
lessly repeated in history books and the media (Herlambang 2013). The
fear that the PKI might rise up and again commit acts of treachery and
unspeakable horror was instilled in these generations who grew up under
the New Order.
This official history is particularly damaging for those whose families
were directly or indirectly affected by the 1965 genocide and other crimes
against humanity committed by the army and its associated militias. Many
have inherited the traumatic memories of their relatives (see Conroe 2012).
The histories of these families contain secrets and missing grandparents
or other relatives who were never mentioned. Others contain the stories of
elderly relatives who came back from the slave labour camps or prisons.
Many returned broken, their psyches destroyed, while they continued to
be shunned by neighbours. In other cases, families lost all their assets in
ways unaccounted for. The transmission of these traumatic memories can
lead to depression, isolation, and dissociation (Fischer 2015; Levine 2015).
Since the fall of the New Order regime in 1998, this silence has begun to
be broken. Despite many backward steps, there is now more space within
­Indonesia to speak about this past. The release of Joshua Oppenheimer’s
film, The Act of Killing, in 2012 was an important turning point in this
 Discovery of a forgotten massacre  199
journey, as was the 50th year anniversary of the genocide in 2015. The In-
ternational People’s Tribunal for 1965 (IPT 1965) built on this momentum
and became a defining moment, with thousands of students and activists
following the live streamed hearings in The Hague, in November 2015 (see
Katjasungkana & Wieringa, this volume). There was wide press coverage of
the hearings in Indonesia, particularly on social media (Katjasungkana &
Wieringa 2016). The government-sponsored Seminar in April 2016, ordered
by President Joko Widodo to show that Indonesia could solve its own hu-
man rights problems and did not need an international tribunal, opened the
eyes of the post-1965 generations even further. For the first time, not only
the voices of hardliner generals were heard, but also those of the victims of
the 1965 massacres and other human rights violations.
A small group of young journalists who had been reporting on the IPT
1965 and who were involved in activities with the victims decided to provide
a platform for young people to share their stories about how they were af-
fected by the genocide and the oppression that followed it. They also wanted
to share their thoughts about how the nation might come to acknowledge
this dark past. Using digital technology and collective storytelling, they try
to make sense of this period, in their own lives and in the nation as a whole.
In this way, they hope to disrupt the hegemonic New Order version of his-
tory and to reconfigure the past, endowing it with meaning and continuity
(Davis 2002). In June 2018, the group’s website contained 105 stories. Pho-
tos, videos, and audio recordings (podcasts) are also used to help reach the
goals of the group.
The project is informed by what memory studies scholar Assman (1997)
calls mnemohistory; the history of collective memory.1 The members of the
Ingat65 community hope to inspire a movement. In doing so, they build on
Marshall Ganz’s proposition that storytelling is how people learn and exer-
cise agency, shape identity, and motivate action (2001).
The chapter opens and closes with an account by Prodita Sabarini, a co-
founder of Ingat65, which explains how the group was formed. Following
Sabarini’s introduction to the work of Ingat65, we provide vignettes from the
group, written by Ellena Ekarahendy, Ika Krismantari, Febriana F ­ irdaus,
and Rika Theo.

Ingat65 stands on the shoulders of activists

Prodita Sabarini
In late October, 2015, I lay down in bed in a small hotel room in Ubud,
Bali. It’s night. I just returned to my room after attending a day at the Ubud
Readers and Writers Festival.
Faces of a smiling Nursyahbani Katjasungkana and Gadis Arivia talking
to plain-clothed police intelligence officers questioning them in front of a
restaurant across from the Neka Art Museum where the Ubud Readers and
200  Prodita Sabarini et al.
Writers’ Festival was being held are swimming in my head. Human rights activ-
ist Nursyahbani is the coordinator of the 1965 International People’s Tribu-
nal (IPT 1965). Gadis is a philosopher and founder of the Jurnal Perempuan
Foundation that had just published an English edition of Saskia Wieringa’s
novel, Lubang Buaya (Crocodile Hole). Saskia, chair of the IPT 1965, and
who wrote the novel based on her research into the sexual slander against
Indonesia’s communist women, was sitting inside the open air Nuri Nacho’s
Mama talking to visitors who came to hear her talk (Wieringa 2015).
The book discussion was supposed to be part of the Ubud Writers’ Fes-
tival. The organisers had announced discussion panels with the theme of
the 1965 anti-communist killings as part of their 2015 program in conjunc-
tion with the 50th year since the massacre. I bought tickets for the Writers’
Festival to see these panels. But the organisers cancelled the event after the
local police threatened to take away the festival’s permit if they included
discussions on 1965.
Saskia, Nursyahbani, and Gadis chose to hold the book discussion any-
way, outside of the festival. I went to see the book launch and saw that four
police intelligence officers were monitoring the event. The officers took pic-
tures of people in the restaurant and asked Nursyahbani and Gadis whether
they were holding the banned book launch. At one point, the officers sat the
owner of the restaurant down and questioned her. Neither Nursyahbani,
Gadis, nor the restaurant owner seemed phased as they faced the police.
‘Oh, we’re just having lunch together and chatting,’ Nursyahbani told the
police. ‘Feel free to join us,’ Gadis said. Despite the tension that the officers
brought, I did not see any fear nor anger in the faces of Nursyahbani and
Gadis. They had polite graceful smiles and a quiet determination to not be
silenced.
A ten-minute walk down the street, there was another book launch. The
festival organiser allowed this one, a collection of stories about women who
have been victims of State violence in Indonesia, East Timor, and Myanmar,
to proceed even though stories of 1965 survivors were part of the collection.
‘Maybe we escaped the police’s attention because the book’s title doesn’t
have 1965 in it,’ Galuh Wandita, the director of Asia Justice and Rights that
launched the book, joked.
Two 1965 survivors, Kadmiyati and Hartiti, whose stories along with pho-
tos are recorded in the book, came to the launch. They sang a Javanese song
that they composed themselves, about not losing hope and continuing to
work for justice.
I sat with Hartiti after the book launch, and she told me that her husband
disappeared and never came back. He was part of the railway workers’ un-
ion considered to be a Communist Party mass base. She opened the book
and showed me the picture of her husband. Her eyes lit up while she talked
about him. I looked at his picture, he was handsome and looked so young.
Official histories in Indonesia are silent on the murders and imprison-
ments of more than a million people in the 1965 anti-communist purge.
 Discovery of a forgotten massacre  201
Through State-sponsored film ‘Betrayal of the G30S/PKI’ (Pengkhianatan
G30S/PKI), history text books for students, museums, and memorials on
the communists’ betrayal, the State, for the past 50 years, has imposed a
collective act of ‘forgetting’ about one of the largest massacres in the twen-
tieth century.
My generation grew up under this silence. Many of us did not know about
the killings and are taught to fear the victims of the communist purge. Only
half a century later, and with a great deal of effort from survivors, activists,
academic researchers, and documentary filmmakers such as Joshua Oppen-
heimer and his anonymous Indonesian co-director and crew, has the Indo-
nesian media begun to end their self-censorship on the 1965 massacres.
But the State continues to ignore the call for justice and reconciliation
for the 1965 atrocities. Ignoring the killings of 1965 has created a culture of
impunity in Indonesia. Impunity has undermined the power of civil soci-
ety through State terror and ensured Indonesia’s oligarchic political system
prevails. The legacy of impunity surrounding the 1965 killings can be seen
in the problems of violence, bad governance, economic inequality and envi-
ronmental degradation that we still experience today. That in 2015, 17 years
after Suharto’s rule ended, intelligence officers were monitoring a book
launch of a 1965-themed novel was evidence that the nightmare that begun
in 1965 hasn’t ended.
What can the young people born in the years after 1965 do? This ques-
tion swirled in my head as I sat on my hotel bed. I know the answer is that
the young people should organise and join the dialogue on 1965. I opened
my laptop and surfed the Internet, finding article after article by Indone-
sia’s young generation, expressing their discovery of the 1965 history and
demanding the government step up and provide justice for 1965 victims.
What if we created a dedicated space for young people to share their re-
flection and personal stories on 1965? My mind raced. Can I do this? I’ve
never been an organiser. In class, during my primary schooling and in uni-
versity, I always stayed quiet. I am a journalist, and this profession suits me
because I let other people speak and I can hide behind the stories I write or
essays that I edit.
I was scared of executing this idea. But I remember Nursyahbani and
Gadis’s fearless yet quiet way of facing the officers. I hear the voices of
­Kadmiyati and Hartiti singing their song of perseverance and I want to fol-
low their example.
Nursyahbani, Gadis, Saskia, Kadmiyati, and Hartiti, without their know-
ing, they inspired courage in me to start Ingat65, a participatory digital
storytelling project to collectively remember the 1965 period in ­Indonesia
through personal family and community experiences.
Back home in Jakarta, I spoke to my best friend, Ika Krismantari, who
contributes to one of the vignettes in this chapter. Ika, a journalist at The
Jakarta Post, had just found out that her grandfather was imprisoned dur-
ing the purges. He was a military man accused of arming the farmers. She
202  Prodita Sabarini et al.
found out that her father had grown up without his own father because,
when her grandfather was released after ten years of imprisonment, he died
only a year later.
Ika and I agreed to create a storytelling platform for the post-1965 gener-
ation to share their reflections about 1965. We are certain that, unlike some
of the older generation, who lived through the period and who would like
to leave 1965 behind them, the post-1965 generation wants to remember. We
know there are many young people who are shocked by their newly found
discoveries about the 1965 atrocities and want to see a reconciliation process
happen but are perhaps unsure of what to do.
Our idea, inspired by social movement studies from which we learn how
storytelling is useful in building a movement, was to create a platform that
allows the young generation to tell personal stories about what we know
about the period, how we learned about what we know, what our parents,
grandparents, and older relatives experienced and remember, and our hopes
for the future. We believe the act of telling one’s story is one of activism. As
Marshal Ganz argues: ‘Storytelling is how people learn and exercise agency,
shape identity, and motivate action’ (2001, p. 2). Joseph E. Davis elaborates
that the power of stories lies in how the story ‘reconfigures the past endow-
ing it with meaning and continuity and so also project a sense of what will
or should happen’ (2002, p. 12).
So we got to work. It wasn’t hard to find other young people who shared
our concern and believed in the importance of youth participation in re-
membering 1965. We also asked advice from senior activists, journalists, and
researchers, to shape our thinking. In March 2016, on the International Day
for the Right to the Truth concerning Gross Human Rights Violations and
for the Dignity of Victims, we sent our first newsletter, launched our page
in medium.com/Ingat-65 and went live with Ingat65’s social media accounts.
In the first year alone, we published 71 authors, from across Indonesia
and abroad, with a total reach of more than 2,000 views each month. Our
Twitter account is now followed by more than 1,800 people, and on Face-
book, more than 2,300 people follow our page. On the 2016 International
Human Rights Day, we launched a video campaign of testimonies from
­Ingat65 writers.
This chapter shares just a handful of vignettes of personal stories and
analysis. Ellena Ekarahendy analyses the stories from the Ingat65 ar-
chive and social media engagement. Ingat65 editors Ika Krismantari and
­Febriana Firdaus write about their personal stories on why they believed
in the importance of Ingat65 and youth participation in remembering the
1965 period. Ika and Febriana, the first two writers for Ingat65, tell the
stories of their grandfathers who were swept up in the 1965 turmoil. Rika
Theo expands on her video testimony, which we posted on our YouTube
channel as part of Ingat65’s video campaign, about how the effects of 1965
have brought systematic discrimination against Indonesia’s ethnic Chinese
population.
 Discovery of a forgotten massacre  203
A microhistory on 1965 from Indonesia’s youth:
an analysis of Ingat65

Ellena Ekarahendy
After launching in 2016, Ingat65 compiled approximately 71 personal es-
says in the first year. Most of the authors (73%) only experienced the New
Order regime as children, or were born after the regime ended. Only 21%
of the writers whose stories have been published in Ingat65 have any direct
family connection with the 1965 tragedy. The rest, the majority of them,
have no family members who were victims, perpetrators, or witnesses of the
1965 anti-communist pogroms. Yet, they all felt compelled to reflect on the
tragedy. Many of them feel that they are, in a way, also victims of the New
Order regime as they were kept in the dark about the killings and were fed
propaganda that stigmatised the victims of the killings.
From analysing keywords in each of the essays, we found that from all
the personal stories that have been published until March 2017, two main
themes emerge. First, authors are keen to reflect on the 1965 tragedy. Sec-
ond, these reflections on this dark past are often related to their thoughts
about the present and the future. We found that the most common words
the authors used when they describe what they come to know about the
1965 tragedy were ‘Communists/Communism/PKI,’ ‘New Order regime,’
‘slaughters,’ ‘stigma,’ and ‘(mass-)killing.’ Most of the authors grew up with
New Order era propaganda that stigmatised the communists. Most of them
wrote that the killings were wrong. Through their encounters with stories
from families, survivors, activists, and films, they understand or suspect
that the New Order regime was responsible. For example, Nadya Karima
Melati, in her essay ‘I’m a millennial, I support the 1965 People’s Tribu-
nal,’ said that the New Order regime had spooked the older generation from
speaking about the tragedy.2 She explained that her generation is different:
‘While older people are still spreading fear against a supposed threat of
Neo-Communism, the Millennial generation with the current open access
to information is finding out on their own what exactly is communism.’
When it comes to how the history of 1965 relates to their present and fu-
ture, the authors used words such as ‘blurred history and doctrines.’ These
keywords appeared in almost half of the published stories. In the view of
many of the authors, the official histories of the 1965 period were incomplete
and even false. Nearly a third of Ingat65 authors demanded that the truth
about this past be revealed. For example, Sebastian Partogi in ‘A scary study
tour trip’ wrote: ‘All those horrifying events were fed to us students without
any explanation behind them. In primary school, explanations about the
PKI, supposedly the mastermind behind the assassinations, were superfi-
cial. We were given abstract concepts which now brings up questions as a
grown up. What is a party? What is Communism? Why did they emerge?
Why do they want to destroy Indonesia? How does the abstract concept of
latent danger of Communism manifest in daily life?’3
204  Prodita Sabarini et al.
Official histories on 1965 are silent about the killings. How did our authors
learn about the pogroms in 1965? In 2017, we analysed 71 stories compiled
so far. We found that the authors came across stories of 1965 through films
(22.64%), family members (18.24%), dialogues with people who lived during
that period (14.47%), conversations with those who work on this issue (13.21%),
books (12.58%), civil initiatives (for example, IPT 65, Symposium 65, IKOHI,
students press, etc.10.69%), museums (5.66%), and art activities (2.52%).
Films rank as the most popular medium that introduced the writers of
Ingat65 to the 1965 tragedy. The official government propaganda film Be-
trayal of the G30S/PKI, has invariably created ominous mental images for
its audiences. The extreme horror imprinted by the film has generated a
­pseudo-memory of 1965 history—including for those who had to watch the
film for only several years before the New Order collapsed or who weren’t even
required to watch the film every September 30 during the regime at all. Aside
from Betrayal of the G30S/PKI, many authors also mentioned the documen-
tary films by Joshua Oppenheimer, The Act of Killing (2012) and The Look
of Silence (2014), as triggers to re-question 1965 history. For young people
who did not live under the New Order era or who only experienced it shortly,
Oppenheimer’s films opened their eyes to the horror of 1965. Three of these
writers have since been involved in the making of different independent films
based on the story of 1965 as their way to build a dialogue about the past.
Conversations with family also play a substantial role. Authors write
about conversations with their mothers, fathers, grandmothers and grand-
fathers, who talk about the stories of disappeared family members or hor-
ror stories about the communists; or even conversations with their very
young children who were driven by pure curiosity about the ‘myths’ about
the PKI. Some did not expect to have a personal connection to the 1965
tragedy but found out that they were connected in some way. Others traced
back the roots of the violence in the 1998 riots and discrimination against
Chinese-Indonesian to the violence in 1965. For some authors, stories from
family members were not enough to find out about what happened in 1965,
so they sought those who lived through the period, such as former prisoners,
members of Gerwani, witnesses, and others.
The following story, for example, illustrates how civilians in one village
became involved, and the role rumours about rural unrest played in the tra-
jectory of becoming a murderer.4 Kim Al Ghozali tells how her grandmother
told her about Sempenan Hill close to their home in the village of Resongo,
Probolinggo in East Java. It contains a large mass grave of members or sym-
pathisers of the PKI; a well-kept public secret. At a different location on
the same hill, eleven Chinese men and women were killed. They were tied
together and then burnt alive. The flames were visible from afar, her grand-
mother remembered. A neighbouring village was known as a ‘red village,’
Kim’s village was anti-PKI. One year before Gestok (a different name for
G30S, the 30 September Movement), a riot started at their mosque. The ru-
mour was that Kim’s neighbourhood would be attacked by inhabitants from
 Discovery of a forgotten massacre  205
the PKI village, to steal their land and kill their kyai. In anticipation of
the attack, Kim’s villagers began praying, with their weapons ready; a few
climbed the trees on a hill that looked in the direction of the ‘red village.’
Nothing happened. But because of that rumour, many villagers became
butchers. The elders later called them gangsters (bajingan) or cattle thieves.
After the 1965 events, they were recruited by the security services (aparat) to
comb the neighbouring villages. They arrested people whose names were on
a list. The prisoners were then escorted to Sempenan Hill where they ended
up in the mass grave. Those who were murdered were believed to have no
religion and to enjoy killing kyai and stealing land.
All elements from the propaganda machinery in the countryside are pres-
ent in this story: a false rumour from the mosque about land conflicts and
kyai being killed. The villagers are told they must murder these atheists be-
fore the army recruited the future butchers, equipping them with lists, and
protected them ever after. The mass graves are now almost forgotten, but
the stories live on in their grandchildren, who grew up in fear of something
unknown to them and who were lied to in their schools. These same grand-
children now go to great trouble, such as Kim Al Ghozali, to understand
what really happened around and after Gestok. Their discoveries about the
1965 massacres have also made them re-examine the narrative of Indonesia
and what it means to be Indonesian. Now they have knowledge about the
dark past of their country.
In other stories, narrators interrogate the ‘truths’ with which they grew
up. Yulius Tandyanto, for example, wrote in ‘Re-reading the narrative of
the 65 tragedy’: ‘I have to admit I don’t know anything about the 1965 trag-
edy. I’m not a perpetrator. I’m not a victim. Neither am I a living witness.
But I’m a child of the Zeitgeist that inherits all the nation’s tragedy. There-
fore, I don’t need to deny that the 1965 tragedy happened. In fact, I should
“celebrate” it as part of maturing as an Indonesian.’5 In his story, he re-
counts how his father, an upright, non-corrupt regional Golkar6 politician,
whom he greatly admires, told him only the hegemonic New Order version
of events on the night of 1 October 1965. Since he discovered other truths
about these events and the genocide that followed it, he plans on his return
to his father to ask him why he only told his son the hegemonic New Order
version of events. So Yulius, instead of denying and avoiding talking about
1965, embraced his discovery of the past to help him understand more about
his country and himself as part of the nation.
One of the reasons we chose to explore youth storytelling through digital
platforms was because the Internet provides a relatively safe space for young
people to share their stories without having to deal with threats of attacks
by mass organisations that are against talking about the 1965 tragedy. While
­Ingat65’s page on medium.com/Ingat-65 became a repository of collected es-
says, Ingat65’s social media channels on Facebook and Twitter play a big role in
spreading the word about the Ingat65 storytelling movement and also function
as a space for youth to talk about this issue. Ingat65’s social media managers,
206  Prodita Sabarini et al.
Hanida Syafirani and Priska Siagian, reported that followers of Ingat65 are
those who were born after 1965. The age range of our followers is 13–54 years
old, with the majority either 18–24 years old (42%) or 25–34 years old (41%).
This shows that our followers are mostly from the millennial generation, who
live in the open-access information era, and use communication technology
on a daily basis. Of these, 54% of Ingat65’s followers live on Java, with the rest
from islands other than Java. Our active followers are not just individuals but
other communities as well, like @kerjapembebasan and @IPT 1965.
Our followers grow organically. We reached more than 1,000 followers
on Twitter on 9 May 2016, after we launched Ingat65 on 20 March 2016.
Our followers reached 1,905 by mid-February 2017. The engagement from
our followers is significant. Based on Twitter analytics conducted between
October 2016 and January 2017, we have 18 clicks/day, 13 retweets/day, and
five likes/day. These are the main responses for our posts, whether they are
about the newest essays or any other posts.
Our social media reach helped to encourage our followers to send in their
own stories. We have a number of writers who voluntarily send in essays.
A comic in Garut, Aris Karisma, used the hashtag #Ingat65 on his campaign
T-shirt for his stand-up comedy show, ‘Gestok Lineup’ (Gestok ­Berbaris).7
He then wrote his reflection for Ingat65. Albertus Prahasta Wibowo, the
director of the short film, Ordinary Citizen (Wong Tjilik), shared his reflec-
tions on Ingat65, stating that he was grateful to find Ingat65, where he could
finally share his restlessness about the 1965 tragedy.8
Our social media page gives insight into what our followers think about
1965. On Facebook, there have been times when our followers commented
amongst one another or had discussions related to the posts we shared. Sur-
prisingly, most comments are positive. Of course we have had some negative
comments too, but compared to the positive sentiments, we can say that
the negative ones are relatively few. Whenever a ‘troll’ shows up, the other
followers counter back. It makes us think that more people care about the
dark history of 1965. Social media managers Priska and Hanida were at first
worried that Ingat65 might face harsh attacks from anti-communist forces.
Looking at the results of our journey, our worries were not realised. The
negative responses have been manageable.
Ingat65’s authors are adding to the chorus of activists and survivors who
are demanding an apology, openness, freedom of expression, and wishing
for the nation to heal from this trauma. With its personal styles of writing,
Ingat65’s narration appears to be a companion to the existing narratives that
provide an alternative to the New Order regime’s official account. When its
writers talk intimately, based on their daily life and experiences, Ingat65
compiles a petite histoire that has been missing in the grand 1965 narra-
tion. From accidental readings and meetings, to dining room conversations,
or random family or classroom talks, the stories told through Ingat65 may
seem to be fringe stories. But as one story adds to another, Ingat65 contrib-
utes to the nation’s collective memory of the 1965 killings.
 Discovery of a forgotten massacre  207
Discovery of family histories: stories of granddaughters

Ika Krismantari
‘Ika, do you know someone who became a victim of the 1965 tragedy? Maybe
someone in your family or your friends’ families?’ My best friend Prodita
‘Odit’ Sabarini asked over the phone when I was in a car on a sudden trip to
my hometown, Yogyakarta.
It was 25 January 2015. My father had just got a phone call from a relative in
Yogyakarta, telling him that his brother, who was recently hospitalised, had
passed away. I had been living in Australia for two years, where I had com-
pleted my Masters. After returning to Indonesia in early January, I had been
hoping to travel to Yogyakarta with my husband and child before I had to re-
turn to my office at The Jakarta Post. So, after hearing the sad news, I decided
it was the right time to go and we hitched a ride in my father’s car.
I have never enjoyed going on road trips with my father. His maneuvers
and unexpected schedules have always ruined trips. When I was in college,
my father took me on a road trip back to Jakarta during a school break.
During the journey, we didn’t do anything; I just spent the whole time sleep-
ing on the back seat. But on the January road trip, I didn’t have a choice, did
I? So, when I got a call from Odit, I was excited. At least, I was spared for a
couple of minutes from the expected boredom.
After I hung up the phone, to break the silence in the car, I started a
conversation, asking the same question Odit had asked me. ‘Dad, is there
anyone from our family who became a victim of the 1965 tragedy? Or do you
know someone?’ I asked casually from the back seat. I didn’t expect much
from his answer. I just wanted to keep the good mood in the car after receiv-
ing a phone call from my best friend and to anticipate the dread of being
stuck in the small confines for the next few hours. I certainly never expected
to get a serious response from my father because it was just an idle question
amid the worsening traffic.
I knew first about the tragedy from school textbooks. I am one of Indo-
nesia’s generations that had been brainwashed on the cause of the bloody
incidents in 1965. From textbooks and the government’s propaganda film I
‘learned’ that the Indonesian Communist Party was the culprit behind the
murder of seven military generals. The case remained a distant history that
I knew only existed in the film and books. It was not until recently that I
knew about the roughly one million people who had been killed for their
alleged association with the party. Thanks to the technological development
of the Internet and a change in the country’s political regime, the current
generation has the ability to access much more information about the 1965
tragedy than we ever did. Armed with my new knowledge on the issue, I ex-
pected that I could at least start an intellectual discussion with my father on
a topic that I had generally kept my distance from. Little did I know that my
father’s answer would change the course not only of the trip, but of my life.
208  Prodita Sabarini et al.
‘Your grandfather was one of the victims. […] He was imprisoned for
years,’ my father responded casually from the front seat. ‘Heh? What?’ I re-
acted spontaneously. I knew from that moment that this trip was not going
to be a dull trip.
I composed myself despite all the commotion within me. Ignoring the
sadness, the anger, and driven by the curiosity inside me, I tried to inter-
rogate my father just like I did when I interviewed my sources, gathering
pieces of facts surrounding the existence of my grandfather. I realised that
I had never really known my grandfather (I had never seen his face). I had
heard that he was a military officer and that he was handsome. But that was
it. That day, I learnt more about my grandfather.
My grandfather, Sukadi, was sent to prison because he was accused of
arming farmers at a time when the government banned the use of guns by
civilians, for fears of a coup d’etat. The army had also charged my grandfa-
ther for his involvement with the Communist Party after he helped one of
his relatives who was a member of the party escape from the anti-­communist
purge following the 30 September Movement.
The details after that are vague. I was busy managing all of my emotions.
But I felt a rage rising within me; not against my father or his family that
had never discussed this issue. I knew about the pressures and intimidations
suffered by the families of 1965 victims and it seems my father’s family is no
exception. I was angry at myself. How could I be so ignorant? I, a journalist.
I had disappointed myself.
Right after the conversation in the car, I tried to find the missing pieces
of my grandfather’s stories from my grandmother. During my visits to her
house, I asked her to reconstruct events from when my grandfather was sent
to the prison in Ambarawa, Central Java, around 82 kilometers from Yogy-
akarta. I got details about the struggle and pains that my grandmother had
to bear after the arrest as she had to take care of seven children alone. Piece
by piece I collected this information. I was even shown the one and only
photo of my grandfather (and yes, he is very handsome).
But after this, what’s next? I thought I had to do something because I was
probably not the only one who had encountered this kind of experience.
As a writer and a journalist, the easiest thing to do was to share it in writ-
ing. I wrote a reflective piece in The Jakarta Post’s famous column, By The
Way. I also had the chance to analyze the topic of reconciliation further
when I joined the investigation team for the 50th anniversary of the trag-
edy. I wrote several articles, discussing the topic from different perspectives.
But, I knew it was not enough.
That is why when Odit came to me with the idea of setting up a digital
movement for youths to retell stories they had heard about 1965, I welcomed
it enthusiastically. I am excited about this project because I personally con-
sider it to be a chance to redeem my past mistakes for ignoring the issue until
I discovered that it also affected my family.
 Discovery of a forgotten massacre  209
When Odit came to my house, I had just given birth to my second child.
On that day, we agreed to set up Ingat65 as a digital platform for the young
generation to tell their version of stories about the 1965 tragedy. I felt that
we were celebrating Indonesia’s ‘Mother’s Day’ in the best way possible.
22  ­December was the day of Indonesia’s first ever Women’s Congress in
1928. But after 1965 and the destruction of Gerwani, Indonesia’s communist
women’s group, the Suharto’s regime anointed the date as a celebration of
the domestic nature of women. As a mother with two wonderful daughters,
I want them to grow up understanding what happened to their great-grand-
father and to not be left with an incomplete history.

End the propaganda

Febriana Firdaus
I sometimes imagined that the military had shot my grandfather in the head
and throughout his whole body. This scene is brutal and it scares me, but
I could not help it. My mother had told me about what happened to my
grandfather. He was a member of the Indonesian Communist Party in 1965.
The military kidnapped him following the events of 1 October 1965 and he
never returned. We still have no idea of his fate.
I grew up with the New Order propaganda that the entire Indonesian
Communist Party and its associates were ‘the enemy of the State’ that the
military had to exterminate them. Through this propaganda, the New Or-
der regime justified the brutal massacre against Indonesian leftists between
1965 and 66. The military, with the support of civilian militia groups, killed
not only Communist Party members, but also alleged communist sympa-
thisers, leftist artists from the communist-affiliated group Lekra, and loyal-
ists of the first president and our founding father Sukarno.
When my mother told me about my grandfather, my first reaction was: we
have to end this propaganda. My family suffered a lot from the military’s
brutal purge of Indonesia’s left. The forced disappearance of my grandfa-
ther created a lasting impact in my family.
After my grandfather was kidnapped, my mother had to drop out of
school. She was married to my father at the age of 16. My grandmother,
being known as the wife of a communist, was stigmatised and had economic
difficulties. Marrying off my mother was, in a way, an effort to provide her
with security and safety. But it was, nevertheless, child marriage.
After my parents’ wedding, the military accused my father of being a
secret communist because of his missing father-in-law. His father-in-law, a
Communist Party member, is believed to have been shot to death by the
military. After his death, my father had to report to the regional military
post every two or three months. My family had to live under this kind of
surveillance for more than a decade.
210  Prodita Sabarini et al.
As the third generation of victims, I grew up under the New Order’s prop-
aganda. Suharto’s regime told us lies about the history of 1965. They sexu-
ally slandered Indonesia’s communist women. Every year, we memorialise
the assassination of the seven military generals, killed by the 30 September
Movement on 1 October 1965 and depict the Communist Party as godless
and savage, and as being behind the 30 September Movement.
The killing of the seven generals was wrong. But the military has used this
event, as historian John Roosa has described, as a pretext to mass murder
(2006). More than half a million people were murdered by the military. Yet,
the New Order regime seemed to force people to forget this had ever hap-
pened. History books are silent about the 1965–66 massacres. Suharto fell
from power in 1998. But the propaganda is still here.
I decided to become a journalist partly to stop this propaganda. I also
wanted to find out what had happened to my grandfather. I wanted to be
able to find the missing link of the story of my grandfather and write about
it. I especially wanted to be able to solve the puzzle that had caused so much
misery for my mother.
In my first years as a journalist, I focused on being a good reporter. That’s
the only thing that I can do. I am drawn to social justice issues and human
rights. Perhaps my yearning for justice became a driver in my passion for
journalism. In 2016, eight years into my journalism career, I met with fel-
low journalists Prodita Sabarini and Ika Krismantari who were planning
to launch Ingat65 as a digital platform for Indonesia’s younger generation
to share their reflections about 1965. Prodita and I were introduced by an
Indonesian studies researcher from Australia, Ross Tapsell. Prodita, who is
good friends with Ross, had told him about her idea of setting up Ingat65.
I was helping Ross during one of his field research trips in Indonesia and
told him the story of my grandfather. He said that the two of us should meet
and gave each of us our numbers.
We did finally meet, and I was so excited about the idea of Ingat65. ­Prodita,
Ika, and me, along with other members of Ingat65 then worked together to
launch the website in early 2016, 50 years after the massacre.
This will be our long agenda. A lifetime agenda. I believe that by contin-
uing to talk about the 1965 massacre, the third and subsequent generations
will find out the truth. I also hope to find a way to find justice for the victims’
families. At least, I hope they will share the same restlessness.
In mid-2016, I was targeted by the militant group, the Islamic Defenders
Front (FPI). They were angry at my attempts to cover a meeting of mili-
tant Islamists and former senior military officials who oppose Indonesia’s
attempts toward accountability for the 1965–66 ‘anti-communist’ massa-
cres. Members of the FPI, all men, cornered me and threatened me that
I  would be arrested by the police. They then identified me on social me-
dia and harassed me by circulating my name and picture, labeling me as a
pro-­communist reporter who publishes ‘lies.’ In an atmosphere where com-
munists are ingrained in Indonesian minds as criminals, this was a serious
 Discovery of a forgotten massacre  211
attempt to harm me. My office at the time, however, accused me of crossing
the line as a journalist. They said I was crossing the line because of my in-
volvement with Ingat65.
I disagree with them. Every young person in Indonesia has the right to
demand accountability for what happened in 1965. It is impossible for me
to give up the attempt to encourage young people to reflect on the country’s
history through Ingat65. This work will continue no matter what.

On fear and racial prejudice: the story of Chinese

Indonesians post-1965

Rika Theo
Ask any young Chinese-Indonesian millennial today to tell you a story
about racial discrimination in the country. Most of them will be able to tell
you about many cases they have heard from their parents and their fam-
ily during Suharto’s New Order era. Most will mention the horror of the
May 1998 mass riot when many Chinese shops were set ablaze and Chinese
women were raped.
Now ask them why there has been such racial prejudice and discrimina-
tion towards Chinese-Indonesians. The common answers you will hear will
vary from racism to economic inequality and the social gap in Indonesian
society. There may be a few of them who realise the link of those stories to
what happened in 1965.
Some who like to read history might refer to Dutch colonialism in
Indonesia which first created the race-based social stratification, differ-
entiating the class of Chinese-Indonesians from the indigenous Indone-
sians. Others might blame Suharto and the New Order government for
the assimilation program that led to many discriminatory policies for
Chinese-Indonesians. These young Chinese-Indonesians hardly ever re-
late the roots of this discrimination and prevailing racial prejudices to
the events of 1965.
As a Chinese-Indonesian from the so-called Y generation, born in the
1980s, and the last generation who experienced Suharto’s discriminatory
policies, I too grew up with the fear of racial prejudices. My parents told me
that the tough repression experienced under the Suharto regime was harm-
ful to us. It is the reason why we, as a minority group in Indonesia, should
behave cautiously and always keep a low profile. ‘Chinese are often made a
scapegoat,’ my mother would tell me.
Being cautious meant my parents never taught their children the C ­ hinese
language. I grew up during the time that the government banned Chinese
education and barred any usage of Chinese characters in public. There
were no less than 64 legal regulations that were discriminatory towards
Chinese-­Indonesians. Chinese culture was silenced to the extent that
Chinese-­Indonesians were compelled to change their Chinese names to
212  Prodita Sabarini et al.
Indonesian names. There was to be no Chinese private mass media, mass
organisations, or political activities for the long 32 years of the New Order
regime.
As politics was barely a topic of discussion at my family’s dinner table,
I had no idea that this cultural silencing has something to do with the 1965
tragedy. I finally came to understand this after years of personal curios-
ity and uneasiness led me to dig up history through books and research.
The events of 1 October 1965 were followed by mass killings of Indonesian
people, including Chinese-Indonesians who were often seen as communists.
It did not stop there. After this date, not only was fear and hatred spread
about communism, there was also a deepened stigma and suspicion towards
China and Chinese-Indonesians.
The ‘C-trio’ (Communists, China, and Chinese-Indonesians) was consid-
ered by the New Order government as a threat to national unity. This threat
was transmitted to the Indonesian people, through both government dis-
course and policies. The seeds of suspicion and racial hatred were planted
using peoples’ fear of the 1965 tragedy. The prevailing prejudices inherited
from the Dutch colonial regime that treated Chinese-Indonesians as foreign
aliens and non-indigenous, self-interested brokers were raised, exploited,
and re-fabricated.
This fear was inflicted upon Chinese-Indonesians too. The traumatic ex-
perience of racial violence and property-seizures, combined with 32 years of
discriminatory policies, haunted them. In order to be safe and to be seen as
loyal citizens, Chinese-Indonesians have had to prove again and again that
they are good Indonesians. Yet at the same time, throughout this Indone-
sianisation process, they have constantly been reminded that they are not
‘true’ Indonesians.
Stories of discrimination and how hard it has been to identify as
­Chinese-Indonesian have been told from generation to generation. It affects
how Chinese-Indonesians think and how they live in society. Yet nothing
remains static. Newer generations face different challenges to the older
ones. And now, it is two decades since Indonesia’s democratic reform fi-
nally brought back equal citizen rights to Chinese-Indonesians, more than
five decades after 1965. How have these changes reduced the fear felt by
­Chinese-Indonesians and the fear of being Chinese in Indonesia?
On the surface, we see a lot of improvements, from rising political partici-
pation by Chinese-Indonesians to more pluralistic social interactions. How-
ever, the fear and racial prejudice that have been experienced for decades
still lingers. It is not easy to get rid of this fear and prejudice. This is espe-
cially the case when racial sentiment continues to be mobilised for political
interests during the current trend of identity politics. One way of dealing
with this risk is to arm the younger generation with knowledge and under-
standing. Learning from history and realising the link between 1965 and
racial prejudice experienced by Chinese-Indonesian today can be a starting
point to understand this fear.
 Discovery of a forgotten massacre  213
Epilogue
Indonesia is a country of young people. All of them have inherited a system
that was built on the violent destruction of not only a political group, but
also the destruction of political consciousness and agency. The Suharto re-
gime collapsed in 1998 after the Asian financial crisis without ever having to
account for the massacres of 1965. The country is still ruled by people who
benefited from the weakening of civil society.
Ingat65 is an attempt to re-gain our political consciousness and politi-
cal power through the collective act of reflecting and remembering the 1965
massacres. We still have a lot of work to do. For the young people of Indone-
sia, to ignore new research findings about the 1965 massacres, to fail to ac-
knowledge the moral wrong of the killings, and to continue to be disengaged
on this issue is tantamount to jeopardising their own future.

Notes
1 Cited in Eloiza Slavet, 2010. ‘A Matter of distinction: on recent works by Jan
Assman’, AJS Review, vol. 34, no. 2, pp. 383–93.
2 See: https://medium.com/ingat-65/international-peoples-tribunal-65-dan-generasi-
y-5caf89df941. Accessed 1 August 2018.
3 See: https://medium.com/ingat-65/pengalaman-karyawisata-yang-menakutkan-
fbe5df9f539d. Accessed 1 August 2018.
4 See: https://medium.com/ingat-65/bukit-sempenan-dan-sejarahnya-yang-merah-
4db0ed97d50. Accessed 11 January 2018.
5 See: https://medium.com/ingat-65/membaca-ulang-narasi-tragedi-enam-­l ima-
237818a0aaa5. Accessed 1 August 2018.
6 Golkar (the Party of the Functional Groups) is a political party in Indonesia. It
was the ruling party between 1971 and 1999.
7 See: https://medium.com/ingat-65/menertawakan-kekeliruan-sejarah-­f 20bd7e
2608f. Accessed 1 August 2018.
8 See: https://medium.com/ingat-65/wong-tjilik-ordinary-citizen-cb3fa711207f.
Accessed 1 August 2018.

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12 The Indonesian massacres
as genocide
Helen Jarvis and Saskia E. Wieringa

Can the mass killings in Indonesia after the ‘events’ on 1 October 1965
be qualified as genocide?1 The 2012 report of the National Human Rights
Commission (Komnas HAM) did not include genocide among the grave
human rights violations it had found overwhelming evidence for. In this
chapter, we present the arguments put forward in the IPT 1965 research
report on why the massacres of that period can be included as one of the
genocides in the twentieth century, as well as the conclusion of the Panel
of Judges on this topic. The chapter starts with a discussion on the defini-
tion of genocide and will also deal with the amicus curiae brief submitted
to the Tribunal.
Genocide is often the subject of fierce and impassioned controversy. De-
spite the fact that, under international law, genocide has the same gravity as
crimes against humanity and war crimes, genocide is often referred to as ‘the
crime of crimes.’ It was not only Komnas HAM that had great hesitation
in using the term genocide; in the nearly seven decades since the Genocide
Convention entered into force on 12 January 1951, rarely have any courts,
international or national, prosecuted the crime of genocide, and fewer still
have brought a positive finding.
Bangladesh, in which an estimated three million people died in the 1971
war of secession from Pakistan, was the first country in the world to es-
tablish a court to prosecute genocide as an international crime, under its
International Crimes (Tribunals) Act, 1973, along with prosecution of war
crimes and crimes against humanity committed as part of this Libera-
tion War. However, as part of the political upheaval in the country, the
new government very soon suspended the proceedings before any trials
were carried out, and they were not recommenced until 2009 (Hoque 2014;
Rahman 2014).
Only in August 1979 did the world’s first genocide trial take place, in the
People’s Revolutionary Tribunal of Cambodia. In this trial, Khmer Rouge
leaders Pol Pot and Ieng Sary were found guilty in absentia. Despite the fact
that some two million people (over 25% of the population) are estimated
to have died, this judgement was largely ignored internationally, consistent
216  Helen Jarvis and Saskia E. Wieringa
with the lack of recognition given to the then government of Cambodia due
to geopolitical considerations of the Cold War (Fawthrop & Jarvis 2004).
After a more than 25-year gap, new legal proceedings for senior leaders and
those most responsible for these crimes were commenced in 2006 in the Ex-
traordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia (ECCC), a national court
with international participation (Jarvis 2016).2
Thus, those responsible for the major genocides of the twentieth cen-
tury that took place in these three South and Southeast Asia countries
went free for a generation. Now trials are taking place in Bangladesh and
Cambodia, but Indonesia is yet to carry out either judicial or non-judicial
proceedings to address the crimes. Nor was this lack of accountability
for genocide exceptional. Taking a worldwide perspective, it was not until
1998 that any international court issued a conviction for genocide, when
the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda convicted Jean-Paul
Akayesu (ICTR 1998).

Indonesia
As we will argue in this chapter, the conventionally narrow definition of
genocide plays a critical role in whether or not the massacres in Indonesia,
which recently received wide international attention in Oppenheimer’s grip-
ping films The Act of Killing and The Look of Silence (Oppenheimer 2012,
2014), are included in the litany of genocides of the twentieth century. Before
discussing the debates on the definition, we first give a short overview of the
scale of the killings. The chapter concludes with a discussion on possible
future developments.

Dimensions of the killing

Certainly, in terms of the sheer number of those killed, often understood as
one of the keys in defining genocide, Indonesia can be listed as one of the
most extreme examples in the twentieth century, although, as with many
examples of mass killing, the total numbers of deaths will probably never
be known. Figures vary between 400 and 500,000 and three million (see
Chapter 1, this volume).
The Final Report of the IPT reviewed the many differing accounts from
three types of data presented in evidence (contemporary diplomatic and
journalistic reports; the very few official Indonesian government reports;
and accounts by participants, eyewitnesses and observers, typically con-
fined to one area or one incident) as well as scholarly attempts to analyse all
these data and reach a reliable estimate. The judges concurred with the as-
sessment made by Robert Cribb in 2001: ‘A scholarly consensus has settled
on a figure of 400–500,000, but the correct figure could be half or twice as
much …’ (IPT 2016, p. 40, citing Cribb 2001).
 The Indonesian massacres as genocide  217
Only through comprehensive and scientific nationwide research on the
extent of the mass murders could an estimate be reached that is closer to
the truth. The Indonesian state is the only actor able to organise or facili-
tate such a massive research project, but so far it has not shown any signs
that it might be inclined to carry out or approve of such an investigation.
To the contrary, governmental and military authorities have on a number
of occasions obstructed attempts to identify mass graves. This is in stark
contrast to other nations in which a genocide took place, such as Cambodia,
Germany, Rwanda, and Bangladesh, where serious efforts have been made
to reach reliable figures.3

Definition of genocide
The crime of genocide is defined in international law in the Convention on
the Prevention and Punishment of Genocide (known as the Genocide Con-
vention), which was adopted by the United Nations General Assembly on
9 December 1948 and entered into force on 12 January 1951. More than
130 nations (not including Indonesia) have ratified the Genocide Conven-
tion and over 70 nations (including Indonesia) have made provisions for the
punishment of genocide in their domestic criminal law. The text of Article II
of the Genocide Convention was included as a crime in Article 6 of the 1998
Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court.
Although the Convention came into force in 1951, it has rarely been in-
voked. Besides the political reasons, as stated above, such inaction is partly
due to the narrow definition of ‘genocide’ as a number of specified acts
committed with intent to destroy, in whole or in part, any of four groups—­
national, ethnic, racial, or religious (Article II and Article III).
The major controversy over the definition of genocide in the Indonesian
case centres on what is meant by ‘national group.’ Although it has most
often been interpreted to apply to national minorities, this is by no means
stipulated in the Genocide Convention, and a number of scholars and jurists
have argued that it should apply in cases of destruction in whole or part of
an entire national group. We argue below that this is so in the Indonesian
case, even if most victims were killed ostensibly because of their alleged
political beliefs.
How should ‘national group’ be defined in the Indonesian case? Robert
Cribb argues that the distinctions between the various groups in Indonesia
were not only along religious or ethnic lines, and often were blurred with
political values.

Indonesian national identity has always been defined in terms of be-

liefs and values … rather than in terms of ethnicity. The communists
and their enemies, in effect, sought to create very different kinds of
­I ndonesian identity for the peoples of the archipelago. In this re-
spect, the destruction of the communist version of the Indonesian
218  Helen Jarvis and Saskia E. Wieringa
identity has much more in common with the destruction of an ethnic
group than first appears.
(Cribb 2004)

Although religious and ethnic motives played a role in the Indonesian mass
murders, the part of the ‘national group’ that was destroyed after 1 ­October
1965 was more strongly characterised in political terms: communist and oth-
erwise leftist supporters of President Sukarno. But belonging to this group
had much wider implications than party allegiance alone. The ­Indonesian
term alíran literally meaning ‘stream’ comes closer. Identification with the
progressive–nationalist/communist stream brought with it certain cultural
practices, a liking for popular art (for instance, drum bands and popu-
lar theatre forms), dress codes, social mores (women’s emancipation), and
sociopolitical practices (demonstrations for land or labour rights). A dis-
tinguishing vocabulary was also developed, largely inspired by President
Sukarno, including terms such as ‘capitalist-bureaucrats’ (kabir) or ‘village
devils’ (setan desa).4
Ethnic motives played a role in mass killings of Chinese-Indonesian citi-
zens as well, particularly in Medan, Makassar, and Lombok, although most
Chinese were probably murdered because they belonged to the Baperki, an
association of Chinese Indonesians blamed for being aligned with the Com-
munist Party of Indonesia (PKI). To the extent that they were killed because
of their Chinese identity, their murders would plausibly amount to genocide
under the Genocide Convention. Religious motives were another factor, with
the PKI being deliberately branded as atheist (Wieringa & K ­ atjasungkana
2018). But political motives were overriding. The formulation ‘in whole or
in part’ is also relevant here. Perpetrators need not intend to destroy the
entire group, as was the intention of the Nazis in murdering Jewish people.
Destruction of only part of a group (such as its educated members) may also
constitute genocide.

Other criteria for genocide

The Indonesia 1965 case meets other threshold criteria, such as those stated
in Chalk and Jonassohn’s (1990) definition of genocide as a form of one-
sided mass killing in which a state or other authority intends to destroy a
group so defined by the perpetrator, or by another leading genocide scholar,
Helen Fein, who notes,

Genocide is a series of purposeful actions by a perpetrator(s) to destroy

a collectivity through mass or selective murders of group members and
suppressing the biological and social reproduction of the collectivity. …
The perpetrator may represent the state of the victim, another state, or
another collectivity.
(Fein 1993, p. 55)
 The Indonesian massacres as genocide  219
These considerations were indeed canvassed in the Introduction to the IPT
Researchers’ Report, prepared for the panel of judges and the prosecution,
which made the case ‘for the applicability of the concept of “genocide” for
the massacres following the “events of 1965” and also raised the possibility
that the killing of ethnic Chinese Indonesians could possibly amount to gen-
ocide under the Genocide Convention’ (IPT 2015, pp. 50, 53).
The research report also brought forward recent developments in regard
to the killings in Argentina in the 1970s, judged to be genocide by the ­Spanish
Judge Baltasar Garzón in November 1999. The Argentinian ­genocide
scholar Daniel Feierstein has also analysed the violence in Argentina as gen-
ocide in terms of an ideological battle with religious characteristics, given
the involvement of the Catholic Church and the genocidal regime’s concept
of belonging to western Christian civilization, and wanting to impose its
values on the whole society (Feierstein 2014). He argued that the use of ‘na-
tional group’ is applicable to Argentina because the perpetrators proposed
to destroy a specific structure of social relations with the aim of producing
a significant change that would alter the life of the entire society. Elsewhere
Feierstein has reasoned that the Genocide Convention includes the category
of ‘racial group’ based not on a positive discrimination between races but
on the imaginary construction of the concept of race as a metaphor for the
notion of ‘otherness’ (Feierstein 2012).
The research report extended this argument to Indonesia, arguing that

members of the PKI and their allies were ‘othered’ to the extent that
they were portrayed as atheist, devilish, hypersexual beings, out to de-
stroy the nation. Secondly, the existing social order was radically rede-
fined, implicating not only the present, but also the past (history was
rewritten) and the future (social justice was relegated to the sidelines of
the political imaginary). Further, PKI members were dehumanised; the
hammer-and-sickle was seen as an evil symbol (women prisoners were
routinely undressed and their bodies searched for a tattoo or brand of
this symbol on their buttocks).
(IPT 2015, p. 54)

The research report thus suggested that communists, members of the organ-
isations associated with the PKI, and other leftist supporters of President
Sukarno were targeted as a part of the Indonesian national group. Even
though they were not all physically destroyed (they numbered many mil-
lions), their cultural, social, and political existence was totally destroyed.
The mass killings, the propaganda that incited the murders and the climate
of hatred and fear created by the military and their allies changed the course
of Indonesian history. In the process, the pre-1965 history of the nation was
rewritten (Lane 2008). To this day, the dehumanising ‘othering’ of the survi-
vors of the genocide continues. The fear of a ‘communist revival’ is used to
smear human and women’s rights activists.5
220  Helen Jarvis and Saskia E. Wieringa
Leading up to the Tribunal, political tensions increased. Meetings with
the victims were forcibly disbanded by thugs belonging to anti-communist
militias, such as in Bukittinggi, West Sumatra, on 22 March 2015. On 2 July
of that year, members of various Muslim youth groups, including Ansor
(belonging to the largest Muslim mass organisation the NU), held a large
rally against what they called the PKI Gaya Baru (PKB) or ‘New Style Com-
munist Party’. They burned so called ‘PKI flags’ in Blitar, East Java (‘Ormas
Di Blitar’ 2015). In October 2015, an issue of the student journal Lentera
(vol. 14, no 1, 2015) was banned, and the seized issues burned (after which
it went online so it was read by many more people than any of the previous
issues). The volume was dedicated to the ‘events of 1965’ around Salatiga,
Central Java, the site of their university, and its motto was ‘reject deceit,
fight forgetting.’ Many other similar incidents of harassment took place,
including the widely reported arrest and subsequent deportation of IPT ac-
tivist Tom Ilyas, who wanted to visit the mass grave thought to contain the
remains of his father, killed in October 1965.6

Decision by the prosecution not to include the charge

of genocide in the indictment
In its Indictment presented to the Tribunal, the prosecution decided not to
include the count of genocide for two main reasons. Some members of the
team were reluctant to go beyond previous interpretations of the Genocide
Convention regarding the protected groups (national, religious, ethnic, and
racial), as they wished to avoid entering contested legal and juridical ter-
ritory. And a more compelling argument that stayed their hand was that,
as prosecutors for this highly sensitive Tribunal, they were already under
heavy attack, and if they included genocide their situation would become
even more difficult.

Genocide as considered by the panel of judges of the IPT

Nevertheless, the judges were formally seized with a request to consider the
charge of genocide when on 11 November 2015, during the IPT hearings, an
amicus curiae brief was submitted to them by Professor Dr Daniel Feierstein,
­Director of the Centre for Genocide Studies of the Universidad Nacional de
Tres de Febrero in Buenos Aires, and lawyer Ms Irene Victoria Massimino,
respectively, Director and member of the Sociological Consulting Group for
Complaints brought in the national justice system of Argentina for human rights
violations committed during the last military dictatorship (see the appendix).
The amicus curiae brief reviewed national jurisprudence in different
state crimes scenarios around the world applying the national group
interpretation of the Genocide Convention, and made the following
petition:
 The Indonesian massacres as genocide  221
In light of the case under consideration and the evidence presented,
we respectfully ask the Honourable Judges of the International Peo-
ple’s Tribunal to analyse such evidence to determine that the events of
the case at issue constitute genocide as the partial destruction of the
­Indonesian national group.

Given that the Prosecution had not included this charge in the Indictment,
and neither did the agenda for the four days of hearings in November allo-
cate time for presenting evidence on this question, the judges decided that
they were not in a position to consider this issue during their deliberations
at that time, but that they would do so in their Final Report.
The Final Report commenced discussion on this point by refuting the
argument that it is superfluous to qualify acts as genocide if they have al-
ready been found to constitute crimes against humanity, holding that such
a position fails not only to take account of the importance of calling things
by their correct name, but in so doing fails to provide a framework to com-
prehend the true nature of what took place in Indonesia in 1965–66 and
beyond. It took note of Daniel Feierstein’s view that

The big difference between genocide and crimes against humanity is

that the victims are not seen as part of a ‘national group’ but as in-
dividuals whose individual rights have been violated. This is the most
important legal difference between the concept of crimes against hu-
manity (which refers to indiscriminate actions against members of a
civilian population) and the concept of genocide (which refers to the
deliberate targeting of specific population groups for complete or par-
tial destruction).
(Feierstein 2012, pp. 4–5)

In coming to their findings on this matter, the judges asked a number of

questions, including the following:

1 Do the facts brought before the Tribunal by the Prosecution include acts
that fall within the provisions of the Genocide Convention?
The Tribunal found that a number of acts defined in the Genocide
Convention had been committed against alleged leaders of the PKI
and those alleged to be its members or sympathisers, as well as a much
broader number of people including Sukarno loyalists, trade unionists
and teachers, and specifically against people of ethnic Chinese or mixed
descent.
2 Were these acts committed against a protected group as enumerated in the
Genocide Convention? and
3 Were these acts against a protected group committed with the specific in-
tent to destroy that group in whole or in part?
222  Helen Jarvis and Saskia E. Wieringa
i The Indonesian national group
The Final Report took into its consideration the original concept
of genocide developed by Raphael Lemkin that genocide, in es-
sence, is ‘the destruction of the national identity of the oppressed
group [and] the imposition of the national identity of the oppres-
sor’ (1944, p. 79).
It noted the recent prosecutions and convictions in Spain and in
Argentina, where crimes committed by the Argentine military dic-
tatorships during the 1970s and 1980s were found to constitute geno-
cide in 25 cases heard in 11 different tribunals up until the time of the
IPT’s hearings in November 2015.
Particular relevance was given to the judgements issued in 2006
by the Federal Tribunal 1 of the city of La Plata (Case No. 2251/06),
in 2013 by the Federal Tribunal 1 of the city of Rosario (Case No.
95/2010, ruling on 20/12/2013) and most recently in 2015 again by the
Federal Tribunal 1 of the city of La Plata (Case No. 17/2012, ruling
on 19/10/2015), which includes the following:

… it is clear that the Argentine national group has been wiped

out ‘in part’ and in a part substantial enough to alter the so-
cial relations within the nation itself …. The annihilation in
­Argentina was not spontaneous, it was not casual, it was not ir-
rational: it was the systematic destruction of a ‘substantial part’
of the ­Argentine national group, destined to transform it, to
redefine its way of being, its social relationships, its destiny, its
future.

The Final Report concluded that the Prosecution had indeed demon-
strated the extent to which Indonesian society was completely and
intentionally reorganised through terror and the destruction of a sig-
nificant part of the Indonesian national group, namely ‘the PKI and
those alleged to be its members or sympathisers, as well as a much
broader number of people including Sukarno loyalists, trade union-
ists and teachers.’
ii The Chinese ethnic group
The Tribunal considered the argument advanced in the IPT ­Research
Report that ‘to the extent that they were killed because of their Chi-
nese identity, their murders would plausibly amount to genocide un-
der the Genocide Convention’ (IPT 2015, Part 1, p. 53) together with
the detailed examination carried out by Jemma Purdey (2006) as well
as Jess Melvin’s research in Aceh, which uncovered events of mass
killings of Chinese in that province, indicating that members of the
Chinese community were targeted through three distinct waves of vi-
olence. Melvin (2013, 2018) proposed that the violence that occurred
 The Indonesian massacres as genocide  223
against the Chinese community in Aceh at this time can and should
be classified as genocide.
In deciding whether to reach a finding of genocide on either or both
of the above-mentioned groups, the judges took notice of the recent
reflection by Robert Cribb on the fact that denial of intent, in par-
ticular the lack of a specifically outlined plan, has been used in what
he calls ‘hyper-scepticism’ as a means to deny attributing the label of
genocide to situations such as Armenia and Indonesia. Cribb argues
that the qualification of acts must be analysed through contextualis-
ation. In the case of Armenia, the context of a supposed civil war has
been used to deny the qualification of genocide to the acts; while simi-
larly in Indonesia the context was crafted of a ‘malicious fantasy’ that
the PKI had embarked on planned massacres and a seizure of state
power, a scenario bolstered by revival of the memory of the alleged
role of the PKI in Madiun in 1948 (Cribb 2015).
The judges accepted that there is no basis in fact for the asser-
tion that the acts were committed in a context of the need to ‘kill
or be killed.’ On the contrary, the very small-scale rebellions insti-
gated by the G30S group had mostly collapsed within several days,
and only sporadic resistance to the massacres occurred (IPT 2015
pp. 104–12).
On the basis of the above considerations, the IPT judges made the
following finding:

Genocide—The facts brought before the Tribunal by the Pros-

ecution include acts that fall within those enumerated in the
Genocide Convention. These acts were committed against a
significant and substantial section of the Indonesian nation or
‘Indonesian national group’, a protected group as enumerated
in the Genocide Convention, and were committed with the spe-
cific intent to annihilate or destroy that section in whole or in
part. This possibly applies also to crimes committed against
the Chinese ethnic minority group. The State of Indonesia is
bound by the provisions of the 1948 Genocide Convention un-
der international customary law.
(IPT 2015 p. 83)

Reaction to the IPT finding of genocide

Of all the findings by the IPT panel of judges, two attracted the most re-
action, as succinctly headlined in the 21 July 2016 Jakarta Post, ‘Indonesia
denies foreign involvement, genocide in 1965 communist purge,’ reporting
the response by Indonesia’s then Coordinating Minister for Political, Legal
and Security Affairs, Luhut Binsar Pandjaitan (Sapiie 2016).
224  Helen Jarvis and Saskia E. Wieringa
Such an outright rejection of the IPT’s finding of genocide was to be
expected, in view of the reluctance to invoke this highly sensitive qualifi-
cation of the crimes. Indeed, as discussed above, apprehension about such
a reaction was one reason that dissuaded the prosecutors from including
genocide in their Indictment. An enormous body of literature has been
penned on the reasons why the Genocide Convention was not activated for
50 years after its adoption. These include political factors, as in the cases of
Indonesia, Bangladesh, and Cambodia, as raised above, as well as difficul-
ties in implementing it, especially in proving the specific intent to destroy
a protected group in whole or in part, and many different opinions have
been voiced concerning the narrow list of protected groups enumerated in
the Convention and the even narrower interpretations that have been given
to this list (for example, Schabas 2000; Totten & Parsons 2013; Jones 2017).

Conclusion
The IPT 1965’s finding of genocide for the massacres in Indonesia in 1965
and beyond is the first time such a quasi-judicial institution has come to
this conclusion, and it therefore carries more weight than pronouncements
of individual researchers. But it will still be a long process until an official
national or international tribunal or a more formal human rights body will
have issued a similar statement or resolution on this issue.
This process is now under way. The Foundation IPT 1965 has submit-
ted a report to the Universal Periodic Review (UPR) of the United Human
Rights Council (UNHRC), at which Indonesia’s progress on human rights
was discussed in May 2017. The Foundation IPT 1965 submission included
28 recommendations, echoing and going beyond those made in the IPT’s
Final Report, as discussed in the introductory chapter of this anthology.
Unfortunately, the issue was not mentioned in the concluding document.
Lobbying of other states parties is continuing: they are being informed of
the results of the Tribunal.
The IPT’s qualification of the Indonesian genocide is relevant to the UPR
as Indonesia acceded to the International Covenant on Civil and Political
Rights (ICCPR) in 2006. This Covenant, supervised by the UN Human
Rights Committee, is concerned with the right to life, the prohibition of tor-
ture and other civil and political rights. In 2013 Indonesia submitted its first
report. In its Concluding Observations on that report the HRC required the
immediate attention of the Indonesian State for four issues, including im-
punity for past human rights violations. Indonesia was requested to report
back within one year on progress made, but that report has not yet been
submitted. Although these human right violations were committed prior
to the date of Indonesia’s accession to the ICCPR, the HRC considers that
unresolved prior violations constitute ongoing, continuing violations of hu-
man rights (Human Rights Committee 2013).
 The Indonesian massacres as genocide  225
The ICCPR stipulates that States are obliged to investigate gross human
rights violations, prosecute and punish the perpetrators if found guilty in
a fair trial and to provide reparations for the victims. These obligations
clearly apply to the violations committed on and after 1 ­October 1965.
Under the ICCPR international action also must be taken. Genocide is
a crime which under jus cogens is so serious that it is the obligation of the
international community to adequately deal with it. Thus the genocide and
other violations against human rights in Indonesia after 1 October 1965 can
be tried also by foreign or international penal tribunals—if a national tri-
bunal proves unlikely. This may not happen any time soon, though, as In-
donesia is a rich and huge country that few states would like to antagonise.
The IPT 1965 therefore aims to achieve, by using international channels, to
support the demands of the victims for Indonesia to accepts its obligations
under international customary law to investigate the genocide committed
on its territory in 1965–66, to prosecute the perpetrators and to provide
compensation.
That will not be easy. Immediately after the hearings then Coordinat-
ing Political, Legal and Security Affairs Minister Luhut Pandjaitan told the
press that Indonesia had its own legal system and that no external party
could dictate the way it solved its problems and that the government would
not bow to the IPT 1965s recommendations. ‘Our country is a great nation.
We acknowledge and we will resolve this problem [the 1965 tragedy] in our
way and through universal values’ (Perry 2016).
Rights activists in those first months after the hearings were hopeful the
verdict would push President Joko Widodo’s administration to formally ac-
knowledge the atrocities, including the genocide. Yet, as discussed in the
introductory chapter, the two symposia on the 1965 events that took place
after the hearings of the Tribunal have not brought the recognition that a
genocide took place in 1965 after the actions of the 30 September Movement
any nearer. The mandate of the National Reconciliation Council installed
in January 2017 is so far very unclear. But it is feared that the push for rec-
onciliation via non-judicial means may not involve a process of truth finding
and the recognition of the Indonesian genocide

Appendix
Amicus curiae Brief submitted by Professor Dr Daniel Feierstein, Di-
rector of the Centre for Genocide Studies of the Universidad Nacional
de Tres de Febrero in Buenos Aires, and lawyer Ms Irene Victoria Mas-
simino, respectively, Director and member of the Sociological Con-
sulting Group for Complaints brought in the national justice system of
Argentina for human rights violations committed during the last military
dictatorship.
226  Helen Jarvis and Saskia E. Wieringa
Appendix—Amicus curiae
UNIVERSIDAD NACIONAL
DE TRES DE FEBRERO

Honourable Judges
International People’s Tribunal on Crimes Against Humanity in
Indonesia 1965
The Hague
Reference: 1965 Crimes Against Humanity in Indonesia

Amicus Brief
Introduction

1 This amicus curiae is respectfully directed to the International People’s

Tribunal on Crimes Against Humanity in Indonesia 1965 [IPT] to be
held in The Hague, Netherlands, 10–13 November 2015.
2 Introducing this Amicus regarding the case of reference.
3 This Amicus was conducted by Dr Daniel Feierstein, PhD in Social
Sciences, and Irene Victoria Massimino, lawyer; both Argentine schol-
ars and, respectively, director and member of the Sociological Con-
sulting Group for Complaints brought in the national justice system of
Argentina for human rights violations committed during the last mili-
tary dictatorship.
4 Legitimacy to present an Amicus Brief:
Amicus briefs are internationally considered a tool essential to the pro-
tection of human rights within global and regional human rights sys-
tems. The value of Amicus briefs has been reaffirmed several times, in
accordance with the President of the International Court of Justice,

In the system governed by common law countries, the amicus cu-

riae has acted as an institution that provides useful information to
Parliament, it allows private parties not to engage in litigation in
court to express their views and effects likely the results may cause
them and, above all, it has served as a means of integration and to
confer the authority and ability to resolve conflicts by courts.7

Within the universal system of human rights protection, General Obser-

vation No. 2 (2002) of 15 November 2002, issued by the United ­Nations
Committee on the Rights of the Child, states that national human rights
institutions should ‘[p]rovide expertise in children’s rights to the courts,
in suitable cases as amicus curiae or intervenor.’8
Moreover, the European System of Human Rights has also accepted
the legal figure of Amicus briefs within the European Convention of
­Human Rights’ Article 36, under Third Party Intervention, which states:
 The Indonesian massacres as genocide  227
1. In all cases before a Chamber or the Grand Chamber, a High
Contracting Party one of whose nationals is an applicant shall have
the right to submit written comments and to take part in hearings.
2. The President of the Court may, in the interest of the proper ad-
ministration of justice, invite any High Contracting Party which is
not a party to the proceedings or any person concerned who is not
the applicant, to submit written comments or take part in hearings.

Additionally, Rule 1 (q) of the ECHR Rules of Court of the European

Court of Human Rights, defines the expression ‘third party’ which

[m]eans any Contracting Party or any person concerned or the

Council of Europe Commissioner for Human Rights who, as pro-
vided for in Article 36 ¶¶ 1, 2 and 3 of the Convention [and in A
­ rticle
3 of Protocol No. 16, has] exercised the right to submit written com-
ments and take part in a hearing, or has been invited to do so.9

Finally, the Inter-American System of Human Rights also incorporates

the possibility of introducing amicus curiae within many instances in tri-
als. ­Article 2.3 of the Rules of Procedure of the Inter-American Court of
­Human Rights gives us a clear definition of this legal figure, establishing

[t]he expression ‘amicus curiae’ refers to the person or institution

who is unrelated to the case and to the proceeding and submits to
the Court reasoned arguments on the facts contained in the pres-
entation of the case or legal considerations on the subject-matter of
the proceedings by means of a document or an argument presented
at a hearing.10

Furthermore, Article 44 (also referring to Article 28 of the same legal

body), on the arguments of amicus curiae, establishes the formalities
individuals or entities must fulfil in order to present such documents:

1.  Any person or institution seeking to act as amicus curiae may

submit a brief to the Court, together with its annexes, by any of the
means established in Article 28 (1) of these Rules of Procedure, in
the working language of the case and bearing the names and signa-
tures of its authors.11

Thus, it can be affirmed that amicus curiae constitute an important ele-

ment in providing evidence to courts concerning the interpretation and
application of international treaties on human rights matters.

5 Upon the decision to be made by the [IPT] in the case under consideration,
the authors of this Amicus try to limit their comments to the following is-
sue: National jurisprudence applying the national group interpretation
in different State Crime Scenarios around the world.
228  Helen Jarvis and Saskia E. Wieringa
National jurisprudence
a   Argentina
Due to the gross human rights violations committed during ­Argentina’s
last dictatorship (1976–1983), on 2 November 1998, the Spanish Judge
­Baltazar Garzón, in a case initiated under the universal jurisdiction
principle to persecute crimes of torture, genocide, and terrorism com-
mitted during such time, first defined those violations as ‘genocide’ by
using the concept of ‘partial elimination of the the national group.’

… characterizing national group is perfectly valid to analyse the

events in Argentina, since the perpetrators intended to destroy the
social fabric in a State to produce a change which is substantial
enough to alter the life of the whole ….

Following this interpretation and after the re-opening of the trials for
the human rights violations committed during the above-mentioned
dictatorship, many12 Argentine Federal Courts in charge of carrying
the cases, have broadly accepted that what had occurred in Argentina
constituted genocide.
Thus, the first case to be decided within this new justice, memory
and truth process ruled for the recognition of the facts as genocide. The
decision was made in 2006 by the Federal Tribunal 1 of the city of La
Plata and stated:

This new wording [of the Genocide Convention] shows that both
political groups and political motivations were excluded from the
new definition. From there, and especially regarding what hap-
pened in our country during the military dictatorship started in
1976, an interesting question was opened to determine whether the
tens of thousands of victims of state terrorism integrate or not the so-
called “national group” referred to by the Convention. I understand
the affirmative answer imposes itself, and that there is no impediment
to the categorization of genocide regarding the events in our country
in the period in question, besides the legal qualification given in this
case to those facts for the purposes of imposing a conviction and
sentence. The foregoing statement derives from the analysis that
follows and is the result of using elementary logic. In the judgment
of the historical Trial against the Military Juntas, a system of mass
destruction orchestrated by those who called themselves “National
Reorganization Process” were proven. Thus, in that case (13/84),
where former members of the military junta were convicted, it was
stated: “The system put into practice – kidnapping, interrogation
under torture, secrecy and illegitimate deprivation of liberty and,
in many cases, elimination of victims – was substantially the same
throughout the territory of the Nation and prolonged in time.”
 The Indonesian massacres as genocide  229
To cite another relevant and more recent example, we have included the
provisions of the Federal Tribunal 1 of the city of Rosario in the judge-
ment of the case Guerrieri 2013, where it was stated:

… according to another position, which is supported, a ‘national

group’ is any population group that maintains a legal relationship with
the Federal Government it inhabits, due to the mere fact of inhabiting
this territory, certain rights and obligations are born, which are a legal
expression of a social fact of pertinence and linkage to the National
State, as the International Court of Justice has established in the
cases “Nottebohm” or “Liechtenstein vs. Guatemala” (06.04.1955),
thus giving prominence to the right arising from residence or domi-
cile (ius domicilii) over blood or birthplace (ius sanguinis or ius soli)
(…). Then, following this line of argument, we consider that the term
national group of art. 2 of the Convention is relevant to describe the
facts of the case, if we consider that the Argentine national group was
exterminated “in part” (CFME art.2, Convention; … “In whole or in
part”) and – as Feierstein says – “in a part that is substantial enough
to alter the social relations within the nation itself,” which he socio-
logically describes as reorganizing genocide.
(Feierstein, D. (2014) Genocide as Social Practice,
NJ: Rutgers University Press, p. 51 of
the Spanish version, published in 2007)

In the most recent case decided by Federal Tribunal 1 of the city of La

Plata—which was the first tribunal to recognise, in 2006, the existence
of genocide during the last civic-military dictatorship in Argentina—
the opinion of the president elaborates further on genocide as partial
elimination of the national group in the Argentine case. It is stated in
his opinion:

[a]s appears from the verdict handed down, the accused Gomez
Pola and Bracken, were sentenced for complicity in genocide dur-
ing the last civic-military dictatorship (1976-1983) for taking part in
the killing of members of a national group, and in causing serious
bodily or mental harm to members of the group and deliberately
inflicting on the group conditions of life calculated to have brought
about its physical destruction in whole or in part …

After a review of the historical background and quoting the first draft
of the Convention which included ‘political group,’ the President of the
Tribunal goes on to say:

From there, and especially considering what happened in our coun-

try during the military dictatorship that began in 1976, an interesting
230  Helen Jarvis and Saskia E. Wieringa
question is posed as to whether the tens of thousands of victims of
that state terrorism do or do not fall within the so-called ‘national
group’ of the referred Convention. As noted in the aforementioned
case 2251/06, I understand that an affirmative response is imposed
because the events in our country in the period in question must be
categorized as genocide.

He continues to say that the systematic intentional plan to reorganise

the nation was already proven in the first trial of the military juntas:

In case 13/84, where former members of the military juntas were con-
victed, stated, ‘The system put in practice – of kidnappings, inter-
rogations under torture, clandestine and illegitimate deprivation of
liberty and, in many cases, elimination of the victims – was substan-
tially the same throughout the territory of the Nation and prolonged
in time.’ … This description given by the Court in that judgment and
others related to that matter recorded there and those later developed
in case 44 in which Etchecolatz was sentenced for 91 cases of torture,
marked the beginning of a formal, thorough and official recognition
of the plan of extermination carried out by those who ran the coun-
try at that time and in which, as seen when analysing accountabil-
ity, those convicted here had a specific role. It is precisely from that
acceptance of both the facts and the responsibility of the Argentine
State, where, in my opinion, the process of ‘truth production’ begins,
without which there would only be setbacks and impunity.

Further on his analysis of the importance of the law as a producer of

truth, as affirmed by Michel Foucault, President of the Tribunal Judge
Rozanski goes on explaining that the concept of national group has a
necessary application to the Argentine case.

As to whether what happened in our country should be framed in the

concept of ‘national group’, as in the version that finally emerged in
art. II of the Convention, an affirmative response was anticipated,
which also appears as obvious in the drafting of today’s judgement.

He bases his affirmative response quoting the works done by two prom-
inent Argentine sociologists—Daniel Feierstein and Guillermo Levy—
on the subject.

The characterization of ‘national group’ is perfectly valid to analyse

the events in Argentina, since the perpetrators intended to destroy
a certain fabric of social relations in a state to produce a change
substantial enough to alter the life of the whole. Given the inclusion
of ‘in whole or in part’ in the definition of the 1948 Convention, it is
 The Indonesian massacres as genocide  231
clear that the Argentine national group has been wiped out ‘in part’
and in a part substantial enough to alter the social relations within
the nation itself … The annihilation in Argentina was not sponta-
neous, it was not casual, it was not irrational: it was the systematic
destruction of a ‘substantial part’ of the Argentine national group,
destined to transform it, to redefine its way of being, its social rela-
tions, its destiny, its future.
(op cit p. 76)

To conclude, in his opinion, the president of the tribunal also points out
the differences existing amongst genocides committed globally and the
Argentine one and sets the common ground on the existence of a logic
and technology of power.

I understand that, from everything highlighted, it becomes irref-

utable that we are not, as anticipated, facing a mere succession
of crimes but something significantly more, something that can
appropriately be called ‘genocide.’ But is clear that this cannot
and should not be constructed as contempt of the important dif-
ferences between what happened in Argentina and the extermi-
nations of the Armenian people (over a million- first genocide of
the twentieth century starting in 1915), of the millions of victims
of Nazism during the Second World War or of the massacre in
Rwanda of a million people in 1994, to cite a few notable exam-
ples. … This is not, as was also stated in case 2251/06, a com-
petition about which people suffered more or what community
has more victims. It is about giving the right name to phenomena
that, even with contextual differences and occurring in different
times and spaces, record similarities that should be recognised.
Because, as Feierstein concludes, giving the reasons why different
historical processes can be called in the same way “… using the
same concept implies postulating the existence of a connecting
thread that refers to a technology of power in which the ‘negation
of the other’ reaches its breaking point: its material (that of its
body) and symbolic (the memory of its existence) disappearances.

b    Colombia
Colombia’s internal conflict of over 50 years—the longest in the
Americas—has brought many cases for crimes against humanity,
genocide and other human rights violations within its internal legal
system. Regarding the connection between genocide and the principle
of equality, Colombia’s Constitutional Court has made some impor-
tant advances within its rulings. Two of the most relevant examples
are the following.
232  Helen Jarvis and Saskia E. Wieringa
The Constitutional Court, in its judgement C-177/01, analysing article
101 of the Colombian Criminal Code, which punishes and defines the
crime of genocide as in the Genocide Convention but with the inclusion
of political groups, declared unconstitutional the phrase ‘acting within
the scope of the law,’ referred to the groups targeted. The arguments
used by the Court are based precisely in the hierarchy of the principle
of equality before the law. Indeed, the Court concluded:

The guarantee of human dignity and the right to life and personal
integrity does not admit differentiation of treatment according to
the legality of the actions taken by the subjects under protection,
because its entails a blatant transgression of superior values con-
stitutionally proclaimed in the Preamble such as human dignity,
life, integrity, coexistence, justice and equality, also positively pro-
claimed an inalienable and inviolable rights within Articles 1, 2, 11,
12 and 13 of the Political Constitution, […]. which, […], means that
they do not allow any restrictions or limitations ….

Consequently, any interpretation that excludes groups or individuals

should be struckout as unconstitutional, for violation of the principle
of equality before the law enshrined constitutionally, as has been estab-
lished by Colombia’s Constitutional Court in Judgement C-177/01.
Moreover, in its Judgement C-148/05, the Constitutional Court,
referring to the legal rights protected by the legislation on genocide,
affirmed

[t]he right that is seeking legal protection by penalizing genocide, is

not only life and integrity but the right to the very existence of hu-
man groups, without restricting that right to the existence by its na-
tionality, race, religious or political beliefs. Moreover, that the crime
of genocide involves a special intentional element, which is the par-
tial or total destruction of the human group concerned. Such specific
right and such equally specific intent, mean that in the same manner
not every racist attack can be regarded as genocide, not all bodily
or mental harm to members of the group can be classified as such.13

Following these rulings and concerning the crushing of the political

party ‘Unión and Patriótica,’14 Colombian national courts have also
recognised the existence of genocide through a broad interpretation of
the Genocide Convention in light of the principle of equality.
In its judgement of 30 October 2013, in the case brought against Her-
bert Veloza Garcia, alias HH, commander of the Banana Bloc of the
AUC,15 the Superior Court of Bogotá in the Justice and Peace Chamber,
in relation to the concept of group, determined:
 The Indonesian massacres as genocide  233
if the universal principle of equality before the law is analyzed in
deep, it is abundantly clear that genocide follows a systematic ac-
tion against a group of people who have built or profess or preach
a certain set of principles and values aimed at claiming an ideol-
ogy or identity, whether around a political ideal, sexual orientation,
gender characteristics, age, etc.

The Court, in an analysis of incalculable value, went on to say:

to clarify a bit on the interpretation of the international crime of

genocide, the Chamber will take into consideration the following
assumptions: (i) the crime of genocide in its systematic and univer-
salist sense cannot include some individuals or groups and exclude
others. Accepting the wording of the Convention as excluding po-
litical groups, gender, sexual identity, disability, economic, social,
linguistic or others, is an open door to the growing trends of in-
stilling a criminal law of the enemy, by accepting that crimes may
be differentiated depending on the victims they affect, violating
the fundamental legal principles of equality before the law; (ii) it
is unreasonable in a transitional justice process such as the Co-
lombian one, trying to exclude from analysis and study a genocide
such as that against the Patriotic Union, because what is at issue is
to produce historical memory and to seek truth of the crimes com-
mitted in the context of the Colombia armed conflict to ensure
preventing the repetition of such acts; […].

Hence, Colombia has also advanced with the implementation of the

crime of genocide. And this progress is due not only to the inclusion of
this figure as a crime under the Penal Code, for it was expanded not only
to include political groups, but also, due to the interpretations made by
the Constitutional Court and by the Superior Court of Bogotá, to the
definition of group and the principle of equality before the law.

6 Petition:
In light of the case under consideration and the evidence presented, we
respectfully ask the Honourable Judges of the International People’s
Tribunal to analyse such evidence to determine that the events of the
case at issue constitute genocide as the partial destruction of the Indo-
nesian national group.

Signed:

Dr Daniel Feierstein
Irene Victoria Massimino
234  Helen Jarvis and Saskia E. Wieringa
Notes
1 Helen Jarvis was a member of the Panel of Judges of the Tribunal on the 1965
mass crimes against humanity in Indonesia and responsible (with John Gittings)
for co-editing the Final Report, including the section on genocide. Saskia E.
Wieringa was the research co-ordinator and wrote the sections on genocide for
the research report.
2 See also, the official website of the ECCC, <www.eccc.gov.kh/en>, accessed 20
March 2017.
3 There is abundant literature on the German Holocaust, for an overview, see
­Liddell Hart (2015). The total number of victims of the Second World War is
commonly set at 60 million, see McMahon (2003). Useful reviews on other gen-
ocides can be found in Meierhenrich (2014) and Totten and Parsons (2013).
4 For the ideology... the ideology of the time, Mortimer (1974); for women’s eman-
cipation Wieringa (2002), and for the relation of hegemony and language in In-
donesia, van Langenberg (1990).
5 This is a conscious strategy of the army. Personnel are trained to perceive the
‘threat of the New Style Communism in Indonesia, the title of a module of the Doc-
trine Guidance Command, Education and Training of the Indonesian National
Army, which was circulated via Whatsapp in February 2017. Stalin, Hitler and
Mao Zedong are lumped together as socialist- communist dictators in the Power-
point presentation of this module. It asserted that this ‘New Style Communism’
uses the ‘soft power’ of media and religion, ‘hiding behind the struggle for democ-
racy and human rights’. See also Wieringa and Katjasungkana (2018).
6 See for these and other incidents prior to the hearings in November 2015 the IPT
Narrative Report, pp. 38–40.
7 ICJ hearings, Legal Consequences for States with permanent presence in
­Namibia notwithstanding Res. 276 (1970) vol. II at 636–37 [of the] Security
Council. The editors have been unable to verify this quotation and reference
provided in the amicus curiae brief..
8 GENERAL COMMENT No. 2 (2002) ‘The role of independent national human
rights institutions in the promotion and protection of the rights of the child,’
CRC/GC/2002/2, 15 November 2002.
9 Rules of Court, 1 June 2015.
10 Approved by the Court during its LXXXV Regular Period of Sessions, held
from November 16 to 28, 2009.
11 Ibid.
12 Up until 31 December 2015, the qualification of these crimes as Genocide has
been accepted in 25 cases in 11 different tribunals (in total about 20% and in-
creasing in number).
13 Constitutional claim brought against the expressions: ‘serious,’ contained in
paragraph 1 of Article 101 and ‘serious’ (plural in Spanish), contained in Articles
137 and 178 of Law 599 of 2000 ‘by which the Criminal Code is issued.’
14 Union Patriotica (UP) was a left wing political party formed mainly by former gue-
rilla members (demobilized groups and members of the FARC-EP and ELN). The
UP was created in 1985 and exterminated, along with its sympathizers, by the 1990s.
15 Autodefensas Unidas de Colombia.

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Epilogue
The way forward
Bradley Simpson

More than 20 years after the resignation of Indonesian President Suharto

in 1998, and more than 50 years after he ascended to power amidst an
­Army-sponsored campaign of mass killing in 1965–66, the movement for
justice and accountability in Indonesia continues to grow. The International
People’s Tribunal for 1965 (IPT 1965) is an important way station on this
path, but it is hardly the end.
The essays in this important collection are a testimony to the confluence
of three interrelated phenomenon: scholarship, activism, and the maturing
of the international transitional justice movement. For decades, scholars
researching the events of 30 September 1965 and the massacres, imprison-
ment, and torture that followed faced daunting challenges in simply recon-
structing the events of the period in their full complexity. This author, who
wrote a book on US-Indonesian relations more than a decade ago which
centres on these events (Economists with Guns: Authoritarian Development
and U.S.-Indonesian Relations, 1960–1968) confronted a paucity of first-
hand Indonesian accounts of the mass killings, still-classified Western
government documents, and the near-complete absence of Indonesian gov-
ernment sources. These gaps posed challenges to scholars seeking to answer
fundamental questions about the nature and organisation of the killings,
the level of Indonesian state responsibility for them, and the experiences of
survivors and victims.
In the last decade, a younger generation of scholars and activists, many
of them Indonesian, has built on the pioneering work of Saskia Wieringa,
Robert Cribb, and others to produce far more rich and detailed accounts of
the 1965–66 killings and their aftermath. The painstaking reconstruction
of the divergent regional and local dynamics of the killings, particularly
through oral histories of witnesses, participants, and survivors, has been
especially important. This new scholarship has enabled examination of cru-
cial questions growing out of the mandate of the IPT 1965, in particular
whether or not the mass killings meet the legal threshold for genocide, as
Jess Melvin suggests, and whether the nature and scope of sexual violence
and torture rise to the level of state crimes. Providing more empirically rich
and robust answers to these questions has in turn enabled scholars to place
238  Bradley Simpson
the 1965–66 killings in a broader comparative context, both in terms of the
killings themselves and in terms of the justice and accountability mecha-
nisms pursued by survivors and activists.
New scholarship both builds on and reinforces the work of a generation of
activists who, since 1998, have insisted upon a fundamental re-examination
of Indonesia’s official accounts of the 1965–66 killings, the acknowledge-
ment of the injustice inflicted upon its victims, and an official truth-seeking
and accountability process. While Indonesian human rights organisations
have played a crucial role, victims and survivor groups have shouldered
much of the political risk, displaying astonishing bravery and perseverance
in the face of government indifference or hostility, attacks and threats from
‘anti-communist’, Muslim, and military, and paramilitary groups deter-
mined to silence them. One of the most important functions of the IPT 1965
hearings held in The Hague was to provide an opportunity for witnesses
and survivors of the mass killings to tell their stories in a setting that ele-
vated and validated their experiences as events of international, rather than
merely personal, significance. Many Indonesian witnesses gave harrowing
accounts of murder, torture, rape, and other crimes, and the dignity and
passion with which they spoke, more than 50 years later, hints at the trauma
carried by millions of others who lived through these events. Indonesian
activists face continued resistance to their demands for official acknowl-
edgement of state responsibility and accountability for the 1965–66 killings,
including from the current Indonesian President, Joko Widodo, who feels
threatened by Muslim parties and organisations that view their role in the
killings as a source of pride or political legitimacy. The IPT 1965 process
and report, however, has established a historical record that will further
bolster calls for a genuine official truth-seeking and accountability process.
Finally, the IPT 1965 joins a stream of transitional justice initiatives that
have become more widely accepted features of post-authoritarian govern-
ance. Such initiatives in Indonesia have often provoked enormous hostility,
as the reaction to the 2012 Komnas HAM report on the 1965–66 killings,
and the IPT 1965 itself illustrates. Local efforts sometimes have proven
more successful, but without official acknowledgement by the national gov-
ernment, their impact is necessarily limited. The authors refrain from exces-
sive optimism about the prospects for the kind of official truth-seeking and
accountability by the Indonesian government which the IPT 1965 process
and Final Report recommend, but they are hopeful that these initiatives
will bolster the efforts of survivors and activists whose work will ultimately
determine their fate.
Many of the survivors and perpetrators of the mass killings of 1965–66
are long dead, and it is easy to be pessimistic about the prospects for genu-
ine accountability. But the experience of other post-authoritarian societies
such as Chile, Argentina, Cambodia, and Rwanda, to name just a few, sug-
gests that legal accountability for mass violence and human rights abuses
alone is insufficient. Equally, perhaps even more important, are the means
 Epilogue  239
by which post-authoritarian societies publicly reckon with the past, incor-
porate these new reckonings into public discourse and culture, and ensure
their transmission to future generations through education. This is a gener-
ational process, and one whose results may not be readily apparent until the
diffusion of new norms and understandings of the past reach a critical mass.
Here too the landscape in Indonesia is daunting, but hopeful. The work of
the IPT 1965 has established a historical and legal record that will make an
important contribution both to efforts to establish legal accountability for
the 1965–66 killings and their aftermath, as well to the reimagining of one
of the most important moments in Indonesian history.
Index
1 October 1965, events of 9–12, 24, 31,
36, 44, 46–51, 53, 55–56, 160–61, 170,
198, 225
30 September Movement (G30S:
Gerakan 30 September) 9–11, 22,
45–51, 56, 83, 136, 138, 143, 161, 170,
173n10, 180, 210, 225
Aceh 1, 10–11, 31, 46, 50–56, 57n13, 64,
68–70, 81, 92, 140, 167, 222–23
‘Act of Killing’ 6, 24, 152n11, 198, 204,
216; see also Joshua Oppenheimer
Action Front for Crushing the 30
September Movement (KAP
GESTAPU) 166
ad-hoc detention facilities see detention
Afro-Asian Peoples Solidarity
Organisation 118
AGO (Attorney General’s Office) 5–6,
8, 24, 26, 71, 82, 85–86, 90, 109n2,
185–86
Aidit, D.N. 9–10, 15n7, 121, 124, 164
AJAR (Asia Justice and Rights) 60–61,
66, 74, 75n1
Akayesu, Jean-Paul 216; see also ICTR;
Rwanda
Albania 117, 123, 125, 128, 132n18,
132n27
Alor Island 26, 140
Ambarawa Prison, Central Java 208; see
also detention
Amnesty International 38n4, 84, 86, 127
Amsterdam 28
Ancol 86; see also Buru Island
Anderson, Benedict R.O’G. 10, 161
‘annihilation campaign’ 11, 44, 46,
51–56, 164; see also genocide
Ansor 30, 140, 145, 220; see also NU
Anti-Communist Forum (FAKI: Forum
Anti Komunis Indonesia) 30; see also
Anti-Communist groups
Anti-Communist groups 30–31, 34,
57n7, 66, 73–74, 125, 148, 160–66,
169, 206, 220, 238
apology, state 1, 73, 130, 144, 206
Argentina 219–220, 222, 225–26,
228–31, 238
Armed Forces Day 161
Armenia 223, 231
Army 1, 9–12, 29, 33–34, 38, 44–56,
63, 73, 82–83, 85, 87, 89–90, 103–05,
107, 136–38, 141, 143, 146, 151,
152n13, 157–67, 170–72, 173n14,
173n16, 174n24, 175n40, 185, 188–92,
198, 205, 208, 234n5, 237; see also
Indonesian National Army (TNI:
Tentara Nastional Indonesia)
Army Strategic Reserve Command
(Kostrad: Komando Cadangan
Strategis Angkatan Darat) 9, 45, 47,
49, 51, 55–56, 190
arrests of suspected Communists 9–12,
54, 60–62, 64, 66–67, 73, 76n4, 83,
85, 89, 104–5, 127, 138, 149, 163, 170,
172n1, 179, 181, 185, 188, 190, 205,
208, 210, 220
artists 12, 85, 187, 209
Arto, Soegih, former Attorney General
85–86
Asia Africa Research Institute in
Beijing 123
Asian Financial Crisis 213
Asia Justice and Rights (AJAR) see
AJAR
asylum, political 12, 76n6, 124, 127–28
Atauro Island 92; see also detention
242 Index
Atheism 11–12, 137, 143, 205, 218–19;
see also propaganda
Attorney General see AGO
Australia 3, 207, 210; Australia,
complicity 157–58, 160–72; Australia,
concerns about communism in
Indonesia 158–60
Australian Joint Intelligence Committee
(JIC) 161
Bali 5, 7, 31, 51–52, 55, 60, 83–85, 135,
138, 140, 151n3, 167, 190, 199
Balikpapan 60, 80
Bandung Conference 1955 118
Bangladesh 215–17, 224
Banser 142–43, 145–47; see also NU
BAPEPRU (Buru Island Resettlement
Implementation Body) 82; see also
Buru Island
barracks 85, 87–88, 97, 104; see also
detention
BBC 160, 164
Bekasi 60
Bintang Timur newspaper 124
Blitar 30, 83–84, 220
Bogor 60
‘borrowed’ (dibon) 105; see also mass
killings
Britain see UK
BTI, Indonesian Peasants Union
(Barisan Tani Indonesia) 143
Bukittinggi 30, 220
Bulgaria 117, 121–22, 126, 131n1
burial 125, 136–37, 140–43, 185; see also
mass graves
burning: of objects 30, 53, 191, 220; of
people 60, 63–64, 69–70, 140, 165, 204
Buru Island 60, 62, 80–92, 92n1, 92n4,
185, 190; see also detention
Cambodia 99, 101, 106, 136–37, 152n9,
215–17, 224, 238
categorisation of political prisoners 145,
190; Category A 83; Category B 83,
84, 85, 90–91, 145; Category C 83, 145
Catholic Church 128, 219; Catholic
religion 141; Catholic priest 142, 190
Central Sulawesi 60, 62, 72, 75n1
chain of command 13, 28, 45–46, 52–53,
55, 81, 90–91, 151; see also KOTI;
Kopkamtib
Chega! Truth Commission Report on
Timor-Leste (2005) 68–70
children 118, 123, 140, 203–04, 211; as
a result of rape 100, 104; of political
prisoners 60, 66–67, 86–87, 104, 107,
127, 148, 151, 166, 205, 207–09
Chile 116, 131n4, 238
China 11, 47, 82, 117–19, 123–24,
127–28, 131n1, 131n10, 132n21,
132n30, 152n13, 158, 163, 212
Chinese-Indonesians 12; anti-Chinese
violence 12, 39n17, 52, 202, 204,
211–12, 218; ‘Chinese ethnic group’
as a target of genocide 55, 218–19,
221–23
Chinese language 118
Chomsky, Noam 168, 172, 175n38
church 37, 67, 152n17, 219
CIA 39n19, 159–60, 162, 171, 174n20
Cirebon 31
Citizenship Law 129
citizenship 16n11, 115; revocation of 36,
115–31
civil liberties, violation of 73
civil service 47, 65
civil society 22–23, 31–32, 61, 71, 73, 75,
81, 180, 183, 186, 188, 192, 201, 213
civilian militia groups 7, 46, 51, 53–55,
62, 83, 152n11, 157, 161, 165, 183,
190, 204, 209; see also death squads
Cold War x, 11, 15, 83, 108, 118, 158–60,
168, 216
Colombo Program 169
‘comfort women’ 102, 110n11
Command for the Restoration of
Security and Order (Kopkamtib) 11,
15n8, 52, 55, 57n8, 61, 82, 89–91
Commandant of Tefaar 88–90; see also
Buru Island
Commander of the Armed Forces
(Pangad) 45; see also Army
Commission for the Disappeared and
Victims of Violence (Kontras: Komisi
untuk Orang Hilang dan Korban Tindak
Kekerasan) 8, 75n1, 146, 194n10
Communism x–xi, 11, 12, 30, 47–48, 83,
116–20, 127, 132n21, 152n13, 159; see
also Indonesian Communist Party
communists, violence against 12, 24,
40n48, 50–56, 57n6, 60, 62–70, 97–98,
103–07, 115, 126, 136–38, 165–67,
171–72, 183–84, 189, 200–05, 208–12,
215–25; see also genocide
‘communist sympathisers’ see
Indonesian Communist Party

compensation of survivors x, 31, 71, 73,
76n4, 183, 186, 188–89, 225
complicity: of civilians 150; of other
states 4, 14, 16n11, 28, 35–36, 158–72,
173n5
Conference of the New Emerging Forces
(CONEFO) 119
Confrontation (Konfrontasi) see Crush
Malaysia
conservative groups x, 4–5, 8, 14, 15n6,
31–32
conspiracy x, 10, 161–62, 171
Constitution, Indonesian 71, 74,
76n6, 233
Convention Against Torture (1998) 71,
74; see also torture
Convention on the Prevention and
Punishment of the Crime of Genocide
(1948) 35–36, 57n6, 173n3, 215, 217–33
Cornell University 179
Council of Generals (Dewan Jendral) 48;
see also 30 September Movement
coup, attempt by 30 September
Movement see 30 September
Movement
coup, by national military leadership 9,
44, 47–56
CPM see Military Police
CPR, People’s Republic of China
see China
Cribb, Robert 10–11, 40n45, 82, 216–18,
223, 237
Crimes Against Humanity xi, 3–4, 6,
12–13, 16n11, 22–30, 33, 35, 37–38,
71, 81–82, 86–92, 96–109, 109n1,
109n4, 110n8, 110n10, 135, 143,
157–58, 168, 171–72, 172n2, 173n3,
179, 185, 189, 192, 198, 215, 221–22,
226–33, 234n1
criminal law 13, 16n9, 27, 32, 35, 74,
76n4, 96, 98–99, 107–08, 171, 186,
217, 233
criminal responsibility 34
Crush Malaysia (Ganyang Malaysia) 11,
45, 163–64
Cuba 117, 123, 127, 132n20
Cultural Revolution, China 124
customary law 12–13, 27, 115, 136,
152n6, 223, 225
Department of External Affairs (DEA),
Canberra 160, 162, 164–67
death squads 51, 54
Index  243
Democratic Kampuchea see Cambodia
deportation 130, 220
deprivation of liberty 5, 86, 89, 100–03,
109n5, 228, 230; see also detention
depression 87, 198; see also trauma
detention 36, 55, 61–62, 64, 66, 76n4, 97,
190; abuses in 61–66, 68–70, 72, 74,
80–92, 103–06, 179, 190; places of 62,
80–92, 103, 147–49, 185
Dhani, Omar, Air Marshal 45
Djuarsa, Ishak, Brigadier General
53–55, 57n11, 57n12
Dwikora 45; Dwikora Cabinet 167;
Dwikora legislation 45–46, 50
East Java 83, 104, 107, 135–36, 144–50,
153n26, 204, 220
East Kalimantan 60, 62, 80
Eastern Europe 115
Eastern Indonesia 52, 55, 75n1, 80,
152n17
El Salvador 182
electric shock 63–64, 69–70; see also
torture
ELSAM, Institute for Policy Research
and Advocacy 187
Embassy, Indonesian 30, 120–25, 127,
129–30, 132n18, 132n21
enforced disappearances x, 1, 4–5, 14,
71, 81, 122, 130, 136, 138, 146–47,
150, 200, 204, 209
enslavement 4–5, 13–14, 71, 80–81,
86–88, 92, 96–107, 109, 109n4, 109n5,
110n6, 110n7, 110n8, 110n10, 110n11,
198; see also sexual violence
escape attempts 10, 89–90, 208
Europe 3, 115, 119, 125–29, 173n4,
226–27
exhumation, of mass graves see mass
graves
exiles 3, 14, 16n11, 24, 28, 36, 115–31,
131n1, 131n4, 131n7, 132n17, 132n20,
132n33, 132n34, 185, 191–92
extortion 61, 65, 74
extra-judicial killing see mass killings
Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts
of Cambodia (ECCC) 99, 101–02,
106, 108, 110n8, 216, 234n2
Facebook 33–34, 202, 205–06
FAKI, Anti Communist Forum see
Anti-Communist groups; conservative
groups
244 Index
families of political prisoners x, 5, 7, 9,
13, 15n6, 23–25, 30, 32, 38, 61, 64–68,
70–72, 74, 83, 104, 106–07, 116–17,
121–22, 124–28, 130 131n8, 138–40,
144–45, 147–48, 150, 153n21, 166,
191–92, 198, 201, 203–04, 206–10, 212;
on Buru Island 86–88, 92, 92n4
Feierstein, Daniel 29, 36, 40n47, 40n50,
219–21, 225, 229–31, 233
Fifth Force 82
Final Report of the International
People’s Tribunal 14, 22, 28, 35–37,
75, 81, 144, 172n2, 189, 216, 221–22,
224, 234n1, 238
Flores 5, 7, 166
food rations 85, 87–89, 92n4
Food; deprivation of see starvation
forced conjugal association 101, 106; see
also sexual violence
forced labour 12, 61–62, 66–68, 80,
85–88, 91–92, 100–03, 105, 198
forced transportation 54, 81–82, 84
foreign aid 167–69
Foreign Office, Britain 160, 162–63
Fort Leavenworth 48
Foundation for Research on the Victims
of the Killings of 1965 (YPKP
1965: Yayasan Penelitian Korban
Pembunuhan 1965) 30, 34, 135,
138–40, 151n1, 151n3, 184–85, 187,
193n5
Foundation for the Service of Rights
in Indonesia (YAPHI: Yayasan
Pengabdian Hukum Indonesia) 30,
194n10
FPI, Islamic Defenders Front see Anti-
Communist groups; conservative
groups
FUI, Forum of Believers (Forum Umat
Islam) 184; see also Anti-Communist
groups
G30S see 30 September Movement
(Gerakan 30 September)
GAM, Free Aceh Movement (Gerakan
Aceh Merdeka) 92
Ganyang Malaysia see Crush Malaysia
gender jurisprudence 96–99, 101–02, 109
gender-based violence see sexual
violence
Generals, kidnapped by 30 September
Movement 9–11, 31, 40n48, 48–49, 60,
63, 121, 124, 161–63, 198, 207, 210
Geneva Conventions 76n3, 111n14, 136,
152n7
Genocide: discussion of definition 36,
57n6, 60, 136–37, 168, 171, 173n3,
221–23, 228–33, 234n3, 237–38; in
Indonesia 1, 4, 14, 16n11, 16n12,
24–25, 29, 32–33, 35–38, 44, 49–56,
60, 71, 136, 138–39, 141, 150–51, 199,
215–33, 237–38; see also Convention
on the Prevention and Punishment of
the Crime of Genocide
Genocide Convention (1948) see
Convention on the Prevention
and Punishment of the Crime of
Genocide (1948)
Gerwani see Indonesian Women’s
Movement
Gestapu, an alternative name for the
30 September Movement (First of
October Movement: Gerakan Satu
Oktober) see 30 September Movement
Gilchrist, Sir Andrew, former UK
Ambassador to Indonesia 162–67,
171, 174n17
grave stone 136, 141–42, 146; see also
mass graves
Green, Marshal, former US Ambassador
to Indonesia 162, 164–66, 171, 174n18
guards, in prison 103–05, 145–46, 150;
on Buru Island 87–90
Guided Democracy 10, 132n22
Habibie, B.J., third President of
Indonesia 68
Hague, the ix, 3, 8, 25–27, 30, 129,
152n17, 199, 226, 238
Halim air force base 9, 15n7, 49, 138; see
also 30 September Movement
hammer and sickle 33, 63, 73, 219
hardliner groups see conservative groups
Harian Rakjat, newspaper of the PKI
118, 123–24
Hasan, Fuad, Professor, Dean of
Psychology, University of Indonesia
91, 190
haunted (angker) 142, 144, 150; see also
mass graves
health facilities 72, 86–87, 89, 186
Hong Kong 164
horizontal conflict, theory of 35, 136
house arrest 67
Human Rights Court 5–6, 16n9, 39n13,
71, 82, 86, 172n2, 184

Human Rights Court Law (2000)
5–6, 14, 16n9, 39n13, 71, 80, 82, 86,
172n2, 184
Human Rights Law (1999) 68, 74, 76n3,
76n6, 91, 172n2, 184, 188
humiliation 15, 22, 37, 62, 70, 98, 139;
see also sexual violence
Hungary 117, 131n1
hybrid tribunals 96, 99, 101–02, 107–08
ICCPR, International Covenant on Civil
and Political Rights 38n5, 38n11, 188,
224–25
ICTR see International Criminal
Tribunal for Rwanda; see also Rwanda
ICTY see International Criminal
Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia
identity cards 65–66, 188
Ieng Sary 215–16; see also ECCC
ill treatment see torture
Ilyas (Iljas), Tom 130, 141, 220
imprisonment see detention
impunity 3, 5–7, 14–15, 22, 24–25,
34–37, 60–61, 75, 108–09, 137, 150,
172, 182, 201, 224–25, 230; see also
transitional justice
indictment, of the IPT 1965 13–14,
27–29, 32, 61, 75, 97–98, 107, 172n1,
179, 182, 220–21, 224
indoctrination 85–86
Indonesian Anti-Communist Alliance
(Aliansi Anti-Komunis Indonesia) 31;
see also conservative groups
Indonesian Communist Party (PKI:
Partai Komunis Indonesia) 1, 9–11,
33–34, 45, 47–49, 57n4, 82–83,
119–20, 131n7, 131n10, 138–39, 157,
159–66, 168–72, 174n19, 198, 203–04,
218; members and sympathisers of
9–13, 24, 35–36, 50, 52–56, 57n14,
61–62, 67–68, 80, 83, 116, 119–20,
126, 131n1, 137, 143, 165–67, 170–72,
179, 189, 191, 218–19, 221–23
Indonesian Democratic Party (PDI:
Partai Demokratik Indonesia) 81
Indonesian National Army (TNI:
Tentara Nastional Indonesia) 69–70,
122–23; see also Army
‘Indonesian national group’ 36, 217–23,
228–31, 233; see also genocide
Indonesian National Human Rights
Commission (KOMNAS HAM) 36,
38n11, 71–72, 80–82, 109n2, 130,
Index  245
135–36, 140–41, 152n5, 185–86, 188,
193n6, 193n9, 215, 238
Indonesian National Legal Aid
Foundation (YLBHI: Yayasan
Lembaga Bantuan Hukum Indonesia) 8
Indonesian Student Association (PPI:
Perhimpunan Pelajar Indonesia)
123–25
Indonesian Women’s Movement
(Gerwani: Gerakan Wanita Indonesia)
11, 32, 40n34, 57n14, 62–63, 76n2, 121,
127, 131n7, 139, 142, 152n14, 153n21,
153n26, 161, 179, 187, 198, 204, 209
inflation 10–11
Information Research Department
(IRD), UK, in Singapore 160,
163–64, 171
information warfare 161, 163–64
Ingat65 198–213
Inrehab see Rehabilitation Installation
intellectuals 12, 29, 84–85
intelligence officers 33, 56n2, 86, 88–89,
152n13, 158, 169–72, 173n10, 199–200
International Centre for Transitional
Justice (ICTJ) 187
International Convention on
the Elimination of Racial
Discrimination 71
International Criminal Court (ICC)
16n9, 99–103, 109n4, 109n5, 183
International Criminal Tribunal for
Rwanda (ICTR) 99, 101, 110n7, 216;
see also Rwanda
International Criminal Tribunal for the
former Yugoslavia (ICTY) 99, 102,
110n7, 110n10
international law 3, 12–13, 15, 22–24,
27–29, 32–38, 96–109, 109n1, 109n4,
109n5, 115, 136, 157, 169–71,
215–17, 225
International People’s Tribunal for 1965
(IPT 1965) 3–5, 7–9, 12–15, 15n2,
15n3, 16n11, 22–38, 38n1, 38n7, 38n12,
40n34, 40n36, 44, 56n1, 76n5, 80–81,
88, 90–92, 96–98, 102–09, 109n1,
115, 121, 126, 132n14, 135–36, 141,
144, 146, 147, 151n3, 152n4, 152n12,
152n17, 157–58, 167–72, 172n1, 172n2,
179–80, 189–93, 193n2, 199–200,
215–17, 219–25, 227, 234n6, 237–39
interrogation 62–64, 66–70, 74–75,
88–89, 104–05, 130, 141, 185, 190,
205, 208, 228, 230; see also torture
246 Index
IPPI, League of Indonesian Student
Youth (Ikatan Pemuda Pelajar
Indonesia) 118–19, 123, 131n7, 179
Islam 11–12, 40n48, 190; conservative
groups 8, 33, 40n41, 140, 184,
191–92, 210; schools 148–49; see also
conservative groups
Islamic Defenders Front (FPI: Front
Pembela Islam) 8, 33–34, 184, 192,
210; see also Anti-Communist groups;
conservative groups
Islamic Revolution, Iran 25
ISSI, Indonesian Institute of Social
History (Institut Sejarah Sosial
Indonesia) 98, 187
jail see detention
Jakarta 7, 9–10, 15n8, 26, 28, 30–31,
49–50, 60, 63, 66, 71, 81, 85–88,
102, 121, 124, 127–28, 138, 145, 148,
152n4, 153n30, 159, 161–62, 164, 179,
186, 188–89, 191, 201, 207
Jakarta Daily Mail 160–61
Japanese war crimes 102, 110n11
Jardokber, Joint Documentation
Network (Jaringan Pendokumentasian
Bersama) 187, 194n10
Jasin, Muhammad, Brigadier
General 121
Java 7, 12, 47–48, 49, 51–52, 55, 57n7,
57n13, 60, 62, 75n1, 80–81, 83–85,
104–05, 107, 127, 135–37, 140–51, 179,
185, 188, 190, 204, 206, 208, 220
Jembarana, Bali 138
Jepara 31
Jewish people 218
Johnson, Lyndon B., former President
of the United States of America 161
Jombang 31
Judges, for the International People’s
Tribunal ix, 3–4, 8, 13–14, 15n2,
16n11, 22–23, 25–29, 32, 35–38,
38n12, 39n29, 40n51, 80–81, 92, 136,
144, 169, 192, 215–16, 219–25, 233,
234n1
Kalimantan 45–46, 49, 51, 55, 60, 62, 80,
85, 135
Kalla, Yusuf 4, 32
kejawen 141
Kennedy, John F., former President of
the United States of America 161
kicking see torture
kidnapping 9–10, 46, 48, 81, 102, 106,
209, 228, 230
Kodam, territorial army command 45,
47, 49–51, 56
Kohanda Command 46–47, 50–51,
55–56, 57n11
Kolaga 45–47, 49–51, 55–56
Komnas Perempuan see National
Commission on Violence Against
Women
Konfrontasi see Confrontation
Kontras see Commission for the
Disappeared and Victims of Violence
Kopkamtib see Command for the
Restoration of Security and Order
Koramil, local military posts 145
Kostrad see Army Strategic Reserve
Command
KOTI see Supreme Operations
Command
Kupang 31, 60, 67
Kutai Kartanegara 60
kyai, religious scholar 142–43, 205
labour camps see detention
Lampung 60
land reform 82, 205, 218
Latief, Colonel 9–10; see also 30
September Movement
Latin America 115–16, 131n4
LEKRA, Institute of Peoples Culture
(Lembaga Kebudayaan Rakyat) 131n7,
132n18, 132n19, 187, 209
Lentera magazine 220
Lombok 218
Lontar Foundation 98, 187
‘Look of Silence’ 6, 29, 144, 152n11,
204, 216; see also Joshua Oppenheimer
LPR-KROB, Institute for Struggle
for the Rehabilitation of the New
Order Regime’s Victims (Lembaga
Perjuangan Rehabilitasi Korban Rezim
Orde Baru) 98
LPSK see Victims and Witness
Protection Institute
Luweng Grubuk, cave in Kudul
Mountain 137, 152n10
machine guns 54; see also mass killings
Madiun 223
Madura 85
Malang 87
Malaya see Malaysia

Malaysia 11, 45–46, 159, 163–64, 169,
173n6
Maluku 5, 60, 72, 75n1, 80, 82, 85, 90
Mandala Command 45–46, 50–51
marriage, enforced 96–103, 106–07, 109,
109n4, 109n6, 110n9, 153n29; see also
sexual violence
martial law 11, 45–47, 49, 51, 56
Marxism 47, 120; see also PKI
mass atrocities 99, 158, 183–84; see also
genocide
mass graves 7, 12, 35, 54, 73, 130,
135–51, 151n1, 151n3, 152n10,
152n11, 152n15, 185, 204–05, 217, 220
mass killings 1, 3–14, 16n11, 16n12,
29–30, 35–36, 44, 52–57, 60, 64, 71,
80–83, 86, 88–89, 96–99, 104, 106–07,
130, 136–38, 143–51, 152n11, 157,
163–72, 181, 183, 190–91, 200–01,
203–13, 215–29, 237–39
May riots of 1998 6, 39n17, 81, 211; see
also Chinese-Indonesians
Medan 31, 125, 132n18, 132n19, 218
medical services 65, 72, 124, 186
Melbourne 28
memorialisation 10, 31, 38, 65, 136–44,
146, 150–51, 187, 201, 210
Merdeka Square 49–50
Military Operations Regions (DOM) 81;
see also Aceh
Military Police (CPM: Corps Polisi
Militer) 63, 73–74, 105, 179, 188
militias 12, 29–35, 46, 53–55, 62, 83, 138,
140–41, 148, 151, 152n11, 184, 198,
209, 220
Mokoginta, Ahmad Junus, Lieutenant
General 46, 50–51, 55
Moscow 117–21, 125, 132n13
murder 4, 7, 9–12, 14, 31, 35–36, 40n48,
44, 48–49, 54, 56, 63, 81, 87–92, 107,
135–38, 140–51, 163, 166, 180, 198,
200, 204–05, 210, 217–19, 222, 238;
see also mass killings
mutilation 81, 145, 165, 198; sexualised
forms of 98, 161; see also mass killings
Myanmar (Burma) 200
Nahdlatul Ulama (NU) 188, 190, 220
Namlea Prison 86, 88–89; see also Buru
Island; detention
NASAKOM, ‘Nationalism-Religion-
Communism’, Sukarno era policy
47, 57n4
Index  247
Nasution, General 10, 48–49, 132n12, 163
National Coalition of Justice and
Truth (KKPK: Koalisi Keadilan dan
Penungkapan Kebenaran) 63, 75n1, 188,
194n11; see also transitional justice
National Commission on Violence Against
Women (Komnas Perempuan: Komisi
Nasional Anti-Kekerasan Terhadap
Perempuan, Komnas Perempuan) 14, 27,
30, 39n17, 98, 110n12, 185
national group, as a target of genocide,
36, 217–23, 227–31; see also genocide
National Harmony Council (DKN:
Dewan Kerukunan Nasional) 193
Nationalist Party of Indonesia (PNI:
Partai Nasionalis Indonesia) 13, 143
Nawacita program 29, 39n21, 72; see
also Joko Widodo
Nazis 52, 218, 231
Nekolim (Neocolonialism) 165
Netherlands 3, 22, 31–32, 116, 123–24,
126–31, 131n3, 132n27, 132n34, 150,
158, 226
New Order 1, 7–8, 12, 14, 15n6, 29–30,
33–35, 65, 68, 81, 83, 85, 92, 92n3,
98, 117, 125, 128, 138–40, 151, 172,
198–99, 203–06, 209–12
New Style Communist Movement
(Komunis Gaya Baru) 24, 30, 34, 73,
148, 184, 191, 220, 234n5; see also
Anti-Communist groups
New York Times 161, 173n15
New Zealand 164, 166
Nicaragua 169
North Borneo (British Borneo)
159–60, 169
North Korea 124, 132n30
North Sumatra 5–6, 46, 51, 83, 118, 125
NTT, East Nusatenggara 73, 152n17; see
Eastern Indonesia
Nusa Kambangan 80; see also detention
Operation Singgalang (Operasi
Singgalang) 46
Operation Trident (Operasi Trisula)
83–84
Oppenheimer, Joshua 6, 24, 29, 144, 198,
201, 204, 216
other inhumane acts, as a crime against
humanity 86, 89–91, 96, 98, 101
OTP, Persons Prevented from Returning
Home (Orang Terhalang Pulang)
128–29
248 Index
Palu 72
Pancasila 12, 24, 85–86, 120, 191
Pancasila Youth (Pemuda Pancasila)
34, 190; see also militias; conservative
groups
Pandjaitan, Luhut, retired General and
former Coordinating Minister for
Political, Legal and Security Affairs
73, 135, 191
Pangad see Commander of the Armed
Forces
Panggabean, Maraden, Major General
51, 90
Pantja Tunggal 53
parliament 6, 47, 71, 84, 130, 132n22,
132n30, 226
Patrice Lumumba Friendship University
in Moscow 118, 120–21
Pemuda Pancasila see Pancasila Youth
Pemuda Rakyat see People’s Youth
pension 65, 72
People’s Youth (Pemuda Rakyat) 10, 118,
123, 131n7, 143, 145
Pepelrada see Regional Authority to
Implement Dwikora
Permanent People’s Tribunal (PPT) 22,
25, 36
Permesta/PRRI rebellion 72
perpetrators x, xiii, 6–7, 15, 22–25,
31–32, 34, 36–37, 54, 61–62, 69,
74, 82, 100–01, 103, 105, 136–41,
144, 150, 158, 168, 171–72,
180–91, 203, 205, 218–19, 225,
228, 230, 238; see also army, militias,
military
personal dignity xi, 34, 37–38, 98, 109n3,
110n7, 111n14, 183, 202, 232, 238; see
also torture
Pesantren, Islamic boarding school see
Islam
Petrus killings 6, 81, 137
Phnom Penh see Cambodia
PKI see Indonesian Communist Party
plantations 52, 146, 149, 159; plantation
workers 124, 126, 147
platoon guards 86, 88–89
PNI see Indonesian Nationalist Party
pogroms 53, 203–04; see also mass
killings
police 8, 30–31, 62–63, 69, 73–74, 97,
205, 127, 130, 142, 179, 184–85, 188,
191, 199–200, 210
political prisoners 8, 55; imprisonment
of 6, 54, 80–81, 143; release of 129;
treatment of 25, 54, 57n15, 61, 65–67,
72, 80–92, 92n4, 103–07, 140, 143–45,
149, 151, 166, 185, 187–90, 204–05, 219
polytheists 145
pregnancy, forced 98, 101; see also sexual
violence
Presidential Commission on Violence in
Aceh (1999) 69–70
press, shutting down of 160–61
prison camp see detention
propaganda, anti-communist: by
Indonesian state 3–4, 9, 11–14, 16n11,
24, 28, 34–38, 57n5, 73, 138–39, 143,
151, 157–72, 198, 203–05, 207, 209–10,
219; by US, UK and Australia 158–72,
173n10
prosecution xi, xiii, 3–4, 6–7, 11–13,
15n3, 23–31, 34–37, 39n29, 61–62, 71,
74–75, 76n4, 81, 88, 90–91, 96–103,
106–109, 109n1, 109n2, 109n3,
110n10, 172, 179–80, 182, 215, 219–25
prostitution, enforced 63, 96–109,
109n4, 110n7, 110n11; see also sexual
violence
proxy war 24, 31, 39n26; see also
conservative groups
psychological testing of victims
and survivors 91, 190; see also
interrogation; torture
psychosocial support, for survivors
65–66, 186
public violence 53; see also mass killings;
mutilation
punching see torture
Purwodadi 136, 144–49
radio announcements 50, 57n5, 160–62,
164–65; see also propaganda
Radio Australia 160, 162, 164–65
rape see sexual violence
reburial, of remains of victims 140–41,
185; see also mass graves
Reformasi 14, 24, 34, 65, 68, 71, 140, 187
Regional Authority to Implement
Dwikora see Dwikora
Rehabilitation Installation (Inrehab:
Instalasi Rehabilitasi) 85; see also
detention
rehabilitation, of victims 34, 38, 71–73,
128, 183, 186
remains, of victims see mass graves
reparations, for survivors xi, 7, 34, 38,
71–74, 180, 182–83, 187, 192, 225
Revolution (Revolusi, 1945–49) 45, 120
rifles 63, 140
Romania 117, 122

Rome Statute of the International
Criminal Court 16n9, 37, 39n13,
101–02, 109n4, 110n7, 217; see also
International Criminal Court (ICC)
Roosa, John 48, 168, 173n10, 175n38, 210
Rote Island 68
RPKAD see Special Forces
Russell Vietnam War Crimes Tribunal
22, 38n2
Rwanda 99, 101, 136–37, 216–17, 231,
238; see also ICTR
Ryacudu, Ryamizard, retired general and
Minister of Defense 33, 73
Salatiga 30, 220
Sarawak 169
Sarbupri, Estate Workers Union of the
Republic of Indonesia (Sarekat Buruh
Perkebunan Republik Indonesia) 124, 126
Savanajaya 87; see also Buru Island
screening, of exiles 65, 116, 120–22,
124–25
Second World War 102, 108, 111n14,
157, 159–60, 171, 231, 234n3
Securing the Pancasila from the Threat
of the Indonesian Communist Party
and other Ideologies Symposium
(June 2016) 191; see also conservative
groups
Semanggi 6
Semarang 31, 136, 141–44, 150
Semarang Society for Human Rights
(Perhimpunan Semarang untuk
HAM) 141
sexual acts, as an element of sexual
violence, see sexual violence
sexual and gender-based violence x, 3–5,
14, 25, 27, 29, 32, 39n28, 61, 63–64,
69–70, 96–109, 147, 179, 237; related
to slander against Communist women
11, 36, 137–38, 161, 200, 210, 219
Shann, Keith, Australian Ambassador
to Indonesia 160, 162, 164–67
Shihab, Muhammad Rizieq 8
Siaran Malaysia 164
Sierra Leone 99, 101, 106, 109n3, 110n8,
110n9
Singapore 160, 163–65, 169, 171
Sino-Soviet tensions 119
Sjam 9
SKP-HAM see Solidarity for Victims of
Human Rights Violations
SOBSI, Central All-Indonesian Workers
Association (Sentral Organisasi Buruh
Seluruh Indonesia) 124
Index  249
social economic rights 71
socio-political group, as a target of
genocide 1, 10–11, 82, 218; see also
genocide
Solidarity for Victims of Human Rights
Violations (SKP-HAM: Solidaritas
Korban Pelanggaran HAM) 72, 75n1,
194n10
solitary confinement 64; see also
detention; torture
Solo 31, 117
South Sulawesi 5, 80
South Sumatra 5, 60
Soviet Union see USSR
Special Forces (RPKAD: Resimen Para
Komando Angkatan Darat) 45, 47, 49,
51, 54–56, 83, 143, 153n25, 189–90
Special Rapporteur on Torture 66, 75n1
starvation 11, 80, 87, 92n3, 149
State of War 45; see also martial law
state responsibility 7, 13, 15, 23, 26, 28,
36, 38n8, 44, 55, 71, 76n4, 85, 91, 137,
161–62, 172n1, 181, 183, 186, 192–93,
237–38
stigma xiii, 12, 22–23, 31, 37, 65, 87, 101,
116–18, 137, 147, 150–51, 180, 183–84,
186, 188–89, 193, 203, 209, 212
Stockholm 28
Student exchange program (Mahid:
Mahasiswa Ikatan Dinas) 115,
118, 128
students 12, 29, 60, 81, 104, 115, 118–31,
131n7, 132n17, 141–43, 179, 199, 201,
203–04, 220
Suara Islam 163
Subandrio, former Indonesian Foreign
Minister 165, 167
Sudan 183
Suharto, General, second President of
Indonesia xi, 1, 9–12, 15n8, 30, 34,
44–52, 55–56, 57n8, 57n10, 57n14, 71,
81, 82–85, 90–91, 92n1, 115–17, 122,
124, 126, 128, 136, 140, 151, 157, 164,
167–72, 173n15, 190, 201, 209–11,
213, 237; see also army; New Order
suicide 62, 87, 92n6; see also trauma
Sukarno, first President of Indonesia
x, 9–13, 35, 44–50, 56, 72, 76n3, 82,
84, 115–16, 118–25, 131n11, 132n22,
157–72, 174n21, 209, 218–19, 221–22
Sukarnoputri, Megawati, fifth President
of Indonesia 72
Sumatra 5–6, 11–12, 45–46, 49–52, 55,
57n7, 60, 72, 83–85, 105, 117–18, 125,
130, 135, 141, 159, 220
250 Index
Supreme Commander of the Armed
Forces 44
Supreme Court 72, 189
Supreme Operations Command (KOTI)
45–47, 49, 51, 55–56, 57n11, 180;
KOTI Commander 45, 47, 49, 51,
55–56
Surabaya 31, 145–47, 149, 167
surveillance 65, 88–89, 120, 147, 209
survivors, restrictions placed upon 36,
65–68, 188–89, 219
Sutrisno, Lukman, Professor of
Psychology, Gadjah Mada University
179, 190–91
Sweden 123, 129–30, 132n34, 141, 167
Symposium, ‘National Symposium on
the 1965 Tragedy’ (April 2016) 8, 33,
73, 135, 191–93
Tangerang 60
Tanjung Priok 6, 15n5, 71, 81
Tapol see Political Prisoners
tattoo 63, 219
Team to Investigate Grievous Human
Rights Abuses Committed by Suharto
71, 81–82, 92n1
Tempo 7, 29, 39n19, 40n34
Temporary Courts Martial in Batavia in
the Dutch East Indies 102
territorial warfare 45, 54, 56
testimony of witnesses and survivors
3, 7, 13, 27, 37, 40n36, 60–62, 96, 98,
104, 107, 121, 126, 140, 147, 158, 179,
185, 187–93, 194n10, 202, 237
‘The Betrayal of the G30S/PKI’,
Indonesian government film 30, 65,
198, 201, 204
‘The Emergency’, Malaya 159
The Jakarta Post 40n34, 201, 207–08, 223
Timor Leste 1, 6, 64, 68–71, 92, 140,
167, 200
Tjakrabirawa, army unit 9
TNI see Indonesian National Army
Toer, Pramoedya Ananta 87, 92n3, 128,
151n1, 190
Tokyo Women’s Tribunal see Women’s
International War Crimes Tribunal for
the Trial of Japan’s Military Sexual
Slavery
torture 4–5, 12–13, 53, 55, 60–75, 80,
86–89, 91, 92n6, 117, 139, 143, 149,
172, 179, 181, 185, 190, 228, 230,
237–38; forms of 63–64, 67, 69–70;
during the New Order 68–70, 81;
sexually based 25, 63–64, 97–98,
109n1, 237; see also sexual violence;
trauma
transitional justice 22–23, 61, 105,
180–82, 187, 233, 237–38
transmigration 84–85
trauma 63, 65–66, 73, 139–40, 198,
206, 238
TriContinental Conference in Cuba 116,
123, 127
Trisakti 6
trucks, used for transportation of
detainees 54, 143, 145–46, 149, 151;
see also mass killings
Tuban 135–36, 147–50
Tuol Sleng Museum, Cambodia 137
Twitter 202, 205–06
Ubud Readers and Writers Festival
199–200
UK 131n4; complicity in events of
1965 157–58, 160–72; concerns about
communism in Indonesia 158–60
UN Human Rights Committee 24, 38n5,
38n11, 224
United Nations xi, 217, 226
United States 157–58; Embassy of 9, 11,
51, 163, 171; Cold War objectives 11,
48, 158–60, 173n4, 175n40; complicity
in events of 1965 28, 57n5, 57n7,
157–72, 173n10, 174n24, 237
Untung, Colonel 9–10, 162; see also 30
September Movement
Upper House (MPR: Majelis
Permusyawaratan Rakyat) 68, 84, 120,
130, 132n12
USSR 47, 57n9, 117–21, 125, 127, 131n1
Victims and Witness Protection Institute
(LPSK: Lembaga Perlindungan Korban
dan Saksi) 30, 185–86, 193n7
Viet Nam 117, 124–27, 132n24; Viet
Nam War 22, 166, 175n40
Voice of America 160
Wahid, Abdurrahman, fourth President
of Indonesia 128–29, 132n34
Wamena 6
Wanareja Unit 89; see also Buru Island
‘War Room’ 54–55, 57n11
Wasior 6
West Irian 45; West New Guinea 159

West Papua 1, 81, 159, 167
West, the x, 11, 118, 125, 127, 164–65,
169, 219, 237
Whipping see torture
Wibowo, Sarwo Edhie, Colonel 45, 83,
143, 190
widespread or systematic attack, as an
element of crimes against humanity
5, 13, 27, 35, 61–62, 73, 75, 88, 92, 97,
100, 182
Widodo, Joko (Jokowi), seventh
President of Indonesia 7, 29–30, 72,
184, 199, 225, 238
Women: experiences of violence 11–12,
25, 29, 32, 36, 39n17, 61–64, 66–69,
80, 86–87, 96–109, 139, 143–44, 146,
149, 161, 166, 185, 200, 204, 209–11,
219; survival of 140, 147–49; see also
sexual violence
Women’s International War Crimes
Tribunal for the Trial of Japan’s
Military Sexual Slavery 25, 38n6, 102,
110n11
Index  251
Wonosobo 135, 140–41, 185
Woolcott, Richard 162, 174n21
Yani, General, former Army
Commander 44–46, 48–50, 56
YAPHI see Foundation for the Service
of Rights in Indonesia
‘Year of Truth’ 188; see also KKPK
YLBHI see Indonesian National Legal
Aid Foundation
Yogyakarta 30, 33, 60, 62–63, 72–73,
75n1, 137, 179, 188, 207–08
YouTube 33, 40n34, 153n23, 202
YPKP 1965 see Foundation for Research
on the Victims of the Killings of 1965
Yudhoyono, Bambang Susilo, retired
General and sixth President of
Indonesia 129, 184
Yugoslav Tribunal see International
Criminal Tribunal for the former
Yugoslavia
Zen, Kivlan, retired General 31, 33