The
relationship between ulama, ‘men of Islamic learning,’ and umara, ‘holders of
political power,’ has always been ambivalent. On the one hand, ulama at least
in the Sunni tradition have always provided religious legitimation for the de
facto power holders. On the other hand, there is also a general awareness that
power corrupts and that proximity to those in power impairs the ulama’s moral
authority and the integrity of their learning. There is a well-known hadith to
that effect, often quoted in popular sermons: “the worst among the ulama are
those who go and see the umara, while the best among the umara are those who
come and see the ulama.” It has been pointed out that this hadith is actually
‘weak’ (da`if), meaning that its attribution to the Prophet is considered very
dubious.[1] The fact that it is frequently quoted by ulama and popular
preachers in Indonesia nevertheless indicates that the saying expresses
something about which they have strong feelings.
In a recent research project on the Indonesian ulama’s worldview, about half
the ulama interviewed volunteered this hadith when asked what was the correct
form of Islam-state relations.[2] Moral, economic and political independence
(kemandirian) vis-à-vis the government is a quality that almost all respondents
considered essential. At the same time, most respondents also admitted that
they failed to meet their own ideal standards in this respect. The attitude of
many government authorities, especially at the local level, who tend to
interpret any indication of independence as a form of opposition, does not make
it any easier for ulama to consistently define their positions.
This is not to say that all ulama agree on the nature and degree of
independence required, or on what the umara should come and see the ulama for.
Few would go as far as Warsidi, the spiritual leader of a disaffected group in
Lampung, who when summoned by the camat (district governor) to account for his
reportedly anti-government sermons, answered with the above hadith, adding that
he had more important things to do and that the camat should come to his house if
he wished to see him.[3] But it is generally agreed that the purport of the
hadith is that ulama should not seek favour, and that the government should
ideally consult them on all matters of importance. Many if not most ulama are
quite satisfied with an occasional courtesy visit by local government
authorities. It has become common for ulama to be invited to say a prayer at
the inauguration of government-sponsored projects, and many ulama are still
quite happy with this division of labour. Only a minority feels that ulama
should be involved at an earlier stage, in the selection and planning of
projects.
More problematic is the not uncommon situation where ulama are invited to take
part in a compaign to popularise a government programme, such as family planning.
This situation is especially painful because many ulama, while publicly
supporting the idea of contraception, privately still have reservations. The
government’s efforts to involve the ulama in this and other development
programmes in order to lend them religious legitimation have at times caused
these ulama some moral discomfort although this was no doubt attenuated by
various forms of compensation.
Even if the ulama are not required to say or do anything against their inner
convictions, they may feel uncomfortable if closely associated with the
government. One learned and generally respected ulama, who leads a small
pesantren not far from Jakarta, told me:
“you’d better just call me a kiai, not an ulama. A real ulama has to be
uncompromising and is therefore usually disliked by worldly authorities. On the
other hand, I am liked by government people: they often ask me to come and give
sermons, and I oblige them. I feel I don’t deserve to be called an ulama…”
This ulama (I believe he nonetheless deserves the title) is neither a
government opponent in disguise nor an accommodationist out of fear or personal
ambition. He carefully maintains his economic independence by politely but
resolutely refusing government aid to himself or his pesantren. Although
critical of some policies, he is nevertheless generally in favour of the
government. However, he does feel that he should maintain a greater distance
than he actually does. He speaks, I believe, for many of his colleagues,
although few express themselves as candidly as he does.
Such displays of self-sufficiency are much praised but have now become
relatively rare. Especially since the Nahdlatul Ulama organisation broke its
formal ties with the (then) Muslim party PPP in 1984, many kiai, ‘religious
leaders,’ have established relations with Golkar and through this channel
received government funds and other facilities. Among the other ulama too,
dependence on the state has on the whole been gradually increasing under the
New Order. This has at times caused some alienation between the ummah (the
‘community of believers’) and the more accommodationist ulama, and has
contributed to the popularity of those ulama who have maintained a critical
distance from the government. The purpose of this article is to describe the
various types of Indonesian ulama and their organisations, and to explore their
ambiguous relationship with the state.
Ulama and Politics: The Nahdlatul Ulama (NU)
The most obvious example of ulama involvement in politics is of course the
Nahdlatul Ulama organisation, which was a political party from 1952 (when it
broke away from Masyumi) until its fusion in 1973 with three other Muslim
parties in the PPP; it remained an integral component of this party until 1984.
The NU is a unique phenomenon, not just in Indonesia but probably in the entire
Muslim world, an organisation controlled by ulama that has a real mass
following. It is the country’s largest organisation, with firm roots in the
population (especially in East Java, Central Java and South Kalimantan), and is
the object of very strong, almost primordial, loyalties. It has, more
successfully than any other organisation, survived the New Order’s ‘floating
mass’ policies of depoliticisation and demobilisation by the banning of party
activities at sub-regency levels. Although it has usually been highly
accommodating towards the government, in conformity with the Sunni political
tradition, its strong mass base has been a matter of concern and even suspicion
on the part of the New Order government. This was a major factor, though not
the only one, contributing to its farewell to ‘practical politics’ in 1984.
The NU had been established in 1926 by ulama based in pesantrens, ‘religious
schools,’ with the aim of safeguarding and promoting traditional Islam as
embodied in the four orthodox Sunni schools of legal thought (madzhab)[4] and
laid down in the traditional texts studied in the pesantren, the kitab kuning
then under attack by reformist and modernist Muslims. It grew into a large
interest group representing the pesantren milieu, and was both held together by
the charisma of the senior kiai and cemented by intricate bonds of patronage
between teachers and former disciples. Although the ulama represent but a small
fraction of NU’s members and activists, they have always considered it their
organisation, a claim recognised in theory by all members. Supreme authority is
in the hands of its central board (Syuriah), headed by the Rois Aam
(director-general). Day-to-day matters are left to the executive board
(Tanfidziyah), whose members are not necessarily Ulama, but which is
responsible to the Syuriah. There has often been a cultural as well as
geographical gap between both boards, the former based primarily in East
Javanese pesantren, the latter based in the capital and directly involved in
national political life. Participation in parliamentary politics in the past
brought the NU many rewards, especially when the party kept supporting Sukarno
during the Guided Democracy period.[5] From 1953 to 1971 all Ministers of
Religious Affairs were prominent NU members; the Ministry became an NU
fortress, giving the party much patronage to dispense in the form of employment
and other facilities. The Ministry supervised all religious education and it
was an NU minister, Saifuddin Zuhri, who presided over the rapid increase of
Institutes of Higher Islamic Education (IAIN) during the 1960’s. NU’s members
of parliament (and later provincial and district councils) were obviously also
in a position to dispense patronage.
It has often been remarked that NU was more patronage-oriented than any other
party. Patronage cemented the ties between members and activists, and it was
through patronage, not ideas or programmes, that Muslims from outside the
pesantren milieu were drawn into the NU.[6] These recruits were necessary
because the pesantren did not produce enough people with the qualifications
needed for the NU to operate as a political party. Locally too, the NU depended
on others than ulama alone. Local branches were financially supported by
landlords, traders and other entrepreneurs, in exchange for the local kiai’s
blessing and usually also other, more worldly rewards. It was the Tanfidziyah
that channeled most patronage, giving it control over the local branches. These
forms of patronage were more tangible than the primarily moral patronage
dispensed by the kiai to their followers, which was the initial source for the
NU’s cohesion.
This was a situation that bore the seeds of conflict between the kiai and
politicians. In the New Order’s first elections in 1971, the NU proved to be
the most formidable rival to the government-sponsored Golkar organisation (Ward
1974). The young and controversial leader Subchan, who was disliked by many
kiai because of his easygoing life-style but was immensely popular among
rank-and-file NU members, set the tone for a campaign in which the party was
uncharacteristically confrontational. Subchan, who had no NU family background,
had been the only NU leader to play a part in the establishment of the New
Order, after which the 1968 party congress elected him the Tanfidziyah’s
second-in-command. His scathing criticism of emerging undemocratic tendencies
in the New Order and his strong defence of the NU against the Golkar offensive
was probably the major reason for his re-election at the 1971 congress, in
spite of a virtual veto by the Rois Aam of the day, Bisri Syansuri. This was a
definite sign of defiance towards the government and perhaps the first case
where the ulama’s control of the NU was openly challenged by the branches.
However, a month later Subchan was expelled from the board by the Rois Aam and
the Tanfidziyah’s chairman, Idham Chalid.[7]
Under the latter pliable politician, Tanfidziyah chairman since 1955, the NU
sought to re-establish good relations with the government. The government
showed its confidence in him by making him speaker of parliament. However,
Idham Chalid’s new official function could not compensate for an important
loss: the government took the single major source of patronage away from the
NU, appointing as Minister of Religious Affairs a neutral and unaffiliated
scholar, A. Mukti Ali. Other sources of patronage through parliamentary
representation also gradually dried up, as the NU was forced into a fusion with
the other Muslim parties (1973). The new United Development Party (PPP) was
from 1978 dominated by Djaelani Naro, a shrewd political operator without
personal popular support but with strong government backing. Naro made sure
that he was the fountainhead for all patronage, and set out to systematically
weaken the voice of the NU within the party. In 1982, Naro’s blatant
manipulation of the list of candidates effectively blocked the NU’s most vocal
spokesmen from re-election. Under these circumstances, there was little benefit
in further participation in parliamentary politics. The event strengthened the
hands of those who wished, for a variety of reasons, that the NU should leave
the arena of ‘practical politics.’
From Opposition to Withdrawal
Naro’s attempts to undermine the parliamentary strength of the NU were not
unrelated to the fact that the NU had clashed with the government several times
during the 1970s. More successfully than the other parties, NU had prevented
Golkar from making significant incursions into its electorate. The NU ulama had
enforced loyalty upon their peers and followers by various means. The few ulama
who went over to Golkar were successfully isolated: in 1977 and again in 1982
ulama issued fatwa (authoritative opinions) declaring the vote for PPP a
religious duty for all believers. In 1973 the Rois Aam, Bisri Syansuri, spoke
out firmly against a controversial draft marriage law, which contained several
paragraphs that according to him were in conflict with the shari`a (Islamic
legal code). The NU parliamentarians, following him, rejected these paragraphs
and forced a modification of the law. Most spectacularly, in the 1978 National
Assembly, which was to ratify the broad guidelines of government policy (GBHN)
for the next five years, NU representatives openly opposed the government on
two issues that were clearly important to it. This concerned the obligatory
Pancasila indoctrination courses that the government was considering and the
official recognition of syncretistic Javanese mystical sects (aliran
kepercayaan).The NU deputies knew that their opposition on these issues would
not be successful, but rather than being outvoted, they demonstratively walked
out of the Assembly when these points were put to the vote, and they were
followed by many other PPP members. As with the marriage law, the NU
politicians acted under instructions from the ulama (more precisely, the Rois
Aam), who declared that these were ‘matters of principle, on which no
compromise was acceptable.’[8] This was the most open show of defiance ever
seen in New Order Indonesia, and it was to have far-reaching consequences.
Accommodationists on principle though the NU ulama are, they had signalled that
issues of central concern to Islam were non-negotiable.
The NU’s defiance provoked presidential anger and a lasting distrust of the
NU’s loyalty to the state. It may well have been the major reason for the
imposition of Pancasila as the sole foundation for political parties and social
associations, announced in 1983 and made into law in 1985. To the surprise of
many observers, who had begun to see the NU as the most radical critic of New
Order modernisation, the NU did not resist or even protest then. It was the
first major organisation to formally make the Pancasila instead of Islam its
sole foundation. If critics accused them of being inconsistent, NU ulama could
respond that now no matter of principle was involved. They had devised a
formula, acceptable to the government, that allowed them to formally comply
with the new law without sacrificing an inch of their commitment to Islam.
Basically this meant redefining what ‘foundation’ meant. The clause in the
statutes stating that the NU was based on Islam was replaced by ‘based on
Pancasila,’ but was followed by new clauses on the creed (aqidah) and aims of
the organisation, which allowed it to maintain its identity unchanged. The
leading NU ulama convinced themselves that these changes meant nothing more
than reasserting their loyalty to the Indonesian state in its present form,
which they had never questioned.
This compromise was not reached without conflict and a change of personnel in
the NU leadership. Bisri Syansuri, the Rois Aam who had several times defied
the government, died in 1980. He was the last survivor of the East Javanese
ulama who had founded the NU in 1926, and there was no one of equal reputation
to succeed him. A conference of ulama chose as his successor the respected but
not particularly well-known Ali Makshum of Yogyakarta, a senior but
modern-minded kiai. Ali Maksum and other senior ulama were much displeased by
the way Naro had treated the NU prior to the 1982 elections, and even more so
when it appeared that Idham Chalid, the Tanfidziyah chairman, had connived in
the manipulation of the list of candidates. Less openly expressed, but equally
important, was the fact that Idham had increasingly less patronage to dispense;
many kiai felt that he did not deliver what they expected from him. Clearly
determined to re-establish the ulama’s control of the NU, the senior ulama
virtually forced Idham Chalid to resign from the Tanfidziyah and organised an
ulama’s conference in 1983 where the NU’s farewell to parliamentary politics
was decided.[9]
The NU’s departure from the PPP was phrased in positive terms as a ‘return to
the khittah (programme of action) of 1926,’ which seemed to imply a restitution
of the organisation to the ulama. Individual NU members still could join any
party they liked, but board members were banned from holding positions in PPP
(or any other party). The idea of the khittah and the formulation of what this
amounted to originated with an atypical kiai whose star was rapidly rising,
Achmad Siddiq of Jember.[10] It was Achmad Siddiq who presented at this
conference, to an initially unsympathetic audience, the compromise formula for
accepting the Pancasila as the NU’s sole foundation. Due to the support of the
senior kiai, Achmad Siddiq’s arguments were accepted by the conference as the
NU’s chief doctrine. The 1984 congress confirmed the new formulation of
state-ummah relations by electing Achmad Siddiq as the Rois Aam.
Various groups within the NU had different reasons for the retreat from
practical politics, reasons which happened to coincide. Many ulama felt that
the political struggle had diverted too much attention from what they saw as
their real tasks, the spiritual guidance and education of the ummah. A small
but influential group of ulama and intellectuals, concerned about the lopsided
effects of ‘top-down’ development and aware that the mass following of the NU
was to be found among the less privileged, had become interested in alternative
development models, in ‘bottom-up’ and more participatory development. They
felt that the pesantren could and should also be centres of community development,
besides being centres of traditional learning. There were also more pragmatic
reasons for a formal break with politics. Many of the traders and entrepreneurs
supporting the NU suffered from the suspicion that the NU was ‘disloyal,’
especially since 1978. Overzealous local government officials not only kept
them out of government projects but at times even put pressure on private
business partners as well. Many kiai too were discontented: the stream of
patronage through PPP-NU channels was drying up, while they saw that government
aid was easily available to colleagues who had gone over to Golkar. The
depoliticisation of the NU satisfied all these interests: the government
perceived that the NU had left the opposition benches; NU contractors got their
tenders; the senior ulama felt they had a better grip on the organisation;
while kiai could establish relations with the bupati or camat or with the
Golkar organisations, without feeling disloyal towards the NU.
Not all kiai withdrew from PPP. Some the most vocal of them, such as Syansuri
Badawi, a very popular teacher at the Tebuireng pesantren in Jombang, are still
very active in the party, and in the recent reshuffle in the PPP’s leadership
several NU members attained leading positions. Some of the old, ‘political’
patronage links are still intact or are perhaps being revived. But the past
five years have seen the creation of many new links of patronage, linking kiai
(and allied businessmen) with the local government apparatus. On the whole, it
seems that the kiai have thus become less dependent on the NU; what ties them
to the organisation is simple loyalty, fostered by teacher-pupil bonds. It
remains to be seen whether the NU will be able to maintain its formal strength
in the absence of more tangible forms of patronage.
Other Ulama: Muballigh, Officials, Intellectuals
The pesantren-based kiai are, of course, not the only ulama in Indonesia,
although they are the most easily identified group. Restricting a discussion of
ulama and politics to the NU would, however, be to oversee some of the most
important developments in Indonesian Islam. If we define ulama as ‘men (or
women) of religious learning who, in one form or another, serve the spiritual
needs of the ummah,’ it is obvious that there is a wide range of ulama with
different functions and standing in different relations to politics. In 19th
century Java one could make a simple dichotomy, between government ulama
(panghulu), serving at the courts or government centres as judges, mosque
officials, etc., and the independent teachers (pesantren kiai and itinerant
preachers), who usually took care to maintain their geographical and social
distance from the government. The situation is more complicated now.
For analytical purposes the same dichotomy may still be used, but many
individual ulama take part in both government-sponsored and independent
activities. This is because government involvement in religious affairs is much
more pervasive than in colonial times. The panghulu have been succeeded by the
sizeable bureaucracies of the Ministry of Religious Affairs, the Islamic Courts
and the Indonesian Ulama Council (Majelis Ulama Indonesia), while a significant
proportion of religious education at all levels is paid for (and controlled) by
the state. As mentioned above, many pesantren have been only too willing to
receive government aid, in spite of the high value attached to independence and
self-sufficiency.
The real heirs to the tradition of independent Islamic learning, in my view,
are not so much the present kiai or their reformist counterparts but Muslim
intellectuals, academics who often specialise in non-Islamic subjects but have
a profound knowledge of and strong commitment to Islam. The most prominent of
these form the subject of a later section of this article. In terms of direct
social influence, the most important role has perhaps been that of the vast
army of muballigh, preachers delivering sermons in mosques, private homes,
hotels, public squares and government offices, from the largest cities down to
the most distant villages. There are muballigh of all shades affiliated with
all the different tendencies in Indonesian Islam, university graduates as well
as poorly educated preachers, loyal government servants as well as severe
critics of the government, addressing all the various strata of society from
the political and business elite to peasant women, becak (pedicab) drivers or
prostitutes. This form of dakwah, ‘religious propaganda,’ is not new, of
course; it was known well before Independence. But under the New Order it has
reached unprecedented dimensions, in part because many former political
activists devoted all their energies to this field.
Dakwah has been, I believe, the most important Muslim activity under the New
Order. Together, these muballigh have changed the face of Indonesian Islam;
they have strengthened Muslim awareness. If there is now a much wider interest
in Islam and in what it means to be a good Muslim, this is probably not due to
the few highly learned ulama or stimulating Muslim thinkers, but to the
numerous less well-known muballigh.
Reformist Islam, Politics and the Power of Dakwah
In the past, the political vehicle of reformist Islam had been Masyumi, the
other major Muslim party (besides the NU).[11] In the NU milieu, descent from a
kiai, control of a pesantren, and even a particular style of dress may have
been more important than actual learning for recognition as an ulama. But among
reformist Muslims there was no easily identifiable class of ulama. The
reformists of the early 20th century objected to the monopoly of religious
authority claimed by the kiai, and they rejected much of the scholastic
tradition on which these claims were based. They believed that every Muslim
with sufficient knowledge of the Qur’an and hadith should be able to make his
own judgments. There was no class of learned specialists who could claim
ultimate control of the Muhammadiyah, for instance, as was the case with the
NU. We therefore find among the reformists no sharp distinction between ulama and
social activists or politicians. Several of the Masyumi’s leading politicians,
such as Mohammad Natsir and Sjafruddin Prawiranegara, were at the same time its
leading religious thinkers. Both were creative thinkers, who made important
contributions to Indonesian Muslim thought. In their political ideas, they were
not so much heirs to the accommodationist Sunni tradition as to western
democratic thought.[12] This political style repeatedly brought the Masyumi
into conflict with the increasingly authoritarian Sukarno. After the
involvement of several Masyumi leaders in the abortive PRRI rebellion (1958)
and the refusal of the party to disavow them, the Masyumi was threatened with a
ban and decided to dissolve itself (1960). Under the New Order, a new party,
the Partai Muslimin Indonesia, was established to represent the Masyumi’s
constituency. But the government forbade the leading Masyumi politicians from
taking part in it.[13] Many lesser Masyumi figures remained active in this
party; others were co-opted into Golkar; smaller numbers turned from politics
to mysticism or apolitical sectarianism. Some of the most prominent leaders of
the Masyumi, however, made a high-profile shift from politics to dakwah.
Banned from active participation in political life, in 1967 Natsir and his
close associates established the Dewan Dakwah Islamiyah Indonesia, Indonesia’s
major dakwah organisation. Their turn from politics to dakwah was probably not
simply due to the lack of an alternative, but was also inspired by political
experiences of the 1950s. The Muslim parties had fought hard for acceptance of
the Jakarta Charter in the Constituant Assembly in 1958 but had failed to
achieve a parliamentary majority, which meant that many if not most Indonesian
Muslims were not interested in or even averse to subjecting themselves to the
shari`a.[14]It must have seemed an obvious conclusion that the way to change
lay not in parliament but in a transformation of the attitude of the Muslim
community, which could be brought about by intensive dakwah. Be that as it may,
the Dewan Dakwah, with its network of mosques and preachers and its various
publications, became an important channel of communication, allowing the voice
of Natsir and his associates to be widely heard. They often spoke out on
political issues, and were not reluctant to criticise the government.
Sjafruddin and Natsir, to name just these two, often irritated more pliable
Muslims by their uncompromising attitudes. But they won a grudging admiration
as well. Their almost unrivalled moral authority only increased with the years.
Natsir through the Dewan and Sjafruddin through the Korps Muballigh Indonesia,
which he led, inspired numerous younger muballigh, who put much social and
political criticism into their sermons. The Dewan Dakwah group has long enjoyed
excellent relations with Saudi Arabia: Natsir was a founding member and for
many years a Vice-president of the Saudi-sponsored World Islamic League
(Rabitat al-Alam al-Islami), and he was the trusted counterpart of this organisation
for all its funding activities in Indonesia.[15] This relationship no doubt had
its benefits, in the form of support and international connections as well as
added prestige among Indonesian Muslims. But there was also a drawback that
became clear during the 1980s. Whereas the Masyumi leaders had been religious
socialists in the 1950s, they were now allied with the most conservative force
in the Muslim world. This must have been the major factor that determined their
extremely negative attitude towards the Iranian revolution and towards Shi’ism.
The Dewan Dakwah sponsored various rabidly anti-Shi’i publications (some of
them written by Dewan authors). This cut them off from large segments of the
young generation of committed Muslims, who were fascinated by the revolution
and discovered much of interest in modem Shi’i authors like Shari’ati and
Mutahhari.
Young Muslim Intellectuals
The most interesting contributions to Muslim thought in Indonesia in the past
two decades have been made by a small and heterogenous group of mostly
university-based Muslim intellectuals. One is tempted to speak of a new type of
ulama, although they have predecessors. They are highly educated, in most cases
in other than traditional Islamic disciplines, and have had extensive exposure
to foreign cultures, but are also more widely read in Islamic literature than
earlier generations. The major focus of their interests is on the social
teachings of Islam. They have in common a concern with social justice and the
social and economic well-being of the ummah, although their perceptions and
interpretations appear to differ rather widely. Some of them receive more media
exposure than others, reflecting different degrees of acceptability to the
authorities, but they all have large followings among students and other young
people. They are frequently invited to deliver sermons and speeches. This
ensures that their ideas become widely known (be it sometimes in distorted
form) and stimulate discussion throughout the country. In an era of depoliticisation,
they have pointed out a whole range of new issues that Muslims should address.
As the title of the first overview of these Muslim intellectuals has put it,
they have "opened up new roads for Islam" (Ali and Effendy, 1986). It
is impossible to do justice to these thinkers and their ideas in a short survey
like this; only the barest sketch can be given. Several of the presently most
prominent thinkers among them first came to the fore around 1970 in discussions
in the Muslim students’ union, HMI, in Jakarta and in a discussion group in
Yogyakarta around the McGill-educated scholar A. Mukti Ali (who was made the
Minister of Religion in 1971). They became associated with the catchword
pembaharuan, which means ‘renewal’ but is perhaps better rendered as
‘reorientation,’ for that is really what they thought. A good insight into
their concerns and views and the questions they posed in the formative stage of
this movement is provided by the diary of Ahmad Wahib, which was published
posthumously after he died in a traffic accident.[16] It found an enthusiastic
reading public among a new generation of students. What immediately strikes one
in these notes is the sincere quest for the true, deeper meaning of Islam and
its relevance to human society, as well as a deep dissatisfaction with the
external forms and ingrained habits that have taken the place of reflection and
real spirituality.
The leading spokesman of the pembaharuan movement, Nurcholish Madjid, caused
passionate debate by his call for what he named ‘secularisation,’ a term much
misunderstood and therefore fiercely attacked by people who felt that Islam
itself was under threat.[17] What he apparently meant was that institutions
such as the Muslim party had come to be considered as sacred institutions,
integral parts of religion. An Islamic way of life and Islamic morality, he
argued, did not necessitate Muslim parties and Muslim politicking. Another
important element in his ideas was tolerance of and respect for other
religions: he was one of the first Indonesian Muslim thinkers to free himself
of the common apologetic and defensive attitude towards Christianity. These two
strains in his thought were congenial to two key New Order policies,
depoliticisation and the prevention of strife between the various religions,
which no doubt contributed to the amount of sympathetic media coverage the
pembaharuan group has received. The group have often been considered the New
Order’s chief Muslim legitimisers, although there was nothing mercenary in
their attitudes. They kept meeting through the 1970s and 1980s and further
developing their ideas, although pursuing diverging careers. Several of them
put their ideas on the social relevance of Islam into practice as activists in
non-government organisations active in community development.
Nurcholish, who remains the leading thinker of the pembaharuan movement,
pursued further studies in theology and Islamic philosophy at Chicago
University under Fazlur Rahman. A specialist of Ibn Taymiyya’s thought, he has
made important contributions to raising the intellectual level of Muslim
discourse in Indonesia by making several hitherto unknown classical Muslim
thinkers known to the Indonesian public (for instance, the collection of
important texts in translation published upon his return from Chicago: Madjid,
1984). Much influenced by the sociological thought of men like Robert Bellah
and Marshall Hodgson, he has a keen awareness that religious teachings should
be placed in their proper social context. Convinced that democracy can only
develop when it is borne by a broad middle class, one of his concerns has been
how to develop a strong Muslim middle class in Indonesia. This is perhaps why
much of his effort now goes into his foundation, Paramadina, which caters to
the spiritual needs of the Muslim middle class. Its public pengajian,
‘religious study sessions,’ to which Muslim thinkers of quite various
backgrounds are invited as speakers and in which difference of opinion is
presented as a most natural thing, are among the most liberal discussion forums
in Jakarta.
A highly interesting and nonconformist Muslim thinker with some links to the
pembaharuan group, who cannot, however, be easily pigeonholed, is Abdurrahman
Wahid, the present chairman of the NU. As the grandson of two of the NU’s
founding fathers, Hasyim Asy’ari and Bisri Syansuri, and the son of the NU’s
first Minister of Religious Affairs, Wahid Hasyim, he enjoys firm traditional
legitimacy for leadership in NU circles, although he is hardly representative
of traditional ulama. Having been exposed to both a western-style and a
pesantren education, as well as to higher studies in fiqh and literature in
Egypt and Iraq, he is the ideal cultural broker between traditional, reformist
and secular Muslims. One of his chief concerns is with the economic and
intellectual backwardness of large segments of the Indonesian ummah. He was one
of the driving forces behind the effort to turn the pesantren into centres of
community development (working together with members of the pembaharuan
movement such as Dawam Rahardjo, the long-time director of LP3ES). He is
associated with a large number of non-government organisations that are active
in rural development. A fierce critic of narrow-mindedness, he argues that
Islam stands for universal values also found in other religions, such as
justice, equality, and the protection of every individual’s rights, but he does
not prescribe any specific system of political or economic organisation. More
vocally than Nurcholish, he insists that the Qur’an should be understood within
its historical and social context and that one does not have to adopt Arab
habits in order to be a good Muslim, which has occasionally made him the target
of fierce criticism.[18] Like Nurcholish, he is open to dialogue with other
religions, to the extent of addressing a recent meeting of Protestant
churchmen, openly speaking about shortcomings of the Muslim community. Through
his numerous provocative statements, usually widely reported, he has stimulated
the emergence of independent thought among the young generation. The recent NU
congress (November 1989) showed that, in spite of criticism by some of the
older kiai, he enjoys the massive support of the rank-and-file of his
organisation.
A young Muslim thinker with a very different style, who has always stood aloof
from the pembaharuan movement, is Amien Rais, an American-educated political
scientist lecturing at Gadjah Mada University in Yogyakarta. As a young
Muhammadiyah activist, he was influenced by the ideas of the Egyptian Muslim
Brothers, about whom he later wrote a thesis. Close to the Dewan Dakwah, he has
always been critical of the accomodationism of the pembaharuan group and many
of their contextualising ideas. He has avoided association with government authorities.
His writings (some of which are collected in Rais 1987) show apprehension about
the threats to Islam posed by imperialism, zionism, orientalism, westernisation
and secularisation. One of his major concerns, however, is with social justice
and economic equality, and on these issues he is closer to Abdurrahman Wahid’s
position than both seem to realise. One of his best-known theses, defended in
many forums, is that the Islamic institution of zakat, being a mechanism of
economic redistribution, should be adapted to present needs. Instead of the
canonical 2.5 per cent of net earnings, the higher income brackets should
contribute at least 20 per cent in order to fulfil the proper aims of the
divine command. Presently a member of Muhammadiyah’s board, Amien Rais may play
an important part in helping this organisation to recover its initial spirit of
social reform and redefine its present social tasks.
The international development that had the largest impact on Indonesian Muslim
thought in the 1980s was no doubt the Iranian revolution. Due to the widespread
interest it generated, writings of Iranian thinkers like Shari’ati and
Mutahhari were soon translated and found a wide readership, influencing several
of Indonesia’s leading Muslim thinkers. Compared to the dour writings of the
likes of Maududi and Qutb, that had given an earlier generation their ideas of
political Islam, these texts have a striking freshness and social relevance.
Amien Rais was one of Shari’ati’s early admirers, translating and introducing a
number of his essays. Several of his own writings also show the influence of
both Shari’ati and Bani Sadr.
The man who soon emerged as the chief guru and spokesman of Indonesia’s
admirers of contemporary Shi’i thought, however, was a young Bandung lecturer
in mass communications, Jalaluddin Rahmat. His Shi’i sympathies initially
caused him to be banned from speaking in the Salman mosque, the chief centre of
Bandung’s committed Muslim students, but this did not prevent him from becoming
the most popular preacher in student circles, with a large, devoted following.
Widely read in classical as well as modern Sunni and Shi’i literature, and also
a good orator and debater, he has made his mark in many public discussions. His
interest in Shi’ism was initially generated by its emphasis on social justice,
the modern Iranian authors’ concern with the mustad`afin (the ‘oppressed’), and
their opposition to the status quo. These are the concerns expressed in many of
his own sermons and writings (see the selection in Rahmat 1986), and it is this
that made him popular among many of the politically disaffected young.[19]
The growing influence of Shi’i thought in Indonesia is, obviously, a matter of
concern both to the government, perceiving its oppositional potential, and to
many of the traditional and (especially) reformist ulama, who consider Shi’ism
an intolerable heresy. It is undeniable, however, that the acquaintance with
Shi’i thought, of both religio-political and philosophical kind, has enlivened
and enriched Muslim discourse in Indonesia and stimulated serious intellectual
discussion.
‘Government Ulama’: The Majelis Ulama Indonesia
The Muslim political parties, representing various categories of ‘independent’
ulama, were long the major interface between the committed Muslim community and
the government. As we have seen, the role of these parties has been
significantly reduced under the New Order. Feeling the need for an alternative
channel of communication with the Muslim community, in 1975 the government established
a national Council of Ulama, the ‘Majelis Ulama Indonesia’ (MUI). Although
officially meant to facilitate two-way communication, in practice the council’s
function is, as aptly formulated by the present Minister of Religion, "to
translate government policy into a language that the ummah understands.”[20]
Its functions are reminiscent of the traditional office of the shaykh al-islam,
issuing fatwa to legitimise government policies; its ability to modify these
policies is only very marginal.
Although the Majelis Ulama is a government-appointed body, most members are
recruited from among the ‘independent’ ulama and relatively few belong to the
bureaucracy of the Ministry of Religious Affairs. All major currents of
mainstream Indonesian Islam are represented, including quite a few former
Masyumi activists (the present chairman, KH. Hasan Basri, is in fact a former
Masyumi man, who, unlike many others, has never renounced this affiliation).
Many members appear to take part in the Majelis not out of opportunism but in
the belief that, in a delicate balancing act between legitimating and
influencing policies, they may serve the interests of the ummah.
This Ulama Council has had precursors. In the 1950s, when the Army was trying
to win the hearts and minds of the West Javanese people in its struggle against
those Muslims fighting for an Islamic state, the Darul Islam, the army command
organised several meetings with regional ulama, demanding their political
co-operation. In 1958 the provincial Ulama Council was established, consisting
of ulama and military personnel and with mainly security-oriented functions
(Mahmuddin, 1975). In 1962 a similar body was established at the national level
as a means to improve Muslim support for Sukarno’s policies (Noer 1978: 65-66).
The first New Order Ulama Council was again established under similar
circumstances, in Aceh in 1965-66. At the time of the anti-communist operations
following the failed Untung coup, the military commander of Aceh demanded some
leading ulama to issue a fatwa allowing the killing of communists. Since these
did not dare to take that responsibility alone, 56 leading ulama from all over
the province were invited to an extraordinary congress (17-18 December 1965),
that issued the requested fatwa, resulting in large-scale killing. The same
congress decided to perpetuate its existence in the form of Aceh’s Ulama
Council.[21]
The present central MUI does not serve such direct military and
security-related purposes, but it is nevertheless a highly political body. As
indicated by the theme given to its founding conference in 1975 (‘Ulama and
Development’), it was created as a means of mobilising Muslim support for the
government’s development policies. Its working programme listed three broad
objectives: the strengthening of religion, understood in the Pancasila way, as
a basis of national resilience; the participation of ulama in the development
effort; and the maintenance of harmonious relations with the other
religions.[22] In practice, it has at times been requested to do more than
that.
The Council gave a remarkable demonstration of one of its political functions
in November 1988, when top members were flown to East Java, with the
director-general of the Ministry of Religion, to drink milk at a press conference.
In the preceding weeks, lists of food products supposedly containing pork fat
or gelatin (frequently made of pig skin and bones) had been circulating, and
received a considerable amount of press coverage. The list included the
products of three large companies in which highly placed persons are widely
believed to have important interests, and their sales declined rapidly. It was
suspected that the campaign against these products had a political
background.[23] MUI committees then visited these factories and declared that
all ingredients used were halal (‘permissible’); in the case of the milk and
the noodles, they went to the extent of consuming them before the press and
praising their quality.[24]
It would be unfair to the MUI to claim that this incident exemplifies its
subservience to other interests. The MUI also serves other functions, issuing
fatwa on more strictly religious subjects as well as problems of the modem age,
giving guidance to the ummah and protecting it against heterodox doctrines (condemning
deviant sects is one favourite activity of both the central MUI and its
provincial ‘daughters’). It also represents the Muslim community in meetings
with representatives of other religions. Membership of the MUI of course brings
personal rewards, but many leading members sincerely believe that it allows
them to do something useful for the ummah. Their position, however, obliges
them to sometimes make uneasy compromises, which leaves them vulnerable to
criticism from the ummah. The first MUI chairman, the prolific author and
well-known reformist ulama, Hamka, resigned in 1981 over a fatwa that the
government deemed unacceptable but which he refused to rescind. His successors
have been more cautious.
The most emotional issue over which the Council and the ummah have been at odds
in recent years was the government-sponsored soccer tote, Porkas (‘forecast’)
and its successor of other names. In practice this tote, which was started in
1986, functioned as a lottery and provided Indonesia’s only legal form of
gambling. Muslim protest was immediate, with preachers all over the country
demanding a ban of Porkas. Both the Muhammadiyah and the NU declared it a form
of gambling and therefore haram (‘forbidden’). Several provincial Ulama
Councils followed suit, and asked the government to stop the tote. The central
MUI long kept silent, considering it a matter on which the ulama’s legal
opinion was divided. But it finally sent a carefully phrased letter to the
Coordinating Minister of Social Welfare (the former Minister of Religion,
General Alamsyah), not condemning the tote on religious grounds but asking the
government to ‘review’ its policy considering its negative social impact. The
head of the MUI’s fatwa committee, Prof. Ibrahim Hosen, had meanwhile produced
arguments to the effect that the form of gambling forbidden by Islam, maysir (a
gambling-match between two persons in which one’s gain is the other’s loss),
differed in kind from lottery, so that Porkas was permissible. This produced an
outcry from committed Muslims. Independent ulama refuted Hosen’s arguments and
issued fatwa condemning the tote. The government made it clear it intended to
continue the Porkas because it needed its considerable contribution to the
budget for sports and youth affairs. Several leading members of the MUI were
known to have very strong feelings about the Porkas privately, but they
refrained from raising their voices in spite of continuing pressure from all
Muslim circles to take a clear stand. More than anything else, the Porkas
affair has caused the MUI the loss of the confidence of large segments of the
Muslim community.[25]
Another field in which the MUI has played an important part is the family
planning programme. There was initially much resistance to the very idea of family
planning, some of which was religiously motivated. Ulama were requested to join
government officials in campaigns to propagate the programme, and later the MUI
was asked for a fatwa in its support. Although many ulama privately had their
doubts or were strongly opposed to the idea of contraception on religious
grounds,[26] the government found sufficient numbers willing to take part in
the campaigns, which seems to have contributed considerably to their success.
Among those accepting family planning in principle, there was considerable
disagreement about the use of intra-uteral devices (IUD), that were favoured by
the government: their application would mean that the woman’s sexual parts
would be seen and even touched by a stranger. The fiqh expert Ibrahim Hosen,
whose defence of the Porkas was mentioned above, in 1970 produced a well-argued
reasoning to allow this method of contraception.[27] But he remained a minority
of one. Because the ulama’s opinions were so divided, the MUI did not issue its
fatwa until 1983, after long deliberations. The principle of family planning,
on condition of being voluntary, was declared to be acceptable to Islam,
basically on grounds of maslahah, ‘ensuring the welfare of the ummah.’
Reservations were made for the use of IUDs, while tubectomy and vasectomy as
well as abortion were in principle rejected.[28] This fatwa, too, went against
the views of significant segments of the ummah. The NU, though permitting
contraception, did not agree with the MUI’s reasoning; it issued its own fatwa,
based on more traditional arguments.[29] Many in Muhammadiyah and Persis
circles remained strongly opposed in principle. Much of the social resistance
to the family programme was however overcome, due to the MUI’s support. The
government accepted the MUI’s objections to abortion, tubectomy and vasectomy,
which are not officially propagated now, although still silently practised.
Conclusion
Few ulama feel that they have satisfactorily resolved the dilemma inherent in
ulama-umara relations. Many ulama feel that many things in Indonesian society
are not as they should be, be it corruption, poverty, women’s dress, the
influence of the churches, gambling, or the lack of political and economic
democracy. But they do not know how to act. Withdrawal from politics in all
forms means refusing to accept one’s social responsibilities, while close
association with the powers that be deprives one of one’s independence.
Outright opposition is advised against in the Sunni tradition because it might
result in chaos. Moderate criticism, making marginal corrections, is what many
see as the best way, but many of the country’s umara are intolerant of
criticism. Open Muslim criticism of the government has effectively been
silenced, and voices of ulama speaking out against social wrongs are seldom
heard. Significantly, in the numerous protest actions involving expropriation
of land during the past year, the ulama have remained silent.[30]
It is perhaps appropriate to end this article with another hadith that I have
heard frequently quoted by ulama in this context: Whoever witnesses something
objectionable (munkar, ‘forbidden by religion’) should correct this by his
actions; if he cannot act, he should do so by his words (i.e., by admonitions
or protest); and when even this is not possible, he should do so by his heart
(i.e., in silent rejection or, as some have it, by praying to God). Many
apparently feel relieved by the existence of the third alternative, even though
the hadith ends with the reminder that "the last way, however, is a sign
of weak faith."[31]
----------------------------------------
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Notes
[1] Yazid
and Koho (1979: 185). Hadith are sayings attributed to the Prophet, transmitted
orally by the first generation and later collected and laid down in writing.
They constitute, after the Qur’an, the second major source of Islamic law and
doctrine.
[2]The project ‘Sikap dan pandangan hidup ulama Indonesia’ [the Weltanschauung
of Indonesia’s ulama], carried out by the Indonesian Institute of Sciences,
LIPI. The present author took part in the project as consultant for research
methodology.
[3] See the Indonesian weekly Editor, 18 February 1989. The camat made his
visit, taking with him military police. A fight ensued, in which a policeman
was killed. Hours later, military reinforcements arrived and put down this
little rebellion by brute force, killing tens, perhaps hundreds. The best
English-language report on the Lampung incident appeared in Asiaweek, 24
February 1989.
[4] I.e., the Hanafi, Shafi’i, Maliki and Hanbali schools of law. In practice,
Indonesia’s traditional ulama follow the Shafi’i madzhab and have only rarely
had recourse to the rulings of other madzhab.
[5] On this period, see Maarif 1988 and the memoirs of the NU’s last Minister
of Religion (in the 1962-67 period), Saifuddin Zuhri (1987).
[6]Ward 1974: 97-100. The chapter in this book dealing with the NU (pp. 90-113)
is one of the very few perceptive academic studies ever made of this
organisation.
[7] On Subchan’s role see Ward 1974: 108-09, 112-13; Mudatsir, 1983; Anam,
1985: 57-268.
[8] On the NU’s stand in these cases, see Radi, 1984: 115-32, 147-53.
[9] On the crisis in NU in these years and Idham Chalid’s forced resignation,
which he later revoked, see: Adnan 1982; Irsyam 1984; Soebagijo 1982: 229-39;
Jones 1984.
[10]Achmad Siddiq, though the son of a kiai whose pesantren he now leads, had a
bureaucratic career in the Ministry of Religious Affairs. His first position
was as private secretary to Wahid Hasyim, the NU’s first Minister of Religion
and the eldest son of its founder Hasyim Asy’ari; this association may have
helped him in his rapid rise in the NU hierarchy. His ideas on what the NU
should stand for were first published in 1979 in a booklet titled Khitthah
Nahdliyah (Siddiq, 1979).
[11] Masyumi was really an umbrella organisation of various Muslim unions, most
of them reformist but including also a few minor ‘traditionalist’ ones such as
the West Javanese Persatuan Ummat Islam and the North Sumatran Jam’iyah
Washliyah. The leadership was always in reformist-modernist hands. The most
important study of Masyumi to date is by Deliar Noer (1987).
[12]Early writings by Natsir were collected in the two volumes of his Capita
Selecta; selected articles by Sjafruddin were recently republished in two
volumes edited by the prominent literary author, Ajip Rosidi (Prawiranegara
1986, 1988).
[13]See Ward 1970.
[14]The Jakarta Charter is the draft preamble to the Constitution, containing a
controversial phrase to the effect that Muslim citizens would be obliged to
perform all Islamic canonical duties ("dengan kewadjiban mendjalankan
Sjariat Islam bagi pemeluk-pemeluknja"). Christians and secular
nationalists strongly objected to this phrase, which they feared would give
rise to ‘fanaticism.’ Both in the constitutional debates of 1945 and in those
of 1959 it was rejected. See Boland 1971: 25-39, 90-99; Anshary 1981.
[15]As a result of Indonesian diplomatic pressure, the Saudis later replaced
the embarrassing (to the Indonesian government) Natsir with the more pliable
and less ‘political’ Prof. H.M. Rasjidi, the country’s first Minister of
Religious Affairs and also affiliated with the Dewan Dakwah.
[16] Wahib was a journalist, who took active part in the discussions of the
Yogyakarta group. His diaries were published posthumously (Wahib 1981). See
also the analysis of the diaries and of their impact by Anthony Johns (1987).
[17]For an (unsympathetic) study of Nurcholish’s ideas of that period, see
Hassan 1982. A number of important speeches and articles by Nurcholish,
covering the period from 1970 to 1986, have been reprinted in Madjid 1987.
[18]His remark that one might as well greet a fellow Muslim in Indonesian with
the words selamat pagi (‘good morning’) instead of with the traditional
as-salamu ‘alaykum aroused a storm of protest in NU circles, which only calmed
down after he made formal apologies to the Rois Aam, KH. Ali Makshum, one of
his former teachers.
[19] He has, however, gone beyond this admiration for the social and political
doctrines of modem Shi’ism to a defense of other aspects of the Shi’i creed and
a critique of various Sunni views. An admirer of Ayatollah Mutahhari, who in
his view has combined a profound understanding of traditional disciplines with
modem learning and political activism, he stimulates students and followers to
combine social commitment with a serious study of the Muslim intellectual
tradition. Having discovered the rich philosophical and mystical heritage
preserved in the Shi’a world, he tries to awaken an interest in this neglected
aspect of Islamic learning.
[20] Minister Munawir Sjadzali in his keynote address to the Seminar on “New
Trends in Islamic Studies”, LIPI, Jakarta, September 1985.
[21] Interview with Ali Muhammad, head of the fatwa committee of Aceh’s Majelis
Ulama, Banda Aceh, 2 November 1986. An article by Ali Hasjmy (the chairman of
the Majelis) in the Medan daily Waspada of 13 October 1983, summarises the
fatwa: communist doctrine is haram, its conscious followers are kafir, those
putting it in practice are kafir harbi yang wajib ditumpas ['enemy infidels,
whose extermination is obligatory'], and those Muslims killed in the process
will be shahid ['martyrs'].
[22] See Majelis Ulama Indonesia (1976, 1985). The third point in the working
programme speaks of developing Islam’s universal values while respecting local
tradition and other religions and beliefs (i.e., the syncretistic mystical
sects).
[23] The list originated from a university lecturer who had students visit
local supermarkets and list products containing gelatin. Unknown persons later
put this list in circulation after adding three very popular products, Indomie
(instant noodles), soy sauce of the ABC factory (which almost monopolised the
market), and Dancow powdered milk. The first two factories are Chinese-owned,
the third a joint venture with the Nestlé concern, which had incidentally run
into similar problems in Malaysia where the Consumers’ Association of Penang
publicised its use of (gelatin-based) emulsifier.
[24] On this ‘pork fat affair,’ see the weeklies, Tempo and Editor of 5, 12 and
19 November 1988.
[25] An excellent survey of the Porkas affair is given by Yatim 1987. Ibrahim
Hosen’s defense of Porkas and the fatwa of West Javanese ulama were later
published separately (Hosen 1987; Badan Kerja Sama 1986). It should be noted
that Ibrahim Hosen’s defense of the lottery, politically convenient though it
may have been, was entirely in conformity with traditional fiqh: it was,
however, completely at odds with the communis opinio among Indonesia’s Muslims.
[26] The Majlis Tarjih of the reformist organisation Muhammadiyah had in 1968
decided that contraception was contrary to the teachings of Islam and only
permissible in situations of exigency (darurat). The puritan Persatuan Islam
was even more strongly opposed.
[27] The argument involved the existence of an urgent need (darurat); it was
implied that such a need was brought about by the threat of over-population,
endangering the welfare of the ummah.
[28] Majelis Ulama Indonesia (1984: 155-174). IUDs were allowed if inserted by
a female doctor or in the presence of the husband or another woman. Regarding
the rejected methods, exceptions were made in the case of serious hereditary
diseases and threats to the woman’s psychological health
[29] The NU fatwa was based on an argument by the 11th-century scholar Ghazali,
who considered coitus interruptus (`azl) an acceptable practice.
[30] The exception being Abdurrahman Wahid, who through a forum of
non-government organisations pressed for the rights of the expropriated
villagers of Kedung Ombo.
[31] Cf. Zuhri (1987: 135-136), and his explanation of the political
implications of this hadith.
Kondisi politik Timur Tengah belakangan ini, membuat saya teringat kembali dengan Clifton dalam bukunya God Cried (Tuhan yang Menangis). Buku ini sangat menarik, walaupun edisi awalnya dicetak tahun 1982 sehingga ada fakta-fakta yang terkesan kehilangan “konteks”. Akan tetapi, persoalan Palestina selalu aktual. Tangisan yang aktual. Penderitaan yang aktual. Ketidakadilan yang aktual. Dan sikap ummat Islam (baca: entitas Islam Timur Tengah) yang selalu aktual : “masa bodoh”. Anti Menachen Begin dan anti Sharon (dua pilar utama ideologi zionisme tahun 1980-an) sangat terasa sekali dalam buku ini. Menachen Begin (kala itu PM Israel), diakui dunia sebagai pahlawan kemanusiaan. Bersama-sama dengan Anwar Sadat (Presiden Mesir) dan Jimmy Carter (Presiden AS sebelum Reagan), dihadiahi Nobel Perdamaian berkat Perjanjian Camp David. Ariel Sharon (kala itu Menteri Pertahanan/Menteri Luar Negeri), tercatat memiliki tangan yang "berlumuran darah" karena pembantaian orang-orang Palestina di Kamp Pengungsian Sabra Shatilla. Sharon mengomandoi pembantaian ini. Nobel yang diterima Begin diawali oleh darah rakyat Palestina dan kegarangan "monster" yang bernama Sharon. Lalu Arafat dan rakyat Palestina dimana ? Mereka ditinggalkan. Dibiarkan sendiri dan menjadi proyek politik elit-elit politik negara Timur Tengah.
Membaca Buku “Pembuangan DIGOEL” karangan Takashi Shiraishi, sungguh membawa kita pada “tamasya sejarah” penuh horor, ibarat Gullag-nya Uni Sovyet era Joseph Stalin, sebagaimana yang pernah dinukilkan oleh Alexander Solzhenitsyn dalam The Gulag Archipelago. Guru Besar Universitas Tokyo yang juga mengarang buku “Zaman Bergerak” ini sangat mampu mendeskripsikan settiong geografis Digoel atau Tanah Merah, dengan “penceritaan” yang menggentarkan. Takashi Shiraisi bukan Jonstein Gardner yang membuat fiksi-filsafat ”Dunia Sophie”. Buku ”Pembuangan Digoel” adalah buku kecil, namun ia mampu mendeskripsikan dengan baik-argumentatif berdasarkan kaidah-kaidah metodologi ilmu sejarah tentang dataran terpencil di udik Papua itu dibangun penguasa Hindia Belanda, Gubernur Jenderal De Graeff, pada awal 1927, sebagai tempat buangan tahanan politik, yang dikurung rimba dan paya-paya kaya nyamuk. "Dunia" terdekat yang bisa dijangkau dari Digul kala itu hanyalah Tual, kota pelabuhan kecil di Maluku, yang membutuhkan 50 jam pelayaran dengan kapal motor.
