Party Politics and Democratization in Indonesia: Golkar in the post-Suharto era (Routledge Contemporary Southeast Asia)

Party Politics and Democratization in Indonesia

Party Politics and Democratization in Indonesia: Golkar in the post-Suharto era provides the first in-depth analysis of contemporary Indonesian party politics and the first systematic explanation why Golkar is still the strongest party in Indonesia. Applying a multidimensional conceptual framework of party institutionalization theory, the book examines Golkar’s organizational infrastructure, its decisional autonomy and programmatic platform as well as the party’s relations to the mass media. Strengths and weaknesses in the individual dimensions of institutionalization are then contrasted with the corresponding levels of institutionalization reached by Indonesia’s other major parties. Tomsa argues that Golkar remains Indonesia’s strongest party because it is better institutionalized than its electoral competitors. However, while highlighting the former regime party’s strengths in key aspects of party institutionalization, he shows that Golkar also has some considerable institutional weaknesses which in 2004 prevented the party from achieving an even better result in the general election. As an empirical study on Golkar, and Indonesia’s other major political parties, this book will be of huge interest to students and scholars of Southeast Asian politics, political parties and elections and democratization. Dirk Tomsa is an associate lecturer at the University of Tasmania, Australia. He holds a joint appointment in the School of Asian Languages and Studies and the School of Government.

Routledge contemporary Southeast Asia series

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Party Politics and Democratization in Indonesia Golkar in the post-Suharto era Dirk Tomsa

First published 2008 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 270 Madison Ave, New York, NY 10016 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business

This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2008. “To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.” © 2008 Dirk Tomsa All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. 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 A catalog record for this book has been requested ISBN10: 0-415-46008-5 (hbk) ISBN10: 0-203-89274-7 (ebk) ISBN13: 978-0-415-46008-8 (hbk) ISBN13: 978-0-203-89274-9 (ebk) ISBN 0-203-89274-7 Master e-book ISBN

Contents

List of illustrations Preface Acknowledgements Abbreviations and glossary 1

Introduction: the remarkable resilience of Golkar

x xii xiv xvi 1

Introduction 1 The main argument 3 Methodology 4 Structure 6 2

Theoretical reflections: protracted transitions, uneven party institutionalization and the special role of former hegemonic parties

8

Introduction 8 The transition paradigm revisited 9 The role of parties and the importance of party institutionalization 16 Conclusion 33 3

Systemness: deconstructing the myth of Golkar’s party machinery Introduction 35 Golkar’s genetic model and organizational developments during the New Order: a brief historical overview 36 From Sabang to Merauke: assessing the territorial reach of Golkar’s apparatus 40 The party and its leader: factionalism, assertive regional cadres and the rise and fall of Akbar Tandjung 45

35

viii

Contents Party funding: challenges to financial sustainability 62 Conclusion 68

4

Decisional autonomy: the main problems lurk inside the party

71

Introduction 71 Golkar and the military: separated at last 72 Guided by greed: how money politics affects Golkar’s decisional autonomy 83 Conclusion 93 5

Value infusion: in search of Golkar’s roots

95

Introduction 95 The religious dimension: bridging traditional aliran structures 97 The regional dimension: is Golkar the voice of the Outer Islands? 103 The socio-economic dimension: sentimental nostalgia among the poor and Indonesia’s short-lived SARS syndrome 109 What exactly makes Golkar tick? – The rise of ‘ersatz’ values 114 Conclusion 120 6

Reification: mastering the use of symbols and the pitfalls of political communication

122

Introduction 122 What’s in a name? Banyan trees, yellow flags and the politics of symbolism 123 The politics of mass media representation 127 Looking beyond Jakarta: the impact of local media on party politics 136 Conclusion 149 7

Gauging uneven party institutionalization: how strong are the others? Introduction 151 Systemness 152 Decisional autonomy 161 Value infusion 166 Reification 172 Conclusion 178

151

Contents 8

ix

Conclusion and outlook: uneven party institutionalization and the future of democracy in Indonesia

180

Appendix I: composition of Golkar’s central board 1998–2004

193

Appendix II: composition of Golkar’s central board 2004–9

195

Appendix III: Golkar’s election results in 1999 and 2004, all provinces

197

Notes Bibliography Interviewees Index

198 231 253 255

Illustrations

Figures 2.1 2.2 6.1

Dimensions of party institutionalization Dimensions of party system institutionalization Distribution of articles featuring political parties, Jakarta Post (2004) 6.2 Results of the 2004 parliamentary elections in South Sulawesi 6.3 Coverage of political parties in Tribun Timur, 26/2–21/4/2004 6.4 Coverage of political parties in Tribun Timur, 26/2–21/4/2004, by section 6.5 Coverage of political parties in Tribun Timur, 26/2–21/4/2004, by section 6.6 Distribution of positive, neutral and negative news on Golkar 6.7 Distribution of positive, neutral and negative articles on the front page 6.8 Distribution of positive, neutral and negative articles in the Parepare section 6.9 Distribution of positive, neutral and negative articles in the Bone section 6.10 Distribution of positive, neutral and negative articles in the Palopo section

19 29 129 140 141 142 142 144 144 145 145 146

Tables 2.1 3.1 3.2 5.1 5.2 7.1 7.2

Results of the legislative elections 1999 and 2004 The voting structure at Golkar’s presidential convention Distribution of votes for leadership election at Munas VII, as approved by the national leadership meeting Golkar election results 1999 and 2004, selected provinces Socio-economic profile of Golkar’s supporters and Indonesia’s population Numbers of DPR candidates for the 2004 elections Campaign expenditures of the major parties during the 2004 election

14 51 59 104 113 154 160

Illustrations xi 7.3 7.4 7.5 7.6 8.1 8.2

Electoral constituencies of major parties Foundation dates of major parties Name recognition of parties, 1999–2005 (in per cent) Frequency of TV appearances of major parties during the 2004 campaign The institutionalization of Indonesian parties in early 2007 Fragmentation of the Indonesian party system

169 173 173 176 186 187

Preface

In April 2004 Indonesia held its second free and fair legislative elections after the fall of Suharto. With 21.58 per cent of the vote, the former regime party Golkar topped the voting tally and thus re-emerged as the strongest party in Indonesia just six years after the end of the authoritarian New Order regime. The results were described by some observers as the ‘return of Golkar,’ but in actual fact Golkar had not returned. Put simply, it could not return because it had never disappeared. Indeed, even though it had only finished second in the 1999 elections, Golkar has continued to be the strongest force in Indonesian party politics and looks set to achieve another good result in the 2009 elections. In the early stages of the post-Suharto era Golkar’s enduring strength seemed to surprise many observers, while others said ‘I always told you so’. But regardless of their convictions, no one actually seemed interested in seriously investigating why and how the former regime party had been able to transform itself from an artificially created electoral vehicle into a highly competitive political party. Neither was I. It was Professor Merle Ricklefs, back in 2002, who first suggested that I should look into this as a potential topic for my planned doctoral dissertation at the University of Melbourne. Initially reluctant, I soon realized how little was known about Golkar, and indeed about post-New Order party politics in general, so I gradually warmed up to the idea and by 2003 I was ready to go. The decision to work on Golkar earned me a fair share of jeers from some of my Indonesian friends who had been involved in the 1998 demonstrations that helped bring the New Order regime to its knees. But after a while I convinced them of the academic value of such a study and that I was not going to be an adviser for the former regime party. And so I embarked on a fascinating academic journey which offered me unprecedented insights into the dynamics of party politics in Indonesia. The research project was effectively concluded in early 2006, but several revisions and amendments have been added since the completion of the original dissertation, resulting eventually in the manuscript for this book. Significantly, my research helped me understand not only why Golkar was able to redefine itself as a competitive party, but also why it is likely to continue to influence the course of Indonesia’s democratization process for the foreseeable future. Indeed, although many indicators point to a decreasing role for political parties in

Preface xiii Indonesia, predictions of their complete demise appear greatly exaggerated. Contemporary representative democracy is, in the vast majority of countries, party democracy, and if Indonesia continues its arguably protracted, but relatively steady progress towards democratic consolidation, it is unlikely to be an exception. Golkar, as the best-institutionalized of all Indonesian parties, looks set to remain an integral part of this maturing Indonesian democracy. The party has in fact made a number of significant contributions to the country’s democratization process in the last ten years. At the same time, however, it has also been one of those forces that have repeatedly slowed down the progression towards democracy. This book will explain how and why Golkar has been so instrumental in Indonesia’s political development after the fall of Suharto – in both a positive and a negative sense. Approaching the topic from the perspective of party institutionalization theory, it will be argued that compared to the other parties Golkar possesses some crucial institutional advantages, which have helped the party to maintain much of its strength in the post-New Order period. In 2004 these institutional strengths translated directly into votes at the ballot box, catapulting the party back to the top of the voting tally. Golkar’s ‘victory,’ however, was by no means as resounding as many observers had predicted. Indeed, the party’s failure to win the elections by a larger margin indicated that Golkar apparently had certain weaknesses which have directly conferred disadvantages at the ballot box. In other words, there are good reasons to argue – and this book will in fact do so – that Golkar owed its ‘victory’ more to the weakness of the other parties than to its own prowess. In about a year from now, Indonesians will go to the polls again. At this stage, Golkar looks set to achieve yet another good result. Consecutive opinion polls throughout 2007 have confirmed that impression. However, it seems as if little has changed with regards to the reasons for Golkar’s enduring strength. Since 2004 the party has done fairly little to sharpen its profile and attract new supporters. But as most of the other parties have done even less, there may be no need to worry. And yet, as the rising popularity of the Democrats Party (Partai Demokrat) in the wake of Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono’s performance in the presidential palace shows, it may not be the best strategy for Golkar to simply rely on the expectation that the others will not improve. This book is not intended to give advice to the Golkar leadership on how to run the party or how to prepare for elections. Rather, its purpose is to provide a scholarly explanation as to why Golkar has been able to maintain much of its strength after the fall of Suharto. At the same time, however, the book will also elucidate why Golkar has only been able to shape, not to dictate, the course of Indonesia’s democratization process. In doing so, it will hopefully enhance our understanding of party politics in Indonesia and the overall implications of party institutionalization for processes of democratization. Launceston, January 2008

Acknowledgements

This book would not have been possible without the assistance and encouragement of a great number of people. Since it is based on my doctoral dissertation at the University of Melbourne, I would first like to thank my supervisor Professor Merle Ricklefs for his continuing support during my time as a student in Melbourne. From the beginning, Professor Ricklefs was an inspirational supervisor and I thoroughly enjoyed our meetings and discussions about political developments in Indonesia. His decision to leave Melbourne in 2004 was a great loss to me and my fellow postgraduate students, but even from distant Singapore he still provided academic guidance and invaluable advice. Apart from Professor Ricklefs, I am also indebted to my second supervisor, Arief Budiman, and to Michael Leigh who kindly agreed to replace Merle Ricklefs as my supervisor after the latter’s departure to Singapore. Throughout the preparation of this manuscript, a number of scholars, political observers and journalists from all over the world have assisted me with their invaluable comments. I would like to express particular gratitude to those who read either the PhD thesis or the book manuscript (either as a whole or selected parts of it), including Harold Crouch, R. William (Bill) Liddle, Marcus Mietzner, Andreas Ufen, Edward Aspinall, Ariel Heryanto, Dan Slater, Marco Bünte and the reviewer at Routledge. Furthermore, I have enjoyed helpful advice, suggestions and recommendations from Greg Fealy, Vedi Hadiz, Elizabeth Morrell, Damien Kingsbury, Patrick Ziegenhain, Christian Chua, Rainer Adam, David Bourchier and John McBeth. To all of them I am deeply indebted. During my fieldwork in Indonesia, I was fortunate to be surrounded by a large network of incredibly helpful people. I would like to thank the Centre for Strategic and International Studies (CSIS) in Jakarta for providing me with office space and access to their comprehensive library facilities. Members of the academic staff at CSIS including Hadi Soesastro, J. Kristiadi, Rizal Sukma, Indra Piliang, Philips Vermonte and Begi Hersutanto all helped to establish important contacts with Jakarta’s political elite. Additionally, I would also like to thank Saiful Mujani, Mohammad Qodari, Andi Makmur Makka, Salim Said, Jun Honna and Bima Arya Sugiarto. In Makassar, Dias Pradadimara, Muliadi Mau and Yusran Darmawan provided excellent insights into the dynamics of local politics in South Sulawesi.

Acknowledgements

xv

A research monograph on a political party would of course not be possible without access to members of the party concerned. Throughout my various stays in Indonesia, I was positively surprised by the openness of many Golkar politicians, and their readiness to discuss the latest political developments. Among those who have been of particular assistance were Theo Sambuaga, Andi Mattalatta, Fahmi Idris, Slamet Effendy Yusuf and Nurul Arifin. In addition, I would also like to thank Hulfa, Lina, Dave, Arfandy and Syafiuddin for their extraordinary help. And of course special thanks go out to Professor Dr B. J. Habibie who effectively set the ball rolling on a sunny afternoon in mid-2003. At the Asia Institute in Melbourne, Linda Poskitt, Liza Tsang and Nadine Blair have been fantastic in helping me through the administrative jungle of the university bureaucracy. Other postgraduate students at the institute, including Amelia Fauzia, Arskal Salim, Ludiro Madu, Masdar Hilmy and Suaidi Asyari have helped to maintain an enjoyable and hospitable atmosphere. Financially, I am indebted to the University of Melbourne for providing me with a scholarship that not only covered the tuition fee for my entire course, but also living allowances and occasional travel expenses. Since commencing work at the University of Tasmania, my colleagues in the School of Asian Languages and Studies and the School of Government have been tremendously supportive. At Routledge, Stephanie Rogers and Leanne Hinves have shown great understanding in response to my various questions and inquiries during the preparation of the final manuscript. Of course I would also like to dedicate some words of gratitude to my parents, Angelika and Karl-Friedrich Tomsa, and my grandparents, especially my grandmother Hanna Kohnen. Without their unconditional support, this book – in fact, the whole idea of doing postgraduate studies and becoming an academic in Australia – would never have been possible. Thanks for supporting my decision to move overseas, and for coping with the pitfalls of foreign languages and modern technology. And finally, I would like to thank my wife Wulan who provided much-needed support and encouragement throughout the preparation of the book. Some sections of this book have been published elsewhere previously. Parts of Chapter 3 appeared as ‘The Defeat of Centralized Paternalism: Factionalism, Assertive Regional Cadres, and the Long Fall of Golkar Chairman Akbar Tandjung,’ Indonesia, No. 81 (April 2006), pp. 1–22. Chapter 3 also uses material from ‘Bloodied but Unbowed,’ Inside Indonesia, No. 83 (July–September 2005), pp. 17–18 and from ‘Uneven Party Institutionalization, Protracted Transition and the Remarkable Resilience of Golkar,’ in Marco Bünte and Andreas Ufen (eds), Democratization in Post-Suharto Indonesia, forthcoming (the latter also includes some material from Chapter 2). Finally, part of Chapter 6 was, with some minor amendments, published as ‘Party Politics and the Media: Creating a New Dual Identity for Golkar,’ Contemporary Southeast Asia, Vol. 29, No. 1 (April 2007), pp. 77–96.

Abbreviations and glossary

abangan ABRI Al-Hidayah aliran AMPG AMPI

ANC BIN BJP bupati Bulog dangdut decisional autonomy DPD DPD DPP DPR DPRD FKPPI

GAM

Nominal Muslims who do not strictly follow the five pillars of Islam Angkatan Bersenjata Republik Indonesia (Armed Forces of the Republic of Indonesia), now the TNI Golkar-affiliated Islamic organization Ideological streams, term used to differentiate socio-cultural cleavage structures in Indonesia Angkatan Muda Partai Golkar (Golkar Party Youth Brigade), one of Golkar’s youth organizations Angkatan Muda Pembaharuan Indonesia (Indonesian Renewal Youth Brigade), another of Golkar’s youth organizations African National Congress Badan Intelijen Nasional (State Intelligence Agency) Bharatiya Janata Party, Indian Hindu-Nationalist party District chief, head of a kabupaten (regency or district) Indonesian State Logistic Agency Traditional Indonesian music, often used at election campaign events Structural/external dimension of party institutionalization Dewan Perwakilan Daerah (Regional Representatives Council), Indonesia’s upper house Dewan Pimpinan Daerah (Regional Leadership Board) Dewan Pimpinan Pusat (Central Leadership Board) Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat (People’s Representatives Council), Indonesia’s lower house Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat Daerah (Regional People’s Representatives Council), Indonesia’s regional parliaments Forum Komunikasi Putra-Putri Indonesia (Communication Forum of the Sons and Daughters of Indonesian Veterans), lobby organization closely affiliated to the military Gerakan Aceh Merdeka (Acehnese Independence Movement)

Abbreviations and glossary genetic model gizi

Hasta Karya

HMI HWK ICG ICMI ICW IFES Inpres IPKI Iramasuka faction IRI kabupaten KADIN KAMI Keppres kiai KKN KMT KNPI Koalisi Kebangsaan Korpri Kosgoro KPPG KPPSI

xvii

The process of a party’s formation and its subsequent organizational consolidation literally, ‘nutrition’; in the context of Indonesian politics usually refers to money and other material contributions given as bribery Collective term for Golkar’s three founding organizations Soksi, Kosgoro 1957, and MKGR, as well as five autonomous mass organizations that had been founded by Golkar during the New Order (AMPI, HWK, MDI, Al-Hidayah and Satkar Ulama) Himpunan Mahasiswa Islam (Islamic Student Association), a modernist Islamic student group Himpunan Wanita Karya (Workers Women’s Association), Golkar-affiliated women’s organization International Crisis Group Ikatan Cendekiawan Muslim se-Indonesia (Association of Indonesian Muslim Intellectuals) Indonesia Corruption Watch International Foundation for Election Systems Presidential instruction Ikatan Pendukung Kemerdekaan Indonesia (League of Supporters of Indonesian Independence) Caucus group from Eastern Indonesia International Republican Institute Regency or district Indonesian Chamber of Commerce and Industry Kesatuan Aksi Mahasiswa Indonesia, student organization Presidential decision Islamic religious leader korupsi, kolusi, nepotisme (corruption, collusion and nepotism) Kuomintang (Nationalist Party of Taiwan) Komite Nasional Pemuda Indonesia (Indonesian National Youth Committee) Nationhood Coalition Korps Pegawai Republik Indonesia (Civil Servants Corps of the Republic of Indonesia) Kesatuan Organisasi Serba Guna Gotong Royong, one of Golkar’s founding organizations Kesatuan Perempuan Partai Golkar (Golkar Party Women’s Association) Komite Persiapan Penegakan Syariat Islam (Preparatory Committee for the Implementation of Islamic Law)

xviii Abbreviations and glossary KPU LSIM Masyumi MDI

Komisi Pemilihan Umum (General Election Commission) Lembaga Studi Informasi dan Media Massa Influential modernist Muslim party in the 1950s Majelis Da’wah Islamiyah (Islamic Propagation Council); Golkar-affiliated Islamic organization MKGR Musyawarah Kekeluargaan Gotong Royong, one of Golkar’s founding organizations MPR Majelis Permusyawaratan Rakyat (People’s Consultative Assembly) Muhammadiyah Largest modernist Muslim organization MUI Majelis Ulama Indonesia (Indonesian Ulama Council) Munas Musyawarah Nasional (national party congress) Munaslub Musyawarah Nasional Luar Biasa (extraordinary party congress) Muspida Musyawarah Pimpinan Daerah (Regional Leaders Consultative Forum) musyawarah Consultation and consensus (pattern of decision-making and mufakat process in parliament) NDI National Democratic Institute New Order The Suharto era (1966–98) NU Nahdlatul Ulama (revival of the religious scholars), largest traditionalist Muslim organization NGO Non-governmental organization PAN Partai Amanat Nasional (National Mandate Party) pancasila Five pillars, the five guiding principles of the Indonesian state as laid out in the preamble of the constitution panja panitia kerja (Working committee) pansus panitia khusus (Special committee) PBB Partai Bulan Bintang (Crescent Star and Moon Party) PBR Partai Bintang Reformasi (Reform Star Party) PD Partai Demokrat (Democrats Party) PDI Partai Demokrasi Indonesia (Indonesian Democratic Party) PDI-P Partai Demokrasi Indonesia-Perjuangan (Indonesian Democratic Party of Struggle) pembangunan Development (New Order mantra which implied that political freedoms can be sacrificed for the sake of economic development) penekaran The process of administrative restructuring pengajian Islamic Koran reading group pesantren Traditional Islamic boarding school pilkada pemilihan kepala daerah (direct elections of governors, mayors and district heads) PJ Partido Justicialista, the Peronist Party of Argentina PKB Partai Kebangkitan Bangsa (National Awakening Party) PKI Partai Komunis Indonesia (Indonesian Communist Part, outlawed since 1965)

Abbreviations and glossary PKP PKPB PKS PNI PPDK PPP preman PRI pribumi priyayi putra daerah

rapat pleno rapat pengurus harian Rapim reformasi reification RSS santri SARS

Satkar Ulama Sekber Golkar Soksi systemness TNI tokoh ulama UNDP value infusion yayasan Yayasan Dana Karya Abadi

xix

Partai Keadilan dan Persatuan (Justice and Unity Party) Partai Karya Peduli Bangsa (Concern for the Nation Functional Party) Partai Keadilan Sejahtera (Prosperous Justice Party) Partai Nasional Indonesia (Indonesian National Party) Partai Persatuan Demokrasi Kebangsaan (United Democratic Nationhood Party) Partai Persatuan Pembangunan (United Development Party) thugs Partido Revolucionario Institucional (Institutional Revolutionary Party) Indigenous Indonesian; term used to distinguish between Chinese Indonesians and indigenous Indonesians Old Javanese aristocracy Son of the region (term used to describe politicians originating from a specific region, and the ethnic sentiment felt towards them by people from that region) Plenary meeting of the central board Meeting of the executive board Rapat Pimpinan (leadership meeting) Reform (term associated with the post-Suharto era) Attitudinal/external dimension of party institutionalization Rashtriya Sevak Sangh (radical Indian Hindu organization) Pious Muslims Sindrom Amat Rindu Suharto (acronym used to describe the widespread New Order nostalgia in 2003–4, alluding to the fatal epidemic disease that hit large parts of Asia in 2002–3) Golkar-affiliated Islamic organization Joint Secretariat of Functional Groups, predecessor of Golkar Serikat Organisasi Karyawan Sosialis Indonesia, one of Golkar’s founding organizations Structural/internal dimension of party institutionalization Tentara Nasional Indonesia (Indonesian National Army), title of the Indonesian armed forces after 1998 Influential or charismatic leader, often though not always in a local context Islamic religious scholar United Nations Development Program Attitudinal/internal dimension of party institutionalization Charity foundation Eternal Work Fund Foundation or Yayasan Dakab

1

Introduction The remarkable resilience of Golkar

Writing about political parties in Indonesia makes one suddenly aware of how little research has been done on the subject. (Lev 1967: 52)

Introduction When the late Daniel Lev lamented the lack of research on political parties back in 1967, Indonesia was still a young republic with a short, yet already turbulent post-colonial history. In the 22 years since the declaration of independence the country had experienced a revolutionary war (1945–9), a brief spell of parliamentary democracy (1950–9) and an even shorter period of so-called ‘Guided Democracy’ (1959–65). By the time Lev’s article went to print, Indonesia’s second president Suharto was just about to establish what would later become known as the New Order (Orde Baru). As it turned out, the New Order proved much more durable than the previous political systems. Designed as a military-backed bureaucratic-authoritarian regime with strong corporatist elements,1 it lasted for more than 30 years (1966–98). Throughout these years political parties found themselves relegated to passive bystanders as the Suharto regime systematically depoliticized and deideologized all political processes. In view of this situation it was hardly surprising that most academics who conducted research on Indonesian politics during this period remained largely indifferent towards political parties. Put simply, there was nothing to do research on. In fact, parties were so discredited during the New Order that the Suharto regime even refused to define its own de facto regime party as a party. Instead, the organization that was used by the regime as its electoral vehicle was constructed as an amalgamation of so-called ‘Functional Groups’ (Golongan Karya or Golkar), and it was supposed to remain aloof from the allegedly divisive squabbling of political parties. Despite the rhetoric, however, Golkar was essentially a political party, at least from 1971 onwards when it participated in its first general election.2 Based on conceptualizations by Sartori (1976: 63) and Puhle (2002: 81), political parties can simply be defined as political organizations with an official

2

Introduction

label that present candidates for elections (competitive or non-competitive), with the goal of placing these candidates for public office. According to this definition, Golkar was indeed a political party and it is arguably irrelevant whether the regime actually called it a party or not. Of course, Golkar did not fulfil most of the ideal-type functions which theorists routinely attribute to political parties, such as the representation, integration and aggregation of societal interests or the crafting and implementation of policy agendas.3 But it did fulfil most of the functions which Randall (1988) had once described as key functions of political parties in the so-called ‘Third World’: it was used to enhance the regime’s domestic and international legitimacy, to recruit political personnel and to provide the ruling elite with an institutional structure down to the lowest administrative level. Thus, Golkar was primarily an instrument of the regime. As such, the party was an important mosaic stone in the New Order regime’s drive for hegemony. According to Gramsci (1971: 244) hegemony is defined as ‘the entire complex of practical and theoretical activities with which the ruling class not only justifies and maintains its dominance but manages to win the active consent of those over whom it rules.’ Without a doubt, the construction of Golkar as the regime’s corporatist tool and electoral vehicle was a crucial part of these activities. Thus, from 1971 onwards Golkar had once and for all ceased to be ‘an alternative to the party system,’ as Reeve (1985) had once famously labelled it. Instead, it had become a hegemonic regime party, acting in a hegemonic party system (Gaffar 1992).4 Between 1971 and 1998 the hegemonic status of Golkar was reinforced during six consecutive ‘democracy festivals’ (pesta demokrasi), as the Suharto regime euphemistically called its inherently non-competitive legislative elections. But when in 1998 the New Order came to an abrupt end, Golkar suddenly ‘seemed destined for the dustbin of history’ (Tomsa 2005: 17). As competitive party politics was enthusiastically reinvigorated with the formation of more than 100 new parties within a few months, Golkar’s chances of political survival suddenly seemed to be slim. Amien Rais, one of the key figures of the reform (reformasi) movement, for example, opined that Golkar was likely to ‘become just a small party.’5 As is now well-known, Amien was wrong. Of course Golkar could not maintain the ridiculously inflated levels of artificial support which it had enjoyed during the New Order, but by no means did it become a small party, and it definitely did not enter the dustbin of history. On the contrary, the party easily shrugged off initial demands for its disbandment and managed to achieve a respectable 22 per cent in the first post-Suharto election in 1999. The result was enough to secure second place on the voting tally, well behind the Indonesian Democratic Party of Struggle (Partai Demokrasi Indonesia-Perjuangan, PDI-P) of reform icon Megawati Sukarnoputri, but comfortably ahead of other highly fancied parties including Amien Rais’s National Mandate Party (Partai Amanat Nasional, PAN) or Abdurrahman Wahid’s National Awakening Party (Partai Kebangkitan Bangsa, PKB). Following the 1999 election, Golkar quickly re-

Introduction

3

established itself as the most capable political force in national parliamentary procedures and regional elections. When in 2004 Indonesia held its second legislative election of the post-Suharto era, Golkar re-emerged as the strongest party on the voting tally, prompting some commentators to describe the election result as ‘the return of the Golkar Party.’6 In actual fact, however, Golkar had not returned. It could not return because it had never disappeared. As one former high-ranking party member who left the party in 1998 remarked rather graphically, ‘Golkar is like a zombie; you think it is dead but in fact it is always there.’7

The main argument Indeed, while it is true that the party was only the second-largest fraction in parliament between 1999 and 2004, the statistical figures never reflected the real power structure in Indonesian party politics during these years. Under the leadership of its chairman Akbar Tandjung (1998–2004) Golkar was able to steer most of the important political developments in Indonesia in its own favour. Significantly, the party was not only instrumental in orchestrating the rise and fall of Indonesia’s first elected president Abdurrahman Wahid (1999–2001), but also in overseeing the formulation of crucial constitutional amendments and new election and party laws. Moreover, the party secured numerous governor, mayor and district head (bupati) posts in the regions, often at the expense of inexperienced PDI-P candidates. In view of these developments, Golkar’s election victory in 2004 was hardly surprising. On the contrary, many observers had actually expected that the former regime party would not only emerge as the strongest party, but even that it would win the election by a bigger margin (Lembaga Survei Indonesia 2003). These predictions, however, turned out to be wrong, and this very fact illustrates how little is actually known about the real strengths and weaknesses of Golkar. Indeed, until the present day there has been no systematic analysis of Golkar and its role in Indonesia’s ongoing democratization process. This book aims to fill this gap by examining the former hegemonic party’s position in post-New Order Indonesia from the perspective of party institutionalization theory. More precisely, the book will analyse whether Golkar’s perpetuated strength can be explained as a result of uneven party institutionalization in post-1998 Indonesia. A number of political observers have already pointed to Golkar’s institutional superiority as a reason behind the party’s extraordinary tenacity (Suryadinata 2002, Kingsbury 2002, Budiman 1999). However, despite frequent references to ‘Golkar’s massive party machinery’ no methodical analysis of Golkar’s institutional features exists so far. This work will conduct this urgently needed analysis and provide a comprehensive overview of Golkar’s degree of institutionalization in accordance with a multidimensional model developed by Vicky Randall and Lars Svåsand (2002a). The analysis will not only help to explain why and how Golkar managed to win the 2004 election, but also why it did not win by a larger margin.

4

Introduction

In short, the book puts forward three main arguments. First, it will be highlighted that Golkar is indeed the best-institutionalized party in Indonesia and that most of its institutional advantages are direct consequences of its long history as a hegemonic party during the New Order. Significantly, the uneven degree of party institutionalization has conferred immediate electoral advantages to Golkar as the party has harnessed its strengths to secure the highest number of votes in the 2004 elections. Second, despite its overall supremacy Golkar is not a particularly well-institutionalized party. It is strong in certain aspects of party institutionalization, but it also has considerable institutional weaknesses, and it is these weaknesses that primarily account for the party’s failure to achieve an even better result in the 2004 election. Most remarkably, the party appears to have entered an incremental process of de-institutionalization, triggered by a combination of internal and external factors, which may pose some serious challenges to the party in the future. Third, in spite of these challenges Golkar’s strong position in the party system seems set to last, simply because most of the other parties remain weakly institutionalized and unable to capitalize on Golkar’s problems. With the exception of the Prosperous Justice Party (Partai Keadilan Sejahtera, PKS) all other parties have failed to develop effective party infrastructures and/or appealing policy platforms. Instead, they have tried to build their existence primarily on the charismatic appeal of individual leaders, the use of old-style money politics or the exploitation of narrowly focused sectarian sentiment. As a result, levels of institutionalization have remained low and electoral success elusive. Consequently, Golkar has been able to uphold and even strengthen its grip on the party system. To sum up, this book will argue that ten years after the fall of Suharto the former regime party Golkar is still the strongest party in Indonesia, yet not by virtue of its own power but rather by default.

Methodology In order to properly assess Golkar’s strengths and weaknesses, this book relies strongly on a conceptual framework developed by Vicky Randall and Lars Svåsand in their 2002 article ‘Party Institutionalization in New Democracies.’ In this article, the authors ‘unpick some of the conceptual confusion’ (Randall and Svåsand 2002a: 6) that has surrounded the idea of party institutionalization, especially the common ‘tendency to elide the issue of party institutionalization with that of party system institutionalization’ (Randall and Svåsand 2002a: 6). One of the main ‘culprits’ in this regard is Scott Mainwaring (1999) whose otherwise excellent work on party system institutionalization in Latin America falls into exactly this conceptual trap. Similarly, the only systematic study on party system institutionalization in Indonesia by Johnson (2002) also suffers from the same weaknesses as she applies Mainwaring’s model without questioning the direct inclusion of issues of party institutionalization in her analysis of party system institutionalization. Randall and Svåsand’s model, which will be explained in great detail in Chapter 2, avoids this trap as it proposes the use of

Introduction

5

clear-cut criteria for party institutionalization, while developing a separate set of criteria for party system institutionalization. While Randall and Svåsand have successfully overcome one major problem of party institutionalization theory, they have shied away from proposing solutions to the other key issue that has haunted studies on institutionalization: measurability. As a matter of fact, party institutionalization, as well as party system institutionalization, has long been criticized as basically immeasurable, and most of the criteria Randall and Svåsand describe as key components of their concept are also, as they concede, neither measurable nor quantifiable. This lack of measurability has always posed serious challenges to political scientists working on the subject. Of course, it is possible to make meaningful statements about a party’s degree of institutionalization without measurable variables. But especially when the analysis extends to more than just one party (as this book does in Chapter 7), a set of measurable criteria would certainly enhance the analytical value of the comparison.8 While this book does not claim to square the circle of institutionalization theory and come up with the ultimate solution to this problem, it does propose to resort to Mainwaring and Scully’s (1995) suggestion to measure the degree of institutionalization with the help of a ranking system, if only for reasons of illustration. Naturally, such a system is inherently subjective and it is certainly not meant to be the main point of reference for the results of this book. Yet, for the purpose of illustration, it should be considered as a useful tool and therefore the final chapter concludes with a matrix which shows in a simplified yet systematic manner the varying degrees of institutionalization for Indonesia’s seven biggest parties. The findings presented in this matrix are the result of a research project that relied on a broad diversity of sources. For the theoretical underpinnings of the argument the secondary literature on parties, party institutionalization and democratic transitions was reviewed and evaluated. For the empirical part of the analysis, on the other hand, the project relied mostly on information from the Indonesian and international press, as well as a number of primary sources, especially official party documents, data from personal observations during fieldwork, and a multitude of personal interviews that were conducted with politicians, political observers, journalists and civil society activists.9 Whenever useful, academic literature was consulted in order to support information obtained from the media or the various primary sources, but it should be noted that, owing to the sheer contemporariness of the topic, it was often difficult to find relevant secondary material. Data collection in Indonesia was completed during two field trips in 2004 and 2005. The first draft of the manuscript was completed in 2006, but some new materials were added during the revision process. Nonetheless, the main focus of the analysis remains firmly on the 2004 elections. As far as geographical scope is concerned, the book deals primarily with politics on the national level in Jakarta. Wherever possible and useful, however, additional data from local political contexts have been supplied to further elucidate the argument. Most of

6

Introduction

these local data is derived from South Sulawesi where the researcher spent several weeks during his fieldwork in 2004. The province was chosen as a ‘mini’ case study for two reasons. First, it is one of Golkar’s most important strongholds, or, as the Indonesian media likes to put it, its ‘rice barn’ (lumbung).10 In 1999, South Sulawesi was one of the few provinces where Golkar still reached an absolute majority so that it was particularly interesting in 2004 to see how the party set out to defend this result. As it turned out, South Sulawesi became one of the provinces where Golkar sustained its highest losses, thereby vindicating the presumption that political developments in this province would be particularly interesting to analyse. Second, South Sulawesi provides an excellent setting for studying some of the key characteristics of Indonesian party politics such as personalism, factionalism, patron–clientelism and the prevalence of regional sentiment. All of these characteristics can be found in abundance in South Sulawesi, which makes it one of the most exciting places to study party politics. Of course, this researcher is fully aware that data from only one province are by no means representative of developments in other parts of Indonesia. Nonetheless, the data provided here help to underline certain internal developments within Golkar, and therefore contribute to a better understanding of the manifold dynamics in the party.

Structure The book is divided into eight chapters. Following this brief introduction, Chapter 2 will elucidate the theoretical concept of party institutionalization and its relevance in explaining the enduring strength of Golkar. Moreover, this chapter further elaborates on the already mentioned difference between party institutionalization and party system institutionalization. Chapters 3 to 6 discuss in great detail Golkar’s development in four different dimensions of party institutionalization, termed systemness, decisional autonomy, value infusion and reification by Randall and Svåsand (2002a). Chapter 3 on systemness is the longest chapter of this book, simply because this dimension covers some of those aspects of party institutionalization that are often mentioned as Golkar’s most effective strengths. In order to determine whether Golkar really possesses such a superior party machinery as is often assumed, this chapter provides an in-depth analysis of the party’s organizational features, with particular reference to the organizational infrastructure, the relationship between the party and its leader, and the role of factionalism within the party. Furthermore, the chapter discusses the importance of formal and informal institutions and explains why the party has been able to maintain excellent access to human and financial resources. Chapter 4 on decisional autonomy examines whether Golkar is an independent party and to what extent it can make crucial policy and personnel decisions without interference from external forces. Due to historical bonds, the armed forces (Tentara Nasional Indonesia, TNI, formerly known as Angkatan Bersenjata Republik Indonesia, ABRI) are a logical focus of this chapter. The second

Introduction

7

part then moves away from tangible actors and looks at the role of corruption and money politics in influencing decision-making processes within the party. It also touches upon the tensions between external and internal threats to decisional autonomy. Chapter 5 on value infusion answers the question of whether Golkar is infused with any political or cultural values that make people feel attached to the party. Against the background of the ongoing debate on whether Indonesian voting behaviour can still be explained with traditional aliran (literally, streams; in this context cleavages based on socio-cultural dividing lines) approaches, this chapter looks at both sociological and psychological factors that can influence party choices. Chapter 6 on reification evaluates the patterns of political communication applied by Golkar in order to eradicate its stigma as a disgraced remnant of the New Order. Based on the assumption that Golkar entered the post-Suharto era as a highly reified party, this chapter examines how the party has transformed its public image by forging a double identity, somewhere between progressive reformism and conservative status quo attitudes. The role of the media is of particular importance for this analysis, but the politics of symbolism is also investigated. Following the four comprehensive chapters on Golkar, Chapter 7 provides the vital comparative perspective by analysing the degree of institutionalization of the six other major parties in Indonesia. These include the three reformasi trailblazers PDI-P, PKB and PAN, the two surprise packages of the 2004 election, PKS and the Democrats Party (Partai Demokrat, PD), as well as the United Development Party (Partai Persatuan Pembangunan, PPP). While the analysis here cannot be as detailed as in the preceding chapters, it still sheds interesting light on some of the key institutional features of the other parties. Finally, Chapter 8 presents the main conclusions and puts them into the broader context of party system institutionalization and democratization in Indonesia. A brief outlook of potential further developments rounds out this book.

2

Theoretical reflections Protracted transitions, uneven party institutionalization and the special role of former hegemonic parties

Nor, finally, does it mean that we assume that parties are functional for democracy or its consolidation; on the contrary, it may be expected that in some circumstances they are part of the problem. (Randall and Svåsand 2002b: 4)

Introduction Political parties are widely considered to be an indispensable part of any modern political system, no matter if it is a Western-style liberal democracy, an authoritarian dictatorship or one of the various types of electoral regimes that have sprung up in the aftermath of what Huntington (1991) called the ‘third wave’ of democratization. However, ‘political parties are not what they used to be’ (Gunther and Diamond 2001: 3), as it has become increasingly clear that the types and functions of parties are changing. Especially in the countries of Asia, Africa and Latin America, political parties rarely fulfil the ideal-type functions political scientists attribute to them. As Randall (2006) has pointed out, widespread poverty and the resultant lack of material and human resources, coupled with the manifold legacies of colonialism and subsequent authoritarianism have significantly impeded the development and, ultimately, the institutionalization of political parties.1 The concept of institutionalization was pioneered by Samuel Huntington in the 1960s, but it was not before the 1990s that the specific notion of party and party system institutionalization rose to prominence in the academic literature. Spearheaded by Scott Mainwaring, more scholars began to link the ideas of party and party system institutionalization to problems of democratic consolidation in a growing number of countries that had joined the third wave of democratization in the 1980s and 1990s. In fact, the institutionalization of parties and party systems – or rather the lack thereof – was identified with increasing frequency as one of the key factors for the lack of progress towards democratic consolidation in many third wave countries including Indonesia, the subject of this case study. In order to properly contextualize the Indonesian case within the current

Theoretical reflections 9 academic debate about political parties and democratization processes, this chapter will first recap some of the latest developments in the study of comparative democratization. It will then move on to discuss in more detail the concept of party institutionalization and its significance for the subject of democratization studies. Towards the end, particular attention will be paid to the potentially ambivalent role that former regime parties can play in democratic transition processes, especially if they are allowed to continuously exploit longestablished institutional advantages at the expense of new parties.

The transition paradigm revisited Transitions from authoritarian regimes to more democratic forms of government have been the focus of analysis for political scientists ever since O’Donnell and Schmitter (1986) published their seminal work on transitions in Latin America and Southern Europe. Soon afterwards, the wave of democratization had spread all over the world, prompting one scholar to enthusiastically declare ‘the end of history’ (Fukuyama 1992). By the turn of the millennium, however, the enthusiasm was gone, replaced by a growing awareness that the third wave had actually produced very few liberal democracies. Instead, a puzzling array of ‘democracies with adjectives’ (Collier and Levitsky 1997) and ‘hybrid regimes’ (Diamond 2002) had emerged, posing unprecedented conceptual challenges to scholars of comparative democratization. Defining regime types After O’Donnell and Schmitter’s now famous transition paradigm had first entered the academic agenda, scholars soon scrambled to find a consensus about what actually constitutes a consolidated democracy. Early minimalist definitions referred to Schumpeter’s (1947) procedural understanding of democracy and claimed that two consecutive changes of government by means of peacefully conducted elections are already sufficient to call a democratic regime consolidated (Huntington 1991). But the exclusive focus on elections as the sole decisive factor for determining democratic consolidation was quickly criticized as too simplistic. As Elklit (2001: 57) stressed, ‘the holding of acceptable elections is only a necessary, not a sufficient, condition for development towards fully fledged liberal democracies.’ Therefore, more sophisticated concepts of consolidation were soon formulated by scholars like Gunther et al. (1995), Linz and Stepan (1996) or Merkel (1998). In fact, Linz and Stepan’s assertion that consolidation needs to combine constitutional, behavioural and attitudinal dimensions soon emerged as one of the most-frequently quoted concepts of democratic consolidation. According to the authors, a consolidated democracy is ‘a political regime in which democracy as a complex system of institutions, rules and patterned incentives and disincentives has become, in a phrase “the only game in town” ’ (Linz and Stepan 1996: 15). This concept was further elaborated by Merkel (1998, 1999) who argued

10

Theoretical reflections

that democratic consolidation includes not only the three dimensions as laid out by Linz and Stepan – constitutional, behavioural and attitudinal – but also a level of representative consolidation which comprises the territorial and functional representation of societal interests as articulated through political parties and interest groups. The more sophisticated the concepts grew, the more apparent it became that only a very small number of third wave countries were actually progressing towards the normative ideal of liberal democracy that underpinned the definitions of Linz and Stepan or Merkel. By the turn of the millennium, it was widely acknowledged that despite the adoption of democratic constitutions and the holding of free and fair elections, the vast majority of countries that had commenced democratization processes in the 1980s and 1990s still suffered from several fundamental weaknesses. Typical problems included a lack of citizen participation in politics beyond election times, the poor enforcement of civil liberties, the enduring political influence of so-called veto actors such as the military, and the prevalence of conflicting responsibilities between executives and legislatures due to unclear constitutional arrangements. In order to distinguish regimes with such democratic deficits from established liberal democracies, it has become common practice to describe them as ‘electoral democracies.’ According to Haynes (2001a: 8), electoral democracy is a rather pure form of elite democracy which typically involves ‘political competition or collaboration among groups of powerful elites, often exclusive oligarchies dominated by relatively small groups of powerful men (and rarely women).’ Effectively, electoral democracy is an umbrella term for all those regimes that conform to Huntington’s minimalist definition of democracy, but which may be lacking in several other characteristics of liberal democracy.2 More recently, however, an increasing number of scholars have suggested that even competitive elections may no longer be a sufficient indicator to call a regime democratic. As Levitsky and Way (forthcoming: 2) write in their scathing critique of what they call ‘a pronounced democratizing bias that pervaded the post-Cold War literature on regime change,’ elections in many countries today may be competitive, but they are not fair. Therefore, the authors argue that it is entirely inappropriate to use the term ‘democracy’ for these regimes. Instead, they propose to label them according to what they effectively are, namely authoritarian regimes. However, since countries like, for example, Singapore or Malaysia are still very different from closed authoritarian regimes like, for example, Myanmar, China or Saudi Arabia, the authors introduce the term ‘competitive authoritarianism’ (Levitsky and Way 2002; forthcoming) for more conceptual clarity. Other scholars have echoed Levitsky and Way’s view, but have invented new labels for what is essentially the same phenomenon. Ottaway (2003), for example, calls these regimes ‘semi-authoritarian,’ while Schedler (2002, 2006) speaks of ‘electoral authoritarianism.’ Pointing to an extensive ‘menu of manipulation’ that governments use in order to sway election results in their favour, Schedler (2006: 3) has also criticized the overly optimistic view that elections are indicators of democracy.

Theoretical reflections 11 Electoral authoritarian regimes play the game of multiparty elections by holding regular elections for the chief executive and a national legislative assembly. Yet they violate the liberal-democratic principles of freedom and fairness so profoundly and systematically as to render elections instruments of authoritarian rule rather than ‘instruments of democracy’ (Powell 2000). Under electoral authoritarian rule, elections are broadly inclusive [. . .] as well as minimally pluralistic [. . .], minimally competitive [. . .], and minimally open [. . .]. Overall, however, electoral contests are subject to state manipulation so severe, widespread, and systematic that they do not qualify as democratic. (Schedler 2006: 3) The new discourse highlights the fact that the widespread optimism that surrounded the study of comparative democratization in the 1990s has given way to a much more sober assessment of a reality in which democracy is actually very rarely the only game in town. At the same time, however, the ever-increasing number of conceptual categories has led to growing difficulty in determining precisely the boundaries between the various new regime types. Of course, textbook-style regime classifications never entirely match messy realities, but there is little doubt that the puzzling array of new regime types and especially the emergence of new forms of authoritarianism pose increasingly complex challenges to scholars of comparative politics. As more and more countries are entering a foggy ‘grey area’ (Diamond 2002) between the clearly defined analytical poles of liberal democracy and closed authoritarianism, the long-cherished transition paradigm of liberalization, democratization and consolidation appears to be increasingly obsolete (Carothers 2002). Protracted transitions and the special role of former hegemonic parties The growing scepticism towards the usefulness of the transition paradigm is based on the recognition that even though many countries initiated a transition in the 1980s or 1990s, they never really democratized. Levitsky and Way (forthcoming) are particularly critical of attempts to frame what are effectively authoritarian regimes as democratic, especially where authoritarian practices have continued over a prolonged period. Despite the perfectly valid criticism though, there are indeed cases where characterizations such as ‘evolving democracy’ or ‘protracted transition’ seem justified. In countries like Mexico, Taiwan, South Korea or Indonesia, for example, clear progress towards democracy has been made in recent years, albeit not necessarily in accordance with O’Donnell and Schmitter’s ideal-type mode of pact-making.3 Eisenstadt (2000) has argued that in these countries the transitions to democracy have been ‘protracted’ precisely because there was no opportunity for a pacted transition and there was a lack of consensus among elites about how exactly the political system should be changed. The uncertainty about the

12

Theoretical reflections

outcome of negotiations between old regime forces and reformers then resulted in a distinctively slow process of reforming numerous small sectors of the polity instead of a general overhaul of all relevant political institutions. Owing to the protracted nature of the transition process, enclaves of authoritarianism remained intact not just immediately after the initiation of the transition to democracy, but long after the old regime had been replaced by a newly elected government. For several years, therefore, countries like Mexico or Taiwan would have qualified as competitive authoritarian regimes, but at the same time the political process during those years was far from static. Incrementally, these countries dismantled the remnants of authoritarianism and eventually progressed towards electoral democracy. Mexico and Taiwan are archetypes of protracted transitions as their respective transition processes have been prolonged over decades. In these countries, the initial failure to abolish authoritarian practices has proven particularly beneficial for the old regime parties, the Institutional Revolutionary Party (Partido Revolucionario Institucional, PRI) and the Nationalist Party (Kuomintang, KMT), as they were given sufficient time to adjust to the changing political environment. Although the two parties played very different roles in their respective polities, the Mexican and the Taiwanese transition cases share a number of similarities. Both countries had conducted more or less blatantly rigged elections for years, and in both countries it was electoral reform that finally paved the way for the opposition to seize their chance. Rampant corruption, fraud and eventual splits in the ruling parties further weakened the regimes, so that charismatic opposition candidates were finally elected presidents in 2000 and hegemonic party rule came to an end in both countries (Solinger 2001). However, despite the loss of the presidency, both the PRI and the KMT have continued to wield immense influence over the political process even though they have lost their positions of absolute dominance. The special roles of the PRI and the KMT in the course of the Mexican and Taiwanese transitions indicate that the possibilities for the growth and institutionalization of new parties may be severely limited as long as a former regime party maintains superior access to financial, material and human resources. ‘Unequal resources invariably make for unequal political outcomes,’ as Rigger (2000: 137) has aptly remarked. If these inequalities are not levelled over time, elections may remain restricted in their competitiveness and fairness, thereby jeopardizing the long-term prospects for democratic consolidation. As Chu (1999: 78–9) has argued for the Taiwanese case: There is no doubt that the persistence of these holdover issues of regime transition will continue to obstruct, if not distort, the normal functioning of Taiwan’s newly established representative democracy and pose a series of difficult challenges to the task of democratic consolidation.

Theoretical reflections 13 The Indonesian transition to democracy: protracted, but on track As previously mentioned, Indonesia has also been identified as a case of protracted transition. The Southeast Asian giant embarked on the democratization path in May 1998 when long-time President Suharto stepped down in the midst of economic turmoil and massive student protests.4 Writing in the early days of the post-Suharto era, Malley (2000) claimed that the oppositional forces in Indonesia had been unable to negotiate a pacted transition because they were not prepared to capitalize on the unexpected opportunities that opened up in front of them when the Suharto regime suddenly ruptured. Shortly after Suharto’s resignation, interim president Habibie initiated the revision of electoral institutions and laws on parties and legislatures, yet there was little input from opposition forces as they were too preoccupied with establishing an organizational infrastructure for their newly founded parties (Malley 2000: 172).5 Not surprisingly then, the outcome of the negotiations between the Habibie government and the four old parliamentary fractions of the military, Golkar, PPP, and the old Indonesian Democratic Party (Partai Demokrasi Indonesia, PDI) was little more than a ‘half-hearted reform’ (King 2003) and Indonesia’s new political system at first remained laden with authoritarian leftovers. The successful holding of free and fair elections in June 1999 and the formation of a new government in October 1999 did little to change this impression. Pointing to structural advantages for Golkar enshrined in the reformulated election laws, the retention of the military’s role in politics, the hesitation to fight corruption and the unwillingness to reappraise human rights violations by members of the old regime, Malley (2000: 177) concluded that ‘Indonesia should be characterized as being on a protracted transition path rather than in a consolidation phase.’ Similarly, Diamond (2002: 31) included Indonesia in his list of ‘ambiguous regimes,’ mainly because of the continued presence of non-elected representatives in parliament. But arguably the most critical assessment of Indonesia’s early post-New Order trajectory came from Vedi Hadiz who maintained that the country was actually not in a protracted transition, but had in fact already completed a very rapid transition – just not into a democracy but rather into an obscure ‘something else’: It is in fact erroneous to suggest that Indonesia is still in ‘transition’. Instead, the new patterns and essential dynamics of the exercise of social, economic and political power have already become more or less established. [. . .] Thus, violence, money politics, alleged political murders and kidnappings [. . .] are not regarded in this essay as symptomatic of a painfully consolidating or maturing (liberal) democracy, but fundamental instead to the logic of a ‘something else’ already more or less entrenched. (Hadiz 2003: 120–1) A few years later it is obvious that many of the problems mentioned by Hadiz still persist. At the same time, however, it is clear that Indonesia has also taken

14

Theoretical reflections

some significant steps towards democracy. Of course, as Malley (2000: 155) had predicted, this democratization process was characterized by ‘prolonged and repeated struggles to reform specific institutions’ and constant bickering between elites over how and to what extent the political system should be changed. In fact, between 1999 and 2002, Indonesia completed a painfully drawn-out series of constitutional amendments, leaving the once-sacred document with more new than old paragraphs. But despite this patchwork style of reform the overall results were quite remarkable. Among the most outstanding achievements were the introduction of direct presidential elections, direct gubernatorial and bupati elections (pemilihan kepala daerah, pilkada), the abolition of non-elected representatives in parliament (including the military), the formation of a second legislative chamber6 and the establishment of a Constitutional Court (Crouch 2003). With these reforms in place, the country successfully conducted an unprecedented electoral marathon in 2004. The ‘year of voting dangerously’ (Emmerson 2004) started in April with parliamentary elections on three administrative levels (national, provincial and district) and elections to the newly established Regional Representatives Council, continued in July with the first round of presidential elections and finally ended in September with the election of former general Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono (SBY) as Indonesia’s sixth president. Every single round of voting has been described as free and fair and in overall accordance with democratic standards by academics (Qodari 2005) and international election monitors alike,7 so that Indonesia can now definitely be labelled an electoral democracy8 (see Table 2.1 for election results). Following the success of the 2004 elections, Indonesia has further democratized its political system, especially in the arena of electoral politics where the introduction of the pilkada in 2005 has significantly enhanced the openness and competitiveness of voting processes in the regions. In view of these achievements the reputable non-governmental organization Freedom House, in its annual Freedom in the World survey, recently promoted Indonesia from being a ‘partly free’ country to a ‘free’ country (Freedom House 2005, 2006, 2007). Yet, beyond the surface of democratic elections there is still a lot that remains to be done. Old, established patterns of thinking obviously still prevail among Table 2.1 Results of the legislative elections 1999 and 2004 (in per cent) Party

1999

2004

Gained/lost

Partai Golkar Partai Demokrasi Indonesia-Perjuangan (PDI-P) Partai Kebangkitan Bangsa (PKB) Partai Persatuan Pembangunan (PPP) Partai Demokrat (PD) Partai Keadilan Sejahtera (PKS) Partai Amanat Nasional (PAN)

22.44 33.74 12.61 10.71 – 1.36 7.12

21.58 18.53 10.57 8.15 7.45 7.34 6.44

–0.86 –15.21 –2.04 –2.56 +7.45 +5.98 –0.68

Sources: www.kpu.go.id; Ananta, Arifin and Suryadinata (2005: 14 and 22).

Theoretical reflections 15 large parts of the political elite and few attempts have been made to address endemic problems such as corruption, collusion and nepotism (better known as korupsi, kolusi, nepotisme or KKN in Indonesia). As Robison and Hadiz (2004) have shown, many of the old oligarchic power networks between business and politics are still intact as they have successfully adapted to the new political environment without changing their predatory mentality. Despite continued efforts by democracy activists and non-governmental organizations to dismantle these networks, prospects for improvement appear slim as long as regulations about political finance are not sharpened and more strictly implemented. Furthermore, the problem of corruption has been exacerbated by the negative side effects of the well-intentioned decentralization programme as hundreds of regional parliamentarians, governors and bupatis have succumbed to the temptations of power and misused public funds for personal enrichment. Countless local politicians have been implicated in such cases since the start of regional autonomy in 2001 and have thus further contributed to the deterioration of public trust in elected officials.9 Apart from a lack of political will and determination at the highest political level in Jakarta, another – arguably closely related – key obstacle in the fight against corruption is the slow progress towards reform in the upper echelons of the judiciary. The very fact that no serious efforts were made to prosecute former president Suharto for his alleged embezzlement of billions of dollars during his time as head of state clearly underlines just how much remains to be done in this sector.10 Moreover, those few reform-minded judges that have emerged in the lower ranks of the system in recent years have seen their efforts being ridiculed on an almost regular basis when the judgements they had passed down on high-profile corruptors were later overturned at a higher level.11 But it is not only contentious cases of corruption and collusion where the judiciary has been at the centre of criticism. Another arena of struggle between reformers and status quo forces has been the issue of past human rights violations by members of the New Order regime, especially former president Suharto himself and the armed forces. Several cases against members of the military have been brought to court in recent years, but rarely have the verdicts been in accordance with expectations of human rights campaigners (Sulistiyanto 2007).12 The successful blocking of efforts to reassess the past sheds worrisome light on the role of the military in post-Suharto Indonesia. While the formal political power of the armed forces has been curbed after its reserved seats in parliament were abolished,13 the TNI does still wield considerable informal power. This became evident not only in the above-mentioned trials, but also in the resumption of military action in Aceh in 2003 (Jones 2004) and in the dispute about the TNI bill in 2004. In both cases, the military leadership exerted enormous pressure upon the government and lawmakers so that many of their demands were eventually granted.14 Apart from corruption and the role of the military, another urgent problem – and the one that is central to this book – is the performance of the political parties. Bestowed with high expectations in the early days of reformasi, the

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Theoretical reflections

parties have contributed fairly little to the consolidation of Indonesia’s young democracy. To be fair, it was the representatives of the parties who crafted the new political format of Indonesia’s post-authoritarian system, but apart from this achievement their overall parliamentary track record has been rather disappointing so far (Ziegenhain 2005). Moreover, outside parliament most of the parties that had won seats in the 1999 general election failed to undertake substantial efforts to strengthen their organizational infrastructures or to develop appealing party programmes. The 2004 election results, however, indicate that these things may matter not only in abstract discussions about institutionalization, but also at the ballot box. The importance of a well-developed party infrastructure, for instance, was documented by the fact that the two parties which possess the most comprehensive networks of branch offices in the country, Golkar and PDI-P, remained the top vote-getters. Furthermore, the only party that had seriously endeavoured to actually enhance its organizational apparatus in recent years, PKS, reaped considerable benefits for its efforts and gained almost 6 per cent compared to 1999. The good results of PKS and another new party, PD, were often interpreted as retribution for the established parties or, more generally, as proof of the rationalization of Indonesian voters and the overall maturation of Indonesian democracy. Yet the success of the two newcomers cannot disguise the fact that despite widespread disappointment with the status quo, big parties like Golkar and, to a lesser extent, PDI-P still received the lion’s share of the vote. Thus, the results indicated that, just like in Taiwan and Mexico, Indonesia’s former hegemonic party has also been able to exploit the slow progress of the democratization process to its own advantage.

The role of parties and the importance of party institutionalization The pivotal role of Golkar in Indonesia’s democratization process has drawn surprisingly little academic attention so far. Indeed, post-Suharto party politics in general was long overlooked by most scholars, even though some good contributions have been made recently.15 The lack of attention is surprising insofar as there is near-universal agreement that the role of political parties is of immense importance in newly democratizing countries (Burnell 2004, Mainwaring 1999, Merkel 1998). As organizations acting on the intermediate level between state and society, parties have the crucial function of linking the electorate to the government and the legislature. Their strategic position gives them a high responsibility not only for the legitimacy but also for the efficiency of a newly installed regime. Thus, the structure and performance of the parties have a direct impact on the prospects for democratic consolidation: [I]deology, structure and behaviour of the parties are not only of utmost importance for the survival or breakdown of young democracies but they also constitute critical factors determining whether democracies consolidate

Theoretical reflections 17 or instead remain in a grey zone [. . .], somewhere between functioning liberal democracies and plebiscitarian authoritarianism. (Merkel 1998: 50) Approaches to party institutionalization The heightened awareness of the importance of political parties for processes of democratic consolidation goes hand in hand with the realization that traditional explanatory patterns of the formation and consolidation of parties and party systems are no longer sufficient to depict the ever-expanding variety of aspects that influence the functionality of modern parties and party systems. Factors like the nature of the regime type (presidential or parliamentary), the polarization along social cleavage structures or the type of electoral system continue to play a significant role, but in the context of analysing party politics in developing countries particular attention has recently been paid to the importance of party and party system institutionalization – and often the lack thereof as a key obstacle to meaningful progress towards democratic consolidation (Kuenzi and Lambright 2001, Levitsky 2003, Mainwaring 1999, Randall and Svåsand 2002a, Sahli 2003, Stockton 2001,Tan 2002, 2006, Ufen 2006). Predictably, the strong focus on institutionalization approaches in recent years has drawn criticism from some scholars. Morgenstern and Vázquez-D’Elía (2007: 157), for example, have lamented that the bias towards party institutionalization has, at least in some cases, led scholars to overlook the immense influence electoral institutions continue to exert on the shape of parties and party systems in the developing world.16 Furthermore, a much more fundamental critique has come from proponents of social conflict theory who have argued that it is not simply the lack of properly institutionalized parties and party systems that derails the processes of democratic consolidation, but rather the capturing of political institutions by ‘old predatory interests’ (Hadiz 2003: 121). In this view, the whole transition paradigm is flawed because underlying constellations of power will always survive changes in the formal regime structure and reconstitute themselves within the confines of new institutions. Accordingly, political parties would only be able to fulfil their idealized democratic functions if society at large underwent a comprehensive social transformation. These valid criticisms notwithstanding, the ever-growing literature on party and party system institutionalization suggests that the level of institutionalization does indeed play a crucially important role in explaining the complex interplay between political parties and democratization in non-Western countries. In fact, focusing on party institutionalization does not necessarily rule out the incorporation of so-called ‘predatory interests’ into the analysis. What makes party and party system institutionalization such an important object of analysis is the fact that in contrast to the mostly well-institutionalized party systems in the consolidated democracies of Western Europe, North America, Australia and New Zealand, party systems in the developing world are often characterized by a high degree of volatility and poor legitimacy while the parties themselves tend

18

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to suffer from weak roots in society and a lack of professionalism (Mainwaring 1999). As all these factors obstruct the institutionalization of the parties and the party system, they ultimately also impede prospects for the consolidation of democracy. In the words of Lindberg (2007: 218): ‘in order to fulfil their democratic functions to provide accountability, policy preference predictability and aggregation of interests in society, the configuration of political parties must be more durable and institutionalized rather than fluid electoral vehicles of powerseeking entrepreneurs.’ However, despite the growing number of studies dealing with the institutionalization of parties and party systems, the theoretical concept of institutionalization as such remains somewhat murky as it is ‘multifaceted, difficult to operationalize, and sometimes conducive to tautological argument’ (Gunther and Hopkin 2002: 192). Arguably, the scholar who has most incessantly attempted to overcome prevailing scepticism towards the concept of institutionalization is Scott Mainwaring. Since the 1990s, this renowned expert of Latin American politics has published an impressive series of articles, books and papers on the issue of party system institutionalization. His works have inspired many other scholars, as is evident in the growing number of publications that have applied Mainwaring’s conceptual framework in countries outside Latin America, including Indonesia (Buehler and Tan 2007, Hicken 2006, Tan 2002, 2006). In one of his latest works, Mainwaring and his co-author Mariano Torcal have defined institutionalization as ‘a process by which a practice or organization becomes well established and widely known, if not universally accepted. Actors develop expectations, orientations, and behavior based on the premise that this practice or organization will prevail into the foreseeable future’ (Mainwaring and Torcal 2006: 206). They then proceed to classify an institutionalized party system as one ‘in which actors develop expectations and behavior based on the premise that the fundamental rules of party competition and behavior will prevail in the foreseeable future’ (Mainwaring and Torcal 2006: 206). Mainwaring’s conceptualization of party system institutionalization has evolved over the years, but the key components have essentially remained the same: stability, rootedness, legitimacy and party organization. Thus, it seems as if Mainwaring regards party and party system institutionalization as two sides of the same coin. In other words, his model seems to entail the notion that in order for a party system to become institutionalized the parties that constitute the system must also be institutionalized.17 However, this notion has met with criticism from several writers. Bértoa (n.d.: 5), for example, has criticized the conflation of party and party system institutionalization in Mainwaring’s work, arguing that ‘it is not sufficient that individual parties become institutionalized, for they must also function in the established context of a party system.’ In a similar vein, Wolinetz (2006) has used examples from Central Europe to argue that party systems can actually be reasonably well institutionalized even if the parties themselves are weakly institutionalized. Borrowing from Smith (1989), he argues that all that is needed for a party system to institutionalize is a ‘discernible core’ of parties that interact with each other on a regular basis.

Theoretical reflections 19 Significantly, he argues that this core can be developed with parties that do not necessarily have deep roots in society or strong party organizations. Yet another critique of Mainwaring’s concept has come from Wallis (2003) who argued that the inclusion of Mainwaring’s last criterion (party organization) in the analysis of party system institutionalization is problematic, not only because party organization is generally more concerned with party than party system institutionalization, but also because the inclusion of this element can distort the results of the overall system analysis if the parties that make up the system are extremely unevenly institutionalized in this dimension. Wallis’s point draws on observations made earlier by Randall and Svåsand (2002a) who were indeed among the first to maintain that there is no automatic interdependence between party institutionalization and party system institutionalization. Like Bértoa, Wallis and Wolinetz after them, these authors also stressed that ‘[p]arty system institutionalization is the outcome of a range of developments, only some of which have to do directly with the constituent parties themselves.’ While conceding that requirements for party institutionalization and party system institutionalization are in many respects ‘mutually supportive or at least compatible’ (Randall and Svåsand 2002a: 8), they pointed out that under special circumstances party institutionalization may in fact be counterproductive to party system institutionalization and consequently to democratic consolidation. Before discussing the potential perils of party institutionalization, however, it is first of all necessary to take a closer look at Randall and Svåsand’s approach to party and party system institutionalization. Interestingly, and in contrast to Mainwaring and most other scholars working on institutionalization, these authors focus primarily on the institutionalization of parties rather than party systems. Starting from the assumption that parties do not only institutionalize in structural terms, but also in an attitudinal dimension, they define party institutionalization as ‘the process by which the party becomes established in terms both of integrated patterns of behaviour and of attitudes, or culture’ (Randall and Svåsand 2002a: 12). They suggest an innovative model of party institutionalization which consists of four interdependent, yet analytically autonomous dimensions that can be categorized along internal/external factors on the one hand and structural/attitudinal aspects on the other hand (see Figure 2.1). Inter nal Systemness/ par ty organization

V alue infusion

Str uctur al

Attitudinal Decisional autonom

Reification and pub lic suppor y Exter

t

nal

Figure 2.1 Dimensions of party institutionalization (source: adapted from Randall and Svåsand 2002a and Randall 2006).

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Theoretical reflections

Systemness First, systemness, a somewhat awkward term adopted from Panebianco,18 refers to the organizational infrastructure and internal dynamics of a party. To what extent a party institutionalizes in this dimension is not just determined by its ‘genetic model’ (Panebianco 1988), but also by the routinization of well-known and widely accepted rules and procedures within the party (O’Donnell 1996). Following the neo-institutionalist understanding of institutions (North 1990, Lowndes 2002), these rules and procedures can be formal (e.g. party constitution or other official party statutes and decrees) or informal (e.g. factionalism, clientelism, seniority principle), and their impact on systemness can be analysed in a variety of aspects, including internal power structures, succession regulations, decision-making processes, relations between the central leadership and regional branches, and the regularization of access to financial resources. A party’s genetic model, or the process of its formation and its subsequent organizational consolidation, plays an important role in its prospects for longterm institutionalization. Arguing from a European perspective, Panebianco (1988: 53) claims that parties which are created in the centre and then gradually spread to the periphery have a better chance of institutionalization than parties that come into existence as a result of ‘spontaneous germination’ in the regions. However, few parties in the developing world have had the chance to evolve gradually over time as they experienced frequent interruptions when authoritarian regimes arbitrarily changed crucial institutions like party laws or the election system (Randall and Svåsand 2002a: 18). Therefore, prospects for parties to continuously develop a coherent party apparatus have often been inhibited by structural confinements that are beyond the control of the parties themselves. Moreover, parties in the developing world are rarely founded by a group of visionary elites with a persuasive ideology and an elaborate party platform. Instead, party politics in the Southern hemisphere is often dominated by charismatic leaders who establish parties with the sole intention of using them as their personal election vehicles. While in the early stages of party formation a certain degree of charisma is not necessarily antithetical to systemness, in the long-term a gradual transfer of decisional authority from the leader to the party as a collective actor is needed in order to facilitate party institutionalization as rules and regulations are more easily implemented without an almighty party patron.19 Another issue related to structural institutionalization is the access to financial resources. Mass parties with regular revenues from membership fees are almost non-existent outside Europe so that parties need to open up other channels for funding. Money is needed for a broad array of activities like election campaigns, the maintenance of permanent offices, policy research and political education, or the support for party-affiliated institutions such as think-tanks or so-called ‘independent foundations,’ to name but a few. Especially the escalating cost of election campaigns has increasingly forced parties to find new sources of revenue (Ferdinand 2003).20 Many countries have regulated party finance in relevant laws, but often these laws are poorly enforced so that it is

Theoretical reflections 21 sometimes hard to distinguish between political finance and political corruption (Pinto-Duschinsky 2002: 80). In fact, political corruption is one of the most serious obstacles to formal party institutionalization.21 In many countries corruption is so common nowadays that some scholars have come to view it as an institution in its own right (Böröcz 2000). In contrast to formal institutions such as constitutions or other formally binding regulations, however, corruption does not take on a tangible form as it is not put down on paper for everyone to see. It is an informal institution which often deliberately undermines the enforcement of existing formal institutions. The negative implications of such informal institutions for processes of democratic consolidation were first highlighted by O’Donnell (1996) who saw them as one of the biggest obstacles to democracy in Latin America. Defined as ‘socially shared rules, usually unwritten, that are created, communicated, and enforced outside of officially sanctioned channels’ (Helmke and Levitsky 2004: 727), informal institutions are often created as a surrogate where formal institutions are few in number or too weak to fulfil the security expectations of important actors. While some of these informal rules and regulations can actually help to enhance the efficiency of existing formal institutions,22 all too often they live at the expense of formal institutions and exploit the latter for their own needs, thereby making it very difficult for the formal rules of the game to fulfil their tasks. Lauth (2000: 26) has described these kinds of informal institutions as ‘parasitic institutions’ as they are ‘either partially occupying or penetrating’ formal institutions. Similarly, Helmke and Levitsky (2004) have called them ‘competing informal institutions’ as they diminish the effectiveness of formal institutions. Apart from corruption, two other potentially dangerous informal institutions can be identified in the context of party institutionalization. One is the widespread phenomenon of factionalism, the other the prevalence of clientelism. Factionalism in particular has been described as diametrically opposed to party institutionalization because of the damaging impact it has on organizational coherence (Janda 1980, Panebianco 1988, Türsan 1995). In the context of democratic consolidation processes, factionalism within parties is often blamed for the emergence of highly volatile party systems, which in turn can have negative implications for the efficiency and effectiveness of both the executive and the legislature (Riedinger 1995, Croissant 1997). Other scholars, however, contest this gloomy view of factionalism and point to the positive contributions factions have made during democratic transitions (Waller and Gillespie 1995). Furthermore, long-established parties like the Japanese LDP or the Congress Party in India are evidence that factionalism is not necessarily a source of instability (Richardson 1997, Köllner 1999). In the light of these contrasting views, Sugiarto (2006: 3) has stressed that ‘it is necessary to emphasise that party factionalism can both facilitate and hinder the consolidation of the new party system.’ The divergent assessments of factionalism can be put down to the differing characteristics of factions in certain political, social and cultural settings. Beller and Belloni (1978), who are widely credited with the most frequently quoted

22

Theoretical reflections

definition of factions,23 point out that factionalism can not only have many causes, but it can also take on various forms. For instance, where factions come into being merely in response to a specific political issue or as a result of personalism or clientelism, they tend to be weakly organized and in most cases shortlived or of intermediate duration only. On the other hand, those factions that pursue more ideological goals or those which see themselves as the mouthpiece of a certain social or regional group, are often more institutionalized in their own right. These ‘institutionalized or organizational factions’ can have their own internal rulings and procedures as well as easily recognizable names and symbols (Beller and Belloni 1978: 427–30).24 Where their existence within the host party is based on mutual tolerance, institutionalized factions can make a significant contribution to the aggregation, integration and representation of societal interests. As indicated above, in some cases factionalism is closely associated with clientelistic relationships between a political patron and his followers (clients). In fact, clientelism remains a widespread phenomenon in large parts of the developing world and its influence on the formation and institutionalization of parties and party systems cannot be denied. Most scholars regard clientelism as inimical to party institutionalization as it prioritizes individual interests at the expense of the party. Accordingly, Randall and Svåsand (2002a: 20) have summarized the negative implications of clientelism for party institutionalization, arguing that it ‘undermines rules and regularized procedures, reducing the party constitution if there be one to a meaningless sham.’ However, the authors also point out that in the context of party politics clientelism should not only be understood in its traditional sense as a face-to-face relationship of personal exchange between an individual patron and his followers (Scott 1972). Rather, a party itself as a collective actor can be identified as a patron who offers and distributes to its electorate material or professional benefits such as government posts or positions in the party bureaucracy. Perceived in this way, clientelism may be seen as less threatening to the systemness of a party than in its traditional form (Randall and Svåsand 2002a: 21).25 Decisional autonomy Second, decisional autonomy, as conceptualized by Randall and Svåsand, looks at the party’s relations with its external environment. Huntington (1968) and Panebianco (1988) have both stressed the need for autonomy as a distinct dimension of institutionalization, whereas Janda (1980) and Levitsky (1998) have questioned the necessity to include the issue of autonomy in the context of party institutionalization.26 The disagreement mainly revolves around hazy conceptions of when a party is dependent on another economic, political or social actor or when it is just closely linked to such an external sponsor. In other words, it is not always sufficiently clear what autonomy actually means. For Panebianco (1988: 55–6), crucial elements of autonomy are control over financial resources, domination of collateral organizations, a well-developed party

Theoretical reflections 23 bureaucracy and the freedom to choose party leaders from within. On the other hand, he maintains that a party that is dependent on external actors for the provision of financial, material or human resources is weakly institutionalized as the party’s constituency might be more closely affiliated with the external actor than with the party as such. But this view has been challenged by scholars like Jones (1997) or Janda (1980), who argue that parties like Peron’s Partido Justicialista (PJ) in Argentina or the British Labour Party reached a high degree of institutionalization regardless of their close relations with the trade unions. While acknowledging ambiguities in the concept of autonomy, Randall and Svåsand, in their attempt to accommodate differing views on institutionalization, have narrowed down the idea of autonomy to the crucial element of decisionmaking processes. They concede that close links to external forces do not necessarily weaken a party’s degree of institutionalization as long as the party is still the dominant force in the relationship and as long as it is able to maintain ‘a significant degree of decisional autonomy, or freedom from interference in determining its own policies and strategies’ (Randall and Svåsand 2002a: 14). In fact, such links may even be conducive to party institutionalization, especially in times of democratic transitions when newly formed parties are in need of external sponsorship to counter the organizational advantages of the established ruling party. The idea of concentrating on decisional autonomy rather than organizational autonomy in general is an innovative attempt to allow for a tightly focused investigation of a party’s ability to forge its own destiny. Unfortunately, however, Randall and Svåsand’s discussion of the subject matter falls short in a number of aspects. First, they fail to mention a number of critically important actors that have the potential to compromise a party’s decisional autonomy. Second, they fail to acknowledge that it is not only actors, but also structural factors that can limit a party’s decisional autonomy. And third, their focus on decision-making processes rather than organizational autonomy as a whole raises questions about the conceptualization of autonomy as an external dimension of party institutionalization. These issues are discussed in the following paragraphs. To begin with, Randall and Svåsand only mention three different actors that can potentially compromise a party’s decisional autonomy. First, in countries with strong class cleavages, trade unions have traditionally linked up with Labour and communist parties and supported them with material and human resources. In the context of Indonesia, for instance, the emergence of the Indonesian Communist Party (Partai Komunis Indonesia, PKI) as a strong political force in the 1960s was at least facilitated by the party’s close ties with the country’s largest trade-union federation (Mortimer 1974). Second, religious organizations have more or less actively supported the founding of political parties. Examples from Asia include India, where the radical Hindu organization Rashtriya Sevak Sangh (RSS) was heavily involved in the establishment of the Jan Sangh which was later revitalized as the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), and Indonesia, where the Muslim organization Nahdlatul Ulama (NU), which itself

24

Theoretical reflections

acted as a party for a limited time, sponsored the creation of the PKB.27 Third, transnational party organizations like the Council of Asian Liberals and Democrats or the Socialist International may act as external sponsors as they assist parties in democratizing countries through workshops, training and funding. However, since programmatic parties are rare in large parts of the developing world, so far only a very few parties are linked through these networks and the impact of the assistance programmes, both in ideological and organizational terms, seems to be fairly limited (Randall and Svåsand 2002a: 23). Apart from these three examples, however, there are several other societal forces that have the potential to constrain a party’s decisional autonomy. The role of the military, for instance, cannot be excluded from this discussion. While in most countries the armed forces are not directly associated with party politics, there are certainly examples where the military has openly intervened in the formation of political parties. Africa has been particularly notorious in this regard (Sahli 2003: 19–27), but countries in other parts of the world have also been affected as the Milli Demokrati Partisi in Turkey (1983) or the Samakkhi Tham Party in Thailand (1992) show.28 In Indonesia, the military was involved in the formation of the short-lived League of Supporters of Indonesian Independence (Ikatan Pendukung Kemerdekaan Indonesia, IPKI) in the 1950s. Later, of course, it initiated the establishment of Golkar. At the other end of the extreme there are also various political parties who act or have acted as official or semi-official representatives of separatist or terrorist movements. Sinn Fein in Northern Ireland and Herri Batasuna in Spain are but two examples of parties that cannot be separated from the terrorist organizations behind them.29 In Indonesia, it was long considered to be impossible to establish such parties because organizations such as the Acehnese Independence Movement (Gerakan Aceh Merdeka, GAM) or the Free Papua Movement (Organisasi Papua Merdeka, OPM) used to be regarded as enemies of the state by the Indonesian authorities. With the signing of the 2005 Memorandum of Understanding between the Indonesian government and GAM, however, circumstances have changed. In fact, it now seems almost inevitable that not only one, but several political parties affiliated with GAM will emerge in the run-up to the 2009 general election (International Crisis Group 2007: 3).30 Finally, the increasing importance of money as a pivotal factor in politics has opened up new space for organized or individual business actors to pursue their interests through political parties. In some cases, business tycoons simply form their own parties and use them as a political vehicle,31 but business actors more often act behind the scenes, from where they influence decision-making processes within parties without being formally involved in a particular party. However, it should be noted here that the growing influence of capital is not necessarily tied to the presence of businessmen. Any affluent actor can interfere in politics, regardless of his or her profession. Therefore, it is suggested here that in order to determine a party’s degree of decisional autonomy it is imperative to not only look at the influence of specific actors or organizations, but also at the structural power of capital. As we shall see in Chapters 4 and 7, decision-

Theoretical reflections 25 making processes in Indonesian parties are often determined by financial considerations rather than policy concerns. To make matters worse, these decisions are often made within extremely small elite circles in Jakarta, which deprives the party as a collective political organization of its decisional autonomy. Of course, it could be argued that every large social organization needs to concentrate its decision-making processes at the top of its organizational infrastructure if it wants to operate effectively and efficiently. This natural trend towards oligarchy was already highlighted by Michels (1959) a long time ago. However, patterns of oligarchy in many Indonesian parties tend to be particularly pronounced, not least because they are often compounded by the absence of accountability mechanisms and consultation processes between the party elite and the grassroots. Parties with strong and charismatic leaders, in particular, often neglect the party organization. Such problems indicate that a party’s decisional autonomy can be encroached upon by external actors and also by members of the party itself. An exclusive conceptualization of decisional autonomy as an external dimension of party institutionalization therefore appears somewhat inappropriate. Value infusion Turning to the attitudinal dimension of party institutionalization, value infusion concerns a party’s popular base and the members’ identification with and attachment to the party. In order to institutionalize in this dimension a party needs to acquire a reasonably large core group of followers (members or supporters) which commits itself to the party not only for its own self-interest but also for the sake of the party itself. Any party that claims to represent the aspirations of a certain societal group needs to be or become thoroughly infused with the social, cultural or political values of this particular group. If successful, the party eventually ‘becomes valuable in and of itself, and its goals become inseparable and indistinguishable from it’ (Panebianco 1988: 53). The creation of a distinctive value system can significantly contribute to party cohesion as it provides the basis for strong ties between the party as an organization and its members and supporters. While sources of value infusion can be manifold, Randall and Svåsand (2002a: 21) note that ‘[v]alue infusion is likely to be strongest where the political party is identified with a broader social movement.’ In a Western European context this correlation was famously described by Lipset and Rokkan (1967) who identified the four classic social cleavages class, religion, region and the rural/urban divide as key engines behind the formation and consolidation of Western European mass parties. To a certain extent these cleavages can also be found in the countries of the developing world, with the centre/periphery divide and religion being the most salient of the classic four. Although the mere existence of cleavages does not necessarily entail the formation of political parties along these cleavages, some Asian and African countries have indeed witnessed the formation of regional and religious parties.

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Theoretical reflections

In addition, ethnic parties have also gained increasing prominence in recent years (Reilly 2006, Rüland 2001),32 particularly but not only in Latin America where indigenous movements have formed a number of successful political parties (Van Cott 2005). While some observers see the potential contribution of such parties to democratic development in a positive light (Madrid 2005), others are more sceptical.33 Gunther and Diamond (2001: 23–4), for instance, have argued that ‘the ethnic party’s particularistic, exclusivist, and often polarizing political appeals make its overall contribution to society divisive and even disintegrative.’ Many governments in the developing world apparently share Gunther and Diamond’s view and have resorted to a variety of means to contain the influence of not only ethnic, but also religious and regional parties. While in some cases existing parties were simply banned (e.g. Masyumi in Indonesia, the Islamic Salvation Front (FIS) in Algeria or the Refah Party in Turkey), a more frequently used tool has been the creation of institutional regulations that seek to weaken the influence of exclusivist parties. As Reilly (2006, 2007) has shown, such political engineering measures can come in various disguises, ranging from electoral reform (for example the introduction of majoritarian electoral systems or electoral thresholds) to the formulation of requirements for parties to have a nationwide organizational apparatus. Many governments in the Asia-Pacific region have engaged in at least some form of political engineering in recent years, and while the main motivations have differed from country to country, it seems that an important consideration has always been to contain the polarization and fragmentation of the party system.34 An inevitable and indeed often deliberately intended side effect of such measures is the strengthening of broad-based electoralist mainstream parties which, ironically, often lack any kind of distinctive values. In many ways, these parties resemble European-style catch-all parties with their often vague and superficial programmatic platforms, but despite the ‘drastic reduction of [. . .] ideological baggage’ (Ufen 2006: 23) many parties in the developing world have actually crafted their own distinct identity based on values which may not be linked to traditional cleavages, but which are nonetheless powerful tools for the mobilization of members and supporters. Randall (2001), for example, points to the importance of nationalism as a driving force of party formation in many African countries. In Asia, the Indian Congress Party and the Indonesian National Party (Partai Nasional Indonesia, PNI) are further examples of aggregative, broad-based parties whose value infusion was primarily based on nationalism as a unifying ideology against the colonial powers. But nationalism as a source of value infusion is not confined to the period prior to and at the point of gaining independence. As the legacies of colonialism loom large in lengthy and often complicated nation-building processes, nationalism has never completely lost its momentum. On the contrary, in more recent years the negative consequences of globalization and free trade have triggered a resurgence of nationalist sentiment, often manifested in fierce antiWestern rhetoric. This trend is evident not only in developing countries but also in some parts of Eastern Europe (Von Beyme 1997).

Theoretical reflections 27 Nationalism, however, rarely serves as a sole basis of value infusion. Often nationalist ideas are conveyed through a charismatic leader, so that the real sources of identification with and attachment to the party may blur. For example, the Indian Congress Party and the Indonesian PNI owed their support not only to the rising forces of nationalism, but also to the appeal of their charismatic leaders, Nehru and Sukarno. The two parties are proof that under special circumstances even personalism and clientelism can serve as sources of value infusion. In India, the Nehru family continued to dominate politics long after the death of Nehru, and in Indonesia the legacy of Sukarno was revived in the 1990s by his daughter Megawati Sukarnoputri. Her rise to the presidency – and her continuing popularity after the loss of it – show that the combination of personalism and nationalism can still be a very potent political force. Finally, in many countries that have experienced periods of authoritarianism another historical factor that has significantly shaped the processes of party formation is the dividing line between forces aligned with or sympathetic to the old regime (‘status quo’) on the one hand, and reformist forces on the other hand (Randall 2001).35 Von Beyme (1997) also mentions this additional cleavage in his discussion of the new democracies in Eastern Europe, but he also stresses the transitional character of this cleavage, implying that it is only a temporary phenomenon that does not qualify as a long-term source of value infusion. Reification The last dimension of party institutionalization, reification, reflects the ability of a party to establish itself as a household name in the political discourse of a country. For Janda (1980: 19) reification is the defining characteristic of an institutionalized party. He claims that ‘an institutionalized party is one that is reified in the public mind so that “the party” exists as a social organization apart from its momentary leaders.’ This definition clearly takes up notions of value infusion, but the important point in Janda’s concept is that reification deals more with the perception of the party by the wider society than with the party’s relations with its core constituency. In order to establish itself in the public imagination, a party needs to create and develop effective means of interaction with the public. Therefore, regular access to the mass media is a vital necessity for any party that wants to disseminate its political message to the public. Contemporary politics is conveyed to the people primarily through the mass media and no party nowadays can afford to be shunned by the media. Similarly important for reification is the efficient use of well-known symbols and labels as they serve as tools for the public to structure their electoral preferences. As Mainwaring (1999: 12) has argued, ‘[i]t would be impossible to begin every election anew, with no established party labels, without shortcuts that tell the electorate who is who.’ Voters naturally associate certain expectations with political parties. But usually only a small minority knows exact details about the programmes and policies of the parties. Instead, most people tend to ‘rely on symbols and organizations to orient their

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Theoretical reflections

conceptual universe’ (Mainwaring and Scully 1995: 3). A party’s name plays a crucial role in this regard but traditional symbols, colours or catchy slogans can also be effective means to secure a place in the minds of the people. Reification is a long process and can only be achieved in time. As Randall and Svåsand (2002a: 23) put it, ‘party reification is finally and importantly a function of longevity, the party’s ability to survive over time.’ Needless to say that in countries that have just recently embarked on the path of democratization, reification is still a non-issue for many parties. While democratic transitions often bring about a mushrooming of new political parties, normally only a very few survive the initial euphoria surrounding the founding elections. Compared to the multitude of newcomers, those parties that already existed either before or under the ousted authoritarian regime enjoy a significant advantage in terms of reification. Interestingly, this can be true for both former regime and former opposition parties. In some cases, for instance, parties that had been banned under authoritarian rule have shown an amazing resilience in the face of prolonged repression. The African National Congress (ANC) in South Africa or the PJ in Argentina are just two examples of parties, which have successfully retained their place in the public consciousness during long phases of authoritarian rule. In Eastern Europe, on the other hand, ‘historical parties’ (Segert and Machos 1995) were far less successful. Instead, the successor parties of the formerly hegemonic communist parties emerged surprisingly strongly in many post-communist elections, especially in Russia (March 2002) and in the former ‘national consensus regimes’ (Ishiyama 1997) of Poland and Hungary. The virtues of multidimensional models The suggested model combines all important aspects of party institutionalization and integrates them into one comprehensive analytical framework. Accordingly, party institutionalization is a process that takes place in several dimensions, all of which need to be analysed and evaluated separately.36 Levitsky (2003: 16–17) has objected that research based on such multidimensional models can have analytical costs when organizations reach different degrees of institutionalization in the individual dimensions, but arguably such problems can be avoided if the results in the respective dimensions are not just simply aggregated but accurately distinguished before final conclusions are drawn. Of course, it is almost natural that parties do not institutionalize simultaneously in all dimensions. In practice certain parties may be highly institutionalized in one dimension while remaining weakly institutionalized in another (Morlino 1998).37 But that does not mean that any of the four dimensions can simply be omitted from the analysis. As a matter of fact, theoretical models hardly ever match complex realities, but the more complex the model the better its chances of reflecting and explaining reality accurately. The conduct of onedimensional research only leads to highly contrasting assessments of institutionalization as exemplified by the case of the Argentinian PJ. This party has been the focus of much scholarly research but there are huge discrepancies in the

Theoretical reflections 29 assessments of institutionalization. Jones (1997: 272) for example characterizes the party as ‘highly institutionalized,’ whereas Levitsky (2003: 3) and McGuire (1997: 1) have described it as ‘weakly institutionalized’. Party institutionalization versus party system institutionalization The most significant feature of Randall and Svåsand’s institutionalization model, however, is not its multidimensionality (Huntington’s and Mainwaring’s models are also multidimensional), but its clear differentiation between party institutionalization and party system institutionalization. As was mentioned earlier, many authors fail to make this distinction, seemingly assuming an automatic interdependence between the two. Yet this assumption is erroneous. As Randall and Svåsand (2002a: 8) stress, ‘[p]arty system institutionalization is the outcome of a range of developments, only some of which have to do directly with the constituent parties themselves.’ While the authors concede that requirements for party institutionalization and party system institutionalization are in many respects ‘mutually supportive or at least compatible’ (Randall and Svåsand 2002a: 8), they suggest analysing party system institutionalization in four distinct categories, similarly structured as the party institutionalization model (shown in Figure 2.2). First, continuity and stability are key elements of any competitive institutionalized party system.38 In the words of Mainwaring and Scully (1995: 4–5), ‘where [. . .] stability does not exist, institutionalization is limited.’ In fact, some authors regard stability as so crucially important that they have limited their analysis of party system institutionalization to just this component (Lindberg 2007). To a certain extent, stability is a direct result of party institutionalization as only a stable number of institutionalized parties can prevent the system from becoming highly volatile. As long as the parties themselves are weakly institutionalized, disintegration and re-formation of new parties will remain common features of the party system. Consequently, volatility will remain high and the party system is unlikely to stabilize. However, continuity and stability do not only depend on institutionalized parties. Equally important are Inter nal Contin

uity and stability

Mutual acceptance of the par ties

Str uctur al

Attitudinal

Relations betw een the par ty system and the state

Apreciation b the elector Exter

y ate

nal

Figure 2.2 Dimensions of party system institutionalization (source: adapted from Randall and Svåsand 2001: 91).

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well-administered political institutions such as the form of government (presidential or parliamentary) and especially the electoral system (majoritarian/ plurality or proportional representation). Thus, the nature of the electoral institutions should always be considered in the analysis of stability as a component of party system institutionalization. Majoritarian or plurality systems are generally regarded as more conducive to the stability of party systems because they tend to foster the emergence of twoparty systems. Proportional representation, however, which more often leads to multi-party systems and is therefore regarded as fairer than majoritarian systems, does not necessarily rule out stable party systems.39 In view of the necessity for electoral systems to not only provide stability, but also fair and equal representation of all segments of society, Merkel (1998) dismisses both pure majoritarian/plurality and pure proportional representation systems as not suitable for democratizing countries. Instead, he argues in favour of either proportional representation with significant thresholds or mixed electoral systems with an ‘almost equally weighted combination of PR [proportional representation] and plurality election elements’ (Merkel 1998: 51).40 Second, an institutionalized party system has to be protected from arbitrary interference from the state. According to Randall and Svåsand (2002a: 8), prospects for party system institutionalization improve when the individual parties ‘are supported by public measures, such as public subsidies, access to media and legal protection for their existence, for instance in the constitution or in ordinary laws.’ However, in many countries of the developing world these measures are far from guaranteed and even where the regulations exist, their implementation is often poor. This aspect of party system institutionalization is further complicated by the fact that state actors are often directly involved in the formation of new parties in order to ensure preferential treatment for their own parties (Mainwaring 1999). The Indonesian party system during the New Order was a prime example of a system that was weakly institutionalized in this dimension. The third dimension, mutual acceptance of the parties that constitute the system, is a critical precondition for parties to accept the possibility of electoral defeat. In times of transition sentiments of suspicion and mistrust tend to run high, especially towards parties that are believed to maintain links to old regime elites. However, for a party system to institutionalize, the individual parties that make up the system need to fully respect the system and ‘accept each other as legitimate competitors’ (Randall and Svåsand 2001: 92). If this does not happen, the validity of electoral results will constantly be challenged and parties may not accept the role of parliamentary opposition. Finally, the party system should be appreciated by the electorate. If parties and the competitive electoral process as a means of electing a legislature and a government are respected as taken-for-granted institutions, the party system as a whole can be regarded as institutionalized. However, in many democratizing countries political parties are among the least trusted political actors.41 While similar findings have also been noted for many Western democracies (Listhaug and Wiberg 1995), the implications for newly democratizing countries are far

Theoretical reflections 31 more negative as widespread mistrust in the party system increases the possibility of an authoritarian backlash. The potential perils of uneven party institutionalization Implicit in most concepts of party system institutionalization, including Randall and Svåsand’s, is the notion that prospects for a party system to institutionalize are likely to be enhanced by the institutionalization of individual parties. Yet Randall and Svåsand are to be credited for pointing out quite explicitly that there is no automatism between the two issues. On the contrary, under special circumstances party institutionalization may even be counterproductive to party system institutionalization and consequently to democratic consolidation. One example concerns the aspect of value infusion and its relation to party system institutionalization. As Randall and Svåsand (2002a: 9) rightly mention, cross-party competition could be restricted and the mutual respect and acceptance among parties severely undermined if large parts of the population identify with parties that are based on highly polarizing religious or ethnic values. The stronger and more institutionalized these exclusivist parties grow, the higher the danger of the democratic party system being dismantled. It is therefore hardly surprising that many countries have engaged in all sorts of political engineering in order to minimize the threats posed by such parties. A second example, which is of particular interest to this book, is the uneven character of party institutionalization in times of democratic transitions. The commonly held view that party institutionalization is a crucial precondition for democratic consolidation is based on the assumption that all parties enjoy a relatively even degree of institutionalization. In established democracies, this may be true. In democratizing countries, however, degrees of party institutionalization often vary significantly between new parties and those with close connections to the preceding authoritarian regime (Wallis 2003). Especially in the early stages of a transition period, financial, material and human resources are often distributed very unevenly and this has implications for party institutionalization, particularly in the dimension of systemness where imbalances are likely to provide considerable advantages for former regime parties. Indeed, the different degrees of institutionalization between old and new parties tend to be most clearly visible in the dimension of systemness where new opposition parties that have emerged during the transition often lack a strong organizational infrastructure and their inexperienced members rarely possess the professional skills that are needed to handle parliamentary or government affairs. On the other hand, old regime parties frequently capitalize on the existence of a well-organized party apparatus, better access to financial resources or the political shrewdness of their leading cadres. Organizational superiority has been named as one of the main reasons for the strong performance of excommunist parties in Poland, Hungary or Russia (March 2002, Waller 1995), and it has also been an important factor in the transformation of other former hegemonic parties like the Taiwanese KMT or the Mexican PRI. While the

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KMT’s Leninist party structure resembles those of the Eastern European communist parties, the PRI is a different case as it was never a state party per se but rather an ‘extension of the state machine and its tame corporatist organizations. It existed to reward loyalty and not to compete for power’ (Philip 2002: 140). Nevertheless, in order to fulfil this ‘primary goal’ (Harmel and Janda 1994), the PRI was equipped with vast human, material and financial resources that, for a long time, made it difficult for the opposition to challenge the PRI’s hegemony. In the other dimensions of party institutionalization, former regime parties may also enjoy advantages, but to what extent that occurs – or whether it occurs at all – often depends on the nature of the preceding regime. As a matter of fact, even before the emergence of recent phenomena such as competitive or electoral authoritarianism, non-democratic regimes came in all shapes and sizes. It is therefore important to remember that ‘not all authoritarian regimes are alike’ (Rigger 2000: 143).42 In military-dominated or highly personalistic regimes, for example, ruling parties often possess little-to-no decisional autonomy and few meaningful political values. Once democratization commences in such regimes, the former regime parties may try to reinvent themselves by embracing democracy and denouncing their connections to the armed forces, but their prospects for institutionalization in the dimensions of decisional autonomy and value infusion are likely to remain low. On the other hand, transitions from authoritarianism in regimes where a strong political party formed an integral part of the power structure can be expected to produce very different outcomes with regards to party institutionalization in these two dimensions. The Russian communist party (Communist Party of the Russian Federation, CPRF) or the Taiwanese KMT are but two examples of former regime parties that were and continue to be highly autonomous and infused with strong political values. In the case of the CPRF, for instance, the party’s unrelenting commitment to communism after the end of the Cold War has helped it keep its place in the post-Soviet party system as it continues to benefit from people’s enduring attachment to communism as an identity-providing ideology (March 2002, Miller and White 1998).43 As far as reification is concerned, former regime parties are most likely to enjoy comparative advantages in countries where the authoritarian regime did not allow opposition parties to operate. Under such circumstances new parties founded during or after the transition often face an uphill battle to establish themselves in the public consciousness. This task is made even more difficult if old regime elites continue to maintain control over key means of communication like the mass media. In Taiwan, for instance, where opposition parties were banned until 1986, their legalization did not immediately provide them with equal opportunities to disseminate their political programme. Most of the country’s TV stations were directly or indirectly owned by the ruling KMT so that media coverage continued to be biased in the KMT’s favour for several years after the initiation of the transition to democracy. Only with the introduction of cable TV in the mid-1990s, was more neutral and critical coverage finally made possible, and today the opposition also owns its own media outlets (Chu 1999).

Theoretical reflections 33 Generally, opposition parties have much better prospects of establishing themselves in the public mind if they have been allowed to operate during the authoritarian period. In Mexico, for example, the oldest opposition party was founded back in 1939, and other opposition parties existed throughout the era of hegemonic PRI rule. Under these circumstances, reification is not really an issue of inequality, even though advantages for the ruling party may be discernible in rural areas.44 In addition, it should also be noted that reification may also offer advantages to the opposition in countries where repression under the authoritarian regime was extremely harsh. In this case, name recognition may backfire for old regime parties as their discredited names, symbols and logos could trigger such a strongly negative reaction by the public that this particular party may be forced into a low-profile role. Final remarks In sum, transitions from authoritarian rule can, depending on the characteristics of the outgoing authoritarian regime and the nature of the actual transition process, produce situations in which political parties that compete for power in the new political environment are not evenly institutionalized. This unevenness is often particularly pronounced in the dimension of systemness where old regime parties tend to enjoy vastly superior access to financial, material and human resources. Moreover, former regime parties also tend to have advantages in the dimension of reification as new parties often have difficulties matching the high levels of name recognition of their widely known competitors. If this unevenness is highly pronounced and perpetuated for a long time, it may have negative implications for the institutionalization of the party system as a whole. Particularly vulnerable are the internal dimensions of stability and mutual acceptance, but the appreciation by the electorate may also remain low if old elites continue to control access to power. By jeopardizing party system institutionalization, uneven party institutionalization is also likely to further protract the overall transition to democracy because the competitiveness and fairness of elections might be compromised. Therefore, former regime parties might have to de-institutionalize first before the party system can become a level playing field. At the same time, however, it is equally important that new parties take active steps towards their own institutionalization so that they can actually benefit from the ensuing de-institutionalization of the former regime parties. If new parties remain passive, they are unlikely to become capable of challenging the dominance of the former regime party.

Conclusion This chapter has provided the theoretical framework which will guide the empirical discussion in the following sections. The twin purpose of this chapter has been to emphasize the importance of political parties for processes of democratic consolidation and to highlight the necessity to distinguish between party

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institutionalization and party system institutionalization as two distinct theoretical concepts. From the various institutionalization models developed by other scholars, Randall and Svåsand’s model was chosen as the most suitable framework for this book because it was specifically designed as a tool to analyse the institutionalization of individual political parties rather than the party system. Political parties remain, despite widespread dissatisfaction with their performance, at the centre of democratic politics. Nearly all established democracies in the world feature a number of institutionalized parties that operate in institutionalized party systems. In the developing world, however, parties with broadly accepted and widely applied formal rules and regulations are an exception rather than the norm, and there is a growing awareness in academic circles that this lack of institutionalization can at least partly explain why so few countries that initiated transitions from authoritarianism in the 1980s and 1990s have moved decisively towards democratic consolidation. In specific circumstances, democracy may in fact thrive without institutionalized parties, but as Randall (2006: 31) declared so succinctly, ‘institutionalization helps’ because it enhances prospects for stability in the party system and often improves the chances for parties to accept electoral defeat. Having said that, the preceding discussion has also pointed out that if party institutionalization is very uneven in character, it can actually be harmful to party system institutionalization as well as to democratic consolidation as a whole. Where former regime parties can monopolize access to crucial resources to such an extent that they can not only maintain a strong position in the postauthoritarian party system but even dictate the course of the transition, prospects for democratic consolidation are likely to be compromised because elections will be lacking in fairness and competitiveness. The following chapters will utilize these theoretical findings and apply them to the case of Indonesia where the former regime party Golkar continues to play a formidable role in the post-New Order era. Four topical chapters on each dimension of party institutionalization and one additional comparative chapter on the other main parties’ degrees of institutionalization will help answer the question whether Golkar’s enduring strength can indeed be explained as a result of uneven party institutionalization and whether the party’s strong position poses a threat to party system institutionalization and democratic consolidation in Indonesia.

3

Systemness Deconstructing the myth of Golkar’s party machinery

Akbar Tandjung has not succeeded in changing the character of Golkar. He has been naïve and completely underestimated the party’s thirst for power. (Salim Said, Interview, 3 February 2005)

Introduction In June 1999 Golkar contested the first competitive election in its history. Given the artificially constructed election results during the New Order, few observers had dared to predict the outcome of this election,1 but arguably many experts were surprised to see the former regime party finishing second with 22.44 per cent of the vote. After the election, a frequently heard explanation for the ‘relatively good performance of Golkar’ (Suryadinata 2002: 103)2 was that the former regime party owed its success primarily to its superior organizational apparatus (Budiman 1999, Kingsbury 2002, Suryadinata 2002). Five years later, Golkar returned to the top of the voting tally in the 2004 election, and yet again observers pointed to the party’s massive political machinery (mesin politik) as the main reason for the party’s victory. The ‘victory,’ however, had a bittersweet aftertaste, for the result of 21.58 per cent was a far cry from the 30 per cent the party had been expected to poll (Lembaga Survei Indonesia 2003). Moreover, compared to 1999 Golkar had actually lost votes and only emerged on top of the voting tally because of the disastrous performance of Megawati Sukarnoputri’s PDI-P. Thus, rather than a demonstration of power the 2004 legislative election was more of an indicator that Golkar’s party machinery may actually not be as strong as many commentators seem to assume. The limitations became even more obvious in the subsequent presidential elections, where Golkar and the candidates it officially supported – Wiranto in the first round, Megawati in the second round – failed to prevent the victory of Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono and his running mate Jusuf Kalla who, ironically, was a Golkar figure and would later become party chairman. The events in 2004 have raised questions about the real scope and the efficiency of Golkar’s party machinery or, to use a more neutral term, its

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Systemness

organizational apparatus. In fact, the results of the various elections revealed that Golkar is actually facing a number of potentially serious challenges, and that its alleged superiority in some aspects of systemness is no longer uncontested. This chapter will draw attention to these challenges as it examines the underlying dynamics behind Golkar’s party apparatus. Particular attention will be paid to questions related to the upholding of internal coherence at the national as well as the local level, the adjustment of vertical communication patterns to the increasingly localized political environment in Indonesia, and the party’s ability to generate sustainable financial resources. The analysis will show that while Golkar does still possess a number of invaluable assets in the dimension of systemness, the party also has some remarkable institutional weaknesses, most of which are directly related to the prevalence of strongly embedded informal patterns of communication and decision-making. Significantly, both Golkar’s strengths and weaknesses are direct consequences of the party’s history as the hegemonic party during the New Order. Therefore, it is imperative to start the analysis in this chapter with a brief recap of Golkar’s genesis and its subsequent development during the Suharto era. The discussion then moves on to review the institutional changes that were brought about in 1998 by the so-called New Paradigm, before focusing on a systematic analysis of organizational developments during the Akbar Tandjung era (1998–2004). Among the issues discussed in greater detail are the position of the party leader vis-à-vis his party, the impact of informal institutions on party coherence, as well as patterns of fundraising. While the focus is mainly on the national level, the chapter also includes information on the local politics of South Sulawesi in order to add further weight to the argument.

Golkar’s genetic model and organizational developments during the New Order: a brief historical overview The official history of Golkar begins on 20 October 1964, when leading figures of the Indonesian army created an obscure organization called ‘Joint Secretariat of Functional Groups’ (Sekretariat Bersama Golongan Karya, Sekber Golkar). Founded in order to counterbalance the increasing influence of the PKI, the organization remained largely ineffective in its early years, but quickly rose to prominence after Indonesia’s first president Sukarno handed over power to General Suharto in 1966. Having promised to hold elections soon after the change of government, Suharto and his chief strategist Ali Murtopo decided to ‘hijack’ (Elson 2001: 187) Golkar for a new mission: to become the electoral vehicle of the New Order regime.3 The genetic model and the first New Order election in 1971 Once the decision to use Golkar for electoral purposes had been made, Suharto and his aides wasted little time in devising a systematic strategy to ensure a comfortable win for Golkar. While the other parties were constantly being

Systemness 37 harassed by the army and intelligence agencies,4 an extensive patronage system was developed for Golkar in order to secure huge financial resources for its election campaign. According to Ward (1974: 83), by early 1970 Golkar had emerged as the ‘greatest source of patronage, greatest provider of facilities, greatest distributor of offices, greatest procurer and supplier of finance’. Accordingly, after an extended campaign which Liddle (1978: 183) described as ‘heavy-handed on the extreme’ Golkar won the first New Order elections in July 1971 by a landslide of 62.8 per cent. In the aftermath of the election further steps were taken to consolidate Golkar’s hegemonic position. First, Golkar’s grip on the bureaucracy was tightened with the creation of the so-called Civil Servants’ Corps of the Republic of Indonesia (Korps Pegawai Republik Indonesia, Korpri) in December 1971. Second, in 1973 the party system was simplified by merging all opposition parties into two blocks, the Islamic PPP and the secular-nationalist PDI. Third, the regime introduced the so-called ‘floating mass’ concept which called for the depoliticization of the population and prohibited all parties from establishing branches below the district level. As a consequence, Golkar then enjoyed exclusive access to the large rural masses, not through party branches, but because of its affiliation with Korpri, which enabled the party to control the entire bureaucracy down to the lowest administration levels. The various measures taken by the New Order regime before and after the 1971 elections had a significant impact on the development of Golkar’s genetic model. As Panebianco (1988) had argued, a party’s prospects for institutionalization are likely to be most promising if its genetic model reflects a mixture of both penetration and diffusion, although a higher degree of penetration is generally considered to be an advantage. Golkar’s prospects were therefore fairly good as the special historical circumstances facilitated a very high degree of penetration. Backed by the army, a coercive government apparatus and seemingly inexhaustible patronage resources, Golkar rapidly spread its organizational network from Jakarta all over the archipelago. While other parties were severely restricted in their movements, Golkar was able to establish its presence even in the remotest parts of the country. Diffusion, on the other hand, was almost non-existent, simply because the party did not have any stable roots in society. The organizational infrastructure that was developed in the regions was not based on ‘spontaneous germination from below’ (Panebianco 1988), but primarily on the dispensation of patronage as the party offered lucrative jobs in the bureaucracy and other affiliated organizations. However, it is significant to note that Golkar did not rely only on its own network of patron–client connections. The party also endeavoured to exploit pre-existing local clientelistic networks by accommodating influential local leaders into the party apparatus.5 These leaders then took over important dual functions: on the one hand they acted as brokers for the party, while on the other hand they remained patrons to their own clients in their old, established local networks. As Scott (1972: 96) noted, ‘[s]uch a role combination is not only possible, but is empirically quite common.’6

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Within just a few years Golkar grew from an insignificant and incoherent amalgamate of small-scale, army-sponsored organizations into a formidable political machine that fulfilled exactly the functions that Randall (1988) has identified in her book on political parties in the developing world. First, Golkar enhanced the regime’s legitimacy by winning the quinquennial general elections. Even though these elections were little more than a ‘useful fiction’ (Liddle 1996), they were still an effective instrument in providing the regime with a semi-democratic façade that pleased foreign donors. Second, Golkar endowed the regime with an institutionalized command structure that enabled the state to control all segments of society. Societal interests, formerly articulated by outspoken mass organizations, were canalized under the umbrella of corporatist associations linked to Golkar while grassroots politics in the villages was bureaucratized and thus brought under Golkar control. Third, Golkar also served as a pool from which the state recruited new political personnel for positions at the top executive level. From 1978 on, all New Order cabinets always consisted exclusively of Golkar members (Suryadinata 1989: 81). Organizational transformation, weak leadership and manifestations of factionalism Despite initial success, Golkar’s organizational structure in these early years was still fairly unconventional, not least because of the presence of Golkar’s founding member organizations Kosgoro (Kesatuan Organisasi Serba Guna Gotong Royong), MKGR (Musyawarah Kekeluargaan Gotong Royong) and Soksi (Serikat Organisasi Karyawan Sosialis Indonesia), all of which enjoyed special membership status as functional groups.7 First attempts to reduce their influence were made in the run-up to Golkar’s first national congress in 1973, but it was not before the mid-1980s that fundamental organizational changes were eventually implemented. During the chairmanship of Sudharmono (1983–8), a heavily centralized command system with strict top-down decision-making processes was introduced and membership via affiliated functional groups was abolished in favour of individual membership.8 Moreover, the party initiated an unprecedented cadre recruitment programme which ushered in the gradual decline of the military’s influence in Golkar as the programme focused predominantly on civilians, especially former student activists and young businessmen. Although Sudharmono was the driving force behind this transformation, it should be noted that he was not a strong party leader. Ultimate power within Golkar rested in the hands of Suharto who chaired the so-called Supervisory Council (Dewan Pembina), an almighty body above the central executive board (Dewan Pimpinan Pusat, DPP) which had the power not only to overturn policies and decisions made by the DPP, but also to temporarily freeze the DPP if the existence of the organization was believed to be in danger.9 Furthermore, the Dewan Pembina also enjoyed superior authority to decide the composition of the personnel in all important party bodies (Suryadinata 1989: 109). Thus, the position of party chairman actually carried far less weight in Golkar than in

Systemness 39 modern Western-style parties and generally all Golkar chairmen during the New Order were relatively weak political figures under the tutelage of Suharto. Nonetheless, in retrospect the brief Sudharmono era was a crucial turning point in Golkar’s history, not only because of the drive towards professionalization, but also because of the deterioration of factional divisions within the party. Golkar had been a divided house since its very foundation, as epitomized in the party’s unique three-way organizational structure (kepemimpinan tiga jalur), consisting of the military, the bureaucracy and civilian politicians. Until the appointment of Sudharmono as chairman, however, the divisions were kept in check, simply because the military was too dominant to be challenged. But during the Sudharmono era the pendulum swung more and more towards the civilian forces, mainly because President Suharto grew increasingly concerned about the ambitions of the then-commander-in-chief of the armed forces, Benny Murdani.10 In fact, Suharto now deliberately fostered factionalism in Golkar in order to prevent the emergence of independent power centres within the party. Hence, Sudharmono had the full backing of the president when he embarked on loosening ABRI’s grip on Golkar’s provincial chairmanships and weakening the military’s power in parliament in the mid-1980s (Vatikiotis 1994: 238). Another emerging trend during the Sudharmono era was the growing influence of younger party cadres with a background in Islamic organizations. The beginning of this incremental ‘greening’ (penghijauan) process was symbolized by people like Akbar Tandjung or Slamet Effendy Yusuf, who had previously been leading activists in Islamic organizations such as the Islamic Student Association (Himpunan Mahasiswa Islam, HMI) and Ansor, the youth wing of Nahdlatul Ulama (NU). The swing towards Islam intensified in the 1990s,11 as the military lost further influence in Indonesian politics in general and in Golkar in particular. One person who benefited immensely from these developments was B. J. Habibie, the enigmatic Technology Minister from South Sulawesi, who gradually expanded his influence within Golkar in the early 1990s. Backed by a number of key power brokers inside the party,12 Habibie not only orchestrated the election of Information Minister Harmoko as the first civilian Golkar chairman in 1993, but also succeeded in positioning some of his closest political confidants like Marwah Daud Ibrahim, Fahmi Idris and Fadel Muhammad in the party’s executive board. With the military in decline, the only serious opposition to the growing influence of Habibie and his supporters came from a small group of Suharto cronies, most notably the president’s eldest daughter Siti Hardianti Rukmana (‘Tutut’) and the second son Bambang Trihatmodjo. In typical divide-and-rule fashion, Suharto had promoted them to Golkar’s central executive board in 1993 in order to counterbalance the increasing power of Habibie. Thus, the president had opened up yet another factional cleavage and the party remained fiercely divided until the very last days of the New Order. In the end, there were at least two main groupings – Tim Enam and the Tutut Group – and countless sub-factions in Golkar (Institut Studi Arus Informasi 1999). None of these groups, however, ever reached the status of an institutionalized faction as defined by Beller and

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Systemness

Belloni (1978). Coherence was weak and the glue that kept them together was never based on common ideological goals, but rather on the self-interest of some powerful party cadres. Financial resources The development of Golkar into a hegemonic party would not have been possible without access to seemingly endless financial resources. From the very beginning, Suharto had made sure that Golkar would never be short of cash to finance its massive election campaigns (Ward 1974). The most important instrument to implement the acquisition of funds was the so-called ‘Eternal Work Fund Foundation’ (Yayasan Dana Karya Abadi or Yayasan Dakab). This and other obscure foundations were created with the primary aim of maintaining financial security for Golkar,13 and they were controlled directly by Suharto and a small group of members from the State Secretariat who decided how the money would be distributed (Van Dijk 2001: 276). The funds that were generated by Yayasan Dakab were used not only to support the various day-to-day activities of Golkar, but also to bankroll the quinquennial election campaigns.14 The foundation itself was partly financed by compulsory funds from Indonesia’s ever-growing corps of civil servants,15 who were forced to make regular financial ‘contributions’ to the foundation (Tandjung 2007: 173). Moreover, Yayasan Dakab was also a major shareholder in banks and companies affiliated to members of the Suharto family and cronies like Liem Sioe Liong. Thus, throughout the New Order Golkar was blessed with inexhaustible financial resources which were used to oil its patronage networks, pay expensive election campaigns and bribe voters. None of these resources, however, was generated by the party itself so that Golkar was set to face some massive challenges to its financial sustainability once the New Order regime crumbled.16

From Sabang to Merauke: assessing the territorial reach of Golkar’s apparatus As explained in the previous section, Golkar’s genetic model was not only shaped by an almost ideal-type organizational development from the centre to the regions, but also by massive structural advantages during the New Order. While opposition parties were crippled by the Suharto regime, Golkar’s apparatus was spread systematically until it reached even the remotest village in Indonesia’s sprawling archipelago. Today, Golkar’s presence can still be felt all over the country. Yet, as this section will show, the party’s organizational infrastructure is beginning to erode from the bottom up as new electoral institutions have started to expose the porosity of Golkar’s frequently praised party machinery.

Systemness 41 Golkar’s party apparatus: comprehensive, but built on a weak foundation Thanks to extremely favourable historical circumstances, Golkar is now a party that is truly national in scope. Its nationwide appeal is reflected in the results of the 2004 election where Golkar was the only party that managed to win at least one parliamentary seat in every single province.17 Given the absence of a charismatic national leader, Golkar, more than any other Indonesian party, relies primarily on its armada of local officials at the grassroots level to achieve such a geographically widespread distribution of votes. According to internal party documents quoted by Tandjung (2007: 115), this armada consisted of more than 14 million cadres and ordinary members just before the 2004 election,18 and even though these figures need to be treated with extreme caution,19 it is fair to assume that Golkar’s membership base is indeed huge. Golkar’s members are organized in an impressive organizational apparatus. When the party registered for the 2004 general election in April 2003, it claimed to have 30 provincial branches, 374 regental branches and 3,936 sub-district offices.20 At the end of the year, when all parties approved by the General Election Commission (Komisi Pemilihan Umum, KPU) to contest the election had to submit their lists of legislative candidates, Golkar was the only party to register the maximum number of candidates.21 Shortly afterwards, all parties were required to register their officially accredited election campaign officials and again, Golkar submitted the longest list.22 By the time of the presidential convention in April 2004, the number of Golkar’s provincial and regental branches had already been updated in accordance with the new administrative landscape. Provincial branches had risen to 32, while regental branches now stood at 421 (DPP Partai Golkar 2004a: 7). In December 2004, Golkar’s national party congress was attended by delegates from 33 provincial branches and 440 regental branches. These figures clearly confirm that Golkar does indeed possess an allencompassing party infrastructure. Yet the naked figures hardly capture the real extent of Golkar’s powerful presence in the regions. In reality, the abovementioned multitude of local party branches and their respective offices are often little more than empty shells.23 On the local level, party activities are almost non-existent outside election times (Fealy 2001, Soebhan 2003), and if they take place at all, then usually not in officially designated party locations but rather in local parliament buildings, public places or in the private houses of party officials. This is where political deals are struck, where business contracts are sealed and where connections between party officials and the bureaucracy are strengthened. Often, private gatherings such as weddings, birthdays or religious meetings are utilized to reaffirm existing bonds between party and non-party actors. Party offices, on the other hand, are often deserted and only fulfil the symbolic function of reminding the public of the party’s presence.

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Beyond the party apparatus: the virtues and risks of patron–clientelism Interestingly though, it is precisely this kind of informal and basically nonpartisan character of local politics that accounts for much of Golkar’s strength on the local level, especially in the Outer Islands. The influence of Golkar’s party officials in these regions is mostly based on informal positions of traditional power rather than formal party posts. In other words, the real strength of the former regime party is not grounded in the sheer number of its offices, but rather in its ability to accommodate informal local power holders like traditional noblemen, wealthy businesspeople or religious dignitaries into the party’s patronage networks. In fact, this has always been the major strength of Golkar. Throughout its history, the party has exploited informal local power structures to its own advantage and in many rural areas these patterns of mutually beneficial cooperation initially changed fairly little after the fall of Suharto. In South Sulawesi, for example, traditionally powerful families like the Yasin Limpo family, the Halid family, the Baramuli family or the Kalla family have influenced local politics and business for decades. At the time of writing Syahrul Yasin Limpo had just been elected as governor of South Sulawesi, his brother was the bupati of Gowa district and members of the family occupied various positions in local parliaments and the national legislature in Jakarta. According to local journalists, the prestige of the Yasin Limpos is based primarily on ‘a lot of money, a lot of followers and a lot of loyal preman (thugs).’24 And naturally, all family members are Golkar cadres. In fact, some observers have gone so far as to assert that at least in Gowa district ‘the Golkar party and the Limpo family have virtually become one’ (Buehler and Tan 2007: 62). For the party, families like the Yasin Limpos have always played a crucial role as vote-getters because they represent the upper end of extensive patronage networks that reach down to the remotest villages in South Sulawesi. By accommodating the key figures of these networks into the party apparatus, Golkar has always secured large-scale electoral support since many villagers simply followed the recommendations of their local leaders. Immediately after the fall of Suharto, this pattern essentially remained the same. Few traditional leaders saw a reason to switch their party affiliation as they still considered Golkar to be the party that was best equipped to facilitate their own power ambitions. In the run-up to the 2004 election, however, this perception had begun to change. Arguably, Golkar was still the party with the best infrastructure, but some local politicos apparently no longer regarded it as the best vehicle for their personal power aspirations. Consequently, in the run-up to the April elections numerous local dignitaries turned their backs on Golkar and defected to other parties. The main reason for this volatile behaviour was a small but significant change in the election law. In contrast to the previous elections, the 2004 ballot papers not only featured party names and symbols, but full candidate lists with photos. This suddenly opened up the possibility for smaller parties to recruit

Systemness 43 promising candidates who normally would have run for Golkar. As a party member in Parepare complained: Golkar has so many good people; it is quite difficult to get a high place on its list of legislative candidates. At the same time, other parties do not have enough candidates, so they approach you and offer you to become No. 1 on their list. Many people who used to run for Golkar have accepted these offers and have now entered parliament for one of the smaller parties. The problem is, people here don’t vote for parties, they vote for their local leaders. (Golkar member from Parepare, private communication, 2 July 2004) The statement shows that key arguments from Scott’s seminal 1972 article on patron–clientelism are still relevant. Back then he had stipulated that ‘the capacity of the regime [or, in this case, the Golkar Party] to keep its network intact and win elections depends on its capacity to provide rewards for the lower tiers of its structure at a constant or even expanding rate’ (Scott 1972: 113). Indeed, throughout the New Order Golkar’s capacity in this regard had never been in doubt. But with the end of the Suharto regime and especially with the introduction of new electoral rules for the 2004 election, the former regime party has now partially lost this capacity, at least in the eyes of all those lower-ranking cadres whose social prestige is not sufficient to compete with the power of the Yasin Limpos, the Halids and the Baramulis for top positions on the party lists. Without a doubt, even in 2004 Golkar still possessed massive patronage resources, but it was no longer able to distribute these resources to the satisfaction of its entire personnel. The unprecedented competitiveness of the new electoral system had produced winners and losers in the candidate selection process, and many of those who lost out during this process were simply unwilling to accept their marginalization. Hence, they defected to other parties. A very similar phenomenon could be observed during the first series of pilkada, which was conducted from 2005 onwards. Previously, elections of governors and bupatis had been conducted indirectly through local parliaments, but in the process of Indonesia’s massive decentralization programme this election modus was abolished in favour of direct elections. For Golkar, this electoral reform has brought new problems as the party can no longer use its parliamentary majorities to push through its own candidates. What matters most in direct elections is the personal appeal of individual candidates and not the infrastructure of powerful parties. Golkar had to acknowledge this political reality in dozens of pilkada when its candidates lost heavily in regions where the party had actually enjoyed strong victories in the parliamentary election.25 Even worse than the actual defeat, however, was the fact that Golkar candidates often lost against candidates who had long been known as Golkar cadres, too. South Sulawesi is a case in point here. As mentioned before, and elaborated in great detail by Buehler and Tan (2007), the Yasin Limpo family has long been closely affiliated with Golkar. Despite the intimate connection between the

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family and the party, however, Syachrul Yasin Limpo had no reservations about accepting the nomination for governor from a coalition of other parties when he realized that Golkar was likely to renominate incumbent governor Amin Syam for the 2007 election. Syachrul went on to win the election, leaving provincial Golkar officials who had pinned their hopes on Syam out in the cold.26 Another striking example of this trend of decreasing loyalties towards Golkar was the gubernatorial election in North Sulawesi where, as Mietzner (n.d.) points out, all five gubernatorial candidates had been affiliated with Golkar before the polls but had sought alternative options after Sondakh [the incumbent governor] had secured his re-nomination by the party. During the campaign, the party split into several factions, with large sections supporting candidates other than Sondakh. The examples in the previous paragraphs illustrate that traditional patron–clientelism is still a defining feature of Golkar’s party apparatus, at least in those areas where formal party structures remain weakly developed and where the overall societal structure continues to be based on traditional, hierarchical relations of power. At the same time, however, they also demonstrate that Golkar’s ability to act as an impersonal patron to local power holders can no longer be taken for granted. To be sure, the party is likely to maintain its dominant position in areas like South Sulawesi as long as it can provide the goods and positions that are requested by local power holders. In other words, as long as the party can fulfil its functions as an impersonal patron, its clients will stay put. The problem, however, is that the changing dynamics of electoral politics have made it almost impossible for Golkar to keep everyone happy and loyal to the party. Lower-ranking backbenchers started to jump ship when they saw their interests better accommodated by smaller parties who could more easily offer access to top positions on legislative lists. Similarly, governor and bupati hopefuls who were unable to secure a nomination from Golkar have shown little hesitation in accepting nominations from parties other than Golkar. Therefore, it can be concluded that Randall and Svåsand’s argument that clientelism personified by a party itself is less threatening to party cohesion is apparently flawed. Just like in traditional face-to-face patron–client relationships, the patron’s failure to deliver is punished with withdrawal of support. The negative consequences can be seen in internal splits and defections and, eventually, in declining electoral support for the party.27 Final remarks on Golkar’s organizational apparatus There is no doubt that Golkar is a truly national party with an impressive territorial reach. The former hegemonic party still possesses an organizational apparatus that spans the entire archipelago, and the election results in 1999 and 2004 have shown that this apparatus is still able to mobilize substantial support from the Indonesian people. But the results – especially those in 2004 – have also

Systemness 45 shown that the party apparatus is built on a porous fundament which has gradually begun to erode from the bottom up. Given the absence of ideological values that could provide strong incentives for people to remain loyal to Golkar, the party has proven unable to prevent the defection of an increasing number of local politicos who no longer see their interests protected by the former regime party. During the legislative election, this incremental de-institutionalization process was reflected in drastic losses for Golkar in large parts of Eastern Indonesia. In South Sulawesi and Southeast Sulawesi, for instance, it lost more than 20 per cent in 2004, and the party also lost heavily in West Nusa Tenggara (–17.8 per cent), North Sulawesi (–17.2 per cent), Central Sulawesi (–16.0 per cent), and Papua (–12.6 per cent). During the pilkada, defeats for Golkar candidates in provinces like South Sulawesi, North Sulawesi or Papua, to name but a few, have continued the trend. While these results cannot be explained exclusively as a consequence of this de-institutionalization process, it is clear that the creeping erosion of Golkar’s strength at the local level has indeed been a key contributing factor. In sum, this section has shown that, while Golkar still has a comprehensive territorial reach, the party’s organizational apparatus is gradually losing its strength in some parts of Indonesia. If this trend continues, it may have serious implications for the former regime party. For decades, Golkar has owed much of its strength to its armada of local officials, not only because it relied on them to mobilize voters, but also because these local officials maintained the party’s organizational coherence in the regions. After the end of the New Order, the role of the lower-tier officials has started to change. In some areas, especially some urban regions of Java and Sumatra, they are facing increasing difficulties in mobilizing voters and maintaining organizational coherence because less and less people are following what local leaders say. In other areas such as South Sulawesi, such a maturation of the electorate has yet to commence, but even here Golkar has been forced to deal with rapidly changing dynamics. Encouraged by new electoral institutions and a general empowerment of local politics in the wake of Indonesia’s decentralization process, more and more local politicos have started to seek their political fortunes with other parties as Golkar can no longer guarantee exclusive access to lucrative patronage resources. Given the prevalence of patron–clientelism in these areas, defection of influential local leaders equals defection of voters and as a consequence, Golkar lost heavily in South Sulawesi and other provinces in Eastern Indonesia.

The party and its leader: factionalism, assertive regional cadres and the rise and fall of Akbar Tandjung The increasing importance of local politics has implications not only at the local level, but it also affects Golkar’s internal affairs at the national level. While parties with strong charismatic leaders may still only be mildly affected by what is happening in the regions, this section will show that for an utterly non-personalistic party like Golkar the effects of the changing dynamics of local politics can be felt

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even at the party headquarters in Slipi. This section will review the six-and-a-halfyear-long chairmanship of Akbar Tandjung (1998–2004) in order to illustrate how factionalism, patron–clientelism and the growing assertiveness of local party cadres have continuously undermined the authority of the party chairman. From the very beginning, Akbar had been a disputed leader, and even though he tried hard to consolidate his control over the party, his leadership was under constant scrutiny from certain elements in the party. By early 2004, he seemed to have staved off the challenge, but then he made a whole series of strategic errors which eventually led to him being ousted as chairman in December 2004.28 The rise of Akbar Tandjung When Akbar Tandjung rose to the chairman post in a hotly contested leadership battle at Golkar’s 1998 extraordinary congress (Musyawarah Nasional Luar Biasa, Munaslub),29 he found himself confronted with a party full of internal frictions. Decades of orchestrated leadership successions and deliberately facilitated factionalism had left Golkar rudderless and weak so that Akbar was forced to begin his tenure with a comprehensive reshuffle of the DPP and the parliamentary fraction in order to unify the ranks (Zenzie 1999: 253–4). His actions were supported by then-president Habibie who regarded Akbar as an ally in his bid for re-election at the 1999 session of the People’s Consultative Assembly (Majelis Permusyawaratan Rakyat, MPR). But Akbar soon abandoned Habibie, and when the assembly finally met Akbar threw his support behind the eventual winner of the election, Abdurrahman Wahid (Mietzner 2000). This manoeuvre had far-reaching consequences for the political career of Akbar Tandjung. On the one hand, it paved the way for the Golkar chairman to establish himself as a key power broker in Indonesian politics. Significantly, Akbar had not only sidelined Habibie, who may have threatened his leadership position in the future, but had also secured the prestigious post of DPR speaker for himself.30 In his new double capacity as party chairman and house speaker, he was now in a formidable position to assert his authority over the party and to decisively influence Indonesian domestic politics in general. To most observers, Akbar Tandjung’s rise to prominence came as little surprise as he had long been regarded as one of the most capable politicians in Indonesia. Moreover, he had been a loyal party soldier for more than 20 years. Akbar Tandjung started his political career as a student leader in organizations like KAMI (Kesatuan Aksi Mahasiswa Indonesia) or HMI. He joined Golkar in 1977 and was directly ‘elected’ Member of Parliament later that year. Once in the corridors of power, his reputation as a capable negotiator grew quickly and so did his patronage networks as he expanded his influence into various Golkar-affiliated organizations. In 1983, Akbar was appointed vicesecretary general of Golkar’s central board. Until the end of the New Order he served the party as a high-ranking member of the parliamentary fraction and as a member of the almighty Supervisory Council (1988–98). Furthermore, he was also given government responsibility in two of Suharto’s cabinets.31

Systemness 47 Despite the multitude of prestigious posts he held during the New Order, Akbar Tandjung’s star only rose to real prominence in the post-Suharto era. While posts and positions under Suharto were automatically limited in influence owing to the overwhelming power of the president, the newly democratic system eventually enabled Akbar to fully harness his outstanding political skills. Although he did not take up ministerial posts in any of the post-Suharto cabinets,32 his influence in shaping the newly emerging political system has been immense, not least because of his strategic position in the centre of legislative power.33 Akbar’s rise was aided by several loyal supporters from his far-flung patronage networks, most prominently from North Sumatra and the HMI alumni connection. For example, experienced party stalwarts from Sumatra like Mahadi Sinambela, Bomer Pasaribu, Rambe Kamarulzaman or Mohammad Hatta were all included in the 1998 central board and later rewarded with other influential positions in the cabinet, the party’s parliamentary fraction and affiliated party organizations.34 Alumni of youth organizations like HMI and KNPI (Komite Nasional Pemuda Indonesia, Indonesian National Youth Committee) were placed in strategic positions in Golkar’s DPR fraction in order to secure Akbar’s position at the top of the party.35 Additionally, Akbar constantly sought to strengthen his ties with the party’s provincial branches. He tirelessly crisscrossed the archipelago, opened provincial board meetings, attended social activities (silaturahmi) and promoted loyal cadres to top party posts. Halfway through his term, he had established a massive patronage network with a huge reservoir of loyal clients who were determined to defend their patron against all challenges. Challenging Akbar: the emergence of the Iramasuka faction And challenges there were. The first came in the immediate aftermath of the 1998 Munaslub when a group of retired generals accused Akbar of having used money politics and other New Order methods to secure his victory over Edi Sudrajat (Novianto et al. 2003: 57). The disgruntled ex-military officers quickly left the party, but a much more serious threat to Akbar’s position emerged soon after the 1999 MPR session. Indeed, Akbar’s tactical manoeuvres at this session marked the beginning of the most distinctive factional struggle of the Akbar Tandjung era, namely the struggle between Akbar and his supporters on the one hand and the so-called Iramasuka faction, a group of die-hard Habibie supporters who hailed predominantly from Eastern Indonesia, on the other hand.36 Between 1999 and 2002, the Iramasuka faction’s continual resistance to Akbar’s leadership posed a serious threat to Golkar’s organizational integrity, as members of the faction repeatedly attempted to suspend the chairman. Basically, the conflict between the two groups revolved around three main issues. First, it was a matter of personal dislike between the protagonists, Akbar Tandjung and one of the leaders of the Iramasuka faction, Marwah Daud

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Ibrahim. This dimension of the conflict emerged as a direct result of Akbar’s ‘betrayal’ of Habibie. Ardent supporters of the former president were personally hurt when Akbar abandoned Golkar’s official presidential candidate in the runup to the 1999 MPR session. Marwah, for example, famously burst into tears in front of the television cameras after it transpired that Akbar and his then-ally, Marzuki Darusman, had managed to persuade around 80 Golkar legislators to turn their backs on Habibie. For Marwah, the departure of Habibie from the political stage had far-reaching consequences. As a native of Habibie’s home province of South Sulawesi, Marwah had risen through the Golkar ranks in the 1990s largely due to her close bonds with the ex-president, who once likened their relationship to that between a father and his daughter.37 Now that her mentor had left the scene, her fortunes were clearly in decline, and she blamed party chairman Akbar Tandjung alone for this unwelcome development. Hence, Marwah embarked upon what essentially amounted to a personal campaign to avenge Habibie. Second, the conflict showed traces of regional identity politics, as Marwah sought (and found) support from a group of fellow legislators and lower-ranking party cadres who also hailed from Eastern Indonesia. Arguing that Akbar Tandjung was seeking to impose Javanese/Sumatran hegemony in internal party affairs,38 the caucus mobilized support against the marginalization of Eastern Indonesian interests within Golkar. Even moderate cadres from the eastern regions felt that Akbar disproportionately rewarded his closest loyalists from Java and Sumatra. One leading member from Golkar’s central board, for example, claimed that the appointments of pro-Akbar figures from Sumatra like Bomer Pasaribu and Mahadi Sinambela as ministers in Gus Dur’s cabinet had caused widespread resentment among Golkar cadres from Eastern Indonesia.39 Bomer’s appointment as Minister of Manpower particularly was a bitter pill for the Iramasuka faction to swallow because the long-time supporter of Akbar Tandjung replaced Fahmi Idris, a leading member of the pro-Habibie group and one of the few Iramasuka supporters who does not hail from Eastern Indonesia.40 Third, there was growing friction between the pro- and anti-Akbar groups within Golkar in debates about ‘how and when to resurrect’41 the party. Under Akbar’s leadership, Golkar had entered the immediate post-Suharto era with a low-profile approach as the chairman was well aware of the widespread antiGolkar sentiment among the population in Java and parts of Sumatra. In 1999, Golkar had suffered its biggest electoral losses in the provinces of these two islands, whereas support in Eastern Indonesia had remained comparatively strong. Party representatives from the Outer Islands therefore disagreed with Akbar’s cautious actions and pushed for a more assertive stance for Golkar. But the chairman and his Javanese supporters preferred to maintain a relatively low profile, especially since an early attempt to show a more aggressive political attitude had backfired in late 2000.42 As The Economist noted, ‘Golkar members in Jakarta and the rest of western Indonesia would prefer to rebuild the party’s image slowly and stealthily, recognizing that a period of purdah must be endured before it can hope to return to power.’43

Systemness 49 In sum, the emergence of the Iramasuka faction was markedly different from previous occurrences of factionalism in Golkar. In contrast to the Suharto era, when dividing lines had been defined primarily according to either professional affiliations (civilian versus military) or religious/ideological orientations (Islamic versus secular/nationalistic), the divisions were now based on the interplay of three different, yet directly intertwined factors, all of which tended to convince more party members that Akbar Tandjung should be removed from the chairmanship. Between 1999 and 2002, members of the faction repeatedly tried to replace or at least suspend Akbar Tandjung. After a number of futile attempts, the activities of the faction reached a new climax in 2002, when the party chairman was implicated in a big corruption scandal and sentenced to three years in jail for embezzling 40 billion rupiah (US$4 million) from the State Logistic Agency (Bulog) into a Golkar electoral slush fund.44 The verdict led to a growth in the anti-Akbar movement. More and more Golkar cadres began to regard Akbar as a liability to the party’s future. In parliament, at least 15 members of the Golkar fraction were reported to support an initiative to suspend Akbar as house speaker.45 In the central board, Marwah was joined by fellow vice-chairmen Fahmi Idris and Theo Sambuaga in her demand to bar Akbar from party affairs.46 Both Fahmi and Theo were former Habibie supporters who had been robbed of their cabinet posts by Akbar and his allies in 1999, but they had remained quiet until Akbar’s corruption scandal erupted. Now that they saw a chance to hurt the chairman, they eagerly spoke out in favour of his suspension. The end of the Iramasuka faction By late 2002 the anti-Akbar movement had certainly grown in size and influence. It was no longer just a group of backbenchers from Eastern Indonesia, but was now supported by some high-ranking power brokers within the party. Fahmi, in particular, was believed to have strong and far-reaching patronage networks in the party, while the Manado-born Theo Sambuaga was a valuable addition to the group because of his religious background as a Protestant.47 But just when the movement had gathered real momentum, the cornered chairman fought back. In an impressive display of pertinacity and political skilfulness, Akbar (mis)used his position as parliamentary speaker to impede the debate about the petition to suspend him and vowed to continue leading Golkar even if he had to go to jail.48 He appealed against his conviction to a higher court and remained a free man throughout 2003. When he was eventually acquitted by the Supreme Court in February 2004, the anti-Akbar camp had all but given up its efforts to undermine the authority of the chairman. The failure to unseat Akbar Tandjung even after a scandal as embarrassing as the Bulog corruption case ushered in the political end of the Iramasuka faction. Sanctions were threatened against Marwah, but actual penalties were never imposed. While resentments continued to simmer beneath the surface, the antiAkbar camp basically surrendered to the combined forces of the pro-Akbar

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groups and decided that it was in the better interest of the party to close ranks and focus on the preparations for the 2004 elections. The rapid disintegration of the caucus after just three years indicates that it never reached the status of what Beller and Belloni (1978) called an ‘institutionalized or organizational faction.’ The Iramasuka faction never had its own internal rulings and procedures and its claim to pursue the interests of Eastern Indonesia was hardly more than populist rhetoric. Concern for the region was routinely included in position papers and speeches (Daud Ibrahim 2000), but no significant policy initiatives to boost development in Eastern Indonesia were ever submitted to parliament on behalf of the faction. Furthermore, it has to be noted that the caucus never comprised all key Golkar cadres from Eastern Indonesia. Important figures like Jusuf Kalla, Ibrahim Ambong (both from South Sulawesi), Freddy Latumahina (from Maluku) or Akil Mochtar (from Kalimantan) were never actively involved in the group, thereby undermining the caucus’s claim to speak on behalf of all people of the Eastern Islands. This lack of coherence and absence of constructive activities suggest that the primary objective behind the formation of the Iramasuka caucus was not to give Eastern Indonesia a voice in Jakarta, but to nurture personal animosities towards an unpopular party leader and to pursue vested power interests. As these goals looked less and less likely to be achieved by the end of 2002, the caucus simply disappeared from the political discourse in Indonesia. The bubble that burst: Akbar and the presidential convention That Akbar Tandjung was able to stave off the challenge from the Iramasuka faction was mainly due to the fact that the conflict was, despite its regional dimension, fought almost exclusively at the national level in Jakarta. Local elites were barely involved in the various episodes of the conflict, partly because of Golkar’s highly centralized organizational infrastructure and partly because the party’s grassroots membership lacked confidence to demand a bigger say in national party affairs. These things changed, however, when Golkar began its procedures to select a presidential candidate. Despite his successful struggle against the Iramasuka faction, Akbar Tandjung was not exactly the kind of leader who could easily secure his party’s presidential nomination by acclamation. Given his judicial woes and his generally poor popular image as a dull career politician,49 many party cadres believed that a direct nomination for Akbar by acclamation was a risk too great to take. Hence, party strategists started to explore other ways to satisfy the chairman’s presidential aspirations. What they sought to create was a nomination process that had the appearance of an open contest, but that in essence would be designed to ensure smooth passage for Akbar Tandjung. The solution was an American-style presidential convention, yet with some distinctive Indonesian features.50 The details about the format of the convention were finalized at a tense national leadership meeting (Rapat Pimpinan, or Rapim) in early 2003. The

Systemness 51 most controversial issue was the question of who should be given voting rights in the convention. In view of Akbar’s control over the DPP and most provincial boards, the chairman’s opponents around Fahmi Idris and Marwah Daud Ibrahim demanded that voting rights be granted to the national, the provincial and the more than 400 district chapters.51 In response, Akbar declared that district chapters would only be given the right to vote if the DPP was granted a voting block of 97 votes, corresponding to the actual number of members of the extended leadership board.52 In the end, a compromise was reached. Voting rights were granted to the national, provincial and district chapters, as demanded by the opposition, but the DPP and the provincial chapters were still given voting blocks, as demanded by Akbar. They were worth 18 (DPP) and three (DPD I) votes respectively, while the votes of the district chapters were only worth one vote each. Altogether, the votes were to be distributed as shown in Table 3.1: Most observers agreed that this compromise still benefited Akbar because it included built-in institutional advantages. Moreover, the convention rules were regarded as unfair because Akbar was allowed to be both umpire and contestant in the competition (Fatah 2003) as he was given ultimate supervisory authority over the implementation of the convention. While the party leader was not actively involved in the organizing committee, the composition of this committee basically read like a ‘Who is Who’ of Akbar’s closest confidants, with people like Mahadi Sinambela, Rambe Kamarulzaman, Ferry Mursyidan Baldan and Yahya Zaini all in leading positions. More critical party cadres had to make do with positions in the toothless Monitoring Committee (DPP Partai Golkar 2003c).

Table 3.1 Voting structure at Golkar’s presidential convention

National leadership board (DPP) Provincial leadership boards* District leadership boards** Party’s youth and women’s organizations (AMPG and KPPG) Hasta Karya1

Value of votes

Number of votes

1  18 32  3 423  1

18 96 423

21 81

2 8 547

Source: DPP Partai Golkar (2003b: 32–5). Notes *Originally 30, but later revised due to an increase in provincial chapters. **Originally 416, but later revised due to an increase in district chapters. 1 The so-called Hasta Karya consists of Golkar’s three founding organizations Soksi, MKGR and Kosgoro 1957 (emerged as successor organization to Kosgoro after a leadership dispute in 2000), plus five autonomous mass organizations founded by Golkar during the New Order: AMPI (Angkatan Muda Pembaharuan Indonesia, Indonesian Renewal Youth Brigade), HWK (Himpunan Wanita Karya, Workers Women’s Association), MDI (Majelis Da’wah Islamiyah, Islamic Propagation Council), Al-Hidayah and Satkar Ulama.

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Thus, the stage was set for Akbar’s smooth progression through the nomination process. When the convention was eventually held on 20 April, the chairman was challenged by two former army generals, Wiranto and Prabowo Subianto, and two business tycoons, Aburizal Bakrie and Surya Paloh.53 But despite the strong competition, Akbar entered the race as the red-hot favourite. Some observers even argued that Akbar ‘deserved to win’54 because of his longstanding commitment to the party. However, the majority of delegates thought otherwise and elected the former commander-in-chief of the armed forces, Wiranto, as their presidential candidate.55 Reasons for Wiranto’s victory The retired general owed his victory mostly to strong support from Golkar’s district chapters. In order to understand why so many of these local functionaries voted for a candidate who possessed neither an organizational track record nor an established support base within the party, several things need to be kept in mind. First and foremost, it should be noted that the result was primarily a defeat for Akbar Tandjung rather than a victory for Wiranto. That Akbar was not an ideal candidate for many regional Golkar cadres had already become clear after the pre-conventions at the provincial level, in which the chairman had only finished fourth behind Aburizal Bakrie, Surya Paloh and Wiranto.56 But obviously this early warning sign was ignored by Akbar. After the national pre-convention in October 2003, the continuing uncertainty over his corruption case further eroded his chances of winning. Even his eventual exoneration did little to alleviate the damage to his reputation as many people believed that the case had been too heavily politicized to allow for an unbiased judgment. When two months after Akbar’s acquittal Golkar only garnered 21.58 per cent in the general election, many party members saw a direct link between the prolonged court case and Golkar’s electoral performance. In their view, Akbar’s low popularity and his reputation as a corrupt operator had had a negative impact on Golkar’s campaign and therefore directly contributed to the party’s failure to reach the election target of 30 per cent.57 Thus, by the time the convention was held, many delegates had already come to the conclusion that, in a direct presidential election, Akbar Tandjung might actually be a liability rather than an asset. Second, many regional delegates resented the controversial convention rules that gave district chapters only one vote when provincial chapters and the national leadership board enjoyed voting blocks. Indeed, for some this proved that the party had ignored the aspirations of its local-level cadres. Blaming Akbar for the formulation of the rules, they saw no reason to give their vote to the chairman. Their dissatisfaction was further fuelled by Akbar’s speech during the convention. Emphasizing his own role in consolidating the party after 1998, Akbar portrayed himself as the sole saviour of Golkar. He attacked his rivals for hiding out during the chaotic days after Suharto’s resignation and bluntly demanded to be given credit for his personal achievements.58 This attitude did

Systemness 53 not go down well with many local cadres, who felt that their own contributions to the survival of the party were not properly appreciated by the chairman.59 A third factor that affected the voting behaviour of the delegates was the candidates’ distribution of money. Some observers believed that Wiranto had basically bought his victory, as he allegedly paid millions of rupiah to every district chapter that supported him. According to one estimate, each vote in the decisive second round of the convention was sold at around Rp.500–700 million.60 This generous distribution of gizi (literally: ‘nutrition,’ here referring to money) was in fact not just confined to the convention as such. As part of a well-planned long-term strategy, Wiranto had already started to drum up support for his campaign long before the actual convention when he criss-crossed the archipelago in an attempt to drag local party chapters into his camp. In contrast to the majority of candidates, Wiranto was able to dedicate an immense amount of time and money to this endeavour since he was not preoccupied with practical politics (as was Akbar) or business activities (as were Aburizal and Surya). Finally, the convention saw the revival of old factional divisions within the DPP as several board members from the anti-Akbar camp threw their weight behind Wiranto. Rumours of tentative cabinet lists for a prospective Akbar Tandjung-led government had further deepened already existing splits, for these lists carried almost exclusively the names of Akbar’s loyalists from the North Sumatra and HMI factions. Furthermore, critical members of the central board were unhappy that the votes of the DPP were to be cast as a block. Since Akbar was supported by a majority of the board, they were unable to express their support for other contestants at the convention. With their own hands tied, they used their clientelistic networks in the regional chapters to mobilize support for Wiranto. In sum, the convention result was essentially a vote of no confidence for Akbar from the regional delegates. By shattering Akbar’s presidential ambitions, Golkar’s local party cadres had laid bare just how shallow the chairman’s structural support in the party actually was. Throughout his years in power, Akbar had concentrated his network-building activities predominantly on the national and the provincial levels, ensuring sound support in the parliamentary fraction, the central board and a great number of provincial boards. But Indonesian politics in the post-Suharto era has become increasingly localized, and the rebellion of Golkar’s district chapters against their own chairman was a clear indicator that this trend was spilling over into national party affairs. Akbar failed to acknowledge this trend. He obviously still believed in the prevalence of established top-down patterns of communication and decisionmaking processes. While a party outsider like Wiranto correctly calculated that the district chapters would vote independently, the long-time party stalwart Akbar Tandjung apparently hoped that securing the support from a certain provincial branch would lock in support from all district chapters of this particular province, as the provincial chairman would instruct his subordinates on the district level to vote in accordance with the provincial chapter’s choice. But, as Akbar had to learn the hard way, these New Order-style manoeuvres no longer work that smoothly, at least not in Golkar.

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From a more theoretical point of view, the convention provided some interesting insights into Golkar’s institutional dynamics. As has been argued before, the convention was primarily designed to provide an innovative vehicle for Akbar Tandjung to secure his nomination for the presidential election. Therefore, the rules that were created to regulate the convention were from the beginning deliberately biased in favour of the chairman. For Akbar’s challengers, this was regrettable but at least they knew the rules and could adapt to them accordingly. However, even these rules, as unfair as they were, were never allowed to institutionalize as they were constantly modified to create further advantages for the embattled party leader. Examples included a ban on all contestants except Akbar to campaign in the Outer Islands and the postponement of the final national convention from February to April. Both these changes were introduced as the campaign was well under way and they both disadvantaged Akbar’s challengers. Thus, the institutions that regulated the implementation of the convention could never create the kind of security of expectancy which the other candidates would have needed to compete with Akbar on a fair basis. This clearly points to an overall dominance of agency over formal institutions in Golkar. The problem, however, was that the agents who repeatedly modified the institutions, namely Akbar and his loyalists in the organizing committee, never possessed enough authoritative power to decisively influence the eventual outcome of the convention. Thus, in the face of weak actors and weak formal institutions, Wiranto was able to snatch victory because he could harness the power of informal institutions such as factionalism, clientelism and corruption. The first round of the presidential election After the convention, the defeated chairman publicly vowed to support Wiranto, but this was generally perceived as little more than obligatory rhetoric. In fact, Akbar and his loyalists in and outside Jakarta had no interest whatsoever in supporting Wiranto and undermined the ensuing campaign wherever they could. With the next national party congress scheduled for December 2004, Wiranto was regarded as a serious threat to Akbar’s political career, for many believed that a victorious Wiranto would use the upcoming congress to oust Akbar from the central board. In view of this bigger picture, it was hardly surprising that assistance from Golkar for Wiranto’s campaign was rather limited. Those local chapters that were serious about supporting their candidate soon complained about delays and obstructions in the provision of money and logistical support for the campaign. In South Sulawesi, for example, several local campaigners expressed their disappointment about the reluctance of the central board to provide assistance, while in North Sulawesi’s capital, Manado, a member of the local Golkar branch described the coordination between the party and Wiranto’s own campaign team as ‘pretty chaotic.’61 Golkar’s central board in Jakarta rejected claims that they were deliberately attempting to obstruct Wiranto’s campaign,62 but the signs were there for everyone to see. For instance, Akbar’s seemingly relentless shadowing of Wiranto on

Systemness 55 the campaign trail appeared less like genuine support than like an attempt to control the candidate’s activities. Given Akbar’s constant companionship, Wiranto must have felt as if he was under permanent surveillance by the Golkar chairman. Even in areas where Akbar was hugely unpopular, like Sulawesi, the sore loser insisted on accompanying Wiranto, which effectively damaged rather than benefited Wiranto’s electoral chances. Had Akbar been sincere in his advocacy of the retired general, he could have played a much more helpful role in Wiranto’s campaign by drumming up support for the candidate in those areas where he himself was popular, for instance in North Sumatra or parts of Java. Yet, while Akbar at least publicly denied any disloyalty towards Wiranto, some of his closest aides were less reluctant to show their contempt for the retired general and, in obvious anticipation of things to come, more or less openly supported PDI-P candidate Megawati Sukarnoputri.63 In the end, Wiranto finished only third in the election, just behind Megawati, but far behind runaway leader SBY. The second round of the presidential election For Golkar as a party, Wiranto’s failure to proceed to the second round of the presidential election had the dual effect of strengthening unity within the Akbar camp while at the same time reducing the potential for reconciliation with its opponents, both at the national as well as the local level. How deep the rifts between the two groups had grown became apparent shortly after the first round, when the two remaining presidential contenders, SBY and Megawati, started making overtures to Golkar leaders in order to forge a coalition for the decisive second round. In the opinions of many neutral observers, the best option for Golkar would have been simply to sit back and relax. In view of the fact that Golkar had won the largest number of seats in the April legislative election, it seemed logical that whoever won the second round of the presidential election would be likely to seek parliamentary support from Golkar afterwards in order to ensure a stable government. Making a premature coalition commitment before the final round, on the other hand, was widely regarded as strategically imprudent, as it would put Golkar’s advantage unnecessarily at risk. In accord with this overall consensus, leading Golkar politicians and the party’s very own research department reportedly recommended to the party leadership that it was in Golkar’s best interest not to pledge allegiance to either candidate before the election, but rather to remain neutral.64 In Golkar’s DPP, however, this option had little support. Akbar Tandjung, in particular, had other plans. Long before the unholy alliance with Wiranto was officially terminated, he had already made it clear that he would like to see Golkar supporting Megawati in the second round. For Akbar, a coalition with Megawati was attractive for a number of reasons. First, Akbar and Megawati had a long history of good relations, which had begun in 2001, when the Golkar chairman was instrumental in elevating Megawati to the presidency. Megawati returned the favour later when she refused to become involved in the fuss about

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Akbar’s corruption scandal. Her silence was widely interpreted as tacit support for Akbar’s acquittal. Second, Megawati had offered Golkar not only a large amount of money,65 but also a substantial number of cabinet posts in a prospective new government.66 In case of victory, Akbar himself would have taken over a new position as special advisor to the president, which would have endowed him with broad authority over key political decision-making processes. Third, and most importantly, supporting Megawati made sense for Akbar because Megawati would only have been eligible for one more term in office, as the amended Indonesian constitution only allows a maximum of two consecutive terms for the president. According to Akbar’s calculation, a stable Golkar–PDIP coalition would have provided the right environment for him to orchestrate politics safely from behind the scenes for a while and then run as the coalition’s presidential candidate in 2009. In view of this long-term goal, Akbar was determined to fight all-out to help Megawati win another term as president. In mid-August, he pushed through his agenda at a tense national leadership meeting in Jakarta, which was attended by all provincial chapter leaders, but not by the district leaders. Although a significant number of the provincial chapters, as well as some DPP members, clearly preferred a coalition with the SBY–Jusuf Kalla pairing, Akbar eventually secured support from the majority of provincial branches.67 However, doubts about the sincerity of the acquiescence of some branches continued to linger, and it quickly became clear that Akbar’s success at the leadership meeting was little more than a Pyrrhic victory. In fact, Akbar was fighting for a lost cause. His plan to support Megawati was doomed from the beginning because the Golkar chairman overestimated the power of party machines to influence voting behaviour in a direct presidential election. After patching together the so-called ‘Nationhood Coalition’ (Koalisi Kebangsaan) with Megawati’s PDI-P and two smaller parties, Akbar seemed to be convinced that the incumbent president would indeed be able to win the election because these coalition parties would mobilize exactly those same 57 million people who had voted for these four parties in the April election. Such simplistic computations, however, revealed a flawed understanding of direct presidential elections, as this logic not only disregarded the increasingly rational voting behaviour of the Indonesian electorate, but also the fact that traditional configurations of loyalty and power at the local level could no longer be taken for granted. The success of any party machine is based on certain tenets: first, a party must possess a coherent and disciplined local network that is fully able to implement policy decisions made at the top level; and, second, a party must command a broad constituency that is loyal to the party simply for its own sake. But as the general election had shown quite clearly, Golkar’s track record in these two categories was not exactly exemplary, so that the party was actually in a very weak position to deliver what its leader had promised. In short, the main problem with the decision to support Megawati was that, in order to be successfully implemented, it required a solid and coherent party structure that Golkar simply did not have. In view of the party’s long history of

Systemness 57 frictions and factionalism, it was in fact highly unlikely that the Golkar leadership would be able to mobilize sufficient support for such a controversial choice. And indeed, fierce resistance against the alliance with Megawati was noticeable everywhere in the party. At the grassroots, many cadres questioned why they should suddenly support the very candidate they had been instructed to criticize in the previous elections. Furthermore, many campaigners in the regions argued that SBY was a more suitable candidate to support since he had nominated a Golkar figure (Jusuf Kalla) as his running mate. Finally, many local chapters in Golkar’s strongholds in Eastern Indonesia genuinely wanted to support the SBY-Jusuf Kalla pairing not only because Kalla represented a real chance for them to gain direct access to the government, but also because of their ethnic bond with Jusuf Kalla. Many had already tacitly supported Kalla during the first round of the presidential election, but now that SBY and Kalla were clearly making headway, and Sulawesi’s favourite putra daerah (son of the region) was knocking loudly on the door to the vice-presidential palace, the choice was even easier. As one local legislator had said on the eve of the first round of the election, ‘it will be impossible to prevent people from defecting from Golkar if we can have a vice-president who speaks Buginese.’68 In view of such sentiment, it was hardly surprising that local Golkar chapters in Sulawesi were sceptical about the Rapim decision to support Megawati. Muhammad Roem, one of Golkar’s provincial deputy chairmen from South Sulawesi, responded to the decision by warning that he could not guarantee strong support from the grassroots in his province, regardless of the instructions from the centre.69 But it was not only in Sulawesi that the decision to support Megawati was criticized. In West Java, for example, a province where Golkar had made a strong showing during the legislative elections,70 disappointment with the central leadership was now rife. During the Rapim, West Java’s provincial party chapter had been the only one to remain steadfast in its rejection of a coalition with Megawati. Now that the decision had been finalized, local Golkar politicians were harshly critical of the party’s central board. Dr Avip Saefullah, a local Golkar cadre who openly supported SBY and Jusuf Kalla, explained: It has to be understood that the Great Golkar Family today is different from the Great Golkar Family of the past. Our cadres today are already very rational in truly observing the unfolding aspirations of the public. It is only natural if the provincial leadership board of West Java decides to stay neutral in the upcoming second round of the presidential elections. (Avip Saefullah, as quoted in ‘Hasil Rapimnas Golkar Abaikan “Akar Rumput” ,’ Pikiran Rakyat, 18 August 2004) On the national level, the conflict between the pro- and anti-Akbar factions escalated soon after the national leadership meeting, when a group of party officials loyal to the two central board members Fahmi Idris and Marzuki Darusman established the so-called ‘Golkar Party Reform Forum’ (Forum Pembaruan Partai Golkar).71 Members of the group openly defied the DPP’s decision to

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support Megawati and lobbied regional cadres to join them in their support for SBY and Jusuf Kalla. In the opinion of Fahmi Idris, the instruction to support Megawati was primarily driven by Akbar Tandjung’s personal ambitions and therefore indicative of a party elite that ignores the aspirations of the grassroots.72 Furthermore, Fahmi resented what he called ‘Akbar Tandjung’s increasingly authoritarian approach to pushing through crucial decisions in the party leadership.’73 Consequently, according to Fahmi, someone had to stand up against the chairman, if only to test to what extent the leadership was willing to tolerate dissenting opinions within its own ranks. And finally, supporters of the forum asserted that Golkar ought to be naturally inclined to advocate a candidate who, even though he was not nominated by the party, was in actual fact a longtime Golkar cadre. While all these points may have had some relevance for Fahmi and his colleagues, it is probable that the most compelling reason for their rebellion against the official party line and their decision to join the SBY–Kalla camp was actually the simple fact that SBY was widely favoured to win and that neither Fahmi nor his fellow defectors had any intentions of supporting a losing candidate. Fahmi and Marzuki, in particular, reckoned that supporting SBY would later translate into direct access to power, as they were tipped to be rewarded for their activities with positions in the next cabinet.74 As for Fahmi, there were rumours he might also become SBY’s preferred candidate if he sought to win the Golkar chairmanship at the upcoming national party congress in December 2004. It is these broader implications that probably accounted for the unprecedentedly harsh sanctions that were subsequently imposed on the members of the Reform Forum. On 15 September 2004, just five days before the crucial second round of the presidential election, the DPP decided to dismiss Fahmi Idris and Marzuki Darusman, as well as a few of their supporters. Furthermore, Jusuf Kalla and Muladi, both members of Golkar’s Advisory Council, were suspended from their positions on the central board.75 Their dismissal was a clear sign that Akbar was growing increasingly anxious about his political future. With the next national party congress looming at the end of the year, Akbar obviously considered it necessary to unify the party ranks by force in order to protect his already decreasing chances of retaining the chairman’s post.76 Nonetheless, he was unable to stop his own downward spiral. As SBY was swept to the presidential palace in a landslide victory, Akbar’s political fortunes took yet another turn for the worse. Responding to Megawati’s defeat, he vowed to lead Golkar into parliamentary opposition, but that was more than most party members were ready to take. As the national party congress drew closer, the opposition inside Golkar prepared its final onslaught. The 2004 national congress: exit Akbar Tandjung, enter Jusuf Kalla Yet this opposition was by no means a unified movement. Certainly, a significant number of top officials and an even larger number of local functionaries bit-

Systemness 59 terly resented Akbar’s leadership. But among these discontented factions, there was no real political heavyweight capable of consolidating widespread organizational support for a realistic challenge. As a matter of fact, the opposition remained splintered, and there were no efforts whatsoever to form a collective movement that could unite behind a common candidate. Instead, all the usual suspects left after the expulsion of Fahmi Idris decided to struggle for power individually, including Marwah Daud Ibrahim, Wiranto and Surya Paloh.77 Other potential candidates – such as newly elected vice-president and convention dropout Jusuf Kalla, party vice-chairman and DPR speaker Agung Laksono, or convention participant and newly appointed Coordinating Minister for Economic Affairs, Aburizal Bakrie – initially remained noncommittal. Of the remaining candidates, Wiranto was widely regarded as the most promising, but his hopes were shattered when Akbar used his support in the DPP to push through a regulation that required a potential leadership candidate to have at least five years’ experience on a party board at either the national, provincial or district level. Wiranto had none of these and was thus declared ineligible to run for the chairman post. The regulation was approved at a ‘streamlined’78 national leadership meeting just five days before the start of the congress. At the same leadership meeting, the delegates also endorsed Akbar’s proposal concerning the distribution of voting rights at the congress. Accordingly, the votes were to be distributed as depicted in Table 3.2. What is most striking about Table 3.2 is the fact that, in contrast to the convention, district chapters were now set to be excluded from the election process. In the run-up to the congress, Akbar had been urged by his opponents and some political observers to grant the right to vote to the district chapters, but unsurprisingly the beleaguered incumbent rejected the plea.79 Thus, Akbar had taken a double precaution. He had not only eliminated Wiranto as a potential contender, but had also made sure that the remaining competitors (Marwah Daud Ibrahim, Surya Paloh and Slamet Effendy Yusuf) would not pose a serious threat. And yet, Akbar’s plan did not work out. In an unexpected twist of events, just two days before the congress, vice-president Jusuf Kalla suddenly entered the fray, thereby changing the whole configuration of power among the candidates.

Table 3.2 Distribution of votes for leadership election at Munas VII, as approved by the national leadership meeting

National leadership board (DPP) Provincial leadership boards* Party’s youth and women’s organizations (AMPG and KPPG) Hasta Karya

Value of votes

Number of votes

11 33  1

1 33

2  0.5 8  0.125

Source: ‘Munas Golkar, Konvensi Babak II?,’ Kompas, 9 December 2004.

1 1 36

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Initially, Kalla had preferred to take a back seat in the chairmanship competition. Instead of running for the top job himself, he intended to back his closest confidant among the contenders, Surya Paloh, and only aspired to be nominated as the chairman of the Advisory Council. But as the congress drew closer, Kalla realized that the package as it stood would not get sufficient support. In order to tip the balance against Akbar the delegates would need to be assured that the vice-president himself was really deeply involved in the campaign. When he realized that he could not outmanoeuvre Akbar simply by supporting another candidate, Kalla – backed by President SBY who worried about the government’s stability in the face of Akbar’s opposition to his leadership – decided to run himself and give Surya the Advisory Council position instead. Additionally, the pair enticed the recently elected DPR speaker Agung Laksono into joining them.80 Kalla’s involvement made possible a strategy that had seemed unworkable for so long, namely the formation of a team with a genuine chance of beating Akbar Tandjung. Together the three formed an immensely powerful troika, not only because they were all extremely wealthy businessmen, but also because they could offer access to hugely diversified organizational and geographical patronage networks. While Kalla was the draw card to open up the Eastern Indonesian branches (and basically anyone who was keen on getting access to the vice-presidential palace), Agung was the link to some of Golkar’s cadre recruitment pools, especially AMPI and Kosgoro 1957.81 Surya Paloh, finally, an Acehnese with strong connections to the military-affiliated lobby organization Communication Forum of the Sons and Daughters of Indonesian Veterans (Forum Komunikasi Putra-Putri Indonesia, FKPPI) and the media community,82 was said to be close to the Golkar chapters in Central Java and Yogyakarta. Together, the trio was far too strong for Akbar. Even a last-minute attempt by the embattled leader to join forces with his former arch-enemy Wiranto and then grant voting rights to the district chapters could not save him now. In the end, Jusuf Kalla won the contest by a landslide, defeating Akbar by 323:156 votes.83 Significantly, Jusuf Kalla’s triumphant ‘blitzkrieg’84 reflected both continuity and change in Golkar. On the one hand, Kalla’s victory showed that, in essence, the political culture of Golkar had changed fairly little since the end of the New Order. Despite all the reformist rhetoric, Golkar remains a party that is primarily driven by its immense appetite for power.85 Clearly, Jusuf Kalla did not win the leadership contest because he had a convincing political programme, but because he was ‘the president’s man’ (Liddle 2005: 333) and could therefore promise direct access to lucrative government resources. This prospect was obviously much more appealing to the delegates than Akbar’s invitation to form an oppositional alliance with PDI-P. As one delegate put it, ‘Akbar asked us to listen to our hearts, but Kalla gives us vitamins.’86 Indeed, the irresistible power of money could be sensed everywhere during the congress. While reliable figures are not available,87 a bitter comment by Akbar Tandjung shortly after his defeat spoke volumes about the corrupt nature of the contest: ‘Corruption is like a fart – it is easily detected by its smell, but no one can see it.’88

Systemness 61 But despite the prevalence of money politics and old-style patterns of patronage at the congress, not everything was business as usual. In fact, the result of the leadership contest also showed that earlier events surrounding Golkar’s presidential convention and the presidential election were not isolated incidents, but rather manifestations of an emerging trend away from long-established centralized paternalism to more decentralized party politics. As a matter of fact, Golkar’s local party functionaries have grown increasingly assertive in their responses to the formerly almighty national party elites on the central leadership board and, as a result of that, traditional patterns of top-down decision-making have become more and more difficult to uphold. Akbar Tandjung was reluctant to acknowledge this trend and, at the 2004 party congress, he paid the ultimate price for this reluctance. In the end, he not only lost the chairmanship but also the respect of his party, as his final speech at the congress was rowdily booed down by what observers described as a ‘rabid audience.’89 Final remarks on Akbar’s leadership The rise and fall of Akbar Tandjung as described in this section shows that, in a party like Golkar, obtaining the chairmanship is much easier than retaining it. With the exception of the party’s very first leader Amir Murtono, who led the party until 1983, no other Golkar chairman has ever been able to serve two consecutive terms, and the fate of Akbar Tandjung indicates that this phenomenon is likely to continue. While the circumstances were largely different before 1998, the weak status of the Golkar chairmanship in the post-Suharto era is nonetheless a direct legacy of the New Order. For more than 30 years the party had been deliberately prevented from producing politicians with strong leadership skills, while at the same time Suharto’s divide-and-rule tactics fostered factionalism and personal animosities within the party. The impact of this legacy can still be felt today as Golkar remains a party without charismatic personalities. In 1998, Akbar Tandjung was probably the best chairman the party could get as the former student leader proved astute and skilful enough to consolidate Golkar as an indispensable political force. But Akbar was never a strong or even a charismatic leader and, although he did strengthen his position and stave off the challenge from the Iramasuka faction, his leadership was never undisputed and he never managed to extend his influence beyond the confines of the national leadership board and a few selected provincial branches. In the end, it was these limitations that sealed his political fate. Akbar Tandjung was shoved aside because he underestimated his own party’s appetite for power and because he failed to comprehend that local party officials no longer blindly followed instructions issued by a narrow-minded party oligarchy. Buoyed by the overall localization of politics, these lower-level party cadres have grown increasingly confident about their own role in the party and are now more inclined to challenge the authority of the central leadership board if it is in their own interests. In such a predatory political environment organizational merits mean nothing while patronage is everything. The self-confessed

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opportunist Jusuf Kalla90 knew this when he challenged Akbar Tandjung at the 2004 congress. Backed by the power of his vice-presidential office, he won the chairmanship easily, but he is unlikely to become a stronger leader than his predecessors. Ultimately, his prospects for remaining Golkar chairman are inextricably tied to his fortunes in the vice-presidential palace. Should he fail to deliver what the party apparatus wants, he may find himself under fire sooner than he may want to imagine.

Party funding: challenges to financial sustainability Finally, before concluding this chapter we have to turn our attention to the contentious topic of party funding. No discussion about systemness can afford to ignore this issue since any political party that aims to become institutionalized in this dimension has to be able to generate steady streams of money in order to bring some form of stability to its financial foundations. If possible, the party should generate the bulk of its funds predominantly from its own rank and file, but this ideal model of a perfectly self-sufficient and independent party is basically non-existent in reality as membership dues and activists’ fundraising activities rarely produce enough capital to meet the cost of a party’s day-to-day operations (Randall and Svåsand 2002a: 18). This is particularly true in many countries in the developing world where poor socio-economic conditions often make it impossible for ordinary party members to make financial contributions. Accordingly, Duverger’s (1954: 63) ideal-type mass party that is ‘essentially based upon the subscriptions paid by its members’ is basically non-existent in these parts of the world. In this regard, Golkar is no exception. As we shall see in Chapter 5, the party’s constituency is made up mostly of people who come from the lower segments of society. Often, these people simply do not have the financial means to help fund the party and apparently they are not even expected to do so.91 But on the other hand, Golkar is a party of extremes. In stark contrast to its predominantly poor constituency, many of the party’s leading functionaries are wealthy and indeed quite often exorbitantly rich. Therefore, it seems logical that for the safeguarding of its financial security, the party relies more on donations from its leading cadres than on regular contributions from its grassroots members. Yet, internal funding alone can hardly explain how the party has been able to finance its day-to-day activities and its expensive election campaigns in the post-Suharto era. This section will provide an overview of the various financial resources Golkar has at its disposal. Against the background of the tremendously changed political and economic environment in post-1998 Indonesia the analysis aims to answer the question of how Golkar has been able to maintain its financial sustainability after its financial prowess had suffered some severe blows in the immediate aftermath of the fall of Suharto.92 Answering this question is not easy. Generally, and probably unsurprisingly, it has to be said that information about the financial proceedings in Golkar was almost impossible to obtain. Over

Systemness 63 a period of several months, then-party treasurer Mohamad Hidayat declined requests for an interview and when he finally agreed to a meeting, it was cancelled on short notice. Appointments with his deputies also proved difficult to arrange so that it was impossible to establish, for example, whether Golkar actually possesses a proper book-keeping system or not. Lacking first-hand information from the party, this part of the book relies chiefly on secondary data from media reports as well as information from individual Golkar politicians who were not directly involved in the party’s treasury. Types of party funding: donations In order to classify the various types of financial resources that Golkar has at its disposal it is worthwhile to refer to the official party constitution which states in Article XV that Golkar generates money from three kinds of sources: 1 2 3

membership dues; non-binding donations and; other legal activities (DPP Partai Golkar 2003a: 18).

As the first of these three sources is basically a paper tiger we can proceed directly to the second category, donations. Naturally, every Indonesian party relies on donations to finance its electoral campaigns and Golkar is certainly no exception to this rule.93 In fact, donations are not only mentioned explicitly as legitimate sources of party income in Golkar’s very own constitution, but also in both the 2002 party law and the 2002 election law. From the perspective of party institutionalization, however, it is important that the donations are both diversified as well as moderate in scale. Extremely high donations put the party at risk of becoming dependent on these donations. Moreover, big donations increase the likelihood that the donor will ask for certain favours in return for his investment, which in turn will almost certainly compromise the party’s decisional autonomy.94 In order to prevent such plutocratic financing, many countries including Indonesia have set legal limits for donations to political parties. In Indonesia, both the party law as well as the election law set these limits. First, the 2002 party law, which together with the 2003 election law formed the legal basis for parties participating in the 2004 elections, stated that political parties are only allowed to accept donations of no more than Rp.200 million per annum from individual donors and no more than Rp.800 million per annum in corporate donations (KPU 2003: 12).95 Second, the election law prescribed that campaign donations from private individuals must not exceed Rp.100 million, while corporations were not allowed to donate more than Rp.750 million (KPU 2003: 64). In addition to these limits, the election law also required parties to submit an audited financial report to the KPU at the latest three months after election day (KPU 2003: 64).96 On paper, all these regulations look very good, but unfortunately the enforcement of them has been rather weak so far.97 As the National

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Democratic Institute (NDI) (2004: 12) noted, ‘[u]ntil these regulations have greater teeth, political finance in Indonesia will continue to be highly opaque.’ Internal donations and the growing influence of businessmen The weak enforcement of the rules has left big loopholes for parties like Golkar to secure substantial financial contributions outside the legal framework. For example, in 2004 Golkar acquired enormous funds by asking all its legislative candidates to pay large donations to the party in order to support what party executives called ‘operational costs in the regions.’98 Candidates who aspired to be nominated for the highest list places were asked to pay up to Rp.100 million,99 precisely the highest possible amount of money a private individual was allowed to donate to the campaign. Thus, at first sight it may have seemed as if Golkar was abiding by the law, but in actual fact the real donations of the legislators were much higher because in addition to these legal donations the candidates also had to finance their own personal campaigns, thereby adding massive hidden donations to the party, both during and well before the campaign. Significantly, the personal expenditures of individual candidates often exceeded the Rp.100 million benchmark by large margins. Little hard data is available, but anecdotal evidence and selected media reports suggest that NGO activist Emmy Hafild was right when she claimed that ‘many legislative candidates dug deep into their own pockets to pay their expenses, even though the law stipulates that an individual’s personal campaign funds should not exceed Rp.100 million.’100 One lower-ranking Golkar candidate, for example, said that he had spent Rp.300 million during the three-week campaign period alone, adding that ‘compared to the spending of other candidates, mine is of a very small scale.’101 Unofficial campaigning, however, had of course begun long before the official three-week period. Candidates who were vying for nomination started touring their constituencies regularly as early as May 2003 in order to drum up support for their eventual nomination. For one lower-ranking Golkar candidate who wished to remain anonymous, personal campaign expenses amounted to Rp.2 billion over a period of almost 12 months.102 Even candidates for local parliaments were expected to make large contributions to the party and finance their own campaigns. As Yanuarti (2005: 95) reports from East Java, a top Golkar candidate for the local parliament in Malang spent at least Rp.5 million every month on his constituency, plus Rp.20 million in donations for the various villages in his district. By requesting these big investments from its prospective candidates, Golkar has smartly outsourced substantial parts of its own campaign expenditure. The fact that the candidates were willing to make these sacrifices sheds interesting light on the function of the party as an established institution of patronage. As has been discussed earlier (and will be referred to later on), Golkar has indeed assumed the position of some kind of impersonal patron who provides extra-

Systemness 65 ordinary opportunities for its clients (the candidates) to reach prestigious political offices. For the candidates who invested big money in their campaigns, the calculation was that they would be rewarded with even bigger revenues if they were elected. Thus, as clients in a relationship of mutual benefit they were more than happy to provide the funds the party could not or did not want to provide itself. The explosion of costs for election campaigning has led to a growing influx of wealthy businessmen into Golkar while loyal but less affluent party soldiers have found themselves increasingly marginalized. The increasing influence of big business in Golkar is reflected in the growing number of businesspeople who occupy positions in the party’s parliamentary fraction and the central leadership board. First, in the DPR fraction the percentage of legislators who have previously been involved in private business activities has risen from 35.8 in the 1999–2004 fraction to 46.4 in the 2004–9 fraction.103 Second, the influence of entrepreneurs has also risen within the DPP after Jusuf Kalla appointed a number of close allies from the business community to key positions in the party’s highest departments. For instance, Agung Laksono and Surya Paloh were appointed as deputy chairman (Agung) and chairman of the Advisory Council (Surya). Moreover, in a move that sparked allegations of nepotism, Kalla also made his brother Suhaeli Kalla deputy treasurer, alongside other political entrepreneurs like Paskah Suzetta, Bobby Suhardiman and Edward Suryadjaja. A particularly dense concentration of businesspeople can be found in the new Advisory Council, where cabinet members Fahmi Idris and Aburizal Bakrie (Indonesia’s richest man in 2007) are joined by well-known business-politicos like Prabowo Subianto,104 Tanri Abeng, Jan Darmadi, Cicip C. Sutardjo and Siswono Yudhohusodo.105 External donations and the loss of old, established business-politics loyalties What is remarkable about this new trend of businessmen entering active party politics is that it is yet to extend to the super-rich conglomerate bosses from the ethnic Chinese community. Some observers argue that this is only a question of time and that Indonesia will inevitably degenerate into a Thai- or Philippines style plutocracy (Chua 2008), but such fundamental alterations to the political landscape are not yet discernible. In fact, up to this stage the vast majority of Chinese tycoons still prefer to remain in the background. This does not mean, however, that they are completely apolitical. On the contrary, most tycoons continue to play a huge role in electoral politics, even though this role is usually more indirect than direct as they operate primarily from behind the scenes. In contrast to the New Order, when they were basically forced to put their money exclusively into Golkar, business tycoons now rarely bankroll the campaigns of only one particular party. The competitive nature of the new political system has provided for a genuinely changed environment for big business

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interests and the multi-party system has created new incentives for business conglomerates to sponsor parties other than Golkar (Chua 2005). However, although many conglomerates have diversified their financial contributions to political actors, Golkar is still believed to remain one of the major recipients of money from the business community. Faisal Basri, a noted economic analyst, suspects that many businesspeople feel indebted to Golkar because the party protected them during the New Order.106 If Golkar was weakened, Basri argues, they might lose their long-cherished privileges. Hence, in order to prevent this from happening, they continue to support the party. While Basri agrees with the commonly held view that nowadays no businessman can afford to support just one party (Robison and Hadiz 2004, Chua 2005), he believes that certain conglomerates do have a particular interest in supporting Golkar, including those of Joko Chandra, Tomy Winata and the Ciputra family. Moreover, even those who distribute their money across a broader spectrum of parties these days tend to be especially generous towards Golkar (and to a lesser extent, PDI-P), simply because they can expect the biggest rewards when needed. Taken together, the donations from businessmen in and outside the formal party structure are by far the most important source of funding for Golkar. The growing influence of businesspeople may be a logical consequence of broader political trends in Indonesia, but Golkar has also deliberately nurtured this trend, for example through its presidential convention. Indeed, one may argue that Golkar’s invention of a presidential convention with the chance for non-party people to participate has actually paved the way for the rapidly increasing influence of businessmen in official party politics. It is in fact significant to note that three out of five finalists of the Golkar convention were business people.107 Aburizal Bakrie, Surya Paloh and Prabowo Subianto spent massive amounts of money on their campaigns in order to challenge the two favourites Akbar Tandjung and Wiranto. The fact that they failed is a good indication of how much money the other two contestants must have spent in order to stave off the challenge. Thus, the convention turned into a genuine money-spinner for Golkar and became a real blessing for the party’s treasurers on all levels. Pillars of regularity: state subsidies and the spoils of office Donations may be the most important source of funding for Golkar, but from the perspective of party institutionalization they are insufficient because they lack regularity. In order to cover expenses for day-to-day activities, it is therefore imperative for the party to generate additional funds from other sources. And Golkar does indeed receive such additional funds, even though they are not particularly substantial. Given the absence of regular membership dues, they come in the form of monthly levies imposed on elected legislators and subsidies for political parties paid by the state. As far as the former are concerned, Golkar requests that the members of its DPR fraction make monthly contributions to the central board as well as the provincial and district boards in the regions where they were nominated. The monetary value of these regular levies seems to

Systemness 67 depend on the province of origin. Generally, however, the levies are so small that they are of no real importance to the party’s financial viability. Legislators from Central and East Java, for example, explained that they paid a monthly Rp.2 million (US$225) to the central board plus smaller amounts to provincial and district boards, as well as extra contributions for special party occasions.108 Moreover, Golkar receives an annual share of state subsidies for political parties from the government. The 2002 party law prescribed funding for political parties to be distributed proportionally to all parties that won seats in parliament (KPU 2003: 11). Interestingly, the previous party law (Law No. 2/1999) had featured a similar stipulation, but it did not mention specifically that the money should be distributed proportionally. In fact, in the first year after the 1999 election all parties seem to have received an equal amount of state funding, but from 2001 onwards the proportional distribution pattern was applied. Based on a government regulation issued in 2001, every party was paid an annual Rp.1,000 for every vote they received in the legislative elections.109 Furthermore, many local administrations also started to use the same party funding scheme as the national government, thereby adding further funds to the party coffers (Mietzner 2007: 244). Thus, between 2001 and 2004 Golkar pocketed not only around Rp.23 billion in state subsidies for its central board, but also many billions more for its provincial and district offices. In 2005, however, the new Yudhoyono government changed this method of distribution and decided to calculate the money to be awarded to the parties on the basis of the seats they gained in parliament rather than the votes they received in the election.110 This reduced the number of parties eligible for subsidies from the state to only 16,111 thereby allowing the government to save significant expenses previously spent on parties. More importantly, however, the new regulation set the amount of money to be paid to every party at a relatively low Rp.21 million for every seat won in the DPR.112 For Golkar, which won 127 seats in the 2004 elections, this translates into a mere Rp.2.667 billion per annum for the 2004–9 legislative period, a massive decrease compared to the previous arrangement.113 Final remarks on party funding To sum up this section, Golkar still has considerable financial resources at its disposal. It generates these funds from a variety of sources, ranging from internal and external donors to its own legislators and the state. In the absence of regular membership dues the only steady and reliable sources of funding appear to be public subsidies and regularized levies which the party imposes on its elected representatives in parliament. Arguably, both of these forms of funding fall into the category ‘other legal activities’ in the party’s constitution. These contributions, however, are comparatively small and, especially after the change in state subsidy patterns in 2005, far less significant than the donations which the party receives from both its own members and external financiers from the bigbusiness community. In fact, Mietzner (2007) has argued that there is a direct

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causal connection between the decline in revenues from the state and the increasing influence of big-business money in Indonesian politics. In Golkar this trend is clearly visible in the growing number of businessmen in the party’s parliamentary fraction and central board. It has also continued in local politics where the number of businessmen who join local elections as party-nominated candidates continues to rise. Incorporating more and more wealthy businesspeople into the party has helped Golkar deal with the loss of the seemingly inexhaustible funds from Suharto’s charitable foundations, but it has had negative effects on other dimensions of party institutionalization, as we will see in particular in Chapter 4.

Conclusion This chapter aimed to identify Golkar’s most important characteristics in the dimension of systemness. Overall, four key features can be singled out: 1 2 3 4

A nationwide yet gradually eroding party apparatus which is a direct legacy of the party’s genetic model. A tradition of non-personalistic and weak leadership that continues in the post-New Order era. The prevalence of factionalism and patron–clientelism, which has prevented a routinization of formal structures within the party. A remarkable ability to access diversified financial resources.

In view of these findings it can be concluded that the widespread assumption that Golkar has a superior organizational infrastructure and that it owes its enduring strength primarily to its so-called party machinery is only partly true. Without a doubt, Golkar has some important strengths in the dimension of systemness, but it also has some noteworthy weaknesses. Arguably, the two most important strengths of Golkar are its comprehensive territorial reach and its financial prowess, even though the latter has suffered a minor blow after the recent loss of subsidy income. In 2004, however, financial strength was certainly still a major asset as the former regime party spent huge amounts of money on advertising and other forms of campaigning. Overall, it is clear that Golkar no longer possesses the kind of inexhaustible funds it did have during the New Order, but the party dealt reasonably well with the challenges posed to its financial sustainability. Today, Golkar is still believed to generate fairly large amounts of capital through a diversified group of sponsors ranging from internal and external donors to its own legislators to the state. Of course, the changed state subsidy legislation has done the party’s bank accounts no favours, but at the same time the increasing influence of wealthy entrepreneurs has further strengthened Golkar’s war chest so that the former regime party looks set to remain financially stable. Golkar’s second great asset is its ability to reach people all over the country. Thanks to extraordinary historical circumstances, the former regime party

Systemness 69 enjoyed significant advantages in its organizational development and without a doubt it still benefits from these advantages today. Golkar not only has branch offices in every corner of the archipelago, but has also accommodated people who are deeply embedded in local power structures and who are therefore influential vote getters during election times. The instrumentalization of local power holders has always been the secret behind Golkar’s strength in outlying regions, but as the 2004 election results have shown, relying on these mainly selfinterested politicos is increasingly risky. To be sure, as long as the party can carry on providing lucrative patronage resources, Golkar will retain its strong position in the Indonesian party system. But owing to changing electoral institutions and the twin processes of personalization and localization of politics in Indonesia, it has now become more and more difficult for Golkar to keep everyone in the loop. Indeed, the party apparatus has already begun to erode from the bottom up. The main reason for this incremental de-institutionalization is the fact that the interests of local dignitaries and noblemen are often more closely tied to locally contextualized power structures than to their support for the Golkar party.114 As soon as other parties promised to deliver the same goods as Golkar, at a substantially lower cost, people who had been Golkar members for decades showed no hesitation in switching their allegiance to these new parties. Lack of coherence has also been found at the national level, but with different implications. Defections of national-level politicians have been relatively rare since the initial post-New Order exodus, but here too, the impact of factionalism and patron–clientelism has taken its toll on the party. The prolonged tug-of-war between Akbar Tandjung and his opponents first brought about the temporary dismissal of some leading party functionaries and eventually resulted in the political demise of the chairman himself. In the end, Akbar succumbed to the power of the same informal institutions that he himself had continuously nourished during his chairmanship. Thus, he not only paid the price for leaving the character of Golkar unchanged and for being unable to comprehend the changing dynamics of electoral politics in Indonesia, but also for his failure to establish routinized procedures within the party. Akbar’s constant amendments to and alterations of pre-existing written rules and regulations during the legislative election campaign, the presidential convention and the national party congress had angered many party cadres. One legislative candidate who was dissatisfied with his low list place lamented: ‘The party has many written regulations, but they are usually vague and open to interpretation.’115 In the absence of reliable ‘rules of the game,’ strategic political decisions in the party are usually determined by factional affiliations, patronage and outright money politics. The prevalence of these kinds of informal institutions over formal procedures has had a negative impact on organizational coherence and the party’s public image and in 2004 directly affected Golkar’s electoral performance. Of course the somewhat disappointing legislative elections and the failed attempt to make Megawati president cannot be solely attributed to Golkar’s organizational incoherence, but it certainly contributed to the eventual outcome.

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That Akbar had to pay the price for all this in December 2004, finally, sheds interesting light on the last important characteristic of Golkar. For years Akbar Tandjung had been regarded by friends and foes alike as one of the most astute politicians in Indonesia. As he was anything but charismatic, his leadership always relied entirely on his ability to provide ever-growing patronage resources to his numerous clients in the party. In the end, he failed to deliver what was demanded by a power-hungry party apparatus and was duly ousted from the chairmanship for this failure. Arguably, a more charismatic leader could have prevented such an abrupt downfall,116 but Akbar had nothing to offer in this regard. From the perspective of party institutionalization, the lack of a charismatic leader is a good thing for Golkar because it prevents personalistic tendencies and facilitates smooth leadership successions. Where leaders are interchangeable it could be argued that the party should be forced to rely on institutions rather than persons. At this stage, however, these institutions are still predominantly informal as the formal rules of the game have not yet evolved into legally or at least morally binding institutions.

4

Decisional autonomy The main problems lurk inside the party

As an independent party Golkar must always be able to take every political decision and every organizational policy without the interference or intervention from anybody or any third party. (DPP Golongan Karya 1998: 51)

Introduction Having established that Golkar’s organizational infrastructure is actually not as well institutionalized as is often assumed, the analysis now moves on to the second structural dimension of Randall and Svåsand’s model of party institutionalization. Decisional autonomy is arguably the most contentious part of the concept, not least because political theorists have so far failed to reach a consensus on the question of whether autonomy is actually a necessary dimension of party institutionalization or not. Randall and Svåsand believe that autonomy should be included in the concept, provided that the analytical focus is limited to the crucial issue of internal decision-making processes. In other words, a party is well institutionalized in this dimension if it can make important policy decisions autonomously and independently from external influences. According to this understanding of autonomy, links between a party and a sponsoring organization outside the formal party structure are acceptable as long as ‘the party is clearly the dominant element in the relationship’ (Randall and Svåsand 2002a: 13). Indeed, in such cases, ‘a degree of interdependence could have very positive consequences, in terms of extending resources (which could be vitally needed) and, indeed, of external institutionalization’ (Randall and Svåsand 2002a: 13).1 On the other hand, connections are regarded as negative if the external actor severely compromises a party’s ability to shape its own policies and strategies, and to appoint its own personnel. With this limited focus, the authors argue, the complexities of defining the nature of a party’s links with external actors may be avoided. Against the background of this new approach, this chapter scrutinizes Golkar’s relations with two major forces in Indonesian politics. In the first section, the development of Golkar’s relations with the armed forces in the

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post-Suharto era will be recapitulated. This part will examine general organizational links as well as the potential for military interference in Golkar’s internal decision-making processes. It will be argued that Golkar and the military have indeed severed the ties which had bound them for more than 30 years. In the second section, the scope of the analysis will be extended beyond traditional conceptualizations of autonomy. Instead of focusing on another specific external actor, this part of the chapter will discuss to what extent Golkar’s decisional autonomy is compromised by its susceptibility to corruption and money politics. These kinds of illicit financial practices may be a structural problem rather than a problem that can be linked directly to a specific actor (or a group of actors), but they nonetheless affect a party’s decisional autonomy. Indeed, as this section will argue, corrupt practices in all their manifold forms have become a deeply entrenched enemy to formal party institutionalization, and the power of capital is so strong that it severely undermines Golkar’s decisional autonomy. This is particularly evident in parliamentary procedures, but also in important recruitment and selection processes. In short, Golkar’s political manoeuvres often appear to be guided by greed rather than by rules and regulations. Apart from providing important empirical insights, this chapter will also shed new light on some theoretical issues. First, it will test the analytical value of Randall and Svåsand’s proposal to conceptualize decisional autonomy more narrowly than in earlier models of party institutionalization. As shall be shown, the proposed focus on decision-making processes makes it extremely difficult to apply the concept in an empirical study in a country like Indonesia where many decision-making processes are simply too opaque to be reconstructed by the researcher. Consequently, many conclusions in this chapter have to remain tentative. A second point of criticism that will emerge out of the discussion concerns Randall and Svåsand’s suggestion to categorize autonomy as an external dimension of party institutionalization. In fact, as will be demonstrated in the final part of this chapter, challenges to Golkar’s decisional autonomy as a collective organization not only come from outside the party, but also from its very midst.

Golkar and the military: separated at last Ever since the beginning of the reformasi era, the relations between Golkar and the military have been under particular scrutiny from the public. Given the fact that the armed forces had not only been the driving force behind the establishment of Golkar in 1964, but had also continued to be actively involved in the party’s internal affairs throughout the New Order period, many observers were initially sceptical when both sides announced in mid-1998 that they would terminate their relationship. While many believed that the military’s involvement in day-to-day politics was indeed likely to decline, doubts persisted about the future role of the military during elections. After all, the military, and especially the army, had been one of the main pillars of Golkar’s electoral hegemony during the New Order. Now that Suharto had stepped down, the commander-in-

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chief of the armed forces, General Wiranto, pledged that his men would remain neutral and stop supporting Golkar, but not everyone trusted him. As Crouch (1999: 143) noted, some observers [. . .] fear that General Wiranto’s record so far suggests that he could not be relied upon to resist any instruction from the president, while officers in the territorial structure may see alliance with Golkar as a way of keeping open prospects for later appointments to civilian positions. Arguably, this kind of scepticism has never entirely disappeared. Debates about military reform have continued unabated over the years, sometimes more intense, sometimes more subdued. Although hardly ever explicitly mentioned, an underlying theme of the debate has always been the question of whether the armed forces would stick to their commitment to refrain from active party politics. Moreover, the victories of several retired generals in gubernatorial elections in 2002 and 2003, and especially the presence of two retired generals among the five contenders in the 2004 presidential election, reignited fears of a military comeback in politics. Golkar found itself in the thick of the debate after it nominated former Suharto adjutant and excommander-in-chief of the armed forces, Ret. General Wiranto as presidential candidate in 2004. This section will analyse some crucial turning points in the relationship between Golkar and the armed forces in order to find out whether the widespread scepticism of political observers was justified. More precisely, it will aim to answer the question as to whether Golkar has fully emancipated itself from its former sponsor. It will be argued that while organizational links have indeed been severed satisfactorily, the military maintains pockets of influence on decision-making processes, at least on the local level where party executives sometimes still rely on protection from local military commanders. The end of a wonderful friendship? Golkar and ABRI announce their New Paradigms The fall of Suharto in May 1998 precipitated the announcements of a number of structural changes in both Golkar and the armed forces. In July 1998, Golkar declared itself independent from its long-time mentor when delegates at the extraordinary national party congress approved the reformulation of Chapter III of the party constitution. By replacing the New Order version ‘Golongan Karya is an organization of socio-political power oriented towards functional work and achievement (karya and kekaryaan)’2 (DPP Golongan Karya n.d.: 61) with the new, more reformist-sounding credo ‘Golkar is independent, open and oriented towards functional work and achievement’ (DPP Partai Golkar 2003a: 7), the party took a first formal step towards securing decisional autonomy. Clearly, the severance of institutional ties with the military as well as the abolition of the almighty Supervisory Council, which had given former president Suharto an

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incontrovertible veto right, suddenly vested unprecedented power in the hands of the civilian politicians in the central board. According to the new arrangements, the central board is now in full control of crafting and implementing the party’s political agenda. Its plenary meeting (rapat pleno) and especially the meeting of the executive board (rapat pengurus harian) are responsible for the day-to-day affairs of the party, while the parliamentary fraction in the DPR represents the party’s interests in the legislature. The rapat pleno consists of all members of the extended central board,3 whereas the rapat pengurus harian is confined to the general chairman, the vicechairmen, the secretary-general and the vice-secretary-generals. For policy decisions of national scope, however, the rapat pleno and the rapat pengurus harian can only issue recommendations. The final decisions in such cases are made by the national leadership meeting (rapat pimpinan nasional (rapimnas or just rapim), which comprises all members of the central leadership board as well as representatives of the party’s provincial leadership boards. Significantly, the new Advisory Council, which replaced the Supervisory Council in 1998, no longer has any veto powers to annul decisions made by the rapim.4 On the surface, Golkar’s openly declared intention to become an independent party may have looked like a farsighted assessment of the changing political landscape or even a courageous act of political brinkmanship, but in many ways the announcement of the ‘New Paradigm’ seemed more like a strategic necessity, at least as far as Golkar’s ties with the military were concerned. It should be noted that many of the delegates who attended the 1998 congress were retired military officers and these officers probably knew that if it was not Golkar who terminated the relationship, then it would certainly be the military who would do it shortly after the party congress. After all, a blueprint for military reform including a proposal to reduce ABRI’s political role had been circulating among reform-minded generals since at least the mid-1990s (Mietzner 2004: 187; Honna 2003: 164–5). Thus, it was not really a surprise when, just one week after Golkar’s extraordinary congress, General Wiranto gave the first public indication that the military would soon announce its very own ‘New Paradigm.’5 Another six weeks later it became official. According to Wiranto, the military was now ready to accept that ‘the social and political role of the Armed Forces will systematically and automatically decline.’6 Therefore he announced that the military would start implementing a number of institutional changes, including the withdrawal from the forefront of politics, a shift from occupying political positions to influencing political processes, and a change in the method of influencing from direct to indirect ways. Last but not least, the armed forces proclaimed to be ready for political role-sharing with civilian partners (Rinakit 2005: 105–6; Honna 2003: 166; Crouch 1999: 138–9; The Editors 1999: 143). While there was no direct reference to the military’s future relations with Golkar, another high-ranking general explained one day after Wiranto’s announcement that the armed forces were ‘not the instrument of a political party, but an instrument of the state.’7 Thus, the way was paved for a gradual reduction of the military’s role

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in politics and consequently for its withdrawal from active involvement in Golkar. The first test: Golkar–military relations during the 1999 general elections The first test for both Golkar and TNI to prove that they were serious about severing their ties was the 1999 election and as has been noted above, this was the part many observers were most sceptical about. Before the poll, both Wiranto as well as Yudhoyono had repeatedly pledged that the military would remain neutral (Crouch 1999: 143), but Wiranto’s political ambitions made the situation more complicated. According to Rinakit (2005: 162), then-president and Golkarnominee Habibie had hinted at the possibility of nominating Wiranto as a vicepresidential candidate in the upcoming presidential election. For many army officers this hint apparently amounted to a plea for help from the military. Just three days before the election, the military leadership gathered all local commanders in its headquarters and ‘instructed the commanders to support the fortunes of Golkar’ (Rinakit 2005: 162) in order to improve Wiranto’s chances of becoming vice-president. Although this support was meant to be only indirect,8 reform-minded generals like the late Agus Wirahadikusumah were reportedly appalled and asserted that ‘the military was far from neutral during the 1999 election. It still supported Golkar’ (Rinakit 2005: 161). Most foreign observers, however, disagree with this negative assessment. Kingsbury (2003: 173), for example, has argued that, while the overall implementation of the TNI’s New Paradigm may still leave much to be desired, the 1999 elections showed that at least the military’s intention to remain neutral in elections and the general severance of ties with Golkar were successful.9 Similarly, Mietzner (2004: 190) opined that in 1999 ‘TNI had remained neutral both in rhetoric and in practice.’ Another observer wrote that the 1999 election ‘was the first election since the formation of Golkar in which the military did not back that party’ (Van Klinken 1999: 25). And Aspinall (1999: 34) reported from the troubled province of Aceh that some Golkar members even actively criticized the armed forces, urging trials for ‘the individuals from ABRI who murdered, tortured and abducted innocent members of society.’ Thus, it seems as if Agus Wirahadikusumah’s accusations were probably slightly exaggerated, if not completely false. In any case, even if Wiranto had really been inclined to support Golkar before the election, he certainly changed his mind after the poll. In particular Habibie’s involvement in the Bank Bali scandal (see below) and the president’s controversial decision to conduct an independence referendum in East Timor prompted Wiranto to turn his back on the president and engage in talks with other contenders like Megawati and Abdurrahman Wahid. In the weeks before the MPR session the general kept his cards close to his chest, well-aware that the 38 military representatives in the MPR could play a key role in deciding the presidential election. In the end, he threw his support behind Wahid,10 but his strategy did not entirely pay off as

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he failed to secure the vice-presidential post. However, Wiranto was compensated with a powerful cabinet post, as were his military colleagues SBY and Agum Gumelar (Mietzner 2000). Coping with the fallout from the MPR session: Golkar and TNI during the Wahid administration The showdown in the MPR made it unmistakably clear that Golkar and the military were no longer acting in concert. During the course of the session Wiranto had not only embarrassed Golkar by publicly declining Habibie’s offer to become his vice-presidential running mate, but had then also gone at great lengths to outdo party chairman Akbar Tandjung in his efforts to seal the vicepresidency under Wahid. Yet, as Honna (2003: 177) put it, ‘Wiranto, once thought of as a shoo-in for vice-president [was] outmanoeuvred at the last’ and had to make do with a ministerial post. Merely four months later, he was dismissed from the cabinet. He subsequently disappeared from the political stage for a few years, only to re-emerge as a contender in Golkar’s presidential convention in 2003. Following the MPR session Golkar and the military both underwent strangely similar phases of reorganization and reorientation. Without a doubt, both organizations emerged from the session battered and bruised and, as a consequence, heavily factionalized. Although both had secured several cabinet posts in the government,11 they were also aware that their position in the new political system was much weaker than before. Their internal fragmentation and their tarnished public image, however, prevented them from staging an immediate resurrection so that both were, at least for a while, forced to retreat from the centre of Indonesia’s corridors of power. During this time, both organizations pursued their own political agendas, and evidently these agendas were no longer tied to the fortunes of the other. While Golkar sought to consolidate its organizational apparatus in the regions, the military was preoccupied with internal discussions about the future of civil–military relations under a president who seemed committed to scale down the TNI’s political role. Even the fact that both began to reassert their power roughly at the same time – namely in mid-2001 – did not point to a new alliance between the former partners. On the contrary, the involvement of Golkar and the military in the impeachment of Abdurrahman Wahid was solely based on distinctive power calculations that evolved completely independently from one another. The fall of Abdurrahman Wahid after just 21 months in office marked the return of both Golkar and the military to the centre of Indonesian power politics. The move to impeach Wahid was supported by a broad coalition in parliament, including Golkar and the TNI/police fraction. Both groups were keen on ending Wahid’s chaotic rule, mainly because the president had repeatedly tried to further weaken their political influence. Golkar, for example, was stunned when Wahid dismissed Jusuf Kalla from the cabinet for alleged corruption,12 while the military establishment was irritated by Wahid’s numerous rounds of leadership

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reshuffles. However, although Golkar and the TNI were united in their struggle to get rid of Wahid, neither of the two had a particular agenda to promote the interests of the other as both were preoccupied with restoring their own power bases in Jakarta. While Golkar sought a stable government under Megawati because the party leadership believed that this would enhance the prospects for an electoral coalition between the two parties in 2004, the military supported Megawati because it was confident that she would be more accommodating towards their institutional interests than Wahid.13 Thus, although Golkar clearly backed the impeachment process, the decision to do so was in no way dependent on external forces. It was solely made by the party leadership in Slipi and was based purely on pragmatic power calculations. Redistributing power, readjusting allegiances: Golkar and the TNI during the Megawati administration In the following years this pattern remained essentially unchanged. Throughout the years of the Megawati administration, Golkar and the military often supported the same policies, but in most cases no evidence could be found that this unanimity was actually a result of pressure from the armed forces. However, it needs to be stressed that the real extent of the military’s influence on internal decision-making processes in Golkar is extremely difficult to estimate, especially in regards to parliamentary politics. As several researchers have bemoaned, transparency in the DPR is dreadfully low and important decisions are often made behind firmly closed doors (Sherlock 2005: 7, Rüland et al. 2005). In fact, the key discussions in the legislature are rarely held in the actual special committees (panitia khusus, pansus) that are routinely set up to negotiate controversial bills, but in small informal working committees (panitia kerja, panja) that are usually headed by the leaders of the parties’ parliamentary fractions. As Alan Wall, the Indonesia representative of IFES, said, ‘when the going gets tough within a pansus, a panja is formed. The pansus is just for the public, while the decisions are taken by very small elite circles.’14 In view of this situation, it is almost impossible for external observers to determine which party supported a certain bill from the outset and which party had to be convinced during the so-called musyawarah and mufakat (consultation and consensus) process. Needless to say, the opaqueness of these overall procedures also makes it nearly impossible to gauge the impact of external influences on the decisionmaking processes within the individual parties represented in parliament.15 With regards to the military, the situation is (or rather was, until 2004) even more complicated because of the fact that the armed forces used to have their own representatives in parliament who were directly involved in negotiations with the legislators from the political parties.16 Although the TNI had pledged in its New Paradigm to reduce its role in day-to-day politics, it is understood that the 38 men and women in the DPR acted, if required, as the extended arm of the military establishment. In fact, several observers have expressed their concern that the armed forces have indeed continued to exert subtle psychological

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pressure on all parties in parliament (not only Golkar), be it through their own DPR fraction or through other lobbyists.17 Again, however, it needs to be stressed that it is extremely difficult to tell to what extent these attempts at influencing party-internal decision-making processes have really been successful. If we cannot conclusively answer the question of to what extent the military has really attempted to influence internal decision-making processes in Golkar’s parliamentary fraction, it may be more insightful to ask whether these attempts, if they did take place, have actually been necessary. As a matter of fact, by the time Megawati took over government responsibility in 2001 large segments of Jakarta’s civilian elite had already grown so impatient with the manifold security problems in the country that many of them, including numerous Golkar politicians, were increasingly sympathetic to the military playing a greater role in politics (Mietzner 2004: 215). Indeed, it seems as if from mid-2001 onwards hardly anyone in the civilian elite seemed to oppose the security-focused policies the military was advocating. The unanimous support for martial law in Aceh in 2003 was the most striking example of this,18 but civilian party politicians also toed the military line in various discussions about terrorism and in the debate about the TNI bill in 2004. However, there was at least one exception to this pattern of support for the military and one may argue that this exception proves that the TNI’s influence has its limitations and that Golkar has indeed gained full autonomy from the military. This noteworthy example was the highly controversial issue of special autonomy for Indonesia’s easternmost province of Papua. In many ways, the developments of the debate about Papuan autonomy and the viewpoints taken by Golkar and the armed forces in this debate captured in a nutshell the contemporary dynamics of civilian–military relations in general and between Golkar and the military in particular. Representing whose interests? Golkar, TNI and the division of Papua Apart from Aceh, Papua is arguably the province that has posed the most significant separatist challenge to the Indonesian state in the entire post-Suharto era. Repressed and marginalized throughout the New Order, some Papuans quickly began to demand independence from Indonesia once Suharto’s ironfisted rule came to an end in 1998 (Chauvel and Bhakti 2004). Suharto’s successor B. J. Habibie tried to end the conflict with an all-too familiar divide-and-rule tactic when his government crafted Law No. 45/1999 which provided for the separation of Papua19 into three provinces (Irian Jaya, West Irian Jaya and Central Irian Jaya). The legislation, however, was soon suspended because of massive resistance from the Papuan population. As the local independence movement gathered steam throughout 2000 and early 2001, the short-lived Wahid government tried to quell the separatist sentiment by promising Papua special autonomy. A new law (Law No. 21/2001) was designed to lay the legal foundation for this autonomy, but before Wahid was able to sign the draft he was impeached and forced to hand over the government to his vice-president Megawati Sukarnoputri. Soon afterwards, Megawati signed the law, but neither

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she nor the leading protagonists in her new cabinet were committed to the cause. Consequently, special autonomy was never fully enacted under Megawati.20 Instead, with the issuance of presidential instruction (Inpres) No. 1/2003, which called for the enforcement of suspended Law No. 45/1999, Megawati made it clear that she had a no intention of granting Papua genuine autonomy. The decree caused a great deal of legal confusion and prompted Papuan politicians to seek clarification about the status of their province from the Constitutional Court. After several delays the court eventually issued its verdict in late 2004, ruling somewhat ambiguously that the separation into three provinces was unconstitutional, but that one of the new provinces (West Irian Jaya) should remain in existence nonetheless.21 By the time of writing this decision still formed the legal basis for political operations and in March 2006 gubernatorial elections were successfully held in both Papua and West Irian Jaya. The dispute over Papua has been characterized by high-level politicking between a number of powerful players including the military, intelligence agencies, the government and the two biggest parties in Indonesia, Golkar and PDI-P (International Crisis Group 2003). Of the various players involved, the military has always been the most fervent opponent of special autonomy for Papua. By mid-2001 the generals began to receive valuable support from the Megawati government and large segments of the president’s party, PDI-P. Golkar, on the other hand, appeared to oppose the idea of splitting the province and seemed to side with the Papuans who urged the government to properly implement the special autonomy law. In the ensuing debate Golkar showed that it was perfectly able to decide independently on what is in the party’s best interest, especially after the issuance of the 2003 Inpres, which was widely regarded as a concerted effort by the army, the State Intelligence Agency (Badan Intelijen Nasional, BIN) and the Megawati government to maximize their own strategic benefits in Papua (International Crisis Group 2003: 8–9). For the army and BIN, splitting the province into three smaller administrative entities looked not only like a promising tactic to weaken the independence movement, but also like a crucial move to safeguard their manifold business activities in the region.22 For PDI-P, the formation of new provinces and districts would have created massive opportunities to access lucrative patronage resources which under the existing administrative setup had been largely reserved for Golkar. It is these broader implications that are most likely to explain Golkar’s initial opposition to the division of Papua. Led by Simon Patrice Morin, a prominent party cadre from Papua, Golkar repeatedly appealed to the Megawati government to withdraw the Inpres.23 However, while Morin may have had genuine concerns for his home province, the reasons for the party as an organization to oppose the Inpres were probably more pragmatic and driven primarily by the fear of losing its grip on power and patronage in the province. This argument is further underpinned by the change of attitude in the Golkar leadership after 2004. Ever since the balance of political power in Jakarta swung back into Golkar’s favour, resistance to the split has been reduced to Morin and a few

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other politicians hailing directly from Papua.24 New party chairman Jusuf Kalla, on the other hand, quickly signalled that he supported the creation of the new province of West Irian Jaya. With Golkar back in the driving seat in Jakarta and Kalla at the helm of the party, the situation had changed significantly and Golkar no longer feared being left out of lucrative business deals in the new province.25 Electoral politics in 2004: TNI still neutral? More indicators which support the assumption that Golkar has indeed emancipated itself from the military could be found during the various elections in 2004. In the legislative election in April, for example, election observers reported no interference from local military commanders in the voting process. There were also very few former members of the military on the lists of Golkar’s legislative candidates, which further demonstrated that the onceoverlapping patronage networks of the party and the armed forces had been separated organization-wise. With Golkar’s former secretary-general Budi Harsono, the ex-governor of Riau, Saleh Djasit, Abdul Nurhaman, Afifuddin Thaib and Djoko Subroto, only five retired TNI officers were elected for Golkar, leaving the proportion of former military men in Golkar’s DPR fraction at a mere 6 per cent. The military’s neutrality was warmly welcomed by the public and political observers, but the real concern for many was not the legislative election but the presidential election. After Wiranto’s victory at the Golkar convention, the candidature of Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono and the nomination of Agum Gumelar as the running mate for Hamzah Haz, three out of five pairings in the election featured a retired general. For some observers, this development signalled the return of the military to the centre of politics (Sasdi 2004a),26 but despite SBY’s eventual victory, these fears proved unfounded. Even if, as was widely assumed, the three contenders utilized their networks permeating the command structure of the armed forces to mobilize support for the election, this did not necessarily imply that the parties that had nominated them were compromised in their decisional autonomy.27 In the case of Wiranto and Golkar, this was certainly not the case. On the contrary, due to the fact that Wiranto had won his candidature at the expense of party chairman Akbar Tandjung, the Golkar leadership was particularly keen on demonstrating its decisional autonomy and as Wiranto had to experience first-hand, it did so with extraordinary zeal. For instance, Akbar made it clear immediately after his defeat at the convention that determining Wiranto’s running mate would be the prerogative of the party and not of Wiranto. In line with this attitude, Akbar and the central board then quickly took charge of the search for a suitable candidate, which of course for Akbar meant a candidate who would rather not increase Wiranto’s chances of winning. Indeed, the eventual selection of the relatively unknown Solahuddin Wahid spoke volumes about Akbar’s real motivations in his ‘assistance’ of Wiranto. The subsequent campaign for the presidential election was characterized by Akbar’s thinly veiled attempts to undermine Wiranto’s efforts to lift his

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somewhat tarnished public profile. Well aware of these stumbling blocks, Wiranto was reluctant to cooperate with Golkar’s official success team and effectively ran his campaign alone.28 That Golkar was able to obstruct the campaign of its official presidential candidate and even withhold financial assistance shows clearly that the party leadership was in full control of its strategic decisions. Even though Wiranto surely had the backing of some elements in the military and allegedly of members of the Suharto family, the vast majority of the party’s central board members stood firm in their loyalty to Akbar. This loyalty, however, came at a price as the party base grew increasingly alienated from its central board.29 As we have seen in Chapter 3, this alienation later turned into outright hostility and eventually led to the ousting of Akbar Tandjung from the party leadership. Golkar and the military on the local level If Golkar appears to have been reasonably successful in reaching decisional autonomy on the national level, the verdict is less positive on the local level. Even though it is difficult to find evidence for systematic TNI pressure on local Golkar leadership boards or parliamentary fractions, the armed forces still play an influential role in local politics, especially in regions that are prone to communal or separatist violence. The very fact that the military has been adamant to maintain its territorial structure (Mietzner 2003) indicates that local politics and the control of it remains a crucial pillar of the TNI’s enduring power in Indonesian politics. In the early post-New Order years, the military’s interference in local party politics has been particularly striking during gubernatorial and bupati elections. As local regents were still elected indirectly during these years, the military often had little difficulty in positioning itself as kingmaker in the midst of poorly organized parties. Local power holders who ran for executive office therefore often showed a keen interest in maintaining good relations with local military commanders in order to ensure crucial support during the election: Disputed election results, impeachments of governors and bupati, splits in political parties and mob violence all provided the TNI with opportunities to intervene in politics. Often its decision to protect – or not to protect – a local head of government would decide his or her fate. Whether it was the controversy over the mayoral election in Medan, the conflict accompanying the impeachment of two mayors in Surabaya, the fight for the governorship in North Maluku, the disputed election results in Kupang and Sampang, or the dismissal of the governor in South Kalimantan, the role of the security forces in controlling mass demonstrations was essential to maintaining, or transferring, power. (Mietzner 2003: 254) Significantly, however, it has to be noted that this TNI interference in practical politics did not exclusively target Golkar. Rather, it has emerged as an

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inherently structural problem of civil–military relations in post-Suharto Indonesia as the armed forces continue to exert pressure on local governments and parliaments in order to prove their indispensability. While Golkar politicians have often been at the receiving end of this pressure by virtue of their strong positions in many regions, other parties, especially PDI-P, have also suffered from this kind of interference. With the abolition of indirect local elections and the introduction of the pilkada, the opportunities for the military to interfere in electoral processes have somewhat decreased, but that does not mean that the military has retreated from local politics. On the contrary, while the patterns of interference may have changed in appearance they have hardly done so in substance. According to one prominent observer of the military, the main instrument the TNI uses to influence local politics today are the so-called ‘Regional Leaders Consultative Forums’ (Musyawarah Pimpinan Daerah, Muspida).30 These informal forums consist of members of the local military command and leaders of local executives, legislatures and judiciaries. The military often uses its influential role in the Muspida to ask local parliaments or governors for financial contributions for their local units. Given the local politicians’ dependence on the military for cooperation in security issues, the requested contributions are mostly approved.31 Thus, here again the military clearly curtails the decisional autonomy of civilian politicians, but again it is more of a structural problem of civil–military relations than a problem of military interference in Golkar’s internal affairs. Final remarks on Golkar’s relations with the military The discussion in this section has shown that Golkar has been fairly successful in emancipating itself from its original sponsoring organization, the military. To a large extent the process was inevitable for both sides as the changing political environment after 1998 no longer allowed close bonds between the armed forces and a particular political party. Today, the interests of Golkar and the TNI are often similar in nature so it is hardly surprising that the two organizations often cooperate and support the same policies. However, once the interests diverge, Golkar has demonstrated its willingness and its ability to challenge the military’s position, as has been evident, for example, in the case of the division of Papua. Nonetheless, the military remains a cause for concern in regards to Golkar’s decisional autonomy because of its strong influence in local politics. Especially in regions where the security situation is tense, the armed forces have continued to exert pressure on local politicians through their presence in the Muspida. That Golkar is often the target of this pressure, however, does not mean that the military deliberately intervenes only in Golkar’s internal affairs. Rather, by virtue of its influential position in the Muspida the military intervenes in the internal affairs of all parties that participate in local governments. Clearly, the core of the problem here is the unresolved issue of the military’s territorial structure and, arguably, this problem affects all parties, not only Golkar.

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Guided by greed: how money politics affects Golkar’s decisional autonomy In the second part of this chapter the analysis will move on to the impact of corruption and money politics on Golkar’s decisional autonomy.32 Throughout the New Order Golkar benefited from the interconnectedness of business and politics in Indonesia as it was provided with seemingly inexhaustible financial resources from business donations and Suharto’s notorious charity foundations. But the party’s wealth and the dubious origins of this wealth were also a manifestation of its complete lack of autonomy in regards to its financial activities. As it never needed to develop its own sources of financial support, the former regime party spent its entire New Order existence subject to the whims of the state. It was not until the fall of Suharto that things changed. Although the basic tenets of business-politics relations have essentially remained the same, there have been some changes in the relationship between big business elites and political parties which have had lasting effects on Golkar’s financial situation. For example, the emergence of a competitive multi-party system suddenly made compulsory loyalty to Golkar obsolete for the country’s business elites and provided fresh incentives to sponsor other parties than Golkar. Moreover, as the wheels of decentralization started to rotate in 2001, big business began to turn its attention to newly empowered actors in the regions, both partisan and nonpartisan. As these new streams of funding were often channelled through networks outside the central party leadership, Golkar faced some formidable challenges in sustaining its financial dominance. As we have seen in Chapter 3, overall Golkar has responded quite well to these challenges. The party has adjusted to the new circumstances with innovative fundraising activities such as presidential and gubernatorial conventions, and has incorporated an increasing number of wealthy businessmen directly into the party. Hence, access to regular and diversified financial resources is still guaranteed. The focus in this section, however, is not on regularity or accessibility of financial resources, but rather on the question as to what extent the exploration of new avenues of funding has affected Golkar’s decisional autonomy. It will be argued that the increasing importance of capital undermines the autonomy of the party because it prompts party officials to make decisions which may not necessarily be in the best interest of the party as an organization, but rather in their own personal interest. In other words, in order to protect their individual interests, powerful party officials often sacrifice the interests of the party. In doing so, they rob the party as a collective organization of its decisional autonomy. The fall of Suharto and the end of infinite resources When the New Order regime unravelled, Golkar strategists quickly realized that maintaining the party’s long-established financial privileges would be

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impossible. Arguably, the most significant blow to the party was the fact that many of Suharto’s notorious charity foundations including Yayasan Dakab were handed over to the government for better public scrutiny in late 1998 (Robison and Hadiz 2004: 234).33 As explained in Chapter 3, Yayasan Dakab had once been set up by Suharto with the primary aim of maintaining financial security for Golkar and was by far the party’s most important source of funding during the New Order. When Suharto’s successor B. J. Habibie decided to bow to public pressure and arrange for the foundation to be handled by the government, Golkar could not continue to generate the massive funds it had at its disposal throughout the New Order. It is likely that Habibie’s decision to end Golkar’s monopolized access to the foundations’ funds was primarily intended to mollify the critical public. But the issuance of presidential decision (Keppres) No. 195/1998 was still surrounded by controversy as it remained unclear whether the transfer of the foundations’ operational business would also entail a handover of their private assets, which were still believed to be under the control of Suharto. For Golkar this debate, which primarily revolved around the question as to whether Suharto could be put on trial for his role in managing the foundations, was rather irrelevant because, regardless of the technicalities, the bottom line was that the party could no longer rely on endless money from Yayasan Dakab.34 The irony in the situation was that Golkar had suddenly been granted autonomy over its financial resources, but that this externally imposed autonomy confronted the party with an unprecedented challenge to its financial sustainability. The main question then was whether it would respond by moving towards the consolidation of this new autonomy or whether it would move straight ahead into a new relationship of dependence with selected elements of the business community. Golkar’s initial reaction: Baligate, Buloggate and the structural entrenchment of corruption In the early days after the fall of Suharto, Golkar’s response to these new challenges was fairly unimposing. Or rather, there was no response at all as the party seemed blissfully ignorant of the changed circumstances and continued to use traditional New Order methods to generate funds. However, party leaders obviously underestimated the new transparency of the reformasi era and swiftly ran into trouble when the so-called ‘Bank Bali scandal’ (also called ‘Baligate’) was uncovered in the run-up to the 1999 MPR session. The scandal centred on the diversion of some US$80 million from a big private bank, Bank Bali, to a company controlled by, among others, then-deputy treasurer of Golkar, Setya Novanto. For many Indonesians, the scandal was a stark reminder that Golkar had not yet adjusted to the new times, and its clumsy attempts to cover up the apparent involvement of high-ranking party cadres in the multimillion dollar scam were evidence that the learning process was yet to commence. The Bank Bali scandal had two major implications. First, it severely damaged the reputation and presidential prospects of B. J. Habibie, who, until the scandal

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broke loose, had earned himself a fair share of respect for overseeing the preparations for Indonesia’s first free and fair election in 40 years. Once the scandal unfolded, his dream of winning a second presidential term was basically shattered as public opinion turned against him and powerful elements within his own party began to regard him as a liability.35 In the end, Habibie became a somewhat tragic figure as he was effectively mulcted of the benefits of his overall respectable presidential performance. Second, the Bank Bali scandal set a rather questionable standard for the judicial handling of high-profile corruption scandals in post-Suharto Indonesia. The vast majority of those involved in the scandal including top Golkar cadres Setya Novanto, Tanri Abeng and Arnold Baramuli were either acquitted or not prosecuted at all, much to the dismay of anti-corruption campaigners (ICW 2003). Following the Bank Bali controversy, a number of other high-ranking Golkar functionaries became embroiled in corruption scandals, but very few have actually been indicted, not to mention found guilty. While some escaped prosecution by admitting themselves to hospital (like former top Economics Minister Ginanjar Kartasasmita in early 2001), others were either acquitted straight away or found guilty by district courts, but later exonerated by a higher court. Arguably, the most prominent case in the latter category was Akbar Tandjung’s so-called Buloggate II scandal.36 In 2001, the then-Golkar chairman was accused of having embezzled Rp.40 billion of non-budgetary funds from the State Logistics Agency Bulog into an electoral slush fund for his party.37 As the alleged felony was committed in the run-up to the 1999 legislative election, it has been widely asserted that the money, which was originally designated to help alleviate poverty, was diverted into party coffers in order to boost Golkar’s election campaign. After a prolonged trial at the Central Jakarta District Court, Akbar was eventually declared guilty of corruption and sentenced to three years in jail in September 2002. Irritated but far from defeated, the Golkar leader appealed to first the Jakarta High Court, which upheld the verdict in January 2003, and eventually to the highest judicial authority in Indonesia, the Supreme Court. There, he was eventually acquitted in controversial fashion in February 2004.38 Compared to most other large-scale corruption cases in Indonesia, the Bank Bali scandal and Akbar’s Buloggate trial had certain interesting features that distinguished them from the rest. For instance, both cases had far-reaching political consequences, not only for the two individuals most closely associated (Habibie and Akbar), but also for Golkar as a party. Baligate, for example, not only shattered Habibie’s dream of retaining the presidency, but also sowed the seeds of post-New Order factionalism in Golkar. Buloggate II, on the other hand, was one of the main reasons for Golkar’s rather disappointing electoral performance in 2004 and, as a consequence, for Akbar’s defeat at the presidential convention. Even his eventual removal from the party leadership in December 2004 can be directly linked to his involvement in the corruption scandal. The most interesting characteristic of the two scandals, however, was that in contrast to most of the other corruption cases that made headlines in Indonesia in recent years, neither Baligate nor Buloggate II featured politicians who

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embezzled money primarily for their own personal enrichment. It is indeed critically important in the context of party institutionalization and party autonomy to differentiate between acts of corruption that are committed primarily for a person’s self-enrichment and those that are committed mainly in order to enrich the party. Furthermore, in the second category we also need to draw another line between those acts of corruption in which the party is the initiator of the crime and those where it is merely the recipient of bribes. The examples that follow will illustrate why these differentiations are important. The many facets of corruption and their impact on Golkar’s autonomy Arguably the most common form of political corruption in Indonesia in recent years has been the personal self-enrichment of legislators and executives, especially in the regions. In the run-up to the 2004 election, new scandals were exposed by the media on an almost daily basis, often involving groups of parliamentarians who transcended party affiliations.39 Governors and bupatis have also been at the centre of a number of corruption scandals, among others the former governors of Aceh and Banten (both of whom are Golkar cadres). Finally, in this category, there have also been cases of individual party functionaries who became involved in corruption cases that had actually nothing to do with their political positions. The various trials of the controversial Golkar legislator and businessman Nurdin Halid in 2004–5 are but one example of such corruption cases.40 Significantly, such acts of corruption do not really affect a party’s autonomy, neither in the traditional sense nor in Randall and Svåsand’s more narrowly defined sense of decisional autonomy, as they are committed primarily for self-enrichment or for the enrichment of members of the perpetrator’s clientelistic networks. It is a different story, however, with cases like the Bank Bali scandal or Akbar’s Buloggate case. In these cases, the act of corruption was committed first and foremost in order to enrich the party and to improve Golkar’s chances of electoral success. In both instances, Golkar acquired large amounts of money illegally, thereby demonstrating that the party was obviously incapable of generating sufficient funds (or at least what party leaders believed to be sufficient funds) to finance its campaign by legal means. The two cases can therefore be regarded as evidence of Golkar’s lack of autonomy and hence of its weak institutionalization if we understand the concept of autonomy in its traditional sense. On the other hand, however, the two scandals did not affect Golkar’s decisional autonomy as conceptualized by Randall and Svåsand since the providers of the funds (Bank Bali and Bulog) did not request any services from the party in return for their money. The decisions to embezzle the money were autonomously taken by high-ranking party executives with the goal of enhancing Golkar’s chances in the elections. Therefore, even though the scandals affected the party’s autonomy, they cannot be said to have affected the party’s decisional autonomy.

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Finally, there is a third form of corruption which, in contrast to the two aforementioned forms, directly affects the decisional autonomy of parties. The arena in which these kinds of corrupt practices occur most frequently is the national parliament where political parties enjoy much greater power than during the New Order, not only in the legislation process, but also in other important areas such as, the appointments of top bureaucrats and security personnel. Thanks to their enhanced power, legislators, especially the more influential ones who sit in the various DPR committees, have become natural targets for external interest groups wanting to push through certain pieces of legislations or particular appointments in the bureaucracy. And more often than not, these external interest groups use money to reach their goals, especially if they consist of representatives of the business community. One area of policy-making that has been particularly notorious for the blatant misuse of money is the process of administrative restructuring (pemekaran). Since the beginning of Indonesia’s far-reaching decentralization programme, dozens of new provinces and districts have been formed. The proposals to establish new districts are normally engineered by powerful local elites from business and politics, but in order to realize their dreams of creating new spheres of improved influence, approval from the national parliament in Jakarta is obligatory. This approval can be obtained more easily and quickly if the decisionmakers in the DPR are given financial incentives to decide in favour of the proposal. According to one observer, almost every bid for the formation of a new administrative region has been accompanied by illicit payments from the respective region.41 Where external business elites induce lawmakers in parliament to approve certain policies by making illegal payments to the legislators, the decisional autonomy of the parties represented in parliament is severely compromised. Even though it may seem as if the decision has finally been made autonomously by the party fraction, decisional autonomy cannot be regarded as given if this decision was triggered by a financial incentive from an external actor. As the biggest party in the current DPR, Golkar is a natural target for such payments.42 The problem, however, is that these kinds of corrupt practices are extremely difficult to prove. As mentioned in the previous section, the origins of parliamentary decisions are difficult to track down and it is basically impossible to determine whether a decision by a parliamentary fraction has been influenced by external interference or not. And while almost every observer of Indonesian politics has a story or two to tell about the prevalence of corruption in the DPR, these acts of corruption are, by their very nature, so inherently non-transparent that the degree of their influence is simply too difficult to ascertain. Hence, despite an abundance of anecdotal evidence, it has to be stressed that any conclusion about a limitation of Golkar’s decisional autonomy in parliament needs to be tentative because of the lack of hard data.

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The power of gizi during electoral nomination procedures This section has shown how the close relations between business and politics often facilitate corrupt practices in parliament and how these practices can restrict Golkar’s decisional autonomy. Clearly, the DPR and its regional counterparts have been at the centre of most of the corruption allegations, but the close ties between business and politics have also affected Golkar’s decisional autonomy in other arenas of political struggle. One prominent example is the increasingly competitive arena of elections where more and more businesspeople have participated in the last legislative, presidential, gubernatorial and bupati elections. What is of particular interest in the context of decisional autonomy is the question of how these entrepreneurs have progressed through Golkar’s complicated nomination processes and to what extent they have attempted to influence decision-making processes by using money-politics. The presidential convention: a prime example of decisional autonomy? To begin with, the presidential convention was, as discussed in Chapter 3, an extraordinary political experiment for Golkar. Originally intended to be a rubberstamp event for Akbar Tandjung, the convention quickly developed its own dynamics and turned into a genuinely open contest with a surprise ending. Personal power politics aside, however, the convention also had implications for the overall development of business-politics relations in Indonesia and the question of Golkar’s decisional autonomy. Arguably, the convention was a major indicator that Indonesia may indeed be heading towards plutocracy since a number of extremely wealthy business-people entered the contest, most of whom had not been actively engaged in party politics before. The most ambitious of the entrepreneurial candidates appeared to be Aburizal Bakrie (head of the Bakrie Group), Surya Paloh (owner of Metro TV and the Media Indonesia media empire) and Jusuf Kalla (head of NV Haji Kalla). While they all had long-standing ties with Golkar, none of them had ever held a leading party position at executive level. In order to secure support from the hundreds of local Golkar chapters who would eventually decide the outcome of the convention, the three toured the archipelago incessantly, distributing money and other gifts (usually termed gizi in Indonesia) wherever they could.43 By the time the pre-conventions on the provincial and district levels were over, they had all qualified for the final convention in April 2004, and even though none of them eventually managed to win,44 their march through the early stages of the convention clearly demonstrated that money was a decisive factor in influencing the local chapters’ choices. It can therefore be argued that despite the appearance of a democratic contest, the convention was yet another reminder that Golkar’s decisional autonomy in the post-New Order era continues to be undermined by the ultimate power of money. To be sure, the convention was an important step towards increased

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internal democracy within Golkar. The very fact that local chapters enjoyed voting rights during the convention was already a remarkable improvement on previous decision-making patterns that had been largely based on centralized paternalism. Now, for the first time in its history Golkar granted the right to make important decisions on personnel not only to a few selected elites in Jakarta but to representatives of its more than 400 district chapters. This in itself was a noteworthy achievement and an important step towards party institutionalization. At the same time, however, it needs to be pointed out that the actual decision eventually taken by the delegates was strongly influenced by money politics, a factor diametrically opposed to the institutionalization of formal rules. Hence, even if it is acknowledged that a multitude of other factors affected the eventual election of Wiranto, it needs to be emphasized that the process in its entirety remained overshadowed by the all-too-persuasive power of money, thereby confirming that decisional autonomy continues to be compromised. The selection of legislative candidates in 2004: decisional autonomy for oligarchic elites Turning to the decision-making processes that were applied during the nomination of legislative candidates for the 2004 parliamentary elections, we find very similar deficiencies in the procedures. As during the convention, the rules of the game appeared to be reasonably democratic, but were in fact, at least in some areas, severely undermined by the prevalence of money politics. Additionally, the procedures in these nomination processes suffered from other democratic deficits, especially the exclusion of large parts of the party apparatus from the decision-making processes and a considerable lack of transparency. At a leadership meeting in mid-2003, Golkar had passed clear guidelines on the procedures to select its legislative candidates on the national, provincial and district level (DPP Partai Golkar 2003d). According to these, only Golkar cadres with a minimum of five years’ party experience were eligible, thereby ruling out non-party members or ordinary party members who had not at least passed Golkar’s basic political education programmes.45 The selection process consisted of three different stages, beginning with the profiling of prospective candidates, followed by pre-selection based on these profiles and finalized by the eventual decision. Significantly, while the first two stages required the input of the lower party layers and therefore gave the whole process the appearance of a bottom-up procedure, the final authority to decide rested firmly in the hands of small groups of top party executives. At the national level, for example, the Tim Seleksi (Selection Team) consisted of party chairman Akbar Tandjung, secretarygeneral Budi Harsono, the head of the party’s mighty organizational department, Agung Laksono, DPR fraction chairman Mohammad Hatta and a DPPappointed coordinator for the respective electoral regions. At the lower administrative levels the selection teams were usually composed in a similar fashion, with the provincial or district/municipal chairman and the provincial or district/municipal secretary-general often in extremely powerful

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positions (Ratnawati 2005: 256). Even in cases where the chairman of the local chapter was not officially included in the team, he seemed to be the ultimate authority in the final decision-making process (Ratnawati 2005: 267). The exclusiveness and the lack of openness and transparency of these selection committees have been criticized by Haris (2005b: 24) who has described them as ‘oligarchic – in the sense that power and decision-making rests solely in the hands of a small group of party elites.’46 While in theory the selection teams only existed to give their blessing to the nominees appointed by the regional cadres, in practice the committees had considerable powers to change the proposed party lists at their own discretion. At the national level, for example, the committee attempted to alter the rank order in the proposed candidate lists for one of the two electoral districts in South Sulawesi where Akbar Tandjung’s long-time foe Marwah Daud Ibrahim was nominated as the top-ranking candidate. The selection team intended to move Marwah to a lower list place, but the interference drew ire from Golkar cadres in South Sulawesi.47 After a series of protests a compromise was finally reached which saw Marwah dropping to second place while Syamsul Bachri was awarded the top position.48 The problems in South Sulawesi appeared to be fuelled primarily by factionalism and internal power struggles. In other cases, however, money was often the decisive factor determining which candidate landed in which list place. As explained in the previous chapter, in 2004 Golkar’s legislative candidates had to pay most of their campaign expenses out of their own pockets. In addition, they also had to make massive donations to Golkar’s central board if they wanted to have a reasonable chance of acquiring a good spot on the party list. Taken together, the costs for the campaign could easily reach several billion rupiah. Not every prospective candidate had the financial clout to raise such large sums, but those who did have the means often enjoyed preferential treatment during the selection process (Nuryanti 2005: 223, Yanuarti 2005: 95). Thus, as a consequence of the ever-increasing cost of politics, more and more business-people were successful in their bids to secure seats in national and local parliaments (see Chapter 3). The 2005 pilkada: businessmen as consolidators of local party treasuries The trend towards more active political engagement by business-people continued during the first series of pilkada which transformed local electoral contests into hugely expensive political battlefields, dominated by business tycoons and career bureaucrats with well-established patronage networks. In contrast to the previous arrangements for local elections, which had prescribed indirect elections in regional parliaments as the mode to determine governors and bupatis, the pilkada now require candidates to campaign differently. First of all, they need to fight hard (read: pay party officials) to secure the candidatures from one of the few parties that are eligible to nominate a candidate. According to

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Law No. 32/2004, only parties or coalitions of several parties that have achieved more than 15 per cent of seats in the DPRD are eligible to nominate gubernatorial or bupati candidates.49 This stipulation has put political elites in local leadership boards into extremely powerful positions. Many local leadership boards have exploited this position to the utmost advantage as they requested massive financial donations from prospective candidates. As Mietzner (n.d.) put it, ‘local party branches recognized the opportunity to consolidate their finances by offering nominations to candidates with vast monetary resources.’50 Indeed, often, though not always, the final nod for the nomination was given to those candidates who had been the most generous. As far as the formal aspects of the selection process were concerned, Golkar had decided to select its gubernatorial and bupati candidates through a convention process that was reminiscent of the presidential convention in 2004.51 As in the presidential convention, for example, Golkar invited candidatures from both party members and non-party members,52 and the eventual decision-making process was also designed to be similar to that of the presidential convention. Accordingly, candidates for gubernatorial, mayoral and bupati elections were to be elected by a convention committee consisting of representatives of leadership boards from all administrative levels, plus representatives from Golkar’s youth and women’s organizations AMPG and KPPG. In comparison to the presidential convention, however, the pilkada conventions have given the grassroots far less influence than they desired, especially after the party leadership in Jakarta revised the original pilkada guidelines from early 2005. According to the new guidelines, which were passed later that year in response to an unexpectedly high ratio of pilkada losses for Golkarnominated candidates, voting power for the district branches was cut back to 20 per cent whereas the DPP awarded itself a substantial voting block (Buehler 2007: 139). The strong position of non-local elites in the decision-making process could be seen as a step back towards increased centralization as it takes away decisional autonomy from those who are – or at least should be – most familiar with the local political context. At the same time though, the changed regulations need to be seen in light of the reality on the ground. As a matter of fact, results from numerous pilkada have shown that knowledge of local contexts did not always guarantee the selection of the best-possible candidates. On the contrary, rather than using the local knowledge to nominate figures with broad popular support bases, the party frequently prioritized local patronage considerations and nominated what Buehler (2007: 139) called ‘detached local Golkar elites.’ Significantly, in the early months of 2005 the former regime party often lost pilkada in precisely those districts where the party nominee was chairman of the local Golkar chapter. By the middle of the year, a total of 161 pilkada had been conducted all over the archipelago and Golkar candidates had only won a disappointing 58 elections. According to information from the official Golkar website, the party nominated a total of 68 local Golkar chairmen as candidates, but only 30 of these candidates were elected.53 Doubtless it was those results that prompted the DPP to revise the original guidelines for the

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nomination of pilkada candidates. Overall, it can be concluded that during the pilkada conventions the standard of decisional autonomy for Golkar as a collective organization was much lower than during the presidential convention, but it was probably still higher than during the selection process for legislative candidates. In sum, the two key characteristics of the pilkada conventions were the immense power of money and the concentration of decisional autonomy in the hands of a few selected party elites (initially local, later national). Together these traits formed an almost insurmountable obstacle for all those lower- to mediumranking local politicians who aspired to run in the pilkada, but who lacked the financial resources and/or the access to established patronage networks inside the parties. Within Golkar, this has led to growing frustration among lowerranking party cadres and, unsurprisingly, to a growing number of defections. Indeed, the lack of opportunity to challenge existing hierarchies has prompted many Golkar politicians to seek nominations from other parties. Where their efforts were successful as, for example, in North and South Sulawesi, the pilkada were eventually contested by a number of candidates who were, despite being nominated by different parties, all Golkar cadres. Final remarks on money politics and decision autonomy This second part of the chapter has demonstrated that decisional autonomy is not always only compromised by tangible external actors, but also by the structural problem of corruption and by the concentration of power in the hands of small oligarchic party elites. Clearly, money is a powerful factor in political decisionmaking processes all over the world, but it seems that in Indonesian party politics, the strong appeal of money is often the determining factor in the outcome of crucial personnel or policy decisions. As far as Golkar is concerned, this has been evident during decision-making processes at the presidential convention, during the selection process of legislative candidates as well as the conventions for the pilkada. Moreover, money appears to be the driving force behind many important decisions in parliamentary procedures. Thus, while Golkar may be reasonably independent of specific external actors, it cannot be described as completely autonomous as it allows its internal decision-making processes to be influenced and ultimately undermined by illegal payments and other illicit contributions. A second important finding is the fact that if Golkar is to be regarded as a collective organization whose members are supposed to represent the interests of the voters, the party is actually not particularly autonomous because its grassroots members are rarely involved in crucial decision-making processes. The power to make important decisions too often rests in the hands of small groups of top party elites while the party’s grassroots are rendered irrelevant. In the cases of electoral nomination processes, for example, decisional autonomy is not so much jeopardized by external actors, but rather by internal actors, namely by small groups of oligarchic elites who are more concerned about the preservation

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of their own personal power than the interests of the party. Thus, it appears highly debatable whether Randall and Svåsand’s conceptualization of decisional autonomy as an external dimension of party institutionalization has been particularly helpful. Based on the discussion so far, it is clear that decisional autonomy has both internal and external components, which means that the usefulness of dividing the various dimensions of party institutionalization into internal and external dimensions is rather limited.

Conclusion This chapter has discussed Golkar’s track record in what Randall and Svåsand have identified as the structural/external dimension of party institutionalization. While the first part focused on Golkar’s relations with its former sponsor organization, the armed forces, the second shed new light on the role of capital and big-business actors as external threats to Golkar’s decisional autonomy. The second part also highlighted the threat to decisional autonomy from inside the party. The overall results of the analysis are mixed. Today, Golkar is relatively autonomous of the military, but the party still exists at the whims of capital, and as a collective organization it lacks autonomy vis-à-vis small groups of oligarchic elites. First, as far as Golkar’s relations with the military are concerned, it can be concluded that the party’s decisional autonomy today is mainly restricted on the local level where the military continues to exploit its territorial structure to its own benefit. In many cases, Golkar is a natural target for the military to exert its pressure, not because of historically established organizational ties, but simply because Golkar is still the strongest party in many regions. Essentially, the military influences decision-making processes in institutions like local governments and parliaments and not so much in the political parties themselves. Nonetheless, since the personnel of governments and parliaments is recruited from parties, and indeed often from Golkar, it has to be noted that on the local level the former regime party has not yet become entirely autonomous. Conversely, on the national level Golkar appears to be no longer constrained by the military. The party’s electoral performance in 1999 and 2004, its track record in parliament and last but not least its handling of the presidential convention and the subsequent presidential elections all indicate that Golkar has reached a high degree of independence from its former mentor. However, it needs to be emphasized that only the assessments of the electoral performance and the presidential convention/election are based on satisfactory data. In parliament, decision-making processes are extremely difficult to evaluate as the prevalent musyawarah and mufakat procedures are not sufficiently transparent for the external observer to draw meaningful conclusions. The lack of transparency in decision-making procedures has also been a major problem in examining Golkar’s dependence on external capital. Although the influence of money politics on decision-making processes in parliament is common knowledge in Indonesia, exact details are hard to come by as most

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financial transactions in Senayan are conducted behind firmly closed doors. Conclusions about the influence of money on party-internal decision-making processes during parliamentary proceedings are necessarily tentative. Moreover, it needs to be added that Golkar can hardly be singled out as being more at fault here than other parties.54 Indeed, the problem of corrupt practices in parliament is structurally embedded and affects all major parties. More meaningful conclusions can be drawn about the role of money politics in determining party-internal nomination processes for elections. Indeed, we have seen that Golkar’s decisional autonomy during these processes is severely compromised by the prevalence of informal financial contributions aimed at bending or at least influencing existing modes of decision-making. While formally the authority to decide presidential, legislative or gubernatorial and bupati candidates lies in the hands of the party, the eventual decisions are often taken only after substantial payments have been made to those in charge. A closely related and similarly serious problem in the dimension of decisional autonomy is the fact that, with the exception of the presidential convention, Golkar continues to disenfranchise large parts of its organizational apparatus. The patterns of selecting candidates for political office still leave much to be desired, in spite of the fact that the party has tried to give the procedures at least the appearance of democratic bottom-up processes. Unfortunately, it seems that the laudable effort during the presidential convention was only a short episode in the history of Golkar and that old, established patterns of centralized paternalism have been reinstated by the new Kalla-led leadership board shortly after its inauguration. The problem of oligarchic decision-making processes is not only an important empirical finding, but also has major implications for the theoretical model on which this book is based. Indeed, the last part of this discussion has raised serious questions about Randall and Svåsand’s conception of decisional autonomy as an external dimension of party institutionalization. Contrary to widespread assumptions, a party’s decisional autonomy can be compromised not only by external forces, but also by actors from within the party’s own infrastructure. As shall be shown in Chapter 7, this problem is even more pronounced in parties with strong charismatic leaders such as PDI-P, PAN or PKB as these leaders apparently feel even less necessity to pay attention to the aspirations of the grassroots than the non-charismatic leaders of Golkar.

5

Value infusion In search of Golkar’s roots

Roots can always be created. Here a donation for a mosque, there a promise to build a road, and already you have roots. (anonymous Golkar member, private communication, 3 February 2005)

Introduction In 1999, a total of 23,741,749 Indonesians gave their vote to Golkar in the country’s first free and fair elections since 1955. Five years later, in 2004, Golkar’s share of votes in terms of the overall percentage had dropped from 22.44 to 21.58, but despite the losses the absolute number of voters who punched the Golkar logo on the ballot paper had actually increased to 24,480,757. The fact that more than 20 million Indonesians still voted for Golkar raises questions about the reasons and motivations people have for supporting the former regime party. According to Randall and Svåsand (2002a: 13), it is important for a party’s institutionalization record that its members and supporters commit themselves to the party not only for their own self-interest, but also for the sake of the party itself. Such a non-selfish commitment is best achieved if the party has a persuasive value-based platform or ideology, which ideally should link it with a broader social movement. However, as Randall and Svåsand (2002a: 21) point out, this kind of party is rarely found outside Europe these days.1 Given its history as a product of thorough de-politicization and deideologization, Golkar, at first sight, appears unlikely to be infused with any meaningful political values. For more than two decades the former regime party epitomized the New Order’s ideas of an apolitical society that would only engage in active politics once every five years. And arguably, even this political act (the act of voting) was inherently apolitical because the elections were rigged and the results largely predetermined. Nonetheless, one may argue that by virtue of its very function as the New Order’s electoral vehicle, Golkar as an organization has, over time, become synonymous with the values promoted by the regime, namely economic development (pembangunan) and political stability based on what Suharto called ‘pancasila democracy.’ As a former high-ranking

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Golkar cadre put it, ‘despite a lack of ideology, Golkar does have an identity, and this identity is mainly based on its history.’2 Of course, there is nothing wrong with economic development and political stability per se. In fact, these values are so general and easily acceptable that almost any party could subscribe to them. Yet, in view of their specific significance during the New Order, the two concepts have obtained a rather bad name in the eyes of many Indonesians. Well aware of this stigma, Golkar strategists were quick to delete any reference to pembangunan in the party constitution when they revised the document in 1998. On the other hand, pancasila democracy was retained and arguably pancasila remains a key pillar of Golkar’s self-image up to the present day.3 Originally conceptualized by Sukarno in 1945 as a compromise formula to mediate between the proponents of a secular republic and those who wanted to turn Indonesia into an Islamist state, the pancasila has always been a symbol of the need for reconciliation and moderation in a polarized society like Indonesia. Its significance can be seen not only in the fact that in both elections of the postSuharto era the overwhelming majority of parties used the pancasila as an ideological foundation, but also in statements by prominent Golkar politicians such as Marzuki Darusman who claimed that while he would like to see Golkar develop a more clearly defined identity he believes that it will be difficult to build a political ideology outside the usual pancasila framework.4 Marzuki’s statement points to a dilemma in contemporary Indonesian party politics. Owing to the country’s turbulent history in the 1950s and 1960s and the subsequent discreditation of ideology-based parties during the Suharto era, the pancasila appears to be the only political model that is broadly accepted in Indonesia. The question, however, is whether the concept that was once intended to promote peace and harmony still represents any political values. During the New Order the meaning of the pancasila was gradually adulterated as Suharto began to misuse it as an omnipotent tool against political dissent. By the end of the New Order, the pancasila was basically perceived to be little more than the antonym of any political value that was not in line with the policies of the Suharto regime.5 While abandoning this kind of restrictive stance, Golkar has, in principle, continued the interpretation of the pancasila as an ideology which is more clearly defined by what it is not than by what it actually is. According to a leading Golkar parliamentarian, ‘Golkar positions itself as a non-aliran, non-sectarian and non-ideological party’ (Hatta 2000: 162). Interestingly, this position in itself represents a value worth defending for many Indonesians, especially, but not only, for the older generation which still feels emotionally attached to Golkar because of its roots in the anti-communist struggle.6 For them, the party’s ideology of not having an ideology is actually a very precious value. Pointing to the existing divisions in Indonesia’s multi-ethnic society, they argue that parties which are too narrowly focused on the interests of a certain social group will only facilitate further strife and disharmony. In their opinion, Golkar is therefore the only party that properly represents the interests of the entire nation. But other

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party activists disagree and argue that Golkar should endeavour to craft a stronger party identity based on more attractive core values that may serve as a genuine source of identification for members and supporters.7 Against the background of this internal debate, this chapter seeks to explain why so many Indonesian voters continue to be loyal to Golkar. In order to do so, the discussion will focus on analysing the socio-cultural and socio-economic background of the party’s constituency. The primary aim is to find out whether Golkar, despite the apparent lack of a distinct value system other than the pancasila, may have a particular characteristic that appeals to a specific segment of Indonesian society. Based on an analysis of the election results from 1999 and 2004, it will be argued that while Golkar’s constituency does indeed have certain socio-economic and socio-cultural features, there is little evidence for a causal connection between these features and the electoral support the party receives. In other words, Golkar does not represent any political values that could link the party directly to the members of a certain sociological milieu. Instead, as we shall see in the last part of this chapter, what mainly accounts for Golkar’s continuing appeal to many Indonesians is the party’s instrumentalization of its self-perception as the only legitimate party to rule Indonesia. In line with this image, Golkar continues to function primarily as a patronagedispensing vehicle which uses religious, regional and economic policy orientations merely as a superficial shell.

The religious dimension: bridging traditional aliran structures Ever since the 1950s the most popular way to distinguish Indonesian political parties has been to classify them along the secular/nationalist – religious/Islamic dividing line. The division was upheld artificially during the New Order when the only two legal non-government parties, PPP and PDI, were categorized as Islamic and secular respectively, but at the same time the Suharto regime also attempted to minimize the significance of these old, established aliran structures by promoting the de-ideologization and de-politicization of society in general and party politics in particular.8 According to King (2003: 134), however, these attempts ‘have largely failed.’ Based on the findings from his statistical comparative analysis of the 1955 and the 1999 elections, he concluded that there is in fact broad continuity in the outcomes of the elections before and after the New Order, ‘one being the re-emergence in the 1999 election of the basic cleavage in the electorate between areas supporting nationalist, religiously inclusive parties and areas supporting Islamic parties, commonly known as the abangan and santri division’ (King 2003: 134). Other analyses of the 1999 election have also resorted to the aliran pattern (Suryadinata 2002, Budiman 1999), but the model is no longer undisputed. In fact, it has been subject to a considerable amount of criticism lately, especially after Liddle and Mujani (2000) demonstrated that the outcome of the 1999 election was apparently not so much determined by prevalent aliran structures,

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but rather by the charismatic appeal of national party leaders. The 2004 election results further backed up the critics of the aliran model as traditional party affiliations have obviously been watered down quite substantially. While loyalties based on aliran may not yet be completely irrelevant, the 2004 election marathon has certainly confirmed that the mosaic of present-day Indonesian parties has developed far beyond this dualist classification scheme and Golkar is the most obvious example in this regard. Indeed, several scholars have acknowledged the uniqueness of Golkar in the contemporary spectrum of Indonesian parties. Tan (2004), for example, has described the former hegemonic party as ‘anomalous’ because it bridges the traditional dividing lines between secularism and Islam. Ananta et al. (2004: 7) concur, saying that ‘Golkar is perceived by the voters as both Islamic and secular.’ And Baswedan (2004a: 674) depicts Golkar as a secular yet ‘Islamfriendly’ party which ‘upholds and welcomes “Muslim” aspirations.’ Golkar and Islam The difficulties in categorizing Golkar along religious cleavages imply that religion in general and Islam in particular are unlikely to be a pivotal source of value infusion for Golkar. Ananta et al. (2004: 394) support this argument, albeit with one important qualification. According to their analysis, religion plays only a minor role in determining electoral support for Golkar if the whole archipelago is considered. If, however, the unit of analysis is limited to Java, religion appears to take a more prominent role in affecting people’s voting behaviour. These findings are interesting because they contradict King’s (2003: 153) results which seem to suggest that Golkar did indeed appeal to modernist Muslims and that it was this appeal that helped the party achieve its electoral success, especially in the Outer Islands.9 Based on empirical observations during fieldwork in 2004, it is argued here that Ananta et al. are correct when they state that overall religion, especially ‘Islamicness’ as King calls it, is not a defining characteristic of Golkar’s support base. Statistically, it may be true that Golkar scored particularly good results in areas where modernist Muslim parties were strong in 1955, but the statistical correlation does not automatically mean that Golkar won strong support in these areas because of its Islamic appeal. In fact, during the 2004 election campaign, Golkar did not identify itself as an Islamic party at all. None of the leaders interviewed put any emphasis on religion as a means to woo supporters and none of the supporters interviewed mentioned religion as a reason why Golkar was their party of choice. Religious activities by Golkar politicians were confined to ‘normal’ visits to pesantren, joint prayers with prominent religious leaders or philanthropic activities. While these activities were certainly intended to appeal to the Muslim community, they rarely went beyond common Islamic duties performed on a regular basis by politicians from all political spectrums. With 90 per cent of Indonesians adhering to the Islamic faith, it is hardly surprising that politicians try to draw support from Muslims, but that does not mean that Golkar

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can be classified as an Islamic party. Interestingly, the balance between Muslims and non-Muslims in Indonesia’s overall population (90:10) mirrors both the balance between Muslims and non-Muslims in Golkar’s DPR fraction in the 1999–2004 period as well as the balance between Muslims and non-Muslims among Golkar voters in 2004. Thus, it can be said that in terms of Islamicness both Golkar supporters and its top cadres are a perfect mirror image of the Indonesian population.10 Golkar’s Islamic appeal on Java: true piety or a result of patron–clientelism? Looking at the deviating claims about Golkar’s appeal to the Muslim community in the Outer Islands and in Java, Ananta et al. are probably correct in their assessment that if Islamic values matter at all, they matter to Golkar supporters in Java. This, however, does not mean that Golkar as a party is perceived as more Islamic in Java. Rather, the crucial factor seems to be the fact that here Golkar has successfully integrated into the party some key figures from influential Muslim organizations (most prominently HMI and its alumni organization KAMI), and that these figures use their organizational patronage networks to attract supporters. As most of these patrons hail from Java, the significance of Islam may appear greater here than on the Outer Islands, where the influence of Islamic mass organizations is much more limited. The huge presence of HMI members and alumni in Golkar is sometimes quoted as the most visible evidence of Golkar’s Islamicness and a significant number of former HMI leaders are indeed active in Golkar.11 While the rise of the HMI faction in Golkar had already begun in the last decade of the New Order,12 it was not until Akbar Tandjung became Golkar chairman that its members were deliberately promoted to influential positions within the party. Akbar, who himself was general chairman of the organization from 1972–4, claims to be a devout Muslim who fasts twice a week, but his Islamic credentials are somewhat dubious and widely questioned among Muslim student activists outside the realm of HMI.13 Inside the organization, however, Akbar has become something of a role model for many young activists. As one young HMI member explained: ‘I am very proud to be a HMI member and I am very proud of Akbar Tandjung because he has increased the influence of HMI in politics. Because of Akbar Tandjung, I want to enter politics, too.’14 Akbar did indeed manage to utilize his former position as HMI chairman to recruit a significant number of promising young cadres from the ranks of the organization and integrate them into Golkar. Two of the most prominent examples of young, intelligent and very capable politicians who have built their political careers on the basis of their organizational experience in HMI and their clientelistic connections with Akbar Tandjung are Ferry Mursyidan Baldan and Ade Komaruddin.15 Once the two had entered parliament for the first time in 1997, they rose rapidly through the party ranks and quickly emerged as some of

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the most influential power brokers in Senayan. At the same time, their openness and willingness to communicate with the media made them popular interview partners for the local press (Koordinatoriat Wartawan DPR/MPR RI 2001). It should be noted, however, that in line with its self-perception as a pluralistic and religiously open party, Golkar has not confined its Islamic networks to HMI. On the contrary, the party also has excellent connections to other modernist Islamic organizations including Muhammadiyah and, not surprisingly, the New Order brainchild ICMI. Hajriyanto Thohari, for example, who helped formulating Golkar’s New Paradigm, is a prominent member of Muhammadiyah’s youth wing, while Priyo Budi Santoso was a leading activist with ICMI and its affiliated think-tank CIDES (Centre for Information and Development Studies). Together with the aforementioned group of HMI alumni, these young and bright new faces are now seen by many as possibly the next generation of party leaders.16 In addition to this group of modernist Muslim figures, Golkar has also long cultivated close relations to the traditionalist camp. For instance, former Ansor activist Slamet Effendy Yusuf and Abdurrahman Wahid’s sister Aisyah Hamid Baidlowi are two prominent links with the realm of Nahdlatul Ulama (NU), the biggest traditionalist Muslim organization in Indonesia. It could be argued that all these Islamic figures, both from the modernist as well as the traditionalist camp symbolize Golkar’s Islamic appeal. It is indeed probable that these figureheads have somehow contributed to the polishing of Golkar’s Islamic image. But despite their religious credentials, it is more likely that their main function for Golkar is not to display the party’s Islamicness, but rather to build bridges into the patronage networks of Muslim organizations like NU, Muhammadiyah or HMI. As a matter of fact, tapping into these networks has brought about some immense benefits for Golkar as it has enhanced cooperation between Golkar’s party elites and NU and Muhammadiyah officials representing other parties in parliament. Moreover, in the long run it may provide an important means for Golkar to make inroads into those constituencies that used to be closely tied to electoral competitors like PKB (NU), PAN (Muhammadiyah) or PPP (both).17 In fact, for a party like Golkar which claims to be inclusive and pluralistic it is strategically imperative to woo members and supporters from all religious groupings. In contrast to Golkar’s own Islamic ‘mass’ organizations AlHidayah, Satkar Ulama and MDI, all of which are fairly irrelevant to the organizational dynamics of Indonesian Islam, NU, Muhammadiyah and HMI have huge membership bases and thus represent a very lucrative cache of potential voters. Refusal to engage with these mass organizations and their constituencies would effectively mean to leave the electoral market in Java (especially East and Central Java) virtually uncontested. So far, however, all these efforts to appear more Islamic have yielded little success at the ballot box. With the exception of West Java, Golkar’s electoral results in Indonesia’s most populous island remained far below their national average in both post-New Order elections, indicating that the mass appeal of people like Ferry Mursyidan Baldan, Ade Komaruddin, Yahya Zaini, Hajriyanto

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Thohari, Priyo Budi Santoso, Slamet Effendy Yusuf or Aisyah Hamid Baidlowi is rather limited. In fact, results from the 2004 election show that of the seven candidates mentioned only Priyo and Aisyah received the highest share of votes of all Golkar candidates in their respective electoral districts, while all others were actually outrivaled by fellow party candidates on lower list places. Moreover, voting patterns in large parts of Java suggest that Golkar’s candidates were just simply not popular enough. In 19 out of 33 electoral districts on Java (excluding Jakarta) the number of voters who only punched the party symbol was higher than the number of voters who punched both the party symbol and the candidate’s name. While this may of course be due to the low levels of education in the rural parts of the island, Golkar’s candidates’ general lack of popularity probably also contributed to this widespread voting pattern.18 Looking beyond Java: analysing Golkar’s engagement with the ‘Preparatory Committee for the Implementation of Islamic Law’ Outside Java, the dynamics of Islamic politics are somewhat different and consequently Golkar’s links with political Islam are different, too. Here, the big mass organizations NU and Muhammadiyah are not as influential as they are on Java so that Islamic politics in Sulawesi, Kalimantan or Maluku are primarily shaped by distinct local contexts rather than by the institutional dynamics of mass organizations. However, as an example from South Sulawesi will illustrate, Golkar’s strategies and objectives in dealing with Islam as a political force are essentially the same as in Java. South Sulawesi is a predominantly Islamic province, where almost 90 per cent of the population are Muslims (Suryadinata, Arifin and Ananta 2003). While all the major Islamic mass organizations are represented in South Sulawesi, their influence on the social and political discourse of the province is fairly limited. Consequently, there is little incentive for a mainstream party like Golkar to recruit functionaries from these organizations. In fact, in the absence of immediate electoral benefits, Golkar has not yet shown any interest in engaging too closely with representatives of NU or Muhammadiyah. On the contrary, the party has even marginalized some former high-ranking officials who used to serve as links between the party and certain Islamic organizations. The most prominent figure in this regard was the provincial chairman of the Indonesian Ulama Council (Majelis Ulama Indonesia, MUI), Hamka Haq. The Muslim academic, who had been affiliated with Golkar since the early 1990s, left the party shortly before the 2004 elections in order to run for PDI-P. Commenting on his decision to join the most secular of the big parties, he complained that he had been waiting for an offer from Golkar for a long time, but apparently the party showed no interest whatsoever in keeping the services of the respected scholar.19 The incident showed how far PDI-P was lagging behind in terms of understanding the dynamics of Islamic politics in South Sulawesi. While Megawati’s party still naively believed that they could use Hamka for wooing support from modernist Muslim circles organized in MUI and Muhammadiyah,20 Golkar

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politicians had already moved on and begun to put their Islamic stakes in another organization, which promised to provide more media attention and more electoral benefits than the established mass organizations. The so-called ‘Preparatory Committee for the Implementation of Islamic Law’ (Komite Persiapan Penegakan Syariat Islam, KPPSI) had only been founded in October 2000, but had quickly attracted support from a number of prominent Muslim leaders in the region and was gradually emerging as a political force to be reckoned with.21 Led by the charismatic son of former rebel leader Kahar Muzakkar, Abdul Azis Kahar Muzakkar, the organization has been struggling for South Sulawesi to be turned into a region with special autonomy which would then pave the way for the committee’s ultimate goal, the implementation of Islamic law (Syariat Islam) in South Sulawesi (Pradadimara and Junedding 2002). Although its leaders are mainly ‘urban-based university-educated males’ (Pradadimara and Junedding 2002: 25),22 KPPSI acted quickly to establish its presence in the many rural districts of South Sulawesi. The future aim is to lobby the political elites in these rural regions in order to gain their support for the implementation of Syariat Islam.23 The development of KPPSI has been carefully monitored by local Golkar politicians. In anticipation of the organization’s probable public appeal, several prominent party leaders including party chairman Jusuf Kalla, provincial governor Syachrul Yasin Limpo and the mayor of Makassar, Ilham Arief Siradjuddin, have appeared at KPPSI-sponsored events including the committee’s first two congresses in 2000 and 2001. In 2005, the third congress also drew substantial attention from local politicians as it was held just a few months before a series of bupati elections in South Sulawesi. Hence, it seems that for Golkar politicians the strategic goals of interacting with KPPSI are not very different from Javanese politicians’ objectives in engaging with NU or Muhammadiyah circles. Although patronage networks are not yet fully developed within the KPPSI circles, the organization has already grown influential enough to be of strategic importance to Golkar’s election campaigns. As KPPSI enjoys some significant support at the local grassroots level, Golkar leaders apparently hope that they can reap some electoral benefits if they present themselves as supportive of KPPSI activities. While there is no religious substance discernible behind the efforts, it is the symbolic message that matters in the context of South Sulawesi local politics. According to one observer, ‘they [Golkar politicians] simply do not want to be regarded as opposing Islamic issues. Politically, they cannot afford to do that.’24 Essentially, however, Golkar does not support KPPSI’s cause. When Jusuf Kalla attended the second KPPSI congress in 2001, he called upon the participants not to ask the state to implement Islamic law but rather to begin the process with oneself and one’s family. As Pradadimara and Junedding (2002) remarked, this view contradicted the main goal of the organization. Nonetheless, the two sides are likely to maintain their symbiotic relationship as long as they feel there are political benefits. At the same time, however, the opportunistic pragmatism behind the cooperation is almost certain to facilitate the termination of the

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liaison in the not-too-distant future. Failure of KPPSI-supported candidates in the bupati elections, for example, could easily provide a reason for Golkar leaders to stop engaging with the organization and display their Islamic credentials in other ways. Final remarks on Golkar and Islam To conclude, it appears that the Islamic dimension of Golkar is little more than a mixture of academic discourse and elitist power play, with little relevance to the actual voting preferences of common people. As a matter of fact, Golkar is an open party that welcomes everyone who can enlarge the party’s popular appeal. As will be shown later, the basis for enlarging this appeal can be anything from personal wealth to regional affiliation to religious credentials. Indeed, in areas where religion is a dominant feature of everyday life, Golkar is more than happy to display a more Islamic image, but it should be noted that the motivation for this Islamicness is not devout piety, but rather opportunistic pragmatism. Significantly, the relation between the party and its Islamic cadres is not one of one-dimensional benefit for the party. On the contrary, it is a symbiotic relation because on the one hand Golkar gains religious credentials by accommodating Islamic figures, while on the other hand these figures gain political benefits that would be out of reach if they joined smaller Islamic parties.

The regional dimension: is Golkar the voice of the Outer Islands? One of the most striking characteristics of Golkar’s support base is its heavy regional bias in favour of the Outer Islands. In fact, in both elections of the postSuharto era Golkar received the lion’s share of its votes in Eastern Indonesia. Yet, in contrast to the overall stability of the national result, a look at Golkar’s election results on the provincial level reveals remarkable fluctuations between 1999 and 2004. While figures in Java are relatively even, rather drastic changes occurred in West Nusa Tenggara and in Sulawesi where Golkar lost dramatically in every province. Table 5.1 clearly shows the heavy losses Golkar incurred in parts of Eastern Indonesia. At the same time, it is important to note that despite these losses Golkar is still the strongest party in the Outer Islands. In South Sulawesi, for example, Golkar lost more than 20 per cent in comparison to 1999, but support in the large rural areas outside Makassar was still strong enough to secure close to 50 per cent of the vote. These figures indicate that Golkar is indeed still the dominant political force in Eastern Indonesia, even though its power is declining. While some sort of decline had been widely predicted before the election,25 the dramatic extent of it came as a surprise to many observers. The following material will shed some light on the puzzle that is Golkar in Eastern Indonesia, especially in South Sulawesi. After a brief analysis of the root causes of Golkar’s enduring strength in this part of Indonesia the section

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Table 5.1 Golkar election results 1999 and 2004, selected provinces Provinces on Java

Jakarta West Java Central Java Yogyakarta East Java Banten

Votes in per cent 1999

2004

Gains/ losses

10.3 23.6 13.4 14.3 12.7 –

9.2 27.9 15.9 13.8 13.1 21.5

–1.1 +4.3 +2.5 –0.5 +0.4 –

Provinces outside Java

West Nusa Tenggara East Nusa Tenggara North Sulawesi Central Sulawesi South Sulawesi Southeast Sulawesi Gorontalo

Votes in per cent 1999

2004

Gains/ losses

42.2 40.8 49.5 54.6 66.5 63.1 –

24.4 37.0 32.3 38.6 44.3 36.8 53.1

–17.8 –3.8 –17.2 –16.0 –22.2 –26.3 –

Source: Compiled from www.kpu.go.id (accessed 1 October 2004); author’s calculation.

will explain why the former regime party has been able to maintain such a strong support base in this area. Then the discussion will turn to questions as to why this support base is crumbling and why people have begun to shift their political allegiances to other parties. A party that gives non-Javanese a chance Eastern Indonesia has been a stronghold for Golkar since the early New Order days and this regional bias has changed little in the reformasi era (Evans 2003). South Sulawesi in particular has produced some of the most extraordinary election results for Golkar in its history and the province has remained one of Golkar’s main bases of support during the 1999 and 2004 elections. The main reason for Golkar’s continuing success in this part of Indonesia is what local observers and politicians alike often call a ‘traditional’ or ‘emotional’ relationship between the people and Golkar.26 This traditional relationship is based on the persistent prevalence of widespread conservatism, patron–client relations and a high respect for local leaders (tokoh) in large parts of Sulawesi. Another reason, closely related to this societal structure, is the fact that the party can still reap some delayed benefits from its cadre-recruitment programme in the 1980s, which produced some prominent and outspoken party functionaries in Sulawesi.27 Andi Mattalatta, Marwah Daud Ibrahim or Yasril Ananta Baharuddin, to name but a few, all kicked off their political careers in Golkar during this period. Under the protection of B. J. Habibie they quickly rose through the ranks to become influential members of Golkar’s national party infrastructure. The two factors are closely interconnected. For many Buginese, Makassarese and other ethnic groups in Sulawesi, the aforementioned politicians are wellrespected local figures (putra daerah) who have achieved eminence in the highest corridors of power. For this achievement they are admired in their ethnic communities, especially in their home towns and villages. While other parties have also accommodated politicians from Sulawesi, their public image is often

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dominated by Javanese and, to a lesser extent, Sumatrans. Arguably, PDI-P and PKB are the most notorious examples in this regard. Although these parties do possess nationwide infrastructures, the highest party ranks do not feature any respected figures from Sulawesi. This has reaffirmed the perception that Golkar is the only party with a truly national scope in which non-Javanese have a genuine chance to rise to the top. The election of Jusuf Kalla as party chairman in late 2004 added further weight to this perception and may have created new incentives for people from Sulawesi to support Golkar in the future. Loyalty to the party versus loyalty to local heroes Jusuf Kalla, in fact, is a particularly intriguing figure whose rise to political prominence in 2004 epitomized the immense significance of regional or ethnic sentiment in Indonesian politics. Initially, when Kalla joined Golkar’s presidential convention, he served as an important vote-getter for the party as the prospect of Kalla becoming Golkar’s presidential candidate electrified the masses in South Sulawesi. In his home district of Bone, Kalla helped Golkar to secure 61.59 per cent, which was by far Golkar’s best result in any district in Indonesia. But when Kalla dropped out of the convention to join SBY as running mate, he inevitably provoked a split in Golkar. Nowhere was this more visible than in South Sulawesi where local Golkar cadres found themselves torn between the official party instructions and the overwhelming desire of the local people to support Jusuf Kalla. In both rounds of the 2004 presidential election, Golkar officially supported other candidates, but few local cadres were committed to the cause. In fact, the vast majority of local functionaries interviewed for this book admitted that they faced a difficult situation when they were told to support Wiranto and Megawati in the two rounds.28 The overall mood was aptly captured in a statement made by a member of Golkar’s provincial parliament fraction, who said during a personal communication: I follow whatever the party says. But in my home district it is difficult to make Wiranto popular because the people simply want Jusuf Kalla. It will be impossible to prevent people from defecting from Golkar if we can have a vice-president who speaks Buginese. The reference to the native language should not be taken lightly. In fact, it signals the immense significance of local sentiment and solidarity with the putra daerah. Thus, it can be argued that in 2004 Jusuf Kalla took over the role which B. J. Habibie had played in 1999. Back then, many analysts had attributed Golkar’s extraordinary results in South Sulawesi to the so-called ‘Habibie factor’. In fact, the former president was so popular in 1999 that even parties other than Golkar distributed T-shirts with the image of the German-educated engineer-turned-statesman from Parepare. Five years later, Habibie had long withdrawn from active politics, but his name still remained a major draw card in his home province. Several parties tried to persuade the former president to be

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nominated again as their presidential candidate for 2004, especially the Islamic PKS.29 Although Habibie himself never expressed his willingness to re-enter politics,30 news about his imminent return was reported in the local press on an almost daily basis. The loss of the Habibie factor certainly contributed to Golkar’s decline in South Sulawesi, but in view of the rise of Jusuf Kalla it is unlikely to be the main reason.31 In fact, Golkar’s extraordinary losses cannot be explained as the result of one single factor such as Habibie’s exit from politics. Rather, the losses are the logical consequence of a combination of various unfavourable developments which the party has failed to address. Reasons for Golkar’s losses in South Sulawesi First, Golkar’s initial success in the 1999 election had not only led to widespread complacency among party members in Sulawesi, but even to the belief that absolute majorities could still be taken for granted in the post-Suharto era. Indeed, the fact that even now the figures are still undeniably high has apparently blurred many long-serving cadres’ view on the changing political realities. Asked why the party lost so badly in the 2004 election, the vast majority of respondents from Golkar’s provincial board identified the ‘unfair’ electoral system as the main reason. Some paid credit to improved efforts by the other parties and a few others bemoaned the loss of Habibie as a major draw card. Hardly anyone, however, acknowledged that Golkar could simply lack attractive political values and that it never matched its ambition to represent the interests of the Outer Islands with appropriate policy initiatives in Jakarta. Generally, in the eyes of South Sulawesi’s Golkar elite it was always the others who were to blame. Hardly anyone saw a reason to be critical about the party’s own performance between 1999 and 2004. One of the few exceptions from this pattern was the provincial chairman and then-governor of South Sulawesi Amin Syam, who described some of his fellow party members as slightly negligent and inattentive towards their constituencies.32 He also warned that the provincial election target of 70 per cent (and even more in some districts) was unrealistic and repeatedly reminded his party to work harder for the people.33 For many local Golkar cadres, however, this is easier said than done. Older party functionaries who have dominated local politics for decades merely by virtue of their distinguished family name, in particular, are struggling to come to terms with the new realities of the post-Suharto era. That their political mindsets remain entrenched in New Order-style patterns of thinking has not only been evident in their somewhat distorted views on the election results, but also in the inability to describe the quintessence of Golkar’s New Paradigm.34 This lack of adaptability has also been illustrated by Soebhan (2003) who questioned the gap between Golkar’s reformist promises and its actual deeds. According to this author, in South Sulawesi Golkar has not changed substantially since the end of the New Order: The [reformist] agenda tends to be more of a plan for what ought to be done, but evidence and detailed steps on how this agenda is going to be

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implemented are not there or not yet there. The same thing happened in the past. There were goals and visions, but concrete steps towards change were rarely spelt out. Also, who was supposed to implement these steps and when they were supposed to be implemented was not sufficiently explained. In this context, it can be said that there is no change between Golkar then and now. (Soebhan 2003: 137) Second and closely related to this problem is the failure of Golkar to rejuvenate itself in South Sulawesi. As previously mentioned, the province used to be a vanguard in terms of cadre recruitment, but in the last 15 years or so, this process has stalled. Widespread respect for the elderly and the prevalence of patrimonial structures in local politics make it very difficult for young, aspiring cadres to break up old, established power hierarchies. Indeed, the 2004 list of DPR candidates from South Sulawesi was exclusively topped by old faces and in the end all ten elected legislators had already represented Golkar in the 1999–2004 legislative period.35 Almost the same phenomenon could be observed on the provincial level. Seven out of eight electoral districts featured candidate lists where the first three positions were occupied by incumbent DPRD members.36 And when in late 2004 a new chairman was to be elected, incumbent Amin Syam secured a second term by acclamation.37 Among the new generation of politicians this has evoked bitterness and frustration. In regards to the legislative election, several cadres who had been given lower list places complained about the unfair selection criteria which favoured the established elites, and the lack of a fair and transparent capability assessment.38 Similarly, Amin Syam’s candidature and eventual reappointment triggered protest actions from Golkar’s youth organizations AMPI and AMPG.39 Various external observers have also criticized the party’s inflexibility and its unwillingness to promote generational change. Soebhan (2003), for example, has quoted several NGO activists who opined that new faces in Golkar do not have the political guts to challenge the established power structures. And members of the Makassar-based media watchdog LSIM (Lembaga Studi Informasi dan Media Massa) have expressed similar concerns, pointing to Golkar’s dilemma of wanting to communicate a reformist message through old cadres who have already reached their political zenith.40 Third, Golkar has been unable to prevent the gradual erosion of the main pillars of its organizational network. As described in Chapter 3, Golkar has suffered immense damage from the defection of numerous local dignitaries and ambitious new politicians who simply saw a better chance to obtain a parliamentary seat if they chose to run for a party other than Golkar. To a certain extent, this development can be regarded as a direct consequence of Golkar’s complacency and its unwillingness to give young cadres a chance in the highest offices. But at the same time, it was also facilitated by the changed election laws which created unprecedented opportunities for smaller parties to beat Golkar with its own weapons as they could recruit some of those promising candidates who previously used to run on a Golkar ticket.

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One party which was particularly successful in luring local tokoh away from Golkar was the United Democratic Nationhood Party (Partai Persatuan Demokrasi Kebangsaan, PPDK). Led by one of South Sulawesi’s most prominent politicians, former Minister for Regional Autonomy Ryaas Rasyid, the party developed a strategy which was deliberately designed to focus on exploiting the prestige of popular local leaders in South Sulawesi, especially from the Buginese and Makassarese aristocracy.41 The example of Zainal Abidin is representative of the success of this strategy. Zainal is a former bupati of Takalar district and a long-time Golkar member, who in 2002 joined the PPDK after Ryaas Rasyid offered him a top spot on the party’s provincial legislative candidate list. In addition, Zainal was also appointed chairman of the provincial party chapter. When the election was held in 2004, Zainal ran as a candidate in his new home district of Gowa where he enjoys high rates of popularity, not least because he sometimes opens his outdoor swimming pool to the general public. With Zainal as the main draw card, PPDK secured 11 per cent in Gowa while Golkar slumped to an all-time low of just 36 per cent. The success of PPDK in exploiting ethnic sentiment and existing patron–client relations proved that Golkar is no longer the sole representative of Buginese and Makassarese interests. In fact, this perception had already waned some time before the elections. According to Andi Mattalatta, many Golkar members and supporters had started to feel increasingly bitter about then-party chairman Akbar Tandjung and his manoeuvres to marginalize functionaries from South Sulawesi, while he promoted his own supporters from Java and Sumatra.42 Resentment and antipathy towards the chairman flared up repeatedly before and during the election campaign,43 and they were certainly not alleviated by Akbar’s attempts to restrict Jusuf Kalla’s and the other convention contenders’ freedom to campaign wherever they wanted.44 Final remarks on Golkar’s appeal in Eastern Indonesia Considering all these factors, it was hardly surprising that Golkar forfeited its absolute majority in South Sulawesi. The roots that had once been developed in this part of Indonesia through cadre-recruitment programmes and promotion of promising politicians to top party positions are no longer being nourished. Most significantly, the party has failed to enrich the soil around these roots through the development of persuasive values. Instead of formulating a party programme – and relevant policies – that emphasizes Golkar’s role in representing and promoting the interests of Eastern Indonesia in Jakarta, the party still relies almost exclusively on the appeal of individual leaders, in the context of national and local politics. Given the prevalence of traditional hierarchies in South Sulawesi’s society, this has long been a successful strategy and the fact that Golkar is still the strongest party shows that this strategy is still working. But the massive losses incurred in the 2004 legislative election also show that it is an increasingly dangerous gamble for Golkar to rely simply on these patterns of loyalty for electoral success.

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Despite the setback suffered in 2004, however, Golkar may soon be back on track, thanks to Jusuf Kalla’s rise to power. Kalla has already indicated that he wants to promote cadre recruitment in Eastern Indonesia, especially in his home province. One Indonesian observer even opined that the revitalization of the Iramasuka faction may be imminent (Bhakti 2005). While such speculation seems exaggerated – and probably overstates the significance of the Iramasuka caucus – it is quite possible that Kalla will indeed strengthen the influence of party functionaries from South Sulawesi. This will most certainly appeal to many Buginese, thereby creating new incentives for people to support Golkar. Thus, the regional bias in Golkar’s support basis is set to stay.

The socio-economic dimension: sentimental nostalgia among the poor and Indonesia’s short-lived SARS syndrome After discussing the significance of religious and regional cleavages, this section covers the socio-economic dimension. As the standard of living in Indonesia still varies immensely between the urban centres of Java and the remote rural areas of Eastern Indonesia, this section aims to determine whether there is any causal connection between socio-economic indicators such as income, levels of education or the location of households in rural or urban areas and Golkar’s electoral performance. The analysis will begin with a discussion of statistical indicators and survey results about the socio-economic characteristics of Golkar’s constituency. Then the findings of these surveys will be contextualized in the light of increasing New Order nostalgia in the run-up to the 2004 elections. Class politics in Indonesia? One defining characteristic of party politics in post-Suharto Indonesia is the conspicuous absence of class-based parties. More than 30 years of anti-communist propaganda have left an indelible mark on the country’s collective perception of class-oriented ideologies so that it is hardly surprising that no party of the postSuharto era has defined itself as a representative of a certain class.45 On the contrary, class-oriented ideologies are still very much taboo in Indonesia. Golkar in particular, with its history of anti-communism, has always rejected the adoption of an ideological stance of any kind, claiming that ideology-based politics are divisive and detrimental to development. Marxist interpretations of class-based cleavages may therefore be inappropriate when analysing Golkar’s support base. Nonetheless, several researchers who have conducted quantitative research on the 1999 elections have included the class cleavage as a variable in their analysis. Interestingly, their findings are similar, yet not entirely identical. Liddle and Mujani (2000), for example, have dismissed the relevance of socioeconomic factors, arguing that class-consciousness did not play any role at all in determining the choice of voters in the 1999 election. King (2003: 162) agrees that Golkar did not articulate any class-based interests, but his statistical analysis concluded that socio-economic factors did have an impact on the voters of three

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other parties (PKB, PDI-P and PAN). Ananta, Arifin and Suryadinata (2004: 394) argue that the importance of socio-economic indicators varies between Java and the Outer Islands as well as between individual factors such as educational standards, poverty and the rural/urban divide. According to them, Golkar enjoyed support from the rural population and, interestingly, from both ends of the educational spectrum if the whole of Indonesia is considered. This pattern of support is upheld if the analysis is confined to the Outer Islands only. If, however, Java is singled out as the unit of analysis, educational standards no longer play a role, whereas wealth becomes a defining factor as Golkar apparently drew substantial support from upper- and upper-middle-class voters (Ananta, Arifin and Suryadinata 2004: 402). A socio-economic profile of Golkar’s constituency This data gives a first impression of the socio-economic background of Golkar’s supporters. Their profile can be further sharpened if data from polling and surveying institutes such as the Indonesian Survey Institute (Lembaga Survei Indonesia, LSI), the Institute for Research, Education and Explanation of Economic and Social Issues (Lembaga Penelitian, Pendidikan dan Penerangan Ekonomi dan Sosial, LP3ES) or the International Foundation for Election Systems (IFES) is considered. In 2003, LSI conducted voter surveys in various Indonesian provinces in order to identify the most important strengths and weaknesses of Golkar.46 Among other things, LSI compiled a profile of Golkar’s support base along a number of socio-cultural and socio-economic indicators. Concerning the latter, the most interesting findings of these surveys can be summarized as follows.47 First, more than 50 per cent of Golkar supporters fall into the lowestincome category with monthly incomes of less than Rp.400,000 (US$45). More than 30 per cent have between Rp.400,000 and one million (US$112) at their disposal and only 13.4 per cent have monthly incomes of more than Rp.1 million. Second, the majority of Golkar supporters are not well educated as 48 per cent of them have never attended a high school, let alone a university. In fact, only 6 per cent of Golkar supporters are graduates from an institution of higher education. And third, the vast majority of Golkar supporters are located in the millions of Indonesian villages. While only 33.8 per cent are categorized as urban voters, a massive 66.2 per cent are based in the vast rural areas of the archipelago, where educational standards are low and access to media is limited. Although LSI was way off the mark with its prediction that Golkar would win the election with 30 per cent of the vote (LSI 2003: 26), the information about the ordinary Golkar voter seems to be fairly accurate. Other institutes like LP3ES or IFES, which conducted their surveys closer to and on the actual election day, have provided similar data, allowing for the conclusion that Golkar indeed mainly appeals to the rural lower classes. Taken together, the analyses of voting behaviour in 1999 and 2004 provide relatively similar results, although the 2004 figures indicate that apparently Golkar’s support base shifted slightly towards the lower end of the social strata.

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The emergence of the ‘I miss Suharto syndrome’ (Saya amat rindu Suharto, SARS)48 One of the main reasons for this shift was the widespread dissatisfaction with the performances of the various post-New Order governments. In the view of many Indonesians, neither Abdurrahman Wahid nor Megawati Sukarnoputri had succeeded in restimulating the economy, containing the increasingly decentralized spread of corruption or stopping ethno-religious and separatist violence in parts of the country. Consequently, certain features of the New Order started to appear in a much more positive light for many Indonesians. The media and some political observers were quick to label this phenomenon the ‘I miss Suharto syndrome’ (Gazali 2003, Rinakit 2003), but this was an utterly inaccurate description of what was actually happening on the ground. As a matter of fact, only a tiny minority of the disillusioned masses actually longed for the return of Suharto. This was clearly reflected in the electoral disaster of the ‘Concern for the Nation Functional Party’ (Partai Karya Peduli Bangsa, PKPB), which participated in the 2004 election under the leadership of Suharto’s eldest daughter Tutut and the self-proclaimed Suharto-lackey, Ret. General Hartono.49 Yet, the nostalgic sentiment which was so inappropriately captured by the SARS acronym was real.50 Emmerson (2004) aptly illustrated the mood of many Indonesians in his account of a communication with the taxi driver Rahmat in Jakarta, who complained bitterly about ‘religious fanaticism, terrorist attacks, endemic corruption, economic pain, secessionist rebels, lawless civilians, venal parties, self-serving elites’ (Emmerson 2004: 95). For Rahmat, as well as for many other Indonesians, this long list of unsolved problems was a clear indicator that things were better under the New Order. For them, the old regime symbolized economic prosperity and domestic stability, and Golkar, as the once-omnipresent provider of bureaucratic services and the predetermined winner of all elections, was now again regarded by many as the only party competent enough to bring back this era of stability and growth (LSI 2003: 32). The fact that people distinguished between the massive abuse of power by the Suharto clan and the perceivably positive role of Golkar was evidence that the party had been quite successful in disassociating itself from its image as a Suharto tool.51 Notably, Golkar was now widely credited with the positive achievements of the New Order such as the provision of affordable health care, improvement of educational institutions or the generally positive economic situation. In the run-up to the 2004 election, the party rode high on this wave of nostalgia as people routinely named the ailing economy and the unstable security situation as two of the most urgent problems for Indonesia. In the election campaign, Golkar tried to make the most of this sentiment by contrasting the current situation with its own track record during the New Order. In many rural areas this message was successful. In the case of South Sulawesi, for example, one observer argued that Golkar’s continued dominance in Sulawesi can indeed be best explained by ‘the low levels of education and the failure of the post-Suharto governments to improve basic living conditions.’52

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According to Dias Pradadimara, an expert on local politics from Hasanuddin University in Makassar, the disappointment with the Megawati administration was particularly conducive to Golkar’ success because it was coupled with widespread political apathy, especially among the large group of uneducated, older female voters.53 No other party had ever made a serious effort to reach out to this huge constituency, whose traditional role as housewives had limited its exposure to objective media coverage. What people know about politics is based on what they see in their immediate local environment, and more often than not, the basic living conditions in these rural communities had not improved much under the various reformasi governments. Many of these people then realized that this compared unfavourably with the steady improvement of living standards under the New Order. Even during the financial crisis in 1997–8 parts of Sulawesi were booming due to increasing exports. Only after the fall of Suharto did things start to deteriorate. As Dias said, ‘Golkar didn’t do too badly, so many people think, why not vote for Golkar again?’54 Golkar as a miniature model of Indonesia However, despite the undeniable appeal Golkar still has for the lowly educated rural masses, it would be misleading to describe the party as the new voice of the little people. In fact, there is nothing particularly distinctive about the socioeconomic profile of Golkar’s supporters.55 If, for example, the socio-economic pattern of Golkar’s electoral appeal is viewed in relation to other parties, it becomes clear that Golkar actually draws its support from almost the same parts of the electorate as at least three other parties. As the data from LSI (2003) and LP3ES (2004) show, PDI-P, PKB and PPP appeal to almost exactly the same rural lower-class constituency as Golkar, in spite of their supposedly different religious orientations. Moreover, the assertion that Golkar may represent the interests of a certain socio-economic segment of Indonesian society loses further weight if Indonesia’s overall population structure is considered. As Table 5.2 shows, Golkar is actually more like a miniature model of Indonesia (LSI 2003: 38) as the profile of its supporters very much mirrors the socio-economic profile of the entire Indonesian population (Table 5.2). The two-headed party: why Golkar also appeals to people on middleand upper-level incomes A final modification in regards to the socio-economic profile of Golkar’s support base concerns the fact that, despite the bias towards the lower end of the social strata, Golkar also attracts significant support from the opposite end of the spectrum. While LSI (2003) put the number of well-educated, wealthy party supporters relatively low, the findings of Ananta, Arifin and Suryadinata (2004) as well as IFES (2004d) suggest that Golkar has indeed been reasonably successful in maintaining a support base among the better-educated and wealthy upper classes, especially in Java. Basically, there are two main reasons for this slightly surprising fact.

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Table 5.2 Socio-economic profile of Golkar’s supporters and Indonesia’s population Criteria

Urban/rural divide Education standard

Income standard Gender

rural Urban Primary school or below Lower secondary school Higher secondary school University Rp.400,000 pcm or below Rp.400,000–1 million Rp.1 million or above Male Female

Profile of Golkar supporters (in per cent)

Profile of Indonesia’s population (in per cent)*

66.2 33.8 48.0 22.7 23.3 6.0 54.2 32.4 13.4 47.4 52.6

58 42 60 19 18 4 42 38 20 50 50

Source: Adapted from LSI (2003: 38). Note * According to 2000 BPS census.

First, Golkar has had some success with its attempts to present itself as a reformist party. The changes to the party constitution are one obvious indicator in this regard, but much more important are the facts that the party has played a constructive role in the process of constitutional amendments and that it has created a reasonably transparent method of electing its presidential candidate. For all its flaws, the convention was an innovative masterpiece in public relations and it demonstrated to the public that Golkar was an open party willing to refine its democratic credentials. While the initiators of the convention surely had a different outcome in mind, Akbar Tandjung’s defeat at least had the positive effect of convincing the sceptics that the Golkar leadership was ready to accept unpleasant surprises. Second, Golkar still enjoys broad support from influential members of the business community. While many conglomerates have started to diversify their political support, many entrepreneurs are still loyal to Golkar as can be seen, for example, in the rising numbers of business-people representing the party in parliament. Moreover, Golkar also continues to maintain reasonably close links to a number of big financial institutions and organizations, including Bank Indonesia and the Indonesian Chamber of Commerce and Industry (KADIN). For example, in February 2004 former Golkar treasurer and legislator Mohamad Hidayat was elected general chairman of KADIN.56 He succeeded Aburizal Bakrie, another Golkar politician and member of the pribumi business elite who has just recently switched his focus from business to politics. KADIN and Bank Indonesia are but two important links between Golkar and the business community which help explain why the former regime party is not only an attractive choice for less well-off Indonesians, but also for the upper segments of society.

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Final remarks on the role of socio-economic factors In sum, socio-economic factors appear to have a fairly limited impact on the composition of Golkar’s constituency. The party mostly appeals to rural lower-class voters, especially to those feeling increasingly disadvantaged and alienated in the post-Suharto era, but at the same time there is nothing outstandingly distinctive in this appeal since the overall population structure suggests that most Indonesians are categorized as rural lower class anyway. What is more interesting is the fact that in addition to those poorer segments of society, Golkar also enjoys relatively stable support from the upper and upper middle classes. These findings confirm what was already suggested in the section on socio-cultural factors, namely the fact that classic cleavages cannot account for the composition of Golkar’s constituency. As a matter of fact, Golkar does not represent the interests of a certain social class. Rather, its supporters come from a broad variety of socio-economic backgrounds, which almost mirror the socio-economic structure of Indonesia as a whole.

What exactly makes Golkar tick? – The rise of ‘ersatz’ values The discussion so far has shown that socio-cultural and socio-economic cleavage structures have little relevance when explaining Golkar’s sources of value infusion. Admittedly, Golkar does appeal more to certain segments of society than to others, but it does not represent any specific societal group in Indonesia, not to mention struggle for the political, economic or cultural interests of a specific group. Therefore, it is fair to conclude at this point that, as far as the sociological dimension of voting behaviour is concerned, Golkar is not infused with any meaningful core values that could link the party to a broader social movement. Today, the former regime party can probably be best described as an Indonesian-style catch-all party (Ufen 2006: 24), but arguably that label does not really capture the quintessence of Golkar’s electoral appeal. Hence, in order to identify what exactly it is that makes Golkar tick, it is now imperative to extend the analysis beyond the scope of traditional cleavage factors. As Randall and Svåsand (2002a: 13) have argued, value infusion ‘has to do with a party’s success in creating its own distinctive culture or value-system’ [emphasis added]. The differentiation between culture and value-system is indeed important here because Golkar is a prime example of a party that is almost entirely devoid of values – apart from the somewhat nebulous values associated with the pancasila – yet still possesses a rather distinctive culture which keeps members and supporters loyal and provides incentives for new members to join. Party chairman Jusuf Kalla has described this culture as follows: The culture of Golkar is that of a government party [. . .]. It does not have an ideology from a religious or any other point of view. It is just pragmatic. [. . .] So when there is a time when it is brought into opposition, there is a feeling that this does not match with its [Golkar’s] culture. (as quoted in ‘Jusuf Kalla: Golkar Semakin Solid,’ Kompas, 7 May 2005)

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In late 2004, then-chairman Akbar Tandjung attempted to lead Golkar into opposition when he established the ill-fated Nationhood Coalition with Megawati’s PDI-P. It proved to be a fatal misjudgement of Golkar’s distinctive culture as he was promptly ousted from the chairmanship at the party’s 2004 national congress. Arguably, the writing of his political demise had already been on the wall long before (see Chapter 3), but his defeat at the hands of Jusuf Kalla still sent a powerful message to the party grassroots: that Golkar was still what many of its members and supporters perceived it to be, namely the ultimate dispenser of posts and patronage in Indonesian party politics. In the absence of meaningful political values, it is power, and its accessibility through party membership that is the only ‘value’ Golkar has to offer. As the party enables politicians to gain access to posts or positions which would otherwise be unattainable, it takes over the role of an impersonal patron while its members slip into dual roles as clients to the party and patrons for their own followers (read: voters). The fact that the functional role of Golkar, and its very self-perception as a collective organization, have been reduced to the provision of power and patronage exemplifies its degradation to a merely practical vehicle which is needed almost exclusively for the competition on the electoral market.57 Golkar as an impersonal patron By their very nature, patron–client relations are relations of reciprocal dependence. The relation between Golkar as a party and its members is no exception in this regard. Indeed, Golkar needs its clients just as much as the clients need the party. For active members, Golkar is an indispensable vehicle for gaining access to the electoral market. As independent candidates are not allowed to run in most Indonesian elections,58 even the most popular politician cannot compete for legislative or executive power without at least nominal support from a party. And the restrictions do not stop here. In a thinly veiled attempt to defend the powerful position of the status quo, legislators in the DPR have not only banned independents from participating, but also prescribed that only big parties (or coalitions of smaller parties) have the right to nominate candidates for president, governor or bupati. In 2004 only parties which had obtained either at least 3 per cent of the seats in the DPR or 5 per cent of the vote in the preceding legislative elections had the right to put forward candidates for the presidential poll.59 Similar requirements have been in place for the pilkada since 2005.60 Hence, it was ensured that whoever aimed at becoming president, governor or bupati had to approach one of the big political parties first before pursuing their aspirations. And as the biggest party of all, Golkar – which unsurprisingly was instrumental in formulating the laws – was a natural beneficiary of these arrangements. The former chairman of Golkar’s West Java chapter, for example, acknowledged that while cadre recruitment was overall, in his view, quite satisfactory, it was only in the months before elections that the party received a real boost. ‘Naturally,’ he said, ‘the main motivation for people to join Golkar is to achieve a political office.’61 This attitude was also confirmed in a series of interviews

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with legislative candidates who had been vying for a place in the national parliament in the 2004 general election. Several respondents stated that their decision to choose Golkar was primarily based on the calculation that Golkar’s organizational infrastructure gave them the best chance to fulfil their own political ambitions. And while these ambitions may be driven by a large array of different underlying motivations, stretching from idealism to pure egoism, the common denominator that united them all appeared to be Golkar’s image as a symbol of power. Among the more idealistic ones, who regard Golkar as the most suitable party to promote political reforms, are people with somewhat atypical backgrounds such as former university lecturer Happy Bone Zulkarnain or former actress Nurul Arifin. For Happy, for example, Golkar was a good option because he believed that the provincial chapter in his home province West Java was run by smart, reform-oriented people.62 Happy, who says that he turned down an offer to join the Department of Foreign Affairs during the New Order because he did not want to join Korpri (read: Golkar), argues that the party does not only offer the best institutional channels, but also the most astute politicians to push forward political change. At the same time, however, Happy also concedes that the political culture in Golkar has not yet changed to a satisfactory degree. In the run-up to the 2004 national congress, he also complained that the strong focus on the leadership contest prevented the party from concentrating on the more urgent issues of development and democratization.63 Another young idealist is Nurul Arifin, a popular former actress and women’s activist who turned to party politics in order to seize better opportunities to push her own agenda of health and gender issues. Nurul’s idealism is evident in statements like ‘influencing the people through ideas is more important than political positions,’64 but she also concedes that this is not the attitude of the majority in Golkar. Rather, she admits that patronage and positions are still key reasons for people joining the party and that most of the young party cadres who have already achieved high positions in the party hierarchy owe these positions primarily to the mechanisms of patronage.65 Nurul says that she is using the party for her own political objectives because only official party politics can provide her with a higher-profile platform to raise awareness for the issues at the heart of her own personal struggle.66 At the same time, however, she also says that she is well aware of the fact that Golkar is also using her since her popularity as a celebrity was expected to lift the party’s electoral fortunes. Here, the reciprocity of the exploitation is evident. Moreover, what also becomes clear is that, in order to be actually allowed to use the party for personal purposes, a candidate must have something to offer that the party can use. Celebrity status, as in Nurul’s case, is but one kind of market value that is deemed acceptable. Other examples include material wealth, royal heritage, musical talent and of course mass appeal based on primordial or clientelistic loyalties. The common denominator of all these ‘values’ is that they are all believed to enhance Golkar’s electoral performance.

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The personalistic dimension of value infusion Probably the best example of Golkar’s strategy to exploit the popularity of individual politicians for the party’s electoral success was the presidential convention in 2003–4. As previously discussed, the convention served a broad range of political purposes. The aspect of particular relevance in this context is the fact that the convention diverted much of the public’s attention away from the party and projected it onto individual persons, namely the presidential contenders. As the various candidates who competed in the convention all began to promote their so-called ‘vision and mission’ (visi dan misi) long before the actual election campaign kicked off, the convention gave Golkar a crucial comparative advantage over the other parties. How keen the Golkar leadership was to capitalize on the mass appeal of the various contenders became evident when a national leadership meeting in October 2003 decided that the convention would be postponed until after the election.67 This meant that Golkar ensured that all candidates would work for the party until the very last day of the parliamentary election campaign (Denny JA 2003b).68 While none of them was universally popular in Indonesia, they all had specific qualities that appealed to a certain core group of supporters. Money politics aside, it can be argued that at least three of the contenders drummed up their support by virtue of their personal reputation as tokoh. First, Jusuf Kalla commands enormous respect in his home province South Sulawesi and some other Eastern Indonesian provinces. He earned his reputation mainly through his business activities, but he is also revered for his role in brokering a peace deal in the conflict-ridden area of Poso (Central Sulawesi). Well before the election, Kalla was widely touted to be the ideal running mate for any presidential candidate because it was believed he would pocket the vast majority of votes in Eastern Indonesia. His initial decision not to team up with another candidate, but to contest Golkar’s presidential convention was a big bonus for Golkar as it helped to sustain high percentages for the party in its traditional stronghold. Whenever Jusuf Kalla attended a campaign rally in Sulawesi, slogans like ‘Hidup Jusuf Kalla’ (Long Live Jusuf Kalla) were at least equally popular as ‘Hidup Golkar’ (Long Live Golkar) chants. Indeed, the message Kalla communicated during the campaign was simple: if you want a nonJavanese president, vote for Golkar.69 A similarly personalistic pattern was evident in Yogyakarta, where Golkar tried to benefit from the culturally grounded charisma of Sultan Hamengkubuwono X. While the atmosphere at the rallies in Yogyakarta may have been more subdued than in Sulawesi, the basic strategy was the same. The sultan, who is also the governor of Yogyakarta, campaigned for Golkar, but he was mainly promoting himself. Though a long-time Golkar member, he has actually never been a particularly prominent party functionary. In fact, his reputation is not linked to the party, but rather to his royal descent and, to a lesser extent, to his success as a businessman. For Golkar, the sultan’s decision to join the convention was promising, not only because of his popularity in Yogyakarta but also

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because of his democratic credentials.70 The sultan was therefore another good example of how Golkar attempted to use the personal charisma of individual leaders to broaden its support.71 A third example was the former commander-in-chief of the armed forces, Ret. General Wiranto, whose re-entry into politics epitomized the widespread desire for stability and security among Indonesians. With his background as a former military commander, Wiranto hoped (and was hoped by the party) to appeal to all those who perceived the reformasi period as a failure and who had lost trust in the governance capabilities of civilian politicians. Wiranto tried to portray himself as a ‘doer,’ as someone whose experience in the military enabled him to solve problems quickly and decisively. For Golkar, Wiranto was the perfect link between its past as a military-backed government vehicle and its contemporary appearance as a modern party. While the party leadership around Akbar Tandjung continued to try to present Golkar as a reformist force, Wiranto was the candidate for all those who longed for a strong leader and maybe a return to a military-backed government.72 The clientelistic dimension of value infusion In addition to celebrities and the convention participants, Golkar in 2004 also relied heavily on the marketability of its grassroots cadres. But in contrast to celebrities and politicians who are known to a nationwide electorate, local politicos usually have a more narrowly defined market value. Accordingly, the patterns of voter mobilization on the local level are different from those on the national level. Especially in areas with hierarchical societal structures like, for example, South Sulawesi, the main asset for ambitious politicos is still extensive clientelistic networks that can be transformed into large blocs of voters during election times. First glimpses of how these patron–client patterns were instrumentalized by Golkar throughout the years have already been discussed, but in the context of this chapter a few more details are needed to understand the complex interplay between old, established patterns of informal power and modern party politics. In an interesting article on local politics in Takalar district in South Sulawesi, Santoso and Titra (2003) argue that Golkar as a party actually did fairly little to win the 1999 election in Takalar. According to the authors, Golkar was rather ‘handed victory’ by the forces of a political ‘sub-system’ which dominates local politics in most areas in South Sulawesi (Santoso and Titra 2003: 150). They describe this sub-system as a pyramidal social order, at the helm of which a traditional, often aristocratic ruler (karaeng) reigns supreme. The authors argue that regardless of the political changes since 1998, the power claims of these karaeng were still largely undisputed in 1999. However, as they cannot simply rule by virtue of their aristocratic descent, they needed a formal vehicle to stake their claims and for many of these local rulers the preferred vehicle in 1999 was still Golkar. The mutually interdependent relationship between the traditional rulers and Golkar goes back to the New Order years when both needed each other in order

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to fulfil their respective power aspirations. With the fall of Suharto and the introduction of a multi-party system, however, the balance of power in the relationship began to shift in favour of the karaeng because Golkar was no longer able to govern without their support (Santoso and Titra 2003: 155). As it is not the party as an organization, but the karaeng as influential individuals who mobilize most of the votes, Golkar is becoming more and more dependent on these local vote-getters. The implication of this argument is that the party is actually less and less important to the distribution of power than the traditional rulers. This argument, developed after the 1999 elections, has indeed gained further momentum after the 2004 elections as Golkar’s losses at the hands of, for example, PPDK demonstrate. Today, the problem for Golkar is that while parties are still generally indispensable because of their role in the electoral process, the former hegemonic party is no longer automatically the first choice for local politicos. The new electoral system and the increasing personalization of politics have opened up new options for the clients and even though Golkar is still often the party of choice, other parties are becoming more and more attractive for ambitious local politicos (see Chapter 3). Since 2005, numerous pilkada have further underlined this trend. Although parties had tried hard to maintain a foothold in these elections, the results of many pilkada clearly demonstrate that parties are actually largely irrelevant to the eventual outcomes (Buehler 2007, Buehler and Tan 2007). For example, although Golkar had won the legislative elections in the vast majority of districts in 2004, the party struggled to fulfil its – arguably unrealistic – target of winning 60 per cent of the first series of governor, mayor and bupati elections. Buehler (2007: 138) quotes internal party documents according to which Golkar ‘lost 63 per cent of all Pilkada in Indonesia in 2005 and 50 per cent of pilkada carried out in the first four months of 2006 in all of Indonesia.’ The disappointing results of the first pilkada in 2005 prompted one high-ranking Golkar cadre to conclude that ‘apparently those who are regarded as good by Golkar are not wanted on the electoral market. [...] Just like in the presidential election, the key is the appeal of individual figures.’73 Final remarks on Golkar’s use of ersatz values After the first three parts of this chapter had highlighted Golkar’s lack of ideology-based values, this last section argued that Golkar does possess something akin to a distinctive culture whose defining feature is Golkar’s selfperception as a government party which, by virtue of its position in the political system, acts as an impersonal patron providing its clients (its members) with lucrative financial or material resources. In the uncertain environment of Indonesia’s protracted democratic transition, this culture may be enough to keep a reasonably large number of members and supporters loyal to the party, but in the long term it is unlikely to compensate for the overall dearth of political values. In fact, it is argued here that this distinctive culture only serves as a kind of ‘ersatz’ value which lacks the persuasiveness and long-term stability of genuine political values.74

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The main problem with this culture is that it is based on an image which is deeply rooted in Golkar’s past as a hegemonic regime party. Historically, it is certainly true that Golkar was always the only party able to guarantee access to the corridors of power. But in the competitive party system of the post-Suharto era the parameters of power can change much more easily than before. So far, Golkar may still remain the first port of call for many ambitious politicos who want to enter parliament or become governor, but as the 2004 legislative election and various pilkada showed, Golkar’s culture of pragmatism can easily backfire if external circumstances change.

Conclusion The objective of this chapter was to shed new light on Golkar’s sources of value infusion. The findings suggest that, apart from a general commitment to the state philosophy pancasila, Golkar has little, if anything, to offer in terms of value infusion. In fact, the party even prides itself on not having a specific ideological orientation. Golkar’s noncommittal stance has reduced the party’s ability to fulfil a number of those ideal-type functions that political parties are expected to fulfil in a democratic system, including the representation of societal interests, the structuring of political issues or the crafting and implementation of policy agendas. From the perspective of party institutionalization, these are worrisome factors because they confirm the apparent lack of sustainable values inherent in the party. Instead of genuine political values, the party only has what may be termed ‘ersatz’ values. These ‘ersatz’ values are made up of a combination of patron–clientelism, elements of personalism and in particular Golkar’s selfperception as a government party. How deeply rooted this self-perception is in the mindset of Golkar’s party members became apparent during the 2004 national congress. The election of Jusuf Kalla as party chairman clearly demonstrated that Golkar members are indeed only interested in one side of the democratic equation of government and opposition.75 For the moment, its ability to provide access to lucrative patronage resources is the main source of appeal Golkar has for its constituency. Kalla’s rise to the chairmanship has certainly once again enhanced this appeal and looks set to provide new incentives to join Golkar for all those who seek to gain mostly personal benefits out of supporting a political party. But at the same time, Indonesia’s political environment is changing, if only gradually. In particular the increasing personalization of politics will make it more and more difficult for Golkar to uphold its image as the most powerful distributor of patronage. In view of the severe losses the party incurred in its strongholds in Eastern Indonesia during the 2004 elections, several party activists have conceded that Golkar may indeed have trouble in maintaining its strong position if it fails to develop a more distinctive party identity, which may serve as a genuine source of identification for members and supporters. Some of the interviewees have expressed particular apprehension about the negative

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implications of patronage which prevents party identification and inhibits career opportunities based on merit.76 Overall, however, there seems to be relatively little concern about these issues. Rather, many party officials prefer to deny that the lack of party identity may be a problem. They continue to believe in their own ability to manipulate the electorate to such an extent that Golkar will maintain its supremacy in the Indonesian party system merely by virtue of its image as a strong government party. One young party member who intends to run as a legislative candidate in 2009 for the first time opined that a party and its candidates do not need to have roots in society in order to be popular. His attitude, already quoted at the beginning of this chapter, is worth repeating here: ‘Roots can always be created. Here a donation for a mosque, there a promise to build a road, and already you have roots.’77 As long as this kind of attitude prevails, Golkar is likely to remain weakly institutionalized in the dimension of value infusion.

6

Reification Mastering the use of symbols and the pitfalls of political communication

The older a party, the clearer its image and the knowledge of the public about this particular party. (Surbakti 2003: 64)

Introduction As we are now turning towards the attitudinal/external dimension of Randall and Svåsand’s institutionalization model, it is fair to start by hypothesizing that Golkar should be fairly well institutionalized in this final dimension. With a history dating back to the 1960s the party has certainly had ample opportunity to establish itself as a household name in the political mindset of the Indonesian public. Moreover, if history alone is not enough, then Golkar’s hegemonic status during the New Order, with all the privileges this involved, should have ensured Golkar extremely high levels of name recognition. And indeed, survey data from the early days of the post-Suharto period supports the assumption that Golkar is a very well-known party in Indonesia. When the country held elections in 1999 around 90 per cent of the population was aware of Golkar as a political party (IFES 1999a, 1999b).1 Clearly, these figures indicate that at the beginning of the reformasi era the former regime party was deeply ingrained in the public imagination. From the day Suharto resigned, however, the problem for Golkar was that high levels of name recognition also meant high levels of stigmatization and hostility (Santoso 2000: 71). Indeed, being a household name was not necessarily advantageous for Golkar as many Indonesians automatically associated the party with Suharto and the various transgressions of the New Order regime.2 Attempting to change this image was inevitable, but at the same time the party leadership also needed to consider all those loyal followers who had truly supported the New Order and its party.3 Thus, the challenge for Golkar in the years following the 1999 elections was essentially that of developing a ‘dual identity.’ On the one hand, it needed to convince its traditional supporters that the Golkar label still stands for stability and economic development a la New Order. On the other hand, party leaders knew that they would also need to demonstrate a

Reification 123 reasonably credible commitment to reform if they wanted to counter persistent criticism and demands for the party’s disbandment from proponents of the reformasi movement. Against this backdrop, the main question regarding reification was not whether Golkar could become reified but rather whether it could remain reified in the public imagination. This chapter will answer this question by examining how the party has utilized various means of political communication not only to retain the high levels of reification it had built up during its long hegemonic rule, but also to develop a new image. It will be argued that Golkar did remarkably well as it successfully distanced itself from the worst aspects of the New Order while at the same time preserving its appeal to all those who perceive the era of reformasi as a failure. Moreover, Golkar also polished its reformist credentials through its contributions to the constitutional amendment process and the organization of the 2004 presidential convention. Key to communicating both sides of the coin to the broader public was the maintenance of good relations with the media, which has in fact grown more and more well disposed towards the party after an initial period of hostility. Taken together, the increasingly positive media coverage and the skilful instrumentalization of symbolism have helped Golkar to change its public image without losing the high degree of reification it enjoyed at the beginning of Indonesia’s transition process. Structurally, the chapter is divided into three sections. In the first part, the importance of keeping popular symbols such as the party logo, the party colour and the party name (the name was changed, but only marginally) will be highlighted. The second and the third part of the chapter are dedicated to the media and its role in helping Golkar forge its post-New Order identity. Without a doubt, the mass media is the most important instrument of political communication these days, and its capacity to make or break political actors and organizations should not be underestimated. While the second section will show how some of Indonesia’s most reputed national media organizations have reported on Golkar throughout the reformasi era, the third part will redirect the focus from the national to the local level and look at the dynamic relationship between party politics and the media in South Sulawesi. Among other things, this section will provide an in-depth content analysis of the 2004 election coverage in one of South Sulawesi’s leading newspapers, the Tribun Timur.

What’s in a name? Banyan trees, yellow flags and the politics of symbolism When Golkar held its extraordinary party congress in July 1998, the delegates approved a number of path-breaking reforms to the party constitution and the standing orders. One of these reforms was the change from the party’s old name Golkar to Partai Golkar. Triggered by the dramatic changes in the overall political environment, the modification of the name showed that Golkar leaders were finally willing to acknowledge that Golkar was indeed nothing less than a political party. As one young party cadre put it, ‘this symbolic name change showed

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that Golkar was really determined to become a modern party, a party in the truest sense of the word’ (Thohari 2004: 6). From Golkar to Partai Golkar While in some respect the name change marked the beginning of a new era, it also indicated broad continuity. Most significantly, the eye-catching key word ‘Golkar’ was retained. This decision turned out to be critical in regards to reification because it helped the party to maintain a high level of name recognition.4 The cosmetic nature of the transformation from Golkar into Partai Golkar was also visible in the wording in the revised party constitution. After stating in Chapter I, Article 1, that ‘[T]his party is called Partai Golongan Karya, shortened Golkar’ (DPP Partai Golkar 2003a: 6),5 all subsequent chapters in the constitution only speak of Golkar, and not of Partai Golkar.6 Thus, it was clear from the early days of the post-Suharto era that the key pillars of Golkar’s corporate identity would remain intact. Disbanding the party and reviving it under a new name was never really on the agenda as leading party executives passionately defended Golkar’s right to exist.7 A frequently heard argument to justify the party’s existence was that during the New Order Golkar had only been a tool for the ruling elite and that it would be unfair to hold the party responsible for the political mistakes of the New Order (Thohari 2004, Latumahina 2000, Santoso 2000). In the words of Slamet Effendy Yusuf, ‘Golkar was not a “ruling party”, but a “ruler’s party”. [. . .] We admit that the party made mistakes in the past. But put in a political context, Golkar was actually a victim of Soeharto’s centralization of power.’8 Or, as another Golkar official stated flatly, ‘Golkar was not wrong during the New Order; it was Suharto who was wrong.’9 The defiant rhetoric notwithstanding, overall Golkar adopted a predominantly low public profile in the early days of the reformasi era.10 Party leaders were well aware of the widespread public discontent and many preferred to disappear from the political limelight for a while. Behind the scenes, however, Akbar Tandjung and his supporters were upbeat about Golkar’s long-term prospects, not least because they had good reasons to believe that the protracted course of the transition would eventually play into the former regime party’s hands. A first indicator that Golkar was indeed in a strong position was the fact that the new election and party laws, which had been crafted by a government-appointed team of experts, would have to be approved by the DPR which at that time was still dominated by Golkar.11 Furthermore, the student movement which had been so instrumental in Indonesia’s transition in early 1998 was, despite its widely publicized anti-Golkar actions, a mostly urban phenomenon which was not unanimously welcomed in other, more rural parts of Indonesia. In South Sulawesi, for instance, a world without Golkar seemed neither conceivable nor desirable for many people. As Santoso and Titra have contended with regards to the somewhat subdued impact of reformasi in that province:

Reification 125 Symptoms which from the outside are regarded as successes of the reform process can as well be interpreted as threats towards the existing social structure. Conversely, what is regarded as status quo from the outside may as well be interpreted as success. (Santoso and Titra 2003: 140) It can be argued that to a certain extent Golkar’s decision to modify its corporate identity only marginally has helped to prevent a disruption of those existing social structures and was therefore appreciated by the electorate in regions such as, for example, South Sulawesi. It is in fact fair to assume that in the run-up to the 1999 elections the name change from Golkar to Partai Golkar went largely unnoticed by many people in Eastern Indonesia. And even where people did notice, they obviously did not care very much as the good results for Golkar in this part of the country demonstrate. In a sea of new party names, the key word Golkar served to catch the eye on the ballot paper, evoking certain images that had been shaped over more than 20 years of hegemonic rule. While in large parts of Java these images may have been predominantly negative, it was a different story in Eastern Indonesia where many people either genuinely supported Golkar or simply feared the ‘threat of the unknown’ (Kingsbury 2002: 246).12 The main symbols: the colour yellow and the unshakeable banyan tree Keeping the name clearly helped Golkar to remain reified in the early days of reformasi. Yet, it was not only the retention of the name that was critical, but also the preservation of other elements of Golkar’s corporate identity. Two other symbols that are of particular importance in this context are the banyan tree (pohon beringin) as the party’s logo and the colour yellow that had been chosen in the early New Order days to be part of Golkar’s electoral label. Since the party’s first election in 1971, these symbols have become so deeply entrenched in the political mindsets of ordinary Indonesians that it seems inconceivable to think of a campaign without yellow T-shirts or a ballot paper without the banyan tree. While the reasons for Golkar adopting the colour yellow are difficult to track down,13 the banyan tree was a logical choice because it has significant symbolic meaning, not only in Indonesia, but also in other Asian cultures and religions. Its mythological origins lie in Hinduism and Buddhism where the banyan tree represents immortality and protection. In Indonesia, it features most prominently in Javanese and Balinese culture, but it is also a symbol of national unity and a part of the country’s coat of arms. According to official rhetoric, the banyan tree represents the third principle of the pancasila, which is indeed the national unity of Indonesia.14 Thus, the tree is an essential symbol of Indonesia’s nation-building process and as such an ideal logo for a party like Golkar. On the other hand, however, it should also be noted that there is a darker side to the symbolism of the banyan tree. As Anderson (2001) has pointed out, no healthy plant can grow

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under a banyan tree because of the size of its crown. Critics of Golkar have argued that this aspect of the banyan tree actually reflects the nature of Golkar much better than the positive aspects like unity, guardianship and tranquillity, mainly because for a long time Golkar represented an oppressive regime which did not allow oppositional ideas to flourish.15 While the banyan tree is the most famous icon of Golkar, the party logo also features a number of other highly symbolic items, some of which refer directly or indirectly to the pancasila.16 On the righthand side the logo, which comes in the form of a pentagonal shield, displays a cotton branch with a number of sepals representing prosperity and sufficiency in basic necessities such as food and clothing. Similarly, the plump rice grain on the lefthand side stands for prosperity and a plentiful food supply. Together, the cotton branch and the rice grain symbolize unity, just like the banyan tree in the centre of the logo. The ribbon underneath the tree is a string that is used to foster unity and to guide the party in implementing its tasks of serving the homeland and worshipping God. Finally, the numbers on the logo are of great symbolic value. Notably, the cotton branch features 17 sepals while the banyan tree has eight hanging roots and the rice grain 45 kernels. Together these figures combine to form the date of Indonesia’s independence, thus underscoring Golkar’s commitment to the cause of nationalism. While the deeper significance of all these symbols might elude most Indonesians, their very existence and their utilization as eye-catchers are highly important in the context of reification because logos, names and colours fulfil crucial functions in enhancing public awareness of political parties. Moreover, they are essential tools in aiding voters to structure their electoral choices. As Mainwaring (1999) has pointed out, usually only a small fraction of voters is really informed about the programmes and policies of political parties. The vast majority relies on political, cultural or religious symbols to help them decide their electoral preferences. In a country like Indonesia, where most parties do not even have sophisticated political programmes, the power of symbolism is even more pronounced. Especially in areas where traditional patterns of socially constructed loyalties remain strong, the enduring importance of symbolism should not be underestimated. Despite all the talk about the maturation and rationalization of the Indonesian electorate, symbol-based voting behaviour is far from extinct. Anecdotal evidence suggests that in 2004 people in some areas did indeed still vote for Golkar simply because the banyan tree was the only familiar party symbol on the ballot paper. Final remarks on the power of symbolism Although politically and culturally embedded symbols are important tools for political parties, it should be noted that these symbols can only develop their real power if they are accessible to a large part of the population. In spreading names, logos and images, parties can only partly rely on the commitment of

Reification 127 their grassroots members since even the best-organized party apparatus can only reach a limited amount of people with its activities. Golkar, for example, may have a reasonably well-organized party infrastructure, but its grassroots activities – if they take place at all – usually only reach a narrowly confined group of supporters and not the broader public. The concept of reification, however, is concerned precisely with this particular relationship between a party and the broader public.17 Therefore, in order to remain reified, Golkar, just like any other party, needs to rely on other means than its own ‘party machinery’ to shape its image in the public imagination. Arguably, the most important instrument in this context is the mass media.18

The politics of mass media representation The mass media has become an indispensable tool for all political actors in modern democratic societies, be they parties or individuals. Some observers even argue that the power of images conveyed through the media has long outweighed the power of programmes and ideologies (McNair 2003: 39). According to Meyer (2002), modern democracy in Europe is in effect already in the process of being transformed from party democracy into what he calls ‘media democracy,’ as media organizations have become so powerful that they are essentially ‘colonizing politics.’ In Indonesia, certain historical, institutional and logistical constraints have so far prevented the media from occupying such an exceptionally prominent place in politics. Historically, freedom of the press has been severely restricted in Indonesia for most of the country’s post-colonial history. It is therefore a rather recent phenomenon and many media organizations are still struggling to rid themselves of long-established practices of self-censorship and ‘ritualized congratulatory reporting’ of the government (Kitley 2001, as quoted in Kingsbury 2005: 120). Institutionally, there remain a number of legal constraints. The 2002 Broadcasting Act, for example, has upheld the controversial practice of licensing, even though it is certainly less restrictive than during the New Order. Logistically, the geography of Indonesia has so far proven to be an insurmountable challenge for many smaller private media enterprises as they lack the financial means to distribute their products in the remoter parts of the country. Nonetheless, it is undeniable that television and newspapers and, to a lesser extent, radio and the internet, do indeed exert substantial influence on people’s perceptions of politics. In the words of Kingsbury (2005: 118), ‘[t]he media in Indonesia became increasingly influential in the post-Suharto period, but they were and remain one influence among many.’ Focusing primarily on television and the print media,19 this section will analyse the role of the media in the context of Golkar’s attempts to sell its new double identity to the broader public. The discussion will focus on how crucial political events like the 1999 and 2004 elections, the Akbar Tandjung trial, the emergence of Indonesia’s very own SARS syndrome and Golkar’s presidential convention have been presented in the mass media. It will be argued that

128 Reification between 1998 and 2005 there have been some significant shifts in the way the media has reported on Golkar and that these shifts have, on balance, aided rather than hurt Golkar’s efforts to remain reified in the public imagination. Indonesia’s post-authoritarian media landscape: a brief overview After the freedom of the press had been severely restricted throughout the New Order period (Hill 1994), the renaissance of the Indonesian media began just two weeks after the fall of Suharto when interim president B. J. Habibie and his Information Minister Yunus Yosfiah moved to simplify the notorious licensing system for the press.20 Almost instantaneously, hundreds of new media outlets were established all over the country and by March 1999, the Information Ministry had already issued 740 new licences (Mann 1999).21 Inevitably, the boom was soon followed by a bust as many new magazines and newspapers struggled for funds and readers,22 but even though many of the early trailblazers were rather short-lived, new media enterprises have continued to spring up in subsequent years, especially in the increasingly competitive electronic media sectors like television and radio. By early 2002, one researcher counted 1,323 registered ‘media organizations relevant to journalism’ (Hanitzsch 2005: 496), but it is almost certain that this number has further risen in recent years, not least because of the multiple effects decentralization has had on the development of the Indonesian media.23 Of the various media forms in Indonesia, television is by far the most popular, with an overall reach of more than 80 per cent.24 While the census figures only provide the naked accessibility rates, other surveys have discovered some interesting details about patterns of media consumption in Indonesia. For instance, a study conducted by the Asia Foundation in 2003 noted that two out of three Indonesians watch television almost every day (Asia Foundation 2003: 159). Furthermore, results from three consecutive surveys in early 2004 have revealed that, during the 2004 election campaign, television was by far the most popular medium for voters to obtain information about the election process. In fact, more than 80 per cent of Indonesians used television as their main source of information, while newspapers and radio were mentioned only by an average of 24 per cent and 26 per cent respectively (IFES 2004a, 2004b, 2004c). These figures show that television has a huge impact on the public’s perceptions of politics, including political parties. The print media on the other hand have a far more limited reach. According to data compiled by Low (2003: 17), Kompas is the newspaper with the biggest circulation (600,000), followed by Jawa Pos (450,000), Suara Pembaruan (350,000), Republika (325,000), and Media Indonesia (250,000).25 Given the size of Indonesia’s population, these figures are very small indeed. Despite this comparative disadvantage, however, the print media nonetheless play an important role in party reification. While they may not reach the broad masses, all the aforementioned big national newspapers as well as the country’s only Englishlanguage newspaper Jakarta Post26 and investigative magazines such as Tempo

Reification 129 and Forum provide a vibrant space for the exchange of intellectual discourses about political, economic and social issues.27 In partnership with the electronic media, the print media have a symbiotic relationship in which the press determines what is news, while television spreads this news all over the country (Sen and Hill 2000: 51). Golkar as newsmaker Without a doubt, one of the major newsmakers in the last few years has been the Golkar Party. Quantitative research in the electronic archives of the Jakarta Post, for example, has revealed that between May 1999 and October 2006 no other party name has been mentioned in more news articles in this publication than that of Golkar.28 Coverage of the former regime party was particularly frequent during the election year 2004, when the party featured in more than 1,000 articles and was mentioned more than 100 times in article headlines.29 Figure 6.1 shows that Golkar was mentioned in about one quarter of all articles featuring political parties. Figure 6.1 clearly shows that Golkar, together with PDI-P, has indeed attracted much more attention from the press than the smaller parties. Of course, only a fraction of the hundreds of articles listed here are really about Golkar or PDI-P. Many of these articles are in actual fact neutral reports on random political events in which Golkar was not necessarily the main actor.30 But the figures indicate that Golkar and PDI-P politicians are asked to comment on these events much more regularly than representatives of smaller parties who are usually granted fewer opportunities to express their views. Critical observers of the PAN, 498, 12%

Golkar PKS

, 1,105, 26%

, 335, 8%

PD , 429, 10%

PPP, 447, 10% PDI-P

PKB

, 984, 23%

, 469, 11%

Figure 6.1 Distribution of articles featuring political parties: Jakarta Post (2004).

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Indonesian press have long bemoaned the prevalence of such biased reporting. Prominent NGO activist Wardah Hafidz, for example, has lamented that the overall system in which the media operates is still ‘deeply embedded in feudal culture’31 as many journalists continue to focus their work too narrowly on the government and other powerful interests, without critically investigating the roles of these actors. The situation seems to be not much different in the electronic media. While no comprehensive data is available for long-term broadcasting patterns on Indonesian television, observations from the 1999 and the 2004 elections indicate that the biggest parties received far more television coverage than the smaller parties. For example, outspoken Muslim scholar Ulil Abshar-Abdalla pointed out that during the 1999 election campaign all television stations gave ‘undue coverage to Golkar, the incumbent ruling party of then-President Habibie, the government and the military.’32 Similarly, a limited study of reporting patterns during the 2004 election campaign found that most TV stations, including the self-proclaimed ‘election channel’ Metro TV, were heavily biased towards the biggest parties, especially Golkar and PDI-P (Election News Watch No. 1: 4). Golkar’s image in the media during the early reformasi days Extreme frequency of news reports helps to enhance or, in the case of Golkar, maintain a party’s high level of name recognition. A party that is constantly present on the television screen or whose name appears frequently on the front pages of the newspapers is far more likely to cement its place in the public imagination than a small party that is hardly ever mentioned. However, for a party to become or remain reified, it is not only critical to be mentioned in the media on a regular basis. Almost equally important is how a party is represented in the media. Owing to the media’s highly influential role in shaping public opinion, no party can afford to have a hostile relationship with the media for an extended period of time. In other words, a party which consistently receives bad publicity will sooner or later run the risk of being abandoned by its supporters and eventually face disappearance into oblivion. For former regime parties which continue to compete in elections during a transition to democracy, the relationship with the media is often a particularly delicate issue. In many transitional democracies the media has tended to be scathingly critical of or even hostile towards old regime parties, whereas new reformist parties of popular opposition figures have often been treated with considerable favouritism. In other cases, however, members of old regime parties have retained control of large parts of the media and subsequently used this control to paint predominantly positive images of their respective parties. In Indonesia, the early stages of the transition displayed elements of both these trends. Certain segments of the press, for instance, seemed to be staunchly critical of Golkar. Jakarta Post was one of the frontrunners in this regard, featuring several editorials with a clearly discernible anti-Golkar undertone in the months

Reification 131 before the 1999 election (Voionmaa 2004).33 Conversely, most television stations continued to back Golkar during these early reformasi days. State television channel TVRI was singled out as one of the most blatantly pro-Golkar channels, but the five private stations that were operating in 1999 were also regarded as partisan.34 The bias of the electronic media was hardly surprising. In contrast to the largely independent press, all private television stations were under the control of well-known Suharto cronies, and most of these cronies still retained direct or indirect links to Golkar. Indonesia’s oldest private television broadcaster RCTI, for example, was controlled by a company owned by Suharto’s son and former Golkar functionary Bambang Trihatmodjo. Another big TV station, SCTV, counted a company controlled by Suharto’s cousin Sudwikatmono as one of its major shareholders. TPI was owned by Suharto’s oldest daughter and former Golkar chairperson Tutut, while Anteve and Indosiar belonged to the business empires of two conglomerates with very close ties to the Suharto clan, namely the Bakrie Group (Anteve) and the Salim Group (Indosiar) (Low 2003: 16, Hidayat 1999: 187). Before the 1999 poll, the uncertainty about the future course of Indonesia’s transition obviously induced many media moguls to stick with the party they had supported for decades. Even though the Suharto clan had fallen out with Habibie in 1998, the incumbent president and his party, Golkar, were still regarded as better suited to defend the interests of the New Order stalwarts than newer parties with a reformist reputation. Turning tides: the end of the Wahid administration and the end of Golkar’s purdah period Following the reorganization of formal political power in 1999, many of the television industry’s major stakeholders apparently lost interest in supporting Golkar too openly. After the former regime party had only finished second in the parliamentary elections and Habibie had failed to clinch the presidency, the incentives to support Golkar became less and less appealing. Nonetheless, Golkar continued to receive a substantial amount of media coverage during the 17-month-long Wahid presidency. Most of the reports during this period appeared sufficiently neutral, but on balance it seemed that at least some of the coverage in the electronic media still carried a slightly supportive undertone. At the same time, some of the more critical newspapers began to warm up to the idea that Golkar did not necessarily represent the evil end of the party spectrum. One of the reasons for the increasingly positive representation of Golkar in the press was that Abdurrahman Wahid quickly forfeited much of the sympathy that had seen him through his first weeks in office. As the president went on a predictably disastrous collision course with almost everyone in Jakarta’s political elite, it soon became clear that his erratic behaviour not only antagonized the political elite, but also the media. After only 100 days in office, the honeymoon between the media and Indonesia’s first democratic president was already over as criticism mounted over Wahid’s lack of coordination with the cabinet,

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his controversial style of governance, his failure to bring security to Aceh and Maluku, and his faulty economic policies (Mietzner 2001: 329). By early 2001 all the major media organizations more or less openly campaigned for Wahid’s impeachment, while at the same time presenting the potential political alternatives in a more positive light. Arguably, the main beneficiary of this anti-Wahid campaign was Megawati (as the incumbent vice-president and potential successor), but Golkar as a party also profited from the situation. In fact, for Golkar the growing discontent with the Wahid administration was a golden opportunity to improve its heavily tarnished image and the party leadership around Akbar Tandjung seized this opportunity with a cleverly balanced strategy of publicly displayed restraint on the one hand and cordiality towards the media on the other hand. The strategy quickly paid off as more and more members of the press stopped depicting Golkar merely as a party of the past and began portraying it as a party that represented hopes for a better future. It is significant to note that this change of perception was not merely a byproduct of the failure of the Wahid administration, but also a direct result of the ingenious strategies employed by the Golkar leadership. For example, even though Akbar Tandjung worked tirelessly behind the scenes to help impeach President Wahid, he essentially let others lead the charge against the embattled president, especially PDI-P. Of course, Akbar remained the public face of Golkar during these days, but in comparison to most other parties he, as well as most of his aides, showed a remarkably low profile in public. Yet, while many Golkar politicians showed unusual public restraint during this period of ‘purdah’35 it did not mean that they completely avoided the media. On the contrary, media-savvy Golkar legislators and members of the central board were always ready for a chat with journalists and eager to engage in discussions about anything from constitutional reform to regional autonomy to budget-related issues. In 2001, Golkar’s charm offensive yielded a remarkable, if only symbolic, reward when journalists based at Jakarta’s parliament elected four Golkar parliamentarians – Ade Komaruddin, Ferry Mursyidan Baldan, Slamet Effendy Yusuf and Syamsul Mu’arif – into their top ten of Indonesia’s best legislators (Koordinat Wartawan DPR/MPR RI 2001). Thus, Golkar’s new image as an experienced yet progressive and open party gradually began to take shape. An unexpected yet temporary backlash: Akbar Tandjung’s corruption trial Golkar’s resurrection, however, suffered a setback shortly after the impeachment of Abdurrahman Wahid when a close ally of the ousted president, former Defence Minister Mahfud MD, retaliated by leaking information to the press which implicated Akbar Tandjung in a corruption scandal. The chronological details of the scandal were covered in Chapter 4, but Buloggate II, as it was dubbed by the Indonesian media, also had implications for reification as it had a profoundly negative impact on Golkar’s efforts to build a new image. First, it revitalized long-simmering factional tensions within the party which threatened

Reification 133 the image of Golkar as a solid and organizationally coherent party (see Chapter 3). Second, it reminded Indonesians how deeply Akbar and the party he was leading were still entrenched in corrupt New Order practices. As one prominent anti-corruption activist noted, ‘almost all Indonesian parties are now corrupt, but I suspect it was Golkar who set the trend.’36 And third, it at least temporarily tainted Akbar Tandjung’s personal image as one of the calmest and most restrained politicians in Indonesia, especially when he was shown clearly distressed after his detention in March 2002. Yet the consequences could have been even more serious if the media had dared to investigate more thoroughly some of the more dubious aspects of the trial. Instead, much of the coverage reflected what one observer has described as ‘A said X and B said Y’ journalism (Hanitzsch 2005: 499).37 In fact, the media coverage often failed to provide any important background information about the case. To many journalists, the political implications of the trial seemed to be of more importance than the alleged crime itself. Given Akbar’s reputation as a master politician (which was still intact at that time), this clearly played into the hands of the Golkar chairman. The longer the case lasted, the more often he was described as a cunning political virtuoso rather than as a convicted criminal. At times it seemed as if Akbar was playing with both his political opponents and the media. This impression was particularly strong on the day the Supreme Court announced its final verdict. Several media outlets reported live from either the courtroom or Akbar’s residence, depicting the normally so rational politician as an emotional, deeply religious family man who was awaiting his fate together with his wife and two of his four daughters. ‘By any account, media reports on the trial were in favor of Akbar,’ wrote Sasdi (2004b), especially because they ‘focused on the human interest aspects of how Akbar, like a person in distress, waited for the court verdict.’ Sasdi then elaborated: Media reports have described Akbar, the leader of Golkar, a party used by former president Soeharto as a political machine together with the military in suppressing his political opponents, a hero because he was depicted as the oppressed party. The media also failed to link Buloggate to the rampant abuse of power by Soeharto’s regime, which almost sank Indonesia to bankruptcy. The problem stemmed from the failure of the media to present another side of the story of the scandal, especially the fate of thousands of poor people in urban and rural areas who formed long queues under the burning sun for small packs of cheap rice during government distribution of the aid via workers paid by Dadang and Winfried. (Sasdi 2004b) Shaping a dual identity, Part I: the emergence of SARS and Golkar’s image as a status quo party By the time Akbar was finally acquitted, preparations for the election campaign were already in full swing and, despite the prolonged court saga, Golkar was

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widely seen as the favourite for the polls (LSI 2003). While Akbar’s trial certainly had a long-term negative impact on the chairman’s personal prospects of becoming president, Golkar as a party actually seemed to be affected only in the short term. The factional tensions that had flared up in 2001 and 2002 had been – temporarily at least – swept under the carpet and corruption had long ceased to be a malpractice exclusively associated with Golkar. As the media exposed new, mostly regionally based corruption scandals with exhilarating frequency, more and more people started to ponder the ‘good old times’ when big-time corruption was also common but, at least on the face of it, confined to Suharto and his cronies. Together with other problems like secessionist and communal violence, Islamic terrorism and sluggish economic growth, the seemingly unrestrained spread of corruption spawned the outbreak of what was quickly dubbed the ‘I miss Suharto syndrome’ (SARS). Initially, the emergence of the SARS phenomenon presented Golkar with a dilemma. Although party leaders knew that Golkar was a natural candidate to benefit from the widespread dissatisfaction with the Megawati administration, they also knew that an all-too-obvious embrace of the past would jeopardize the party’s efforts to boost its reformist credentials. What was needed was a differentiated approach to the New Order, one which would strike a fine balance between denouncing the bad things and praising the good things. The quest for an appropriate strategy was made easier with the growing media presence of the new Concern for the Nation Functional Party (Partai Karya Peduli Bangsa, PKPB), which had been founded in September 2002 by former army general Hartono. The party openly glorified Suharto and the New Order, expressed its intention to nominate Suharto’s daughter Tutut for the presidency and famously labelled itself as the ‘Old Golkar.’38 Thus, for Golkar the emergence of PKPB was a blessing in disguise. On the surface the new contender may have looked like a serious threat to the former regime party,39 but as Qodari (2004a) pointed out, PKPB’s levels of name recognition were so low that, by the time of the election, those voters who were most susceptible to SARS would probably never have heard of this new party. Moreover, it was questionable whether those who said that they believed that life was better under Suharto were really longing for the return of the former dictator or more for some of the concomitant features of the New Order such as economic prosperity and political stability.40 In the end, this differentiation proved to be important as Golkar used PKPB’s openly displayed obeisance to Suharto to draw a clear line and distinguish itself from the new rival. During the 2004 election campaign, Golkar repeatedly highlighted the New Order’s more broadly accepted achievements and emphasized the party’s role in bringing about these achievements. At the same time, however, party executives also clearly distanced themselves from Suharto and his various transgressions, pledging that ‘we won’t be corrupt any more if we are back in power.’41 Thus, the emergence of PKPB indirectly aided Golkar in its efforts to exploit the widespread disillusionment with post-New Order politics as it forced the party to clarify its stance towards its own past.

Reification 135 Shaping a dual identity, Part II: the presidential convention and Golkar’s image as a reformist party The SARS phenomenon and the strong publicity it received in the Indonesian media ensured that Golkar could easily uphold its image as the status quo party par excellence. It was, however, not in Golkar’s interest to be solely regarded as a pure status quo party. On the contrary, it was also important for Golkar to polish its reformist credentials, not least because most of the other allegedly reformist parties had long forfeited their initially good reputations and there had thus emerged a significant void in the reformist corner of the party spectrum. Golkar leaders intended to fill this void by presenting the party as an innovative, open and democratic party. First steps in this direction had already been made in parliament where Golkar played a comparatively constructive role in the negotiations about constitutional amendments and the laws on the direct presidential elections. However, while many media outlets acknowledged Golkar’s contributions to the reform process, suspicions remained that the party was primarily pursuing its own vested interests, especially in regards to Akbar Tandjung’s presidential ambitions.42 More significantly, it should be noted that the whole constitutional amendment process was mainly a spectacle for a small circle of well-educated observers of Indonesian politics. In order to convince the broader public that Golkar was a motor of democratic reforms, the party needed to organize something more pompous, something that by its very nature would generate a lot of media attention. The solution was a US-style presidential convention which, as it turned out, quickly helped Golkar to win the ‘image trophy’ (Luwarso et al. 2004: 1). As discussed in Chapter 3, the convention fulfilled several different purposes for Golkar, but in the context of reification it is particularly noteworthy that it provided the media with an incredible amount of top stories. Accordingly, Golkar was certain to appear regularly in television reports and newspapers for a period of more than 12 months. Thus, the convention markedly contributed to Golkar’s consistently high levels of name recognition. Moreover, it is significant to note that most of the coverage about the multi-level convention process tended to be positive, even though a number of sceptics questioned the democratic character of the event (Denny JA 2003, Fatah 2003). Overall, Golkar was frequently described as a democratic and reformist party which was ready to try something genuinely innovative. As the media reported on the various pre-conventions on all administrative levels, the convention essentially became a free form of advertising for Golkar (Luwarso et al. 2004: 4).43 The ultimate climax came on the day of the national convention in Jakarta when several TV stations broadcasted live from the Jakarta Convention Centre until the dramatic ending at around one o’clock in the morning. The next day all major newspapers ran stories about the convention on their front pages and the pundits who had previously denounced the event as a rubberstamp ceremony for Akbar Tandjung sheepishly acknowledged that the convention had indeed been

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an open contest. Hence, in an ironic twist of events the unexpected and, as far as the organizers were concerned, undesired result of the convention indirectly strengthened the effects of Golkar’s image campaign as it showed the public that Golkar was a party which was mature enough to grant a remarkable victory to a party outsider. Final remarks on Golkar’s relations with the mass media Thus, in early 2004 Golkar’s efforts to establish its new dual identity had come full circle. Through a sophisticated media strategy and with the help of an overall conducive political environment, the party had developed an image that had the potential to appeal to both status quo supporters and reformists. While both factors were important, this section has demonstrated that the role of the media in this development was indeed of utmost significance. Between 1999 and 2004 not only was Golkar at the centre of the news time and time again, but the way the party was portrayed also changed remarkably. On the one hand, the electronic media turned from its blatantly open pro-Golkar bias to a more nuanced yet still somewhat positive coverage, while on the other hand the press grew increasingly well disposed towards its former enemy. In fact, by the time Golkar won the 2004 elections many reputable newspapers were full of praise for the former hegemonic party. In the aftermath of the elections, the media’s attitude towards Golkar has remained largely positive. For example, a special Kompas supplement on political parties in May 2005 described Golkar as a professional and solid party while all its electoral rivals except PKS were criticized as immature and amateurish.44 While PKS only received a few short paragraphs, Golkar’s development was praised in a comprehensive article, an exclusive interview with party chairman Jusuf Kalla and a number of comparative analyses in more general articles on Indonesia’s fledgling party system. Even if the party engages in controversial actions or policies, it is still often treated with surprising leniency, as exemplified in a comment in the Jakarta Post: ‘While Golkar has its problems, they are issues that are almost expected from a relative newcomer to the democratic game.’45

Looking beyond Jakarta: the impact of local media on party politics After analysing Golkar’s relations with the national media, it is now expedient to finish this chapter with an in-depth look at the interplay between the media and party politics on the local level. Although most media organizations are still based in Jakarta and other cities on Java, some regional centres in the Outer Islands have produced remarkably prolific media scenes. In South Sulawesi, for instance, countless new media organizations were established after the fall of Suharto (Morrell 2003). Many of the new newspapers and radio stations that were set up in smaller towns outside Makassar did not last long,46 but the provin-

Reification 137 cial capital itself has remained a vibrant centre of media activity. In early 2004, there were at least 18 radio stations in Makassar and five local newspapers (Tribun Timur, Fajar, Pedoman Rakyat, Ujungpandang Ekspres and Berita Kota Makassar).47 Moreover, there are now two Makassar-based television stations (Makassar TV and Fajar TV). Although the proliferation of local media outlets has not yet changed the fact that most people in South Sulawesi still turn to national television for information about national politics,48 the development is a clear indicator that there is an increasing demand for information on local politics and society. Given the longestablished dominance of Golkar in the province, this development raises the question of how the new media outlets have approached the local political landscape. Seen from the opposite direction, it also raises the question of how Golkar has reacted to the new situation and whether the broader range of information sources available has affected the party’s ability to impose its presence upon the public through the media. Against the background of Golkar’s rather ambiguous 2004 election result in South Sulawesi, this section will answer these questions by, first, providing a brief sketch of general media politics in the province and, second, taking an in-depth look at the election coverage in one of the province’s biggest newspapers, the relatively new Tribun Timur. Adapting to the changing times: media and politics in the early reformasi days In the early days of reformasi, the local press in South Sulawesi faced a dilemma. On the one hand, journalists were eager to make the most of the new freedom of the press and criticize those in power wherever they could. On the other hand, widespread regional sentiment in favour of then-president Habibie, both in the media community and the broader population, necessitated adequate positive coverage about Golkar. The result was a mixture of supportive and critical media reports on the party. Based on an evaluation of the 1999 election campaign coverage in four local newspapers, a Makassar-based media watchdog concluded that while Golkar was certainly mentioned far more often than other parties, the reports were by no means all in support of the former hegemonic party. On the contrary, the majority of reports were actually critical of Golkar, even in the biggest newspaper Fajar.49 For local Golkar officials, who had been used to decades of almost unconditionally positive media coverage, the media’s new assertiveness was apparently hard to accept. According to senior journalists from Makassar, it was common during the 1999 election campaign for Golkar politicians to call the newspaper’s editors if the articles about the party’s campaign rallies were not absolutely positive. Even small details were objected to, including remarks about the number of people who attended Golkar’s rallies. ‘They would call if we wrote “hundreds of people” (ratusan) attended the Golkar rally because they wanted us to write that “thousands of people” (ribuan) attended the rally.’50 As democratization proceeded, this attitude gradually changed and by the

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time the 2004 elections were held, there were apparently no more complaints from local politicians about the media coverage. However, some observers argue that this was not necessary anyway because after 1999 the media soon lost its reformist spirit and returned to old-style ceremonial reporting. According to Morrell (2005: 140), correspondents from outlying districts and sub-districts, in particular, rarely dare to write something negative about their local administration. This line of argument is reminiscent of Hafidz’s allegations that the media still operates in a system embedded in feudal culture.51 Significantly, such a biased orientation towards those in power has long played into the hands of Golkar as most local executives tended to be members of Golkar or were at least backed by the party.52 Media and politics in South Sulawesi: an often cosy affair Generally, the relationship between at least some media outlets and the powerful elites of the province is extremely close. There are three main reasons for this intimacy. In some cases, it is based simply on friendships between journalists and local politicians. In fact, according to one observer, there are plenty of journalists among South Sulawesi’s media community who ‘have a close relationship to Golkar politicians because they are good friends.’53 In other cases, local newspapers and politicians from the local governments (read: Golkar) are engaged in symbiotic relationships of mutual dependence. This is especially true for some of the smaller rural papers which receive no funding from big-business interests in Makassar. As Morrell (2005: 137) has reported from Palopo, for the press ‘bureaucracy is also an important source of advertising revenues that commonly takes the form of large congratulatory messages inserted by politicians, government departments, or senior officials, on such occasions as the appointment of a new bupati or opening of a new government office.’ For the politicians, on the other hand, the media is an important tool in the shaping of their public image and, in a more general sense, in communicating with the strategically important middle-class segments of society.54 Finally, a third reason that explains the lack of critical reporting in local newspapers is the ownership structure. Fajar, for example, was co-founded by two of the most powerful men in South Sulawesi, media entrepreneur Alwi Hamu and the recently elected vice-president and Golkar chairman Jusuf Kalla. The two men have been good friends for a long time and now that Kalla has moved straight into Jakarta’s corridors of power, Hamu has become Kalla’s right-hand man. Preoccupied with national duties, the two rarely intervene in Fajar’s regular affairs these days, but as co-owners and major flag-carriers for South Sulawesi in Jakarta they are assured of continuous positive coverage in the paper. The situation with Fajar’s main rival Tribun Timur is not that different. This latest addition to South Sulawesi’s thriving media landscape is owned by Aksa Machmud, the founder of the powerful Bosowa Group and close friend and brother-in-law of Jusuf Kalla. Before establishing Tribun Timur, Aksa

Reification 139 Machmud was also involved in Fajar but he reportedly fell out with Alwi Hamu and decided to set up his own newspaper.55 Although his relationship with Hamu has cooled, Aksa Machmud has, just like Hamu, remained fervently loyal to Kalla as could be seen in his generous donations to the SBY–Kalla campaign in 2004.56 Just like the other two big guns, Aksa now spends most of his time in Jakarta, especially after he was elected to represent South Sulawesi in the Regional Representatives Council (DPD). Henceforth, he has delegated most of his business duties including those of Tribun Timur to his sons Erwin and Sadikin both of whom now sit on the board of directors.57 In view of these ownership constellations it is hardly surprising that media observers describe the coverage of party politics in South Sulawesi’s biggest newspapers as ‘positively biased towards Golkar.’58 Yet, as the following brief content analysis of two months of election coverage in Tribun Timur will demonstrate, the partisanship is actually not aligned with Golkar as a party as much as it is with certain individuals, especially Jusuf Kalla. The 2004 elections as seen through the eyes of Tribun Timur The Tribun Timur newspaper began circulation in February 2004, just two months before Indonesia’s second post-New Order elections. Founded by Aksa Mahmud and affiliated to the highly regarded Kompas-Gramedia Group, Tribun Timur quickly earned a reputation as a professionally run media enterprise with the potential to become a serious rival for the established Fajar. With its partly coloured layout and its extensive coverage of football and celebrities, Tribun Timur bears some hallmarks of a sensationalist tabloid, but the paper also has a well-staffed research-and-development department and dedicated journalists who are not only interested in reporting facts but also in providing educational background information. While the main editorial office is in Makassar, the paper also has correspondents in Palopo, Bone, Maros, Bulukumba and Parepare as well as an additional editorial office in Jakarta. The objective of the following brief content analysis is to find out to what extent Tribun Timur’s coverage of the 2004 parliamentary elections was biased in favour of Golkar and as a consequence beneficial to the party’s efforts to remain reified in the people’s minds. The analysis is confined to coverage between 26 February and 21 April 2004, thereby covering the run-up to the election campaign, the campaign itself, polling day and the immediate aftermath of the vote which, significantly, was also the prelude to Golkar’s presidential convention. The analysis ends the day after the convention. For the first part of the analysis all editions in the eight-week time frame were searched for articles that mentioned the name of the Golkar party. In order to contextualize the figures, the articles were then also searched for mentions of the other big national parties PDI-P, PPP, PKB, PAN, PKS and PD as well as the regionally strong PPDK which achieved the third highest number of votes in South Sulawesi in the 2004 election (see Figure 6.2). Following this mainly quantitative analysis, the second part of the study looks at selected articles from different sections of the paper

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44.34

40

Percentage

35 30 25 20 15 10

7.3

6.65

6.56

6.4

5

4.55

3.04

0 Golkar

PKS

PPDK

PPP

PA N

PDI-P

PD

Figure 6.2 Results of the 2004 parliamentary elections in South Sulawesi (in per cent).

and examines them with regard to the use of language, pictures and other editorial features such as coloured fonts, charts and tables. The quantitative dimension: Golkar’s domination confirmed When Tribun Timur went to print for the first time in early February 2004, South Sulawesi was, just like the rest of the country, in the midst of preparing for the 2004 general elections. Accordingly, the 24-pages-strong paper dedicated two pages in the middle (menuju pemilu) as well as the very last page (tribun sulsel) specifically to the elections. In addition, the front page and the reports from the local correspondents often covered election-related events. Hence, the election was clearly the dominant topic in the paper’s early days. Given the overall background of South Sulawesi’s media politics it might be expected that during the time of the election Golkar would receive unevenly frequent coverage in the paper and that much of this coverage would carry a positive undertone. The first hypothesis has been found to be confirmed by the data, even though not as soundly as one may have expected. In the eight weeks between 26 February and 21 April 2004 the name of the Golkar Party featured in a total of 594 articles, which means that on average the party was mentioned in more than ten articles per day. These figures are quite extraordinary, especially in view of the fact that Tribun Timur is a newspaper of only 24 pages. The second-highest number of entries (326) was recorded for PDI-P, which is an interesting result as this party is not particularly popular in South Sulawesi (see the election results in Figure 6.2). All the other parties garnered less than 300 entries each, with PAN (278) leading the pack ahead of PPP (254), PKS (252), PD (206), PPDK

Reification 141 PKB

, 174, 8%

PD , 206, 9%

PDI-P

Golkar

, 594, 26%

, 326, 14%

PKS

, 252, 11%

PAN, 278, 12% PPDK, 197, 9% PPP, 254, 11%

Figure 6.3 Coverage of political parties in Tribun Timur, 26/2–21/4/2004.

(197) and PKB (174). These figures clearly confirm Golkar’s overwhelmingly strong media presence. However, while the absolute figures are certainly massive, Figure 6.3 also clearly shows that in relative terms the gap between Golkar and its electoral rivals is actually not that big. In fact, it is not much different from comparable figures in some national newspapers. While in Tribun Timur Golkar’s share of the overall entries was 26 per cent, it was 24 per cent in the Jakarta Post during the same period.59 Hence, although Golkar certainly enjoyed much more coverage in Tribun Timur than its electoral rivals, the Makassar-based paper can hardly be accused of granting extremely undue coverage to the former hegemonic party, at least not quantitatively. If we look at the quantitative distribution of articles by dividing the entries along the individual columns of the newspaper, we can see that Golkar recorded the highest number of entries in the menuju pemilu section (181).60 But these pages also featured a substantial amount of articles on other parties. In fact, this segment was not only the liveliest but also the most balanced section in terms of quantitative coverage on political parties as Golkar received ‘only’ 23 per cent of the coverage here. At the other end of the spectrum, Golkar’s dominance was particularly pronounced on the front page and in some of the regional sections, especially in those from Palopo and Bone, the two regions most distant from Makassar. On the front page, for example, where national and local topics are often mixed, Golkar accounted for 90 entries, while PDI-P was mentioned 60 times. The other parties found themselves on the front page less than 40 times each. This gives Golkar a relative share of 28.4 per cent of all entries on the front page. In Bone,

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the number of articles that alluded to Golkar was 31, which translates into a share of 36 per cent for Golkar in all relevant articles that made mention of political parties. In Palopo, the coverage was even more biased towards Golkar. Here, in the far north-east of South Sulawesi, Golkar accounted for 40 per cent of all relevant articles, while parties like PD (one entry), PKB (two entries), PKS and PPP (four entries each) were like ‘personae non grata’ for the local correspondent.61 Figures 6.4 and 6.5 summarize the findings for the individual sections. 200

Golkar PKS PPDK PPP PA N PDI-P PD PKB

181

180

Number of ar

ticles

160 140 127

120 100

90

93

90

83

80

83 76

75

72

60

60

53

40

39 38 42 34

38

36

30

30

25

21

20

24 17

12

0

Menuju pemilu

Bac

38

33

30

19

15 9

F ront page

32 34

29

k page

5 3 4 7

4 3

Opinion

Other

Figure 6.4 Coverage of political parties in Tribun Timur, 26/2–21/4/2004, by section. 60

ticles

50

40 35 31

Number of ar

Golkar PKS PPDK PPP PA N PDI-P PD PKB

49

30

30 26 23

20

19 17

16 14

13 11

10 5

11

10

11 9

7

6

4

10

10 8

9 6

6

3

1 2

Palopo

12 10

8 8 8 7

4

0

23

23

22

20

Bone

Parepare

Maros-Go Bulukumba

w a-

Makassar

Figure 6.5 Coverage of political parties in Tribun Timur, 26/2–21/4/2004, by section.

Reification 143 The qualitative dimension: is Golkar being portrayed too positively? Having established that Golkar’s name appeared in Tribun Timur much more often than the names of other parties, it is important to investigate whether this coverage was predominantly neutral or whether it was biased, either positively or negatively.62 In order to answer this question, an in-depth look was taken at all news items featuring Golkar from the front page as well as the three local sections from Palopo, Bone and Parepare. These articles were chosen as the focus of inquiry for two reasons. First, the front-page articles are the most striking eye-catchers as they often use extra-large font sizes, colourful pictures and other editorial features to catch the attention of the reader. Therefore, these articles are of particular importance for the shaping of Golkar’s image. Second, the local sections were chosen because in terms of relative advantages Golkar has been treated most generously in these sections. This finding confirms Morrell’s argument that correspondents from outlying regions are more likely to focus their reporting on those in power than their colleagues in urban regions. However, the sheer figures do not yet reveal anything about the actual contents of these articles. Thus, in order to find out whether this focus on the authorities is also underpinned by a submissive reporting style towards parties and bureaucracies, it is now crucial to examine some of the articles more thoroughly. Before proceeding with the analysis, however, it is first imperative to define its parameters. In the context of this book, an article is regarded as positively biased simply if it generates a positive image of Golkar. This can happen by means of grandiloquent language, the reinforcement of pre-existing perceptions of Golkar as a strong government party (for example by noting that certain bupatis or mayors are also Golkar figures) or by reporting on events that already carry a certain positivity by their very nature (for instance a social activity sponsored by the party). Conversely, an article is regarded as negatively biased if it generates a negative or corrupt image of Golkar. This includes all articles that use inflammatory language or report on the involvement of Golkar in inherently negative events such as corruption or the violation of election-campaign regulations. All other articles that do not generate a certain image of Golkar or that feature a balanced mixture of both positive and negative elements are classified as neutral.63 Against this background, a total of 193 articles were analysed. From all these news items the vast majority carried a neutral, merely informative message. The general pattern often resembled what Hanitzsch (2005) had described as ‘A said X and B said Y’ journalism. However, there were also a number of biased articles. Significantly though, these were almost evenly distributed in the positive and negative segments. While 39 were deemed to generate a rather positive impression of Golkar, 36 were found to be negatively biased towards Golkar (see Figure 6.6). Notably, of the four individual parts of the paper examined only Palopo was openly favourable towards Golkar. Here, there were only two articles that were deemed to be critical of the party whereas eight were classified as positive and

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Negative, 36, 19%

Positive, 39, 20%

Neutral, 118, 61%

Figure 6.6 Distribution of positive, neutral and negative news on Golkar.

Negative, 18, 20%

Positive, 13, 14%

Neutral, 59, 66%

Figure 6.7 Distribution of positive, neutral and negative articles on the front page.

13 as neutral. In Bone, there were six positive and five negative articles, while in Parepare the ratio was 12 to 11 in favour of the positive reports. Conversely, on the front page, articles which gave a negative impression of Golkar outnumbered those that described the party positively (13 positive, 18 negative, 59 neutral). See Figures 6.7, 6.8, 6.9 and 6.10.

Reification 145 Negative, 11, 22%

Positive, 12, 24%

Neutral, 26, 54%

Figure 6.8 Distribution of positive, neutral and negative articles in the Parepare section.

Negative, 5, 16%

Positive, 6, 19%

Neutral, 20, 65%

Figure 6.9 Distribution of positive, neutral and negative articles in the Bone section.

Examples of positive coverage News items that were deemed positive towards Golkar included articles that emphasized the party’s financial and organizational prowess, reports on election campaign rallies as well as articles about popular individuals affiliated with the party. First, several articles that reported on certain features of the election

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Positive, 8, 35%

Neutral, 13, 56%

Figure 6.10 Distribution of positive, neutral and negative articles in the Palopo section.

campaign highlighted the fact that Golkar was the biggest party with the most plentiful resources. For instance, on 13 March 2004, the Parepare section of the paper featured an article about a local small fabrics business which sold T-shirts to political parties.64 The article mentioned that several parties had ordered Tshirts from the merchant’s small business, but while parties like PDI-P, PPP or PBB only ordered 3,000 shirts each, Golkar reportedly ordered more than 20,000 shirts. Golkar also requested T-shirts of a better-quality fabric, which were of course more expensive than those ordered by its rivals, thereby giving further emphasis to the notion that Golkar had superior financial resources in comparison to the other parties. A similar pattern was discernible in an article on 17 March 2004, which detailed the situation of small-scale bamboo traders from Parepare and Pinrang.65 While the focus of the article was on the competition between the traders from the two towns, the name of Golkar was dropped strategically at the end of the article, when a trader explained that it was Golkar which always ordered the largest amount of bamboo. Second, Golkar’s election campaign was sometimes described in extremely positive terms. On 24 March 2004, for example, Tribun Timur’s correspondent from Palopo reported on Golkar’s preparations for an upcoming rally, scheduled for the following day. The article, which included a photo of Golkar members in front of huge wrapped packages, described the arrival of thousands of Golkar Tshirts in Luwu and provided elaborate details about the plans for the campaign, the national party figures that were due to attend and the expected number of supporters that would attend the rally.66 The next day (25 March 2004), the tribun palopo section opened with the extra-large headline ‘Hari Ini Golkar Kuningkan Palopo’ (‘Today Golkar Will Make Palopo Yellow’) while the subheading read ‘Hadirkan Calon Presiden Prabowo’ (‘Presidential Candidate

Reification 147 Prabowo Will Attend’).67 The article stated that Golkar officials expected up to 35,000 people as well as presidential convention contender Prabowo Subianto and other high-ranking party officials. The tone was extremely optimistic and slightly reminiscent of the long-gone times of the Golkar hegemony.68 Third, the newspaper featured several articles which did not focus on activities by Golkar as an organization but rather on individual party members and their activities. Most prominent in this category were the front-page articles about Jusuf Kalla (see below), but the local sections also included various articles about national legislative candidates such as Fachri Andi Leluasa or Hamka Yandhu or bupatis and mayors such as Idris Galego (Bone), Zain Katoe (Parepare) and HPA Tenriadjeng (Palopo). Significantly, the last three were not only leaders of the local governments in their respective districts but also leading executives in the local Golkar chapters.69 Emphasizing these double functions repeatedly in news items essentially not related to any Golkar activities is part of what one observer called ‘the psychology of power’70 as it serves as a subtle reminder to the reader that Golkar is still the ruling party. A typical example of this kind of image-enforcing reporting is an article from Bone, dated 7 April 2004. The article on the gathering of election results from the district’s various villages begins as follows: The bupati of Bone, HAM Idris Galego, was forced to stay up until the wee hours of the morning. The Golkar chairman of Bone waited for the results from the individual polling stations. Idris stayed in the room of the telephone operator in his office on Monday evening until the early hours of the following day. (‘Bupati Tongkrongi Operator Telepon,’ Tribun Timur, 7 April 2004) As it unfolds, this article clearly focuses on Idris’s responsibilities as bupati and in principle there was no need for the author to emphasize that he was also the chairman of the local Golkar chapter. But, according to local media observers like Muliadi Mau, this is a common journalistic pattern used to reinforce images of Golkar as an omnipresent government party.71 It therefore directly contributes to upholding Golkar’s high levels of reification. Another major boost for Golkar was the fact that South Sulawesi’s favourite son, Jusuf Kalla, was deeply involved not only in Golkar’s election campaign but also in Indonesia’s first-ever direct presidential election. In one way or another, Kalla was an almost daily feature in Tribun Timur during the eight weeks considered here, and in most cases Golkar benefited from this extensive coverage. On two occasions, for instance, Kalla was pictured on the front page, addressing a crowd at a Golkar campaign rally, wearing a yellow jacket.72 In many other cases, his name was mentioned in the context of Golkar’s presidential convention. Regardless of the focus of the articles, however, the reports were always either positive or neutral towards Jusuf Kalla as a person. Indeed, negative news about Kalla seemed to be taboo. For Golkar, this bias had positive implications, at least in the weeks before the parliamentary elections when Kalla

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was still a contender in Golkar’s convention. After the elections, however, Golkar’s fortunes in Tribun Timur took a turn for the worse, not only because of its less-than-satisfactory election results but also because it became clear that Kalla would drop out of the convention and team up with SBY. Significantly, after 6 April Golkar only recorded two more positively biased articles on the front page, while Kalla continued to be praised in seven more articles. Examples of negative coverage The positive influence of Jusuf Kalla at one end of the spectrum was mirrored by Akbar Tandjung at the negative end of the spectrum. Indeed, the poor popularity of the Golkar chairman in South Sulawesi was reflected in a number of articles on the party which carried a negative undertone. Other examples of this negative bias included coverage of the party’s electoral performance and cases of campaign violations by Golkar politicians. First, certain manoeuvres by party leader Akbar Tandjung reinforced local resentment towards the chairman. For example, Akbar’s spat with Surya Paloh over the latter’s campaign rhetoric on corruption in the party was widely covered, as were the chairman’s attempts to restrict his rivals in the presidential convention in their choices of campaign locations.73 The paper also reported on Akbar’s troublesome encounter with a vocal group of protesters at Makassar airport,74 and seemingly mocked the chairman’s clumsy response to the resentment.75 All these articles primarily targeted Akbar Tandjung but the negative undertone in the reports ultimately reflected badly on Golkar as they evoked an image of a party led by an unpopular leader. The second group of negatively biased articles consisted of those pieces that described the fallout from Golkar’s electoral performance. In contrast to the often overtly optimistic reports in the run-up to the poll, the aftermath of the election was characterized by more critical articles which explained how Golkar lost its status as a superpower in South Sulawesi. Although it seemed as if Tribun Timur tried to avoid criticizing Golkar too harshly,76 the very fact that the party’s losses in South Sulawesi were quite dramatic made it inevitable that news items on the results generated a slightly negative impression of Golkar. Examples in this category included front-page articles with headlines like ‘PPDK Beats Golkar in the Village of Sungguminasa’77 or ‘Golkar in South Sulawesi Decreases by 25 Percent’78 as well as a report from Palopo entitled ‘Golkar Quota Decreases up to 50 Percent.’79 The third group of articles comprised reports on fraud, corruption and violations against campaign regulations, perpetrated by members of Golkar. For example, both the Bone and the Parepare sections featured articles highlighting Golkar’s campaign violations.80 Generally, it is noteworthy that Tribun Timur has not shied away from covering local political scandals, sometimes even overstepping the mark by sensationalizing allegations that would eventually turn out to be unfounded.81 Two front-page articles on 11 and 12 April fall into this category. On 11 April, the paper opened with a leader entitled ‘Golkar Makassar

Reification 149 Accused of Mark-Up.’82 The next day, it was Bone’s turn. ‘Golkar Bone Also Accused of Mark-Up’83 was the headline on the front page. In both articles, members of smaller parties accused Golkar of instructing staff at certain polling stations to mark up the numbers of Golkar votes. The allegations, however, turned out to be baseless and possible Golkar involvement in the irregularities at the polling stations was never proven. Nonetheless, for two days at least Golkar was once again linked to issues of corruption and fraud, allegations which generated a negative impression of the party. Final remarks on the local media analysis In sum, Golkar has clearly been the most frequently mentioned party in Tribun Timur, but it has not been portrayed in an overly positive way. Positive and negative stories appeared to be well balanced while the overwhelming majority of articles were written in a neutral style. It was different, however, when it came to reports about individual politicians. In the Palopo section, for example, Golkar legislator Fachri Andi Leluasa was almost exclusively portrayed in a positive light. Even more obvious was this tendency in the case of Jusuf Kalla. The coverage on Kalla was so extremely positive that Tribun Timur sometimes almost resembled a campaign pamphlet for the man who wanted to be (and eventually became) vice-president. For several weeks, Golkar benefited from this phenomenon, but once Kalla had dropped out of the convention the party lost one of its major draw cards.

Conclusion Based on the assumption that Golkar entered the post-New Order era as a highly reified party, this chapter has examined how Golkar utilized various means of political communication in order to reshape its public image without forfeiting its high levels of reification. As the analysis has shown, Golkar’s various strategies have proven to be successful. Eight years after the fall of Suharto, Golkar is indeed still a very well-reified party. The keeping of universally known party symbols such as the party name (even though it was slightly modified), the colour yellow and the banyan tree as well as frequent and comprehensive media coverage throughout the post-Suharto years have secured high levels of name recognition for Golkar and hence enduringly strong levels of reification. Today, it seems indeed inconceivable to imagine the Indonesian party system without Golkar. In many ways, Golkar’s survival as a trademark of Indonesian politics is hardly surprising. Given its more than 40-year long history, and especially its hegemonic status under the New Order, it could be argued that Golkar has basically been guaranteed a place in the collective memory of all Indonesians. Yet, to be remembered for a prominent role in a disgraced regime also bears considerable risks, which is why the party had to develop something like a new corporate identity when the New Order regime crumbled. Party leaders knew

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immediately that this new identity would have to combine elements of both a nostalgic status quo party and a reformist force committed to a competitive multi-party democracy. By 2004, it was evident that the transformation had been successfully accomplished. Despite tremendous changes in the overall political environment, Golkar is still a household name. Arguably, many Indonesians continue to associate the party primarily with the economic prosperity and political stability of long-gone New Order times, but thanks to a smart media strategy the party is now also known as the party that brought Indonesia its first presidential convention. In fact, the role of the media in shaping Golkar’s new image cannot be underestimated. Throughout the post-New Order era television and newspapers have consistently reported on Golkar and while much of the coverage in the early days carried a negative undertone, the party’s image in the press improved year by year. That Golkar was able to use the media so extensively to its own advantage indicates that elements of what Hafidz called ‘feudal culture’ have indeed prevailed in some segments of the Indonesian media. As one of the ‘powerful interests’ Hafidz was referring to, Golkar was assured of a constant media presence while new parties, on the other hand, were struggling to make themselves heard. The figures from the Jakarta Post speak volumes about the imbalance in reporting on political parties in Indonesia. The situation was even more pronounced (if only slightly) in South Sulawesi where Golkar recorded more than a quarter of all party entries in one newspaper during a two-month survey period. However, the section on Sulawesi has also shown that Golkar’s positive image is, at least in this region, closely linked to the image of individual figureheads like Jusuf Kalla or a number of popular bupatis and mayors. It will be interesting to see whether the party will continue to receive so much attention if one day it ceases to be as powerful as it is today.

7

Gauging uneven party institutionalization How strong are the others?

Internal conflict management is not working, the hunger for power overrides the desire to sustain party ideology and the future of the party, and the internal consolidation of the parties is ineffective.1 (Ikrar Nusa Bhakti, as quoted in ‘Internal Conflict Sign of Parties’ Immaturity: Experts,’ Jakarta Post, 2 May 2005)

Introduction The analysis in the preceding four chapters has identified Golkar’s most important institutional strengths and weaknesses. Significantly, and unsurprisingly, the party is not equally institutionalized in all four dimensions. Instead, the analysis has produced a rather mixed picture, revealing remarkably diverging results in the four dimensions. In order to contextualize the various findings appropriately, it is now imperative to compare Golkar’s institutional assets and liabilities with those of its electoral competitors. Only after such a comparative analysis will we be able to answer the question of whether Golkar’s enduring strength can actually be explained as a result of uneven party institutionalization. Moreover, a comparison of the institutional features of all major parties is necessary in order to draw meaningful conclusions about the interplay between party institutionalization and party system institutionalization as well as the impact of this interplay on Indonesia’s democratization process. These conclusions will be presented in Chapter 8. First, however, we need to turn our attention to Golkar’s electoral rivals. Since the beginning of the reformasi era, there has been no shortage of political parties in Indonesia. In 1999, a total of 150 parties had registered with the Ministry of Justice in order to contest Indonesia’s first free elections in 40 years, but only 48 of them were eventually allowed to run. Following the success of the founding elections, new parties continued to mushroom all over the country. By late 2002, the number of officially registered parties had reached 237. After a multi-stage verification process, the KPU eventually declared 24 parties eligible to participate in the 2004 elections.2 The sheer numbers, however, are misleading. The very fact that in both

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elections the vast majority of self-proclaimed parties did not fulfil the eligibility criteria indicates that most Indonesian parties are actually little more than what Von Beyme (1997: 37) once described as ‘taxi parties.’3 In the context of this book, these parties are irrelevant. Instead, the analysis in the following paragraphs will focus on the institutionalization (or lack thereof) of those few parties that acquired more than 5 per cent in either one or both of the two post-Suharto elections.4 As we shall see, levels of institutionalization vary from party to party and from dimension to dimension, but overall the institutionalization record of most major parties is fairly weak. This weakness resulted in substantial losses for all major parties in the 2004 election, thereby confirming the underlying assumption of this book that Golkar’s enduring strength can indeed be explained as a result of uneven party institutionalization. The chapter will be divided into four parts, structured in accordance with the four dimensions of Randall and Svåsand’s party institutionalization model. Beginning with an analysis of systemness, the discussion will then move on to examine issues related to decisional autonomy, before considering the parties’ sources of value infusion. It will finish with an in-depth look at levels of name recognition and patterns of political communication.

Systemness Beginning with the dimension of systemness, it is first important to recall that Golkar’s institutionalization record here is fairly good although not as strong as is often assumed. The lack of reliable formal institutions and the gradual erosion of the party’s local bases have led to unprecedented organizational incoherence. The findings of Chapter 3 have raised questions about the frequently heard opinion that it is Golkar’s superiority in the organizational dimension that mainly accounts for the party’s continued strength. If this assumption were true, it would have to follow that the other parties must actually be extremely weakly institutionalized in terms of systemness since otherwise Golkar could not enjoy superiority with its merely moderate track record. The following section will examine the other parties’ profiles in order to determine whether Golkar’s electoral competitors are really so weak. The answer to this question is mainly in the affirmative. With the partial exception of PKS, all major parties are, to varying degrees, plagued by serious organizational problems including insufficiently developed party apparatuses, personalistic leadership structures, lack of internal democracy, widespread factionalism and inadequate access to financial resources. Problem 1: lack of territorial depth and inferior quality of party functionaries First, hardly any Indonesian party possesses an efficient nationwide party apparatus as yet. The problem is not immediately obvious because most parties have at least formally established their presence all over the country. For example, all

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the big parties have representative offices in all Indonesian provinces.5 Even at district level the gap between Golkar and most of the other parties is in fact only minimal, as can be seen by the fact that, during the election year 2004, most parties claimed to have around 400 district branches (Tim Litbang Kompas 2004). Even the relatively new PD has apparently already succeeded in spreading its network of branch offices over the entire archipelago. When it held its first national congress in May 2005, representatives of 434 district chapters were present.6 The naked figures do not tell the whole story, however. What defines organizational strength at the local level is not so much the quantity of offices,7 which are often deserted anyway, but rather the quality and prestige of the local party executives and their ability to communicate with the people at the grassroots. In this regard, most parties still have a long way to go as recruitment strategies and training programmes are poorly developed.8 The notable exception is PKS, which in the last few years has won numerous well-educated and committed new members through its thoroughly planned, pengajian-based recruitment programme. PKS may be the party with the fewest branch offices of the big seven, but its organizational structure is, in contrast to many other parties, built on a solid basis. As Furkon (2004: 206–8) has observed, PKS combines elements of a cadre party with elements of a mass party, with the ultimate aim of becoming an open, yet restrained mass party that can bring together elite leaders with a mass movement. The lack of competent human resources was particularly evident in the runup to the 2004 elections when parties had to compose their lists of legislative candidates. Many parties struggled to find suitable candidates in their own party ranks. In fact, a great number of candidates for the national parliament and an even larger number of candidates for the local parliaments did not even fulfil basic medical or educational requirements prescribed in the election law when they were originally proposed to the KPU. Consequently, parties had to withdraw numerous candidates from their lists. In the end, the composition of the legislative candidate lists reflected the superiority of Golkar, both in terms of quantity as well as quality of candidates. As Table 7.1 shows, Golkar could eventually nominate almost 100 candidates more than its closest rival, the PDI-P. What is more significant, however, is the fact that Golkar was also the party which had to withdraw the smallest number of candidates. Other parties with a better-educated membership base like PAN, PKS and PD followed suit, whereas the lists of PDI-P, PPP and PKB displayed huge discrepancies between the number of proposed candidates and those who were eventually accepted by the KPU. These figures illustrate the dramatic lack of depth in the human resources reservoir of the latter three parties. Not surprisingly then, it is exactly those three parties that have been most frequently accused of a poor work ethic in parliament and a general lack of understanding of basic legislative proceedings.9 One member of Golkar’s DPR fraction, for example, complained that the other parties have recruited too many political preman, whose lack of professionalism has significantly lowered the quality of the parliament.10

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Table 7.1 Numbers of DPR candidates for the 2004 elections Party

Originally submitted

Eventually accepted

Margin

Golkar PDI-P PKB PPP PD PKS PAN

660 615 538 628 477 469 550

653 555 461 495 439 444 511

–7 –60 –77 –133 –38 –25 –39

Source: Compiled from www.kpu.go.id (accessed 1 August 2004); ‘Para Caleg “Beken” Belum Penuhi Daftar Kekayaan, KPU: Caleg Penuhi Syarat Tak Boleh Diganti,’ Pelita, 8 January 2004.

Where parties cannot recruit capable personnel, their long-term chances of improving their political profile are fairly small. Consequently, their prospects for electoral success are also severely hampered. The 2004 results confirm this assumption as the three parties with the biggest discrepancies between proposed and accepted candidates in the abovementioned list – PDI-P, PPP and PKB – were the parties that suffered the highest losses in the election. However, as we have seen in Chapters 3 and 5, there are also signs that Golkar’s formerly iron grip on human resources is starting to loosen, at least on the local level where smaller parties with comparatively few candidates have successfully focused their campaigns on the appeal of selected individual candidates who, ironically, are often former Golkar cadres. Problem 2: personalistic party structures The second problem is closely related to the first one. Parties without adequate human resources to fill the lower ranks tend to depend almost entirely on an almighty, often charismatic and populist leader. Where party leaders exercise almost unrestrained power, rules and regulations are unlikely to become routinized because crucial institutions like the party constitution are often subject to arbitrary alteration. In Indonesia, parties like PDI-P, PKB, PAN and, in a slightly different form, PD,11 have long been dominated by individual leaders who have not allowed internal party democracy to flourish. The concentration of power in the hands of leaders like Megawati Sukarnoputri (PDI-P), Abdurrahman Wahid (PKB) or Amien Rais (PAN) was generally accepted in the early days of the post-Suharto era when the three carried the hopes of the reformasi movement on their shoulders, but dissatisfaction with their leadership grew after the disappointing 2004 election results. Following the poll, dissident party members tried to hold their leaders accountable for the unsatisfactory electoral performances, but these attempts have largely failed. Amien Rais was the only one who voluntarily relinquished formal control of his party, but he still ensured continuing influence on PAN by pushing through the election of a close confidant, businessman Soetrisno Bachir,

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as new party chairman.12 At the same time, Amien also retained a rather informal yet influential position as chairman of the party’s Advisory Council (Majelis Pertimbangan Partai, MPP).13 In contrast to Amien, Gus Dur and Megawati have not yet expressed any willingness to step aside. On the contrary, despite their parties’ decreasing popularity, both leaders have held on to their power and denied any responsibility for the 2004 electoral backlash. Interestingly, both Megawati and Gus Dur actually maintained their positions with relative ease. Although dissenting party elites had tried hard to mobilize support for their plans to challenge the leaders,14 neither Megawati nor Gus Dur were in real danger of losing their posts as both are revered like deities at the party grassroots.15 As Saiful Mujani (2005) explained in regards to the 2005 PDI-P congress, Megawati’s election could even be regarded as democratic since nearly all local chapters did indeed support the chairwoman and there were no significant protests against her from the party grassroots at the congress. Furthermore, even though Megawati’s election did not exactly occur in accordance with the original congress schedule, rules and regulations were in fact not bent excessively. This was simply not necessary because PDI-P’s requirements for the election of the party chairperson are more symbolic than substantial anyway. According to Mujani (2005) they are basically ‘an expression of loyalty towards Megawati.’ Compared to PDI-P, the situation in PKB was slightly more complicated, mainly owing to the party’s organizational set-up which features a dualistic leadership structure with a consultative board (Dewan Syuro) and an executive board (Dewan Tanfidz). Since 2000 Abdurrahman Wahid has chaired the almighty Dewan Syuro and in 2005 he was re-elected to this post by acclamation. But despite the extensive powers enshrined in the position,16 the leadership of the Dewan Tanfidz is also important to the party’s power structure and in 2005, the election for the Dewan Tanfidz chairman turned into a highly controversial affair. Wahid had endorsed the nomination of three candidates, but rejected the candidature of Saifullah Yusuf because of his involvement in the government.17 Saifullah, however, enjoyed broad support from many influential kiai, which led to serious tensions within PKB. Gus Dur’s idea of a compromise was to let Saifullah run, but only under the condition that he relinquish his posts in the cabinet and in NU’s youth wing Ansor. The organizing committee of the congress, which was controlled by Gus Dur’s preferred candidate Muhaimin Iskandar, immediately adopted this stipulation and proclaimed that candidates holding government posts would be barred from contesting the election.18 In the end, Saifullah withdrew his candidature and Muhaimin was elected as new chairman of PKB’s executive board in the same way as Gus Dur had been elected, namely by acclamation. From the perspective of party institutionalization, the PDI-P and PKB congresses were immensely instructive as they clearly illustrated the huge gap between the power of individual actors and the weakness of institutions. In both cases, rules and regulations were reduced to, as Randall and Svåsand (2002a)

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had described it, ‘a meaningless sham’ as they only served to strengthen the position of the party leaders. If, as in the case of PKB, the leaders perceived their power to be under threat, they could easily bend or amend these regulations at will. The disdain for fixed and reliable institutions was particularly striking during the PKB congress, where Muhaimin’s controversial election led to ‘allegations of manipulation and downright evasion of the party’s charter.’19 The eventual result reaffirmed the overwhelming power of personalism and clientelism as Wahid succeeded in staffing the top organs of the party with close confidants and family members.20 What is more significant, however, is the fact that the events at the congress were not a singular incident, but rather a continuation of previous patterns of conflicts between Abdurrahman Wahid and recalcitrant party executives. As Abu Rokhmad (2005) pointed out, Wahid has always reacted emotionally rather than procedurally to challenges to his authority, especially in mid-2001 when he ordered the suspension of then-party chairman Matori Abdul Djalil,21 and in late 2004 when he fired Matori’s successor as party chairman, Alwi Shihab, and secretary-general Saifullah Yusuf. Problem 3: prevalence of opportunist factionalism and patron–clientelism The conflicts in PKB were prime examples of how personalistic parties attempt to solve internal conflicts. In fact, the two conflicts in 2001 and 2004–5 followed strikingly similar patterns. In both cases, Wahid fired those who dared to defy him, who then refused to accept their dismissal. Challenging the legitimacy of Wahid’s authority, both Matori in 2001 and Alwi and Saifullah in 2004–5 were adamant in their insistence that it was them and not Wahid and his allies who represented the ‘true’ PKB. The Matori episode, which had begun in mid-2001, dragged on for about two years and eventually had to be settled in court as both sides threatened to use the PKB label in the 2004 elections. Similarly, the row between the Alwi/Saifullah camp on the one side and the Wahid/Muhaimin camp on the other side also ended up in the Supreme Court where the Gus Dur faction was, rather unsurprisingly, recognized as the legitimate representative of PKB. But even after the verdict, tensions in the party further escalated when some local party chapters refused to follow directions from the leadership board in Jakarta. This defiance resulted in the closure of 40 branch offices between 2006 and 2007.22 Dismayed by the perpetuate infighting, Saifullah decided to leave the party and joined PPP instead.23 Thus, in the end it seemed as if Abdurrahman Wahid’s grip on the party was still strong enough to stave off the challenge, but the quarrel had cast further shadow on the party’s ability to solve internal disputes in a fair and transparent manner. While factionalism is not necessarily inimical to party institutionalization, the internal disputes within PKB certainly had a damaging impact on the party’s prospects for institutionalization as they were not driven by any form of ideological polarization, but rather by heavily personalized issues of patronage and

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clientelism. It is in fact very unlikely that Alwi and Saifullah would have challenged Gus Dur to the extent that they did in 2004–5, had they not had the power of governmental office to back them up. Similarly, it is very unlikely that the two dissidents would have enjoyed so much support from influential kiai if these kiai did not believe that access to Alwi’s and Saifullah’s government resources would be more beneficial for them than loyalty to an ageing and increasingly unpopular party leader. The volatility of the conflict and the incapability of the party leadership to solve it by the use of widely accepted rules and regulations thus revealed how weakly institutionalized PKB is. PKB is not the only party that has experienced outbreaks of this kind of patronage-induced factionalism. It is a widespread phenomenon that has hit other parties, particularly PDI-P and PPP, but also, though in slightly different forms, PAN and PKS. Arguably, PDI-P is the most straightforward case where factional infighting has followed a fairly clear-cut pattern of patronage and clientelism. After the party had been haunted by occasional outbreaks of factionalism throughout the post-New Order period, tensions escalated when in early 2005 critics of Megawati Sukarnoputri around leading party executive Arifin Panigoro established the so-called ‘PDI-P Reform Movement’ (Gerakan Pembaruan PDI-P).24 However, their resistance to the re-election of Megawati at the 2005 PDI-P congress was hardly driven by genuine concerns for the reformist credentials of the party. Rather, Arifin’s initiative appeared to be motivated primarily by the belief that retaining Megawati as chairperson would bar him and his cronies from access to lucrative government resources as the differences between Megawati and the Yudhoyono administration seemed irreconcilable. Thus, the stakes at the PDI-P congress were set in a very similar fashion to the Golkar congress in late 2004, where then-party leader Akbar Tandjung was also challenged by a power-hungry faction. In contrast to Golkar, however, the power balance within PDI-P proved far more difficult to alter as Megawati, even after two humiliating electoral defeats in 2004, commanded much more support at the party grassroots than Akbar Tandjung ever did. In the end, her unabated mass appeal combined with a few arbitrary ad hoc changes in the congress schedule were enough to secure re-election by acclamation. Soon afterwards, the ringleaders of the reform movement were dismissed from the party.25 Rifts within Indonesia’s oldest Islamic party, PPP, followed a very similar pattern, even though there were at least two major differences that distinguished the factionalism in PPP from the other parties. First, in contrast to PDI-P, PKB or PAN, PPP was never dominated by a charismatic leader. From 1998 to 2007, the party was under the leadership of Hamzah Haz, an experienced but uninspiring career politician who had been active in politics since the early New Order days. As party chairman, he never had as firm a grip on PPP as Megawati, Amien and Gus Dur had on their parties, so that he had to fight much harder to stave off the various challenges to his leadership. A second difference was the fact that the most serious conflict in the party actually led to the establishment of a reasonably successful rival party when the popular preacher Zainuddin MZ defected from PPP and founded the Reform Star Party (Partai Bintang

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Reformasi, PBR).26 In 2004, PBR contested the general elections and reached a respectable 2.44 per cent of the vote.27 The loss of Zainuddin and his supporters was the most serious crack in PPP in the post-Suharto period, but it was not the last. In early 2005, Hamzah faced another challenge to his leadership, when a group around deputy party chairman and cabinet minister Suryadharma Ali organized a huge informal gathering (silaturahmi) which was attended by hundreds of party executives from all administrative levels. At the end of the meeting, the participants demanded that the party’s next national congress be brought forward from 2007 to 2005 in order to allow the party more time to reform itself before the next election in 2009.28 For Hamzah and his followers, the meeting was a barely unveiled attempt to undermine his leadership. ‘It [this informal gathering] was simply a forum for some party executives to express their discontent with the party. It’s a betrayal,’ said one top party cadre close to Hamzah, while another branded the meeting ‘the worst tragedy ever in the party’s history.’29 The conflict quickly escalated into a political farce as the organizers of the meeting were first dismissed from the party, but then, after their supporters had started to occupy the PPP headquarters in Jakarta, readmitted again only two months later. At the same time that the six ringleaders were readmitted to the party, however, several local cadres who had attended the meeting were suspended for their participation.30 In the end, Hamzah somehow won the power struggle, but his leadership was severely weakened by the episode. When the next national congress was eventually held (as originally scheduled, in early 2007), Hamzah declined to contest the chairmanship again. Not surprisingly, his successor at the helm of the party became Suryadharma Ali, the man who had earlier led the challenge against him and whose status as a minister still provided the best access to patronage resources for the party.31 In contrast to PDI-P and PPP, the factional infighting in PAN and PKS appeared to be slightly different. In PAN, for example, the frictions between a secular faction around Faisal Basri and a more devoutly Islamic faction around A. M. Fatwa, which haunted the party between 1999 and 2001, seemed to have at least some ideological underpinnings as they revolved around the general religious orientation of the party and its degree of closeness to Muhammadiyah. In the end, the secular intellectuals lost out, leading to the resignation of Faisal and a few others (Soebekti et al. 2002). However, critical observers have argued that the differences over PAN’s Islamicness were in fact superficial and that the real driving force behind the conflict was the struggle to gain the favour of party chairman Amien Rais.32 In PKS, a party whose success in the 2004 parliamentary election was closely linked to its image as a coherent and professional party, factional tensions broke out in the run-up to the presidential elections. While the party mainstream around then-party leader Hidayat Nur Wahid wanted PKS to support Amien Rais as a presidential candidate, a hardline faction around the party’s secretarygeneral Anis Matta argued that PKS should put its weight behind Golkarnominee Wiranto who in their view had a much better chance of winning than

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Amien. According to Fuller Collins and Fauzi (2005) ‘the split illustrate[d] the tension in PKS between those who seek power in order to achieve Islamist goals and younger idealists committed to Islam and democracy.’ In other words, the factionalism in this party was driven neither by programmatic differences nor by patronage politics. Instead, it revolved around different ideas about what kind of strategy would best help PKS achieve its Islamist ambitions. It was therefore markedly different from the instances of factionalism in the other parties and had a less damaging impact on the party’s public profile. Indeed, it should be emphasized once again that internal conflicts are not always automatically damaging to a party. Rather, the impact of factionalism on a party’s degree of systemness depends on the root causes of the conflict and the applied conflict-resolution mechanisms. If, for example, internal frictions are based on clearly defined ideological or programmatic differences they may actually result in the establishment of institutionalized factions, which in turn may foster the aggregation, integration and representation of societal interests within a party. If, however, they revolve exclusively around short-term, power-oriented objectives, they are usually harmful to a party and its prospects for institutionalization. Clearly, in Indonesia the vast majority of factional conflicts do lack a substantial ideological underpinning. With the exception of the conflict in PAN, which was at least partly a struggle with an ideological undertone, none of the factional infighting within PDI-P, PKB and PPP was actually driven by ideological differences. Instead, all the conflicts were essentially power struggles between dominant party elites and ambitious rival groups. Problem 4: lack of financial resources Another severe problem, finally, is the fact that smaller parties are unable to secure lasting access to sustainable financial resources. While Golkar maintains good connections to the business community and PDI-P has exploited its position as government party between 2001 and 2004, other parties still struggle to open up effective channels of finance. Despite the fact that many big-business conglomerates have started to diversify their political investments, the gap between the financial resources available to Golkar and PDI-P on the one hand and the other parties, on the other hand, is still immense. Parties that cannot generate sufficient funds through donations struggle to finance day-to-day activities and expensive election campaigns because other financial resources are scarce. Membership fees are rarely paid and in some cases even the monthly levies from elected party legislators are not strictly enforced. As one observer has reported of PAN, the party originally set up a monthly Rp.1,000 membership fee, but hardly anyone paid. Similarly, elected DPR members were supposed to pay Rp.1 million per month to the central board, but many legislators did not make this contribution.33 Others, who did pay their fees, sometimes failed to comply with the regulations as they gave the money directly to the chairman instead of the treasurer. Overall, Rizal concluded that Indonesian parties still rely heavily on state resources.34

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These resources, however, have always been limited and were even further reduced in 2005 when the government cut state subsidies for parties drastically. As Mietzner (2007) has shown, this policy change has had a massive impact on many parties and, arguably, has further weakened their prospects for financial sustainability, at least as far as legal channels are concerned. Since parties have responded to the loss of money from subsidies by raising the monthly levies for legislators, many members of parliament have apparently resorted to even more corrupt practices than before, simply in order to be able to fulfil the demands of their central boards (Mietzner 2007: 246). It seems clear, therefore, that a new system of party finance is needed in order to address the dire financial situation many parties are in. At this stage, only the biggest parties Golkar and PDI-P seem to have access to sufficient resources to be competitive. To illustrate the gap between the resources at hand for big-spending parties like Golkar and PDIP on the one hand and smaller parties on the other hand, a look at campaign expenditures during the 2004 election is instructive (see Table 7.2). Final remarks on systemness This section has painted a fairly gloomy picture of party institutionalization in Indonesia. Indeed, most Indonesian parties are still very weakly institutionalized in the dimension of systemness. On paper, they may possess nationwide infrastructures, but often local party representatives in the regions lack either the social prestige or the intellectual qualifications to successfully engage in politics. Hence, they are incapable of popularizing the party by communicating with the local population. As far as party structures are concerned, many parties are dominated by charismatic leaders who do not tolerate dissent within their own rank and file. As a result, internal democracy is poorly developed and written rules and regulations are more or less meaningless. The dominance of individual leaders and the lack of opportunities for other ambitious party elites to achieve top positions in the party hierarchy have led to widespread dissatisfaction, resulting in factionalism, splits and defections. Significantly, in most parties the various groupings appear to be in a permanent process of constituting, falling apart and re-constituting. Indeed, defections from factional groupings are Table 7.2 Campaign expenditures of the major parties during the 2004 election Party

Campaign expenditures (in billion Rp.)

Golkar PDI-P PKB PPP PD PKS PAN

108.28 108.27 8.08 n.a. 8.95 29.36 25.75

Source: Adapted from IFES (2004d: 12).

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equally frequent as new recruitments since none of the various factions possesses any meaningful ideological foundation that could provide a basis for permanency. Although party dissidents are always quick to call themselves ‘reformers,’ they have hardly ever drafted a programmatic reform platform on the basis of which they could legitimately challenge the dominant party elites. Instead, their claim to power is usually motivated by little more than perceived shifts in the balance of power between various contending patronage networks. The only partial exception to this pattern is PKS. This party has put a lot of effort into developing its organizational apparatus through small cells based on religious Qu’ran reading groups. At this point PKS is still fairly small and its infrastructure does not yet cover the entire archipelago, but in contrast to most other parties, it does seem to have the potential to reach high levels of institutionalization. Whether it can use this potential will depend on its ability to maintain its internal coherence (the 2004 episode caused fairly little damage and the party still appears comparatively solid) and the high professional standard of its mostly well-educated cadres. In its relatively short life span, PKS has already achieved a remarkable level of systemness, but it remains to be seen if the party can maintain this strength should it grow into a sizeable mass party.

Decisional autonomy Some of the issues discussed in the previous section are closely related to questions of decisional autonomy. The failure to generate sustainable financial resources, in particular, is almost certain to affect a party’s level of decisional autonomy because it increases the likelihood that parties will resort to corrupt practices (Mietzner 2007). In fact, nearly all the problems discussed in this regard in Chapter 4 are also relevant for parties other than Golkar. Corruption is a problem endemic to Indonesian party politics in general, and Golkar is by no means the only party alleged to have been involved in corrupt practices (ICW 2005). But, given the lack of transparency in parliament, it is basically impossible to determine which party is the worst offender. The only parties whose reputations have not yet been tainted by major corruption scandals are PKS and PD. Maintaining this record, however, will be an uphill task for these two parties. If the development of other parties which started as ‘reformist’ parties in 1998 is anything to go by, prospects are not exactly good. Another problem related to the issues discussed in the preceding section is the prevalence of personalistic party structures. As a matter of fact, excessive personalism is harmful to institutionalization if the party as a collective actor loses its decisional autonomy at the expense of small oligarchic elites or an individual leader. The problem has already been emphasized in regard to Golkar, and it is hardly surprising that it is even more pronounced in parties with more personalistic organizational structures than Golkar. Indeed, in parties like PKB, PDI-P and, to a lesser extent, after Amien Rais’s withdrawal from active politics, PAN, important policy or personnel decisions are not always made in accordance with the relevant party institutions, but rather by a handful of selected confidants of an

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almighty party leader. PDI-P is particularly notorious in this regard as Megawati and her clan around husband and party functionary Taufik Kiemas continue to exert immeasurable power at the top of the party. Even PKS, a party that likes to portray itself as progressive and member-friendly (peduli, caring), has been accused of concentrating power in the hands of a few while excluding its membership base from important decision-making processes (Wanandi 2007). Ultimately, decisional autonomy in Indonesian parties does not rest with the party and its members, but with oligarchic elites at the top. Here, the concept of decisional autonomy as conceptualized by Randall and Svåsand (2002a) is, as already indicated in Chapter 4, in real need of modification in order to accommodate cases where institutionalization of decisional autonomy is not so much undermined by external actors, but rather by individuals who are in fact members of the party. Apart from the above-mentioned issues, there are more ‘traditional’ problems that affect party institutionalization in the dimension of decisional autonomy. In particular, the issue of overlapping organizational structures between parties and external sponsoring organizations is of great concern, especially with PKB and PAN, which maintain close relationships with Islamic mass organizations. But other parties are not immune from external interference, as the brief example of the military will show. Parties and interference from external actors: the military Although there are now no formal organizational links between the TNI and any of the big parties, and although the formal political role of the armed forces has been drastically reduced in the post-Suharto era, its influence on politics remains strong, especially in areas that were until recently home to communal or separatist conflict (Kingsbury 2003). As far as interference in party politics is concerned, there is little evidence in terms of outright intervention, but as described in Chapter 4, the military continues to find ways to put pressure on party politicians, especially at the local level where it participates in the Muspida. Moreover, it is widely believed that until recently the military did exert considerable influence on political parties during local elections, at least as long as these elections were conducted indirectly in local parliaments. It is, however, significant to note that where it did get involved the TNI did not give unconditional support to its former ally Golkar. Rather, as Honna (2006) has shown in an interesting comparison of the military’s role in gubernatorial elections in three Javanese provinces, it decided on a case-to-case basis which party to support and which one to undermine. In the run-up to the 2003 West Java governor election, for instance, pressure from the local military commander forced PDI-P to withdraw its original contender and replace him with a candidate more favourable to the military. In East Java, on the other hand, a PDI-P candidate won the governor election thanks to the interference of the local TNI command, which resented the election favourite who had been nominated by a PKB-Golkar coalition. In Central Java, finally, the military took sides in a bitter internal conflict in PDI-P and thus helped pave the way for the victory

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of the Megawati-backed candidate Mardiyanto, who, just like the governor-elect of East Java Imam Utomo, happened to be a former military commander. While all three cases demonstrated the various parties’ susceptibility to external interference, it should be stressed that the main reason for this weakness is the lack of systemness as most parties do not have the organizational solidity needed to fend off these attempts at interference from the military. Thus, the limitations in decisional autonomy can be linked directly to the weak institutionalization in the dimension of systemness. Parties and interference from external actors: the case of Muhammadiyah and PAN While the armed forces can compromise the decisional autonomy of any given party, social mass organizations like NU and Muhammadiyah are more closely tied to particular parties, namely PKB and PAN. Both parties seem to be borderline cases in regards to decisional autonomy, with PAN probably more independent than its traditionalist counterpart. PAN was founded in 1998 by former Muhammadiyah chairman Amien Rais with the objective of establishing a modern, pluralistic party that should not exist entirely at the mercy of Muhammadiyah. In the run-up to the 1999 election, Amien walked a tightrope between appealing to his loyal modernist Muslim constituency and to a newly emerging reformist, but not necessarily Islamic constituency attracted to PAN’s progressive image (Ghazali 2000: 188). As it turned out, Amien was unable to accommodate the interests of both groups. In the 1999 election, PAN only reached a disappointing 7.12 per cent and soon afterwards, internal infighting between proponents of a pluralistic and a more upfront modernist Muslim approach broke out. As the latter won the battle for influence, PAN tied its fate increasingly closer to Muhammadiyah. Having alienated many of its original supporters, the party has now achieved exactly what it tried to avoid in the beginning, namely to be perceived as little more than a political vehicle for ambitious Muhammadiyah people.35 Yet, while the relations between the party and its supporting mass organization are undeniably close, so far there is little evidence that the party’s actual decisional autonomy is compromised by this close relationship. According to Randall and Svåsand’s conceptualization of autonomy as a dimension of party institutionalization, close links between parties and social movements do not necessarily compromise a party’s autonomy as long as the actual power to make political decisions autonomously rests entirely in the hands of the party’s central leadership board. A look at PAN’s central board reveals that the highest party offices are in fact not exclusively occupied by Muhammadiyah officials.36 Technically at least, the party is indeed independent. On the other hand, the party’s mere existence still relies heavily on electoral support from Muhammadiyah members and supporters so that it seems almost inconceivable to think of PAN without Muhammadiyah.37 Therefore, it seems rather difficult to classify PAN in the dimension of decisional autonomy. On paper, autonomy is guaranteed, but in

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practice the party cannot afford to make decisions against the interests of Muhammadiyah. Parties and interference from external actors: the case of Nahdlatul Ulama and PKB While PAN appears to be in a somewhat grey area, PKB is a party whose decisional autonomy is indeed severely restricted. This is not only because of its close relationship with Nahdlatul Ulama, but also because of its dependence on its eccentric founder Abdurrahman Wahid. When PKB was established in 1998, it was widely regarded as the political voice of NU. Despite Gus Dur’s frequent rhetoric about a secular party, most of the newly appointed party cadres perceived their party to be the vehicle for the interests of NU: Let Gus Dur talk about nationalism. He is the paramount politician, he has to think strategically. But the reality is here on the ground. Look at the party. The leaders are NU, the structures are NU, the procedures are NU, even the jokes are NU. There is no doubt that this is an NU party. (Ma’ruf Amin, as quoted in Mietzner 2004: 232) The influence of NU in PKB was manifest from the beginning in the party’s organizational structure and in the selection of personnel for the executive and consultative boards (Choirie 2002: 221). Party founder and ex-NU chairman Abdurrahman Wahid has been in charge of the almighty Dewan Syuro for most of the time since the party was established,38 and the majority of other positions of power have been dominated by NU-affiliated kiai. Nevertheless, the relations between PKB and NU have not always been as smooth as Wahid may have intended them to be when he founded the party. In fact, PKB has grown increasingly independent of NU in recent years, but it has to be noted that this process was not initiated by PKB officials, but rather by the NU leadership. Under its chairman Hasyim Muzadi, NU has indeed gradually begun to dissociate itself from PKB. This led to growing tensions between Wahid and Hasyim, especially after Hasyim refused to support Gus Dur during the latter’s fight against his presidential impeachment in mid-2001. In the lead-up to the 2004 elections, the gap widened when Hasyim did not issue an edict calling on NU members to vote for PKB. The tensions eventually had a direct impact on the debate over PKB’s nominee for the presidential election in 2004. As Wahid insisted on his own nomination despite his poor health, the PKB leadership had its hands tied when the big parties Golkar and PDI-P began their search for suitable vice-presidential candidates from smaller parties. While leading NU officials preferred the nomination of an independent vice-presidential candidate instead of Wahid as a presidential candidate, the ailing ex-president pressured his party to continue with his own nomination.39 In the end Wahid’s candidature was annulled by the KPU due to his poor health, and PKB decided to nominate Wahid’s younger brother, the

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relatively unknown Solahuddin Wahid, as running mate for Golkar candidate Wiranto. Hasyim Muzadi, meanwhile, ran as vice-presidential candidate for Megawati Sukarnoputri. In many ways, the episode was a political farce as PKB was basically held hostage by its eccentric founder. More importantly, however, the episode revealed that PKB as a party was actually far less important to the political dynamics of the presidential election than NU itself. As PKB stubbornly insisted on nominating Gus Dur, the big parties PDI-P and Golkar who were in search of vice-presidential candidates for their own presidential hopefuls only halfheartedly approached the PKB leadership. Instead, they directly contacted NU leader Hasyim Muzadi and asked him to join Megawati or Wiranto respectively.40 The manoeuvre and especially Hasyim’s eventual acceptance of Megawati’s offer angered Gus Dur and his followers in PKB, further deepening the split between the party and its supporting organization. When the presidential elections were eventually held, Gus Dur demonstratively refused to support the Megawati–Hasyim pairing, while cautiously giving his blessing to Wiranto and Solahuddin Wahid. Final remarks on decisional autonomy PKB may be an exceptional case because the party is dependent not only on an external organization, but also on the arbitrary goodwill of an often irrational individual. But despite the exceptionality of this particular case, it can be concluded that most parties are weakly institutionalized in the dimension of decisional autonomy. For instance, with the exception of PKS and PD, all parties have been restricted in their decisional autonomy by the persuasive power of money. The various corruption scandals that have rocked regional parliaments and governments usually involved politicians from a broad range of parties. PKS and PD have so far managed to remain relatively aloof from this entrenched corruption, but it remains to be seen how long its legislators will be able to resist the temptations that come with the power of office. Moreover, most parties, especially those with strong leaders like PDI-P, PKB and, until recently, PAN, have weakly developed organizational autonomy as crucial strategic decisions are usually made by dominant elites at the level of the top leadership. In addition to these problems, the military always represents a latent threat to decisional autonomy, especially on the local level where it continues to exert immense pressure on local party politicians. Finally, two parties are further limited in their decisional autonomy by their relationship with religious mass organizations. PKB and PAN recruit a lot of personnel from NU and Muhammadiyah respectively and can therefore not afford to make decisions against the will of their sponsor organizations. PKB in particular will face an uphill task should it wish to emancipate itself from Nahdlatul Ulama.

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Value infusion Where parties are closely affiliated with social movements, it is fair to expect that they represent certain values, namely those which are associated with these movements. Therefore, a questionable record in the dimension of decisional autonomy may very well go hand in hand with a high degree of value infusion. But as the discussion in Chapter 5 has already shown, conclusions about value infusion need to be drawn very cautiously as it is often difficult to distinguish between genuine values and purely populist mass appeal. When Indonesia began its democratization process in 1998, the country had endured more than three decades of authoritarian rule under a president whose openly declared goal it was to eradicate the influence of political or religious ideologies which he perceived as divisive. Golkar was an archetypical product of this era, developed to serve the state without any kind of ideological trademark identity except for the New Order mantra of pancasila. The lack of political competition during Suharto’s authoritarian regime made it essentially pointless for Golkar to craft a value-based ideology as the machinations of the system ensured that there was no need to actually woo voters and convince them with sophisticated political ideas. After the end of the New Order, however, things changed. As restrictions on the formation of new parties were lifted, Indonesia seemed destined for a revival of the ideological fervour that had dominated the party system before the New Order. Even though the ban on communism has remained in place in the postSuharto period, many of the parties that were established in the heady days of 1998–9 seemed indeed to be more or less legitimate descendants of the old parties of the 1950s. As Tan (2004) observed, ‘Indonesia’s parties are, in effect, older than they appear to be.’ Yet, as this section will make clear, this claim is only partly true. While the aliran structures that once provided the political and religious bases for the emergence of parties like PNI, NU or Masyumi may not yet be entirely defunct, their ability to shape allegiances between parties and voters in the reformasi era has somewhat faded as electoral choices seem to be determined more often on the basis of psychological factors, especially people’s emotional attachment to national or local leaders. Hybrid parties: value infusion between personalism and rootedness The prevalence of personalism and clientelism is a common phenomenon all over the world, especially in many newly democratizing countries. Often, it is one of the major reasons for the weak institutionalization of political parties (Mainwaring and Torcal 2005: 18), even though it should be emphasized that personalism is not always inimical to party institutionalization. Under certain auspicious circumstances, there is actually potential for institutionalization, at least if a party can manage to combine the appeal of its leader with supporting ideological factors based on religious, regional or socio-economic cleavages.41 In Indonesia, there are indeed a few parties that potentially fall into this

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hybrid category. Parties like PDI-P, PKB and PAN have long been dominated by their charismatic founders Megawati Sukarnoputri, Abdurrahman Wahid and Amien Rais, who have not only enjoyed almost unlimited power within their parties but whose charismatic appearance has also overwhelmingly shaped the public image of their respective parties. At the same time, however, these three parties also seem to have relatively strong roots in certain societal milieux. Accordingly, many people regard them, to varying degrees, as successor organizations to the respective parties of the 1950s, namely PNI, NU and Masyumi (Baswedan 2004b, Tan 2004, King 2003, Suryadinata 2002, Ufen 2006). Indeed, the socio-cultural and socio-economic profiles of their constituencies are startlingly similar to those of their spiritual predecessors (King 2003: 121). More precisely, PDI-P and PKB supporters are overwhelmingly concentrated in the rural areas of Java where levels of formal education and material wealth are low whereas PAN’s strongholds are primarily in Sumatra and among the wealthier, better-educated classes of Java’s urban centres (LP3ES 2004, King 2003: 150–8). The combination of charismatic leaders and strong social roots has helped PKB and PAN to maintain reasonably stable support bases in both postSuharto elections. In fact, the two parties achieved very similar results in both elections, not only on the national, but also on the provincial level.42 PDI-P, on the other hand, lost massively in 2004, but nonetheless it could be argued that the party’s core constituency seems to remain relatively stable as the 1999 results did not reflect the party’s real strength.43 Non-hybrid parties: how PPP, PD and PKS attract supporters Yet, not all parties fit into this cluster. A party with a different kind of historical lineage, for example, is PPP. Established in the early New Order days as an artificial amalgam of traditionalist and modernist Islamic parties, the party has something like a split personality and consequently lacks a clearly defined constituency.44 Of course, the party is based upon Islam as its core value, but apart from symbolic gestures like Hamzah Haz’s much-publicized solidarity with Islamist terror suspect Abu Bakar Ba’asyir or the former chairman’s controversial role in the polygamy debate in 2006, PPP has given fairly little substance to its Islamic identity in recent years. Moreover, the party also suffers from the fact that, as a legacy of the New Order, it has failed to produce a strong and charismatic leader who could convey the party’s Islamic message more forcefully than long-term chairman Hamzah Haz or his successor Suryadharma Ali. While it may be too early to judge Ali’s performance, Hamzah certainly did not match the appeal of the likes of Megawati, Amien or Gus Dur. Someone whose charisma could easily outdo that of the above-mentioned three leaders is Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono (SBY). Although SBY’s charisma is arguably more situational than pure,45 in 2004 it was still sufficient to help the relatively new PD win a widely unexpected 7 per cent in the legislative election. SBY’s decision to sponsor the formation of PD in 2001 was one of the most blatant attempts to build a party which relies almost entirely on the charismatic

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appeal of a single individual, even though the former general was actually never actively involved in the party’s day-to-day affairs.46 Following SBY’s ascendance to the highest office, PD has been able to ‘bandwagon’ on the president’s popularity and to solidify its position in many Indonesians’ minds. According to regular surveys conducted by the Indonesian Survey Institute, the party averaged popularity rates of around 16 per cent between April 2004 and March 2007 (Lembaga Survei Indonesia 2007), making it a serious contender for the 2009 election. The only party to rival PD’s result in 2004 was the Islamist PKS. This party, however, built its success on a completely different strategy. While its chairman at the time of the election, Hidayat Nur Wahid, was certainly very popular,47 PKS never attempted to exploit populist sentiment, but rather concentrated on disseminating a genuine political programme based on religious and political values. With its grassroots-oriented approach, PKS seems to have lifted Islamic politics in Indonesia into a new dimension. The party relies neither on the supportive power of affiliated mass organizations nor on nostalgic sentiments about labels like traditionalism or modernism. Instead, PKS promotes its own brand of Islam which is based on its self-perception as a dakwah48 party and a strategy to recruit new members primarily through small cells of pengajian groups (Furkon 2004). This innovative approach to religion and politics, along with the overall resurgence of the Islamic faith not only in Indonesia but also globally, has won PKS many supporters. Thus, the party appears to have emerged at the right time in the right place. As Fox (2005) wrote in his address to a seminar on PKS in July 2005: Islam is in one of its greatest creative periods and Indonesia is a focal point for this creativity. I would hope PKS is able to call on the full spectrum of this creativity in formulating viable ideas on governance within an Islamic context. PKS has the potential to provide a model for the future. (Fox 2005) Interestingly, however, in the election campaign of 2004 the party avoided too open a promotion of religious issues in favour of a more broadly acceptable campaign opposing corruption, moral decadence and dishonesty in politics. In many ways, this strategy demonstrated how remarkably adept PKS leaders were at reading the public mood. In a survey published just two weeks before the elections, ‘a party’s honesty and morality’ was named as the most important consideration for voters (IFES 2004c).49 Of those who intended to vote for PKS, 58 per cent said that honesty and integrity are important attributes for a party. Some observers, however, have criticized this tactic, arguing that the party itself was not being honest as it was hiding its real intentions from the public. Yet, what exactly these intentions are remains unclear. Critics of the party of course do not tire of accusing PKS leaders of striving for the reintroduction of the Jakarta Charter, which would effectively pave the way for Indonesia to become an Islamic state. But senior party figures have repeatedly dismissed

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these accusations. According to former party chairman Hidayat Nur Wahid (2005: 4), for example, ‘PKS promotes the adoption of the “Medina Charter” instead of the Jakarta Charter.’50 Clearly, Islam is a defining feature of the party. In fact, one may argue that PKS is the only big party for which Islam is not just a label but a real value. As party executive Untung Wahono said, ‘Islam is the spirit of the party.’51 At the same time, however, the party faces increasingly difficult challenges now that it is involved in top-level power politics. How problematic it can be to maintain the unblemished image of a purist Islamic party has already been shown by a number of local elections where PKS nominated or supported candidates whose track records were not exactly in accordance with the party’s otherwise strict guidelines on religious piety (examples include the pilkada in Jakarta, Bengkulu, Papua and South Sulawesi).52 Only time will tell how the party will manage this balancing act between visionary idealism and opportunistic pragmatism. Based on the characteristics described in this paragraph, the constituencies of Indonesia’s biggest parties can be displayed – in simplified form – in a matrix (see Table 7.3). Is there a causal connection between social background and voting behaviour? The matrix gives interesting insights into the socio-cultural and socio-economic structure of the major parties’ constituencies, but it does not explain why exactly people from certain backgrounds vote for certain parties. Proponents of oldestablished aliran approaches would argue that it is the social milieu itself that determines electoral behaviour. In the absence of parties which clearly articulate convincing policy platforms people decide about their electoral preferences in accordance with their understanding of deeply rooted political traditions, which were carved into their political consciousness back in the 1950s. For example, a

Table 7.3 Electoral constituencies of major parties Party

Charismatic leader

Golkar PDI-P PKB PPP

No Yes Yes No

PD PKS PAN

Yes No Yes

Constituency Islam/secular

Java/non-Java Urban/rural Class*

Both Secular Traditionalist Islam Traditionalist and modernist Islam Secular ‘New’ Islam Modernist Islam

Non-Java Java Java

Rural Rural Rural

Lower class Lower class Lower class

Both Both Both Both

Rural Urban Urban Urban

Lower class Middle class Middle class Middle class

Note *Class is determined on the basis of educational standards and household incomes.

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becak driver from a small town in Central Java will vote for PDI-P because he naturally dislikes Islamic parties and perceives PDI-P as the party that will fight for the wong cilik (little people). Similarly, a poor illiterate peasant from East Java will vote for PKB simply because he believes that this party represents the interests of his particular social community. And a well-educated devout Muslim from West Sumatra will vote for PAN because this is the party that he will probably associate with the interests of Muhammadiyah and the wider modernist community. Critics of the aliran approach do not dispute that sociological factors have an impact on party affiliation and voting behaviour. Neither do they dispute that there is significant overlap between the contemporary party system and that of the 1950s. However, they challenge the notion that present-day electoral behaviour and the evolution of the post-Suharto party system are predominantly based on the prevalence of frozen aliran structures. Rather, they contend that religious affiliations and other social cleavages are only secondary factors in the determination of voting preferences. In particular, they debunk the myth that aliran structures are too inflexible to allow, for example, a devout Muslim (santri) to vote for a secular party. As Liddle and Mujani (2000: 41) wrote in their highly influential paper about the 1999 elections, ‘[I]t is true that santri tended to vote for santri parties and non-santri for non-santri parties, but the relationship is not nearly as strong as the conventional wisdom, held for decades, would have us believe.’ According to Liddle and Mujani, it is not religious or regional sentiment created by old, established cleavage structures but rather emotional attachment to national leaders that provides the strongest incentive for people to vote for certain parties. The authors substantiate their argument with extensive survey data, concluding that ‘Indonesian voters are strongly attached to national party leaders. This attachment appears to be a principal reason for their choice of party, more important than any of the other psychological or sociological factors, including party identification’ (Liddle and Mujani 2000: 33).53 The 2004 election results seem to have strengthened Liddle and Mujani’s argument, but the ultimate solution in this debate between aliran and personalistic approaches will only be determined after leaders like Megawati, Gus Dur and Amien Rais will have left the political stage. If Liddle and Mujani are correct with their leadership thesis, PDI-P, PKB and PAN will then lose their main sources of value infusion and suffer serious electoral consequences unless they are taken over by equally charismatic leaders. In the long term, these parties would be degraded to an increasingly marginal role in the party system, especially if new parties with more persuasive values or personalities emerge in their familiar social environment. The recent rise of parties like PD (in the milieu of PDI-P) and PKS (in the milieu of PAN) may be harbingers of things to come. If, however, the proponents of the aliran school are to be believed, then PDI-P, PKB and PAN should outlive their founders and continue to represent the interests of certain socio-cultural and socio-economic groups long after their founders have disappeared from active politics.

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Final remarks on value infusion So far, Amien Rais has been the only one who has agreed to gradually relinquish power in his party. By arranging an orderly leadership succession Amien has indeed given PAN a good chance to follow the process described at the beginning of this section, namely to combine personalistic appeal with supporting ideological factors in order to eventually become ‘valuable in and of itself’ (Panebianco 1988: 53). PDI-P and PKB, on the other hand, have not yet shown any signs of contemplating a future without their respective leaders. Similarly, PD appears destined to remain utterly dependent on the appeal of its figurehead Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono. In view of the overall trend towards personalism in the wake of direct presidential, gubernatorial and bupati elections, the shortterm future of these parties may look bright. PD, in particular, continues to ride high on the wave of SBY’s popularity. But personal charisma is usually an ephemeral asset and not an enduring value. As a matter of fact, the appeal of charismatic leaders often evaporates just as fast as it emerged. While for PDI-P, PKB and PAN the final verdict on their main source of value infusion (and hence on their degree of institutionalization) may still be out, PD can certainly be labelled as weakly institutionalized in this dimension. And as long as the party continues to focus its entire appeal on SBY’s personality, the prospects for improvement appear bleak. A more positive scenario beckons for PKS. Arguably, the party which in 1999 still failed to pass the electoral threshold of then 2 per cent is the only Indonesian party that has put a real effort into developing its programmatic profile. As a result, it has emerged as a new form of Islamic party, which appears much more committed to linking its religious identity with political issues than for example PAN and PKB. One obvious formal indicator is that PKS firmly states Islam as its core ideology,54 whereas PAN and PKB leaders have decided to base their parties on pancasila rather than Islam. The only other straightforwardly Islamic party is PPP, but apart from the kabah in the respective party logos PPP and PKS have little in common. As PPP relies primarily on an image it inherited from its past, the party seems destined to disappear from the political map unless it rejuvenates both its personnel and its public image.55 The success of PKS in 2004 indicated that Islamic party politics in Indonesia may be heading in a new direction. In the immediate aftermath of the fall of Suharto, numerous new Islamic parties were founded, but few if any (apart from PKS, then still called PK) had the courage to develop a sophisticated long-term strategy. This was even more remarkable in view of the fact that after years of depoliticization, the transition from New Order authoritarianism to a more democratic system offered an unprecedented chance to redefine Islam as a political force. Instead of looking towards the future, however, many new parties tried to win votes by revitalizing the past. PKS dared to be different and in 2004 reaped the benefits. For its supporters, the party is now in a good position to fill the ideological void that has existed on the Islamic side of Indonesian politics ever since

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Masyumi was banned in 1960. But Islamic politics in Indonesia is full of pitfalls and the aggressive pursuit of a religious agenda carries immense risks. In 2004, PKS leaders appeared to be aware of these pitfalls when they preferred to portray the party as an anti-corruption force rather than a staunchly Islamic party. But after the election, they quickly abandoned this stance and soon made headlines with their purist policies in parliament.56 At the same time, however, the party also demonstrated that it is not entirely immune to the temptations of power politics, as was evident, for example, in a number of pilkada. Both the renewed puritanism in parliament and the unprecedented opportunism in electoral politics have alienated certain segments of the party’s constituency. As the party struggled to find the middle ground and reshape its image, it slumped in the opinion polls (Lembaga Survei Indonesia 2006, 2007).57 In early 2007, figures were on the rise again, but it remains to be seen how the party will position itself in the run-up to the 2009 election.

Reification The huge popularity of national leaders discussed in the previous section raises questions about the ability of parties to establish themselves in the long term as household names in Indonesian politics. Where leaders are more popular than parties, public awareness of parties may be low and in fact be dependent on the name recognition of the individual leaders. Yet, as Janda (1980) has argued, a political party can only become institutionalized if it is reified in the people’s mind as an organization regardless of its current leader. Taken at face value, this requirement is impossible to fulfil for most Indonesian parties, simply because they are still very young organizations that have not yet or only just experienced a change of leadership. Nonetheless, this section will attempt to draw a few preliminary conclusions and try to determine to what extent the big parties have already become reified after the first decade of reformasi. In order to do that, the analysis will mainly rely on extensive survey data and an evaluation of media coverage during the 2004 election year. As we shall see, Indonesia’s parties are very unevenly institutionalized in this dimension, with PDI-P seemingly solidly reified in the people’s mind, while at the other end of the spectrum PKS is still struggling to establish itself as a household name in Indonesian politics. Reification and name recognition According to Randall and Svåsand (2002a: 23), party reification is first and foremost ‘a function of longevity.’ Most of Indonesia’s parties, however, are not very old yet, even though the aforementioned similarities to certain parties of the 1950s may suggest otherwise. Despite similarities in appearance, it is important to note in the context of reification that none of the big parties of the 1950s was actually revived in its original form. The probable reason for the reluctance to establish more direct links to Indonesia’s first period of parliamentary democracy appears to be the lasting impact of more than 40 years of anti-party propa-

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ganda during the Guided Democracy and New Order periods. In view of this ‘legacy of anti-party attitudes’ (Tan 2002: 490) none of the major leaders who spearheaded the reformasi movement in 1998 was willing to take the risk of claiming to reconstitute parties like PNI, NU or Masyumi.58 Thus, it is hardly surprising that today Indonesia’s oldest parties are those that were created during the Suharto years, namely Golkar, PPP and, arguably, PDI-P.59 All other major parties are genuine products of the reformasi era, including PKB, PAN and PKS (all of which were set up in the immediate aftermath of Suharto’s resignation in 1998),60 as well as PD, which was founded as recently as 2001 (see Table 7.4). In view of the fact that most parties are relatively new organizations, they can hardly be expected to be institutionalized in the dimension of reification. And indeed, this hypothesis can easily be confirmed by simply looking at the levels of name recognition for individual parties. Thanks to the ever-improving quality of surveys and polling institutions in Indonesia, public awareness of political parties is now easy to measure. IFES, for example, has regularly asked Indonesians about their awareness of political parties and the results clearly show how unevenly institutionalized Indonesian parties are in this regard. As Table 7.5 illustrates, only Golkar and PDI-P are already household names in Indonesia. The figures depicted in Table 7.5 have three major implications. First, they Table 7.4 Foundation dates of major parties Party

Date of establishment

Date of official declaration

Golkar PDI-P PKB PPP PD PKS PAN

20 October 1964 1 February 1999 23 July 1998 5 January 1973 9 September 2001 20 April 2002 23 August 1998

8 March 1999 14 February 1999 23 July 1998 5 January 1973 17 October 2002 20 April 2003 23 August 1998

Source: Compiled from Tim Litbang Kompas (2004a).

Table 7.5 Name recognition of parties, 1999–2005 (in per cent) Party

1999, pre-election

1999, post-election

2001

2003

2005

Average

Golkar PDI-P PKB PPP PD PKS PAN

86 83 60 84 – 22 67

92 99 82 76 – 22 84

81 83 60 52 – n.a. 51

88 84 58 68 – 17 57

92 90 61 67 79 48 64

88 88 64 69 79 27 65

Source: Compiled from IFES, various surveys.

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largely confirm that reification is indeed first and foremost a question of longevity. Over a period of six years, Golkar and PDI-P have had by far the highest average levels of name recognition, followed by the other New Order survivor PPP. On the other hand, those three parties that were established in the early reformasi years (PKB, PAN and PKS) have not yet been able to improve their public profile much. Levels of name recognition for PKB and PAN have basically remained stagnant since 1999, while PKS has at least recently improved its standing, thanks to its impressive election results. Nonetheless, in 2005 the party was still only known to about half of the population, lagging far behind the other big parties. Second, the figures also confirm that name recognition of parties is, at least to a certain extent, directly linked to name recognition of their leaders. This conclusion is not only supported by the huge discrepancy in the figures for PDI-P and PPP, but especially by the extraordinarily high levels of recognition for PD. Yet, PD’s figures do not say much about the sustainability of personalistic parties. In fact, it is rather questionable that a party like PD will be able to retain such high levels of name recognition in the long term. While it may be too early to say if the party will outlast its charismatic founder, all indications point to the assumption that PD will only remain a temporary phenomenon, intrinsically tied to the political fortunes of SBY. Third, the figures reveal that levels of name recognition for most parties were at their peak in the aftermath of the 1999 elections, thereby reflecting the unprecedented – and still unmatched – euphoria that surrounded these founding elections. Figures of recognition then almost invariably declined in the 2001 and 2003 surveys, before rising again in 2005. These findings are in broad conformity with earlier suggestions that most parties have remained largely inactive outside the election periods. Indeed, the figures signify that there is a direct link between weak organizational structures and low levels of name recognition, especially in the cases of PKB, PAN and PPP. Where parties have only limited resources to conduct regular party activities outside the quinquennial elections, chances to enhance their public profile are severely restricted as they are unable to interact directly with the public. On the other hand, however, figures for Golkar and PDI-P are consistently high, and PD has scored an extraordinary result in the only survey in which it was included. In order to explain these findings it is imperative not only to look at how parties interact with their members and supporters through their very own party infrastructure, but also at how they communicate with the wider public. Hence, we now turn our attention to the role of the mass media. The role of the media As a matter of fact, access to the media is crucially important for any party that wishes to achieve high levels of name recognition. Nowhere has this been more obvious than during Golkar’s presidential convention which turned out to be a public relations masterpiece. Probably the only event that was similarly success-

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ful in regards to its impact on electoral outcomes was SBY’s populist exploitation of his rift with Megawati and her husband Taufik Kiemas in early 2004 (Luwarso et al. 2004: 8–14.). While this row was primarily intended to enhance the former general’s chances of becoming president, it was his party, PD, which was the first to benefit from the political aftershocks of SBY’s resignation from the cabinet. The rise of PD was an extraordinary example of how the mass media can help to rapidly enhance a certain party’s level of name recognition as long as this party can provide an appealing eye-catcher. It is indeed significant to note that in early 2005 more than three quarters of Indonesians were aware of PD, whereas the utterly non-personalistic PKS was not even known to half of the population, even though it had gained almost as many votes as PD. As two in three Indonesians watch television almost every day (Asia Foundation 2003: 159), it is clear that the electronic media can indeed have a huge impact on a party’s ability to establish itself as a household name. Newspapers and magazines, on the other hand, appear somewhat less important for raising awareness for parties as their capacity to reach the large rural masses is limited. Nonetheless, their influence on the urban intelligentsia should not be underestimated. In Indonesia’s post-authoritarian environment, the media have been very eager in their efforts to distribute political information. Yet, although parties feature regularly in the news, it is noteworthy that these news often carry a negative undertone. In the press, parties are often presented as selfish, corrupt and unprofessional. This is even more significant in view of the fact that ‘the press in Indonesia carries a moral authority and political weight not seen in many industrialized, First World, countries’ (Heryanto and Adi 2001: 329). Arguably, the negative coverage has directly contributed to what Tan (2002) has described as an ‘anti-party reaction’ in Indonesia. PDI-P and PKB have been criticized particularly often because of their enduring problems with factional infighting and their bad track record in parliament. In response to widespread criticism and declining popularity figures, PDI-P has repeatedly misused its position as government party, resorting to dubious political practices in order to gain advantages on the media market. For example, in early 2004 PDI-P allegedly placed loyal editors into crucial positions in two leading TV stations and a newspaper.61 Moreover, the party violated various regulations on advertising during the three-week-long campaign period. According to a respected media watchdog, PDI-P spots not only breached restrictions on length, but also regulations on frequency (Election News Watch, Nos 1–3).62 Overall, however, it needs to be stressed that these violations were rather marginal. Yet the overwhelming dominance of PDI-P on all major television stations was manifest, even if the outright violations of campaign regulations are left aside. As Table 7.6 illustrates, in the first week of campaigning PDI-P fielded more advertisements than all its nearest rivals put together and more than three times more than Golkar. Since advertisement slots were priced at between Rp.2–20 million,63 PDI-P’s massive campaign was a clear indication of the

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Table 7.6 Frequency of TV appearances of major parties during the 2004 campaign Party

Number of reports (period covered: 8–25 March 2004)

Number of advertisements (period covered: 11–15 March 2004)

Golkar PDI-P PKB PPP PD PKS PAN

446 457 169 241 158 200 255

147 486 16 1 0 72 127

Source: Compiled from Election News Watch, various issues.

immense financial resources at its disposal.64 But PDI-P not only dominated the advertisement market, it was also the party which featured most prominently in the daily news reports during the campaign period.65 Along with Golkar, PDI-P clearly dominated the election coverage at the expense of smaller parties, thereby indirectly influencing undecided voters who might be susceptible to ‘bandwagoning’ with the party they see most frequently in the media (Election News Watch No. 3). While there was apparently no open partisanship towards any of the parties in the vast majority of media outlets,66 the very fact that PDI-P and Golkar received so much more coverage than the smaller parties was already somewhat unfair as it gave these two parties a far bigger chance to bombard the electorate with their slogans and symbols. The symbolism of colour In the context of reification, the role of the media is of particular importance because of psychological effects that go hand in hand with the repeated broadcasting of colourful advertisement spots and reports from huge party rallies. As has been discussed earlier, in Indonesia an election campaign is not the time to communicate a sophisticated platform or programme. Rather, it is the time to showcase charismatic leaders (often flanked by dangdut67 celebrities), display easily recognizable party symbols and stage colourful mass rallies. Although the usefulness of these campaign activities has been questioned by several observers and even by leading politicians themselves (Tjaya 2004), many parties obviously continue to regard them as an indispensable tool of campaigning. Usually void of political content, party rallies are mainly intended to send powerful images to the electorate as they display thousands of people clad in T-shirts of the same colour. While it is common knowledge that ‘huge crowds’ do not necessarily equal ‘many supporters,’68 it is the sheer power of symbols that still reigns supreme during the campaigns. The large amounts of money spent on flags, banners and T-shirts clearly show that many parties still put great emphasis on the power of colour symbolism. Significantly, the media has played a big part in magnifying the impact of

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this kind of symbolism by incorporating the language of colours into its parlance. During the 2004 campaign, for example, media coverage of PDI-P often spoke of the ‘white snout’ party (partai moncong putih), which would ‘redden’ (memerahkan) certain campaign venues.69 Similarly, PAN and PD would transform huge sports arenas into fields of blue (membirukan),70 while PKB and the partai ka’bah (PPP) set out to make entire cities green during the campaign (menghijaukan).71 PKS, finally, chose the symbol of purity as its colour and accordingly ‘whitened’ (memutihkan) the cities where it was scheduled to campaign.72 Without a doubt, the colours all have highly symbolic meanings and some parties like to describe these meanings at great length in their official party documents. To the general public, however, these meanings are largely irrelevant. Few people would know, for example, that PAN chose blue as its colour because it is the colour of the sea and the sky, which supposedly reflects independence and democracy (Tim Litbang Kompas 2004: 534). Similarly, it is unlikely that supporters of PKB would associate the party’s green logo with ‘physical and spiritual prosperity for the people of Indonesia’ (Tim Litbang Kompas 2004: 536). For the majority, green is quite simply the colour of Islam. Yet, even if the deeper symbolic meanings as explained in official party documents are not known to most people, the colours, as well as the party logos themselves (like the bull in the PDI-P logo or the kabah in the PPP logo) nevertheless play an important role in helping parties to become reified in the people’s mind as they serve as important shortcuts for the electorate (Mainwaring 1999: 12). Final remarks on reification In Chapter 6 reification had been identified as a dimension in which Golkar is very well institutionalized. As far as the other parties are concerned, the same can only be said about PDI-P. The difference to Golkar, however, is that in contrast to the former regime party the public image of PDI-P has deteriorated in recent years. While much of the early press coverage on Golkar still carried a critical undertone, the party’s image in the newspapers and magazines improved year by year. Exactly the reverse process could be witnessed with PDI-P and most other parties. Initially lauded as harbingers of change, PDI-P, PAN and PKB quickly forfeited their initial bonuses with the media as they failed to fulfil the high expectations of reformists. Soon after the initial euphoria had subsided, media enterprises began to focus more and more on the two biggest parties only, Golkar and PDI-P. If other parties were mentioned at all, the reports often carried a negative undertone. In the run-up to the 2004 elections, the news media were full of articles about the misdeeds of party politicians, especially in the regions where countless provincial and district legislators enriched themselves unscrupulously at the expense of the public. It is unquestionable that the increasingly negative coverage in the media has not helped the parties’ already difficult quest to become reified, but this has by no means been their only problem.

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Indeed, another problem which in the long term will even more seriously obstruct many parties’ prospects for reification is their heavy reliance on the popularity of individual leaders. The high levels of name recognition for PD, for example, are most probably only momentary snapshots as they are fuelled almost exclusively by the popularity of President SBY. While PD may be an extreme example, other parties like PDI-P, PKB, PAN and even PPP have not yet proven that they can remain reified in the public imagination without their leaders. As so often, PKS is again the only exception here. By the time of writing, the party may have had the lowest levels of name recognition of all big parties, but it has reached these levels almost exclusively because of its efforts to present the party as a collective organization. If it can maintain the loyalty of its supporters and further improve its image in the mainstream media, PKS is likely to achieve higher scores on the reification scale in the not-too-distant future.

Conclusion The goal of this chapter was to examine the institutionalization record of Indonesia’s major parties in order to properly contextualize the findings of the preceding four chapters. The major conclusion of this chapter is that most Indonesian parties are indeed weakly institutionalized. The only at least partial exception is PKS, which possesses a well-organized party apparatus, structural coherence and a large number of committed cadres who are actually willing to pay their membership dues. In short, the party possesses a very solid organizational basis. Having arisen out of student activist circles, PKS has not only maintained its independence from external actors, but has also resisted the temptations of corruption and has not (yet) associated itself with vested big-business interests.73 PKS is the only party that is deeply infused with genuine values, namely with the religious and political ideas of Islam. Its members actively perform their faith and try to bring Islamic values into day-to-day politics, giving Indonesian Islam a new dimension that transcends old, established classification schemes like traditionalism or modernism. The only dimension of party institutionalization where PKS is still weak is reification. This, however, seems natural, given the fact that the party did poorly in the 1999 elections and has only recently emerged as a serious contender in the Indonesian party system. Apart from PKS, all other parties are weakly institutionalized, especially but not only in the crucial dimension of systemness where a number of problems prevail. First, failure to invest in training and recruitment programmes has exacerbated the lack of sophisticated human resources. As a consequence, party infrastructures remain inadequate and many parties have struggled to find suitable candidates during the 2004 legislative elections and subsequent pilkada. Second, the personalistic nature of decision-making processes and personnel recruitment has prevented the development of internal democracy and obstructed the process of formal institutionalization as written rules and regulations have not been allowed to take root. Third, factionalism has emerged in most parties, mainly as a result of personal rivalries or general dissatisfaction

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with an overly oligarchic party leadership. Given the absence of viable conflictresolution mechanisms in most parties, outbreaks of factionalism, which often coincided with challenges to the party leadership, were usually met with intimidation and coercion or the bending of existing rules and regulations. Finally, with the exception of PDI-P, most parties are still financially weak and continue to depend on external funding which in turn is extremely limited. In many cases, the inability to secure sustainable financial resources also impacts negatively on issues of decisional autonomy, especially where parties resort to illicit methods of fundraising. Moreover, the military has continued to impede the development of decisional autonomy, at least in the early reformasi years when local TNI commanders repeatedly interfered in internal party affairs during the elections of bupatis and governors. The most serious questions in this dimension of party institutionalization, however, must be asked about the close relationships between PKB and PAN and the Islamic organizations out of which they emerged. Many NU and Muhammadiyah functionaries have taken over positions in PKB and PAN, both on the national and the local level. While direct intervention may be rare, it is widely acknowledged that both parties still rely heavily on the support of the respective mass organizations and that neither PKB nor PAN can afford to make policy decisions against the interests of NU or Muhammadiyah. Slightly more promising conclusions can be presented about value infusion, even if these conclusions have to remain somewhat tentative at this stage. Survey data has demonstrated that most parties possess relatively clearly defined support bases. In other words, it seems that Indonesians from certain socioeconomic and socio-cultural backgrounds do indeed identify with certain parties, thanks to a combination of prevailing socio-cultural cleavage structures, widespread nostalgic sentiment and emotional attachment to highly respected national leaders. Which of these factors ultimately represents the defining reason for people to join or to vote for certain parties, remains a hotly contested issue and will, at least in the cases of PDI-P, PKB and PAN, only be resolved after their charismatic leaders will have left the scene. As far as the other parties are concerned, things are more straightforward since neither PPP nor PD conforms to old aliran patterns. Put simply, PPP relies mainly on the nostalgic sentiment of older, poorly educated Muslims who are either not aware of other Islamic parties or simply afraid of supporting them. PD, on the other hand, is a blatantly personalistic party which relies almost exclusively on the appeal of its founder and current Indonesian president, Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono. Finally, relatively little can be said about reification at this stage as this dimension of party institutionalization is primarily concerned with longevity. Since most of the parties have only existed for a few years and only participated in two elections it is far too early to judge their ability to survive over time. However, judging by the levels of name recognition which the parties have achieved so far, it is fair to say that – apart from Golkar – only PDI-P is already well established in people’s minds. Most other parties still lag behind, and the high figures for PD are almost certainly unsustainable as they are more reflective of the popularity of SBY than the party itself.

8

Conclusion and outlook Uneven party institutionalization and the future of democracy in Indonesia

Golkar is in many ways the closest thing Indonesia has to a genuine political party. (McBeth 2001)

Introduction This book set out to examine whether the enduring strength of Golkar in Indonesia’s post-Suharto party system can be explained as a result of uneven party institutionalization. Based on a theoretical model of party institutionalization proposed by Randall and Svåsand (2002a) the book developed an elaborate profile of Golkar, which highlighted the various strengths and weaknesses of the party in four interdependent yet analytically distinct dimensions. Following the detailed analysis of Golkar, a succinct comparative chapter examined the other six major Indonesian parties in accordance with the same institutionalization criteria applied to Golkar. This final chapter will now summarize the major findings of the previous analysis and answer the main questions of this study, namely whether Golkar is really better institutionalized than the other parties and, if so, whether this advantage has helped Golkar to maintain its strong position in Indonesian party politics. Considering all the data discussed so far, it is fair to conclude that Golkar is indeed better institutionalized than most of the other parties. The only party to match Golkar’s institutional strength is PKS, but this party is still at the beginning of its organizational development and it remains to be seen whether it can follow up on the good first steps it has taken towards institutionalization. The modification that PKS is still a very young party is immensely important and links directly to one of Golkar’s key domains of power. The former regime party enjoys its most significant advantages in the dimensions of systemness and reification, both of which are dimensions where Golkar still benefits from the legacies of its long hegemonic past. Clearly, its good institutionalization record in these two dimensions has directly contributed to the enduring strength of Golkar within the Indonesian party system. At the same time, however, it must also be stressed that although Golkar is

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indeed better institutionalized than most of its electoral competitors, the party can hardly be classified as highly or strongly institutionalized. On the contrary, the analysis has revealed that Golkar also suffers from various institutional weaknesses, especially in the dimensions of decisional autonomy and value infusion. Even in the dimension of systemness, where Golkar’s comparative advantages seem fairly distinct, the party has entered an incremental process of de-institutionalization, which has exposed the organizational apparatus as porous and susceptible to defections. In light of this rather mixed picture, it is clear that Golkar’s current position in the party system is based not so much on its own strength, but rather on the weakness of the other parties. In fact, Golkar appears to ‘dominate’ the Indonesian party system more or less by default. Ten years after the end of the New Order none of the other major parties has yet provided any indication that they may represent a viable alternative to Golkar. As long as this political inertia continues and the other parties do not undertake substantial efforts to institutionalize their own party structures, Golkar is likely to perpetuate its prevalent institutional advantages and hence, its strong position in Indonesian party politics. This concluding chapter will now briefly recapitulate the main reasons behind this assessment. In chronological order, the following paragraphs will first summarize the book’s key findings and then project these findings onto a simplified matrix. Subsequently, the broader implications of the findings for party system institutionalization and Indonesia’s overall democratization process will be discussed. Finally, the chapter, and the study as a whole, will conclude with a brief outlook on the future of Indonesian party politics and Golkar’s potential role in this. Uneven party institutionalization and the remarkable resilience of Golkar Having analysed in great detail the key characteristics of Golkar and, to a lesser extent, those of the other major parties, this book has shown that Indonesia’s parties are indeed unevenly institutionalized and that Golkar is indeed the bestinstitutionalized party in the country, if only by a relatively small margin. This margin, however small it is, has been enough for the former regime party to maintain its strong position in Indonesian party politics and to re-emerge on top of the voting tally in the 2004 legislative elections. The case of Golkar therefore confirms the assumption, elucidated in Chapter 2, that in times of democratic transition political parties are often unevenly institutionalized, and that such uneven institutionalization often confers invaluable advantages to former regime parties (provided they continue to compete in elections after the fall of the old regime). As this book has demonstrated, Golkar’s strong performance in the 2004 legislative election has been indeed, to a large extent, a result of the party’s superior institutionalization record in the dimensions of systemness and reification. In particular, Golkar’s far-reaching party apparatus and its easy access to plentiful financial and human resources, as well as its unmatched levels of name

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recognition – maintained with the help of a well-disposed media – have turned out to be key factors behind the former regime party’s enduring strength and its election ‘victory’ in 2004. Despite its overall superiority, however, Golkar is not a particularly wellinstitutionalized party. In fact, it even faces the risk of forfeiting some of its institutional assets as it has entered an incremental process of deinstitutionalization in the dimension of systemness. But the root causes of Golkar’s overall mediocrity are not located in the dimension of systemness, but rather in the dimension of value infusion. Here, Golkar remains weakly institutionalized as its appeal continues to rely primarily on ‘ersatz’ values like its reputation as a provider of political spoils. That the former regime party has been able to retain such a strong presence in Indonesian party politics in spite of a lack of genuine political values speaks volumes about the other parties, which have indeed mostly failed to improve their institutionalization records since 1998. With the exception of PKS, no other party has invested adequate resources in the development of an effective party infrastructure and/or an appealing political programme so that their levels of institutionalization remain low. Consequently, it is fair to conclude that Golkar’s continuously powerful position in the Indonesian party system is based more on the weakness of the other parties than on its own strength. From a more theoretical perspective, the analysis has illustrated the usefulness of multidimensional concepts of party institutionalization. It would indeed be misleading to simply claim that Golkar is better institutionalized than the other parties without considering the details of the various individual dimensions. As we have seen, Golkar is not the best-institutionalized Indonesian party in every single dimension of Randall and Svåsand’s model, yet it is, importantly, the strongest party in the dimensions of systemness and reification, both of which apparently confer particularly formidable advantages to a party at the ballot box. These findings confirm, among other things, the widespread assumption that historical factors are immensely important when it comes to party institutionalization. As a matter of fact, Golkar is only strongly institutionalized in those dimensions where it can still reap direct benefits from its long past as the New Order’s hegemonic party. On the other hand, the party is weak where the New Order had hindered its institutionalization from early on, namely in the dimensions of decisional autonomy and value infusion. The multidimensional character of the model has enabled a thorough investigation of each of these aspects of party institutionalization, providing a comprehensive picture of Golkar and the other parties. The quintessential conclusion from these findings is that institutionalization matters. Indeed, this study has shown that a good institutionalization record not only increases a party’s prospects for adaptability and long-term survival, but it can also have a direct effect on a party’s short-term electoral performance. Conversely, a bad institutionalization record can have direct negative implications for a party’s electoral performance and is inimical to long-term organizational consolidation. The case of Golkar exemplifies these conclusions. In

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fact, the former regime party’s institutional strengths and weaknesses in the individual dimensions can be used as explanatory variables for Golkar’s election results. In short, Golkar won the 2004 general election because of the following factors: • • • • • • •

A comprehensive organizational apparatus with a vast territorial reach; Access to rich and diversified financial resources; A huge reservoir of experienced and professional cadres; Widespread nostalgia for the past; Very high levels of name recognition; Clever use of political and cultural symbols to strengthen loyalties; The cultivation of good relations with the media.

By the same token, Golkar did not win the election by a larger margin because: • • • •

Factionalism had damaged its image and caused unprecedented internal frictions; Its leader did not command undisputed authority in the party; Top party cadres including the chairman had been involved in corruption scandals; The party lacked – and still lacks – persuasive core values that could tie members and supporters more firmly to the party and rein in the prevalence of clientelism.

The results of the other parties can be explained in a similar fashion. PKS, for example, gained votes because it has developed a well-organized and coherent party apparatus and because it provides its members and supporters with real values they believe in. The party was, however, unable to win an even bigger share of the votes because its territorial apparatus does not yet reach the entire archipelago, because its levels of name recognition are still comparatively low, and because it received – until the 2004 election at least – relatively little attention in the media. Moreover, although its Islamic ideology is based on strong values, this ideology is, to quote Lev (1967: 59), ‘obviously confining.’1 Golkar and PKS are good examples of how institutionalization has a direct impact on a party’s electoral performance. But it should also be noted that a good institutionalization record is not the only recipe for electoral success. The rise of PD, for example, shows that votes can also be mobilized – very easily in fact – through other means, especially through the mass appeal of a popular or charismatic party leader (or, in this case, presidential candidate). Without a doubt, the trend in contemporary Indonesian politics goes in that direction after the introduction of direct elections on all executive levels. This is bad news for the prospects of party system institutionalization as personalistic parties like PD are, in contrast to institutionalized parties, often ephemeral phenomena which do not remain competitive in the long term.2

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Uneven party institutionalization in Indonesia: how to measure the immeasurable Against the background of these key findings, it remains to be seen whether, and if so, how the empirical results of this book can be measured. The problem of measurability has haunted proponents of institutionalization theory ever since the concept rose to prominence in political science. With regards to parties and party systems, the main problem has always been that most individual elements of party and party system institutionalization are basically impossible to quantify. Nonetheless, there have been attempts to overcome this problem, for example by Mainwaring and Scully (1995: 17) who, in their comparative work on party system institutionalization in Latin America, suggested a schematic ranking based on a scoring system from 1.0 to 3.0 in each of their four institutionalization criteria. Accordingly, a score of 3.0 would indicate high institutionalization, 2.5 medium high, 2.0 medium, 1.5 medium low, and 1.0 low institutionalization.3 Interestingly, Johnson (2002: 731), who applied the institutionalization model by Mainwaring and Scully4 in her study on Indonesia, did not use the ranking system, arguing that ‘a detailed examination of an individual party system is far too complex to reduce the criteria to simple point values, and to arbitrary values at that.’ She further claims that most of the indicators suggested by Mainwaring and Scully are closely interrelated and therefore directly influence each other, sometimes with the effect that they simply do not add up. For example, according to Johnson (2002: 733–4), ‘a “2” (a relatively weak score in Mainwaring and Scully’s 1995 treatment) in one area is not just a “2” when operated on by a “4” (a strong score) in another area. The net effect of a “2” and a “4” could be a “1”.’ In response to her first criticism, it could be argued that complexity does not necessarily rule out the possibility of measuring by point values, even if that means an inevitable simplification. Where data are not directly quantifiable or measurable (for example, the degree of factionalism or the impact of corruption on decisional autonomy), there still remains a ‘felt value’ based on the empirical findings, which the researcher can transfer into a schematic ranking system. Of course, such a ranking system will always retain the blemish of subjectivity, but this should be regarded as a common problem in social science disciplines. As far as Johnson’s second criticism is concerned, she is of course correct when she points out that the individual criteria for institutionalization are interrelated. Arguably though, this interrelation does not necessarily need to reach the extent that, as Johnson claims, strength in one dimension exacerbates a weakness in another or vice versa. Certainly, as Randall and Svåsand (2002a: 12) have already emphasized, the individual dimensions of party institutionalization can always be ‘in tension with one another’ or even ‘pull in different directions.’ The findings in this study on PKB in the dimensions of decisional autonomy and value infusion, for instance, are clear evidence of this phenomenon. Yet, the existence of tensions between two dimensions does not mean that

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the degree of institutionalization in these two dimensions cannot be evaluated in a ranking system. The problem with Johnson’s criticism is that the objects of analysis do not match when she says that some parties are highly institutionalized in the dimension of rootedness (value infusion) and that these stable roots ‘can contribute directly to polarization and to the declining legitimacy of the party system, as has been the case in Indonesia’ (Johnson 2002: 735). Arguably, this contention is debatable in itself, but the main problem in the context of measurability is not whether rootedness has a positive or negative impact on the relationships between the individual parties, but that Johnson regards rootedness and the level of mutual acceptance of parties as two elements of the same variable, when in fact they are not. Strictly speaking, rootedness is a dimension of party institutionalization, whereas mutual acceptance of parties is a dimension of party system institutionalization. Therefore, the issue here is not the scoring system, but rather the overall conceptualization of party system institutionalization as a process which encompasses elements of both party institutionalization and party system institutionalization. In view of these conceptual problems in the model developed by Mainwaring and used by, among others, Johnson, the virtues of Randall and Svåsand’s approach become abundantly clear. Thanks to the rigid differentiation between party institutionalization and party system institutionalization, the idea of using a point rating scale can be revived and projected on the analytical categories applied in this book. This system is of course still highly subjective and based on incomplete approximations, but if it is understood that the main purpose of such a system is not to provide mathematically exact measurements of individual institutionalization criteria, but merely to enable the researcher to summarize the findings in an easily accessible matrix, it can still be regarded as an appropriate tool of visualization. In other words, the point rating scale is not intended to be a definitive statement about the degree of party institutionalization, but rather a means to illustrate, in a simplified form, the conclusions that have been drawn as a result of this study.5 With these reservations in mind, Table 8.1 classifies the institutionalization record of Indonesia’s major parties in accordance with the measuring units suggested by Mainwaring and Scully, which means that 3.0 is the highest score and 1.0 the lowest.6 Implications for party system institutionalization and democratic consolidation Uneven party institutionalization and the enduring strength of a party that is closely associated with a former authoritarian regime party are typical phenomena in democratizing countries (Randall and Svåsand 2002a: 8–9). While neither of the two phenomena, which are obviously closely related, is necessarily bad, they can be potentially problematic for party system institutionalization because they can limit the competitiveness of elections and exclude certain social sectors from access to party representation. In Indonesia, however, these kinds of negative side effects are not discernible. The legislative elections in 1999 and

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Table 8.1 The institutionalization of Indonesian parties in early 2007 Golkar PDI-P PKB Systemness Scope of organizational apparatus/territorial reach 3.0 Importance of internal democracy vis-à-vis personalism 2.0 Internal coherence vis-à-vis impact of factionalism 1.5 Routinization of rules and regulations 1.5 Access to regularized and diversified financial resources 2.5 Professionalism/standard of human resources 3.0 Aggregate score Systemness 13.5 Average score Systemness 2.25 Decisional autonomy Independence from external organization 2.5 Resistance to corruption 1.0 Organizational autonomy vis-à-vis oligarchic elites or individual leaders 2.0 Aggregate score decisional autonomy 5.5 Average score decisional autonomy 1.83 Value infusion Values based on socio-cultural or socio-economic cleavages 1.5 Values based on emotional attachment (personal charisma of national or local leaders) 2.0 Ersatz values based on impersonal clientelism (parties as patrons who provide office for clients/supporters)* 1.5 Aggregate score value infusion 5.0 Average score value infusion 1.66 Reification Name recognition 3.0 Use of symbols 3.0 Access to mass media 3.0 Aggregate score reification 9.0 Average score reification 3.0

PPP PD PKS PAN

2.5

1.5

2.0

1.5

1.5

2.0

1.0 1.5 1.0

1.0 1.0 1.0

1.5 1.5 1.5

1.0 2.0 1.5

2.5 2.5 2.5

1.5 1.0 1.0

2.5 2.0 10.5 1.75

1.0 1.5 7.0 1.16

1.5 1.5 9.5 1.58

1.5 1.5 2.0 1.5 2.5 2.5 9.0 13.0 10.0 1.5 2.16 1.66

2.5 1.0

1.0 1.0

2.5 1.0

2.5 2.0

1.0 4.5 1.5

1.0 3.0 1.0

1.5 1.5 5.0 6.0 1.66 2.0

2.5 1.5 8.0 4.0 2.66 1.33

2.5

3.0

2.5

1.0

3.0

2.5

3.0

3.0

1.5

3.0

1.5

3.0

1.5 7.0 2.33

1.5 7.5 2.5

1.5 1.5 2.0 1.5 5.5 5.5 6.5 7.0 1.83 1.83 2.16 2.33

3.0 3.0 2.5 8.5 2.83

2.5 2.0 1.5 6.0 2.0

2.5 3.0 2.0 7.5 2.5

2.5 1.0 1.5 5.0 1.66

2.5 3.0

1.5 1.0 1.5 4.0 1.33

1.5 1.0

2.5 2.5 2.0 7.0 2.33

Note *High importance of ersatz values equals low scores in the table since ersatz values are regarded as inferior.

2004 as well as the country’s first-ever direct presidential election have all been judged to be free and fair by both domestic and international observers, and no social group can be said to be excluded from party representation because of Golkar’s strong position. Opportunities for new parties to establish themselves as representatives of certain social groups are abundant in the post-New Order period and Golkar’s dominance is not so suffocating that parties established since 1998 are automatically destined to fail. Significantly, Golkar’s failure to enlarge its vote share in 2004 and the rise of new parties like PKS and PD show that the playing field for political parties in Indonesia is not overly unfair. On the contrary, it can even be argued that Indonesia’s political arena is actually growing increasingly open and competitive, thanks to the introduction of new electoral institutions and the, arguably closely related, process of de-

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institutionalization that has started to erode Golkar’s strength in the dimension of systemness. However, it is important to point out that in order to be conducive to party system institutionalization this gradual de-institutionalization of Golkar must be paralleled by the continuing institutionalization of the other parties. But as has been shown, this process is, with the partial exception of PKS, yet to commence in earnest. Thus, it is hardly surprising that by the time of writing the Indonesian party system remained enfeebled by several fundamental weaknesses,7 most of which are directly related to the relatively poor institutionalization of the parties that make up the system. Arguably, the most obvious indicator for the weak institutionalization of the Indonesian party system is the lack of continuity and stability. To be fair, the lack of continuity is simply a natural consequence of the short life span of the post-Suharto party system and it would be absurd to blame the parties for that. On the other hand, however, it would be anything but absurd to blame the parties for the lack of stability, which is in fact, at least partly, a direct consequence of the weak institutionalization of the individual parties. Significantly, the party system has not only failed to stabilize after the second post-New Order election, but even taken the opposite path towards further fragmentation, despite (or maybe precisely because of) the fact that the 2004 election was contested by a smaller number of parties than the 1999 election. Although the changed electoral rules for the 2004 legislative elections and the introduction of direct presidential elections certainly also contributed to this increased fragmentation,8 it is the parties themselves which are primarily responsible for this trend. As those parties that had reached the electoral threshold in 1999 failed to invest in their own institutionalization, they became less and less attractive options for the voters who then, as a consequence, preferred to vote for new parties which had either not performed well in 1999 (PKS) or had not even contested the 1999 ballot (PD). All in all, volatility in the 2004 legislative election was relatively high,9 and the effective number of parties in Indonesia rose from five in the 1999–2004 period to eight in the post-2004 party system (Evans 2004: 204).10 The fragmentation of the system is illustrated with the help of a few indicators in Table 8.2. Table 8.2 Fragmentation of the Indonesian party system

Number of parties that reached more than 5 per cent of the vote Number of parties that reached at least 1 per cent of the vote Number of parties that won more than 10 seats in the DPR Number of parties that won at least 1 seat in the DPR Vote share of the 4 biggest parties Vote share of the 5 biggest parties Vote share of the 6 biggest parties Vote share of the 7 biggest parties

1999

2004

5 8 6 21 79.50 86.62 88.56 89.92

7 14 10 16 58.83 66.28 73.62 80.06

Sources: www.kpu.go.id/ (accessed 10 March 2006); Tim Litbang Kompas (2005, 2000); Ananta, Arifin and Suryadinata (2005).

188

Conclusion and outlook

Another weakness of the current party system concerns the nature of interparty competition or, as Randall and Svåsand (2002a) called it, the level of mutual acceptance among the big parties. As noted, for a party system to institutionalize the individual parties that make up the system need to acknowledge each other as legitimate competitors in order to guarantee the smooth functioning of parliamentary procedures and, ultimately, allow for the formation of a genuine opposition. Indeed, a moderate level of interparty competition is much more conducive to democracy than combative competition or, at the other extreme, collusive behaviour between the parties. Unfortunately, however, in Indonesia it is exactly the latter two patterns of competition that are most dominant. On the one hand, there is a strong tendency for politicians to refuse to acknowledge defeat. From Gus Dur’s refusal to accept his impeachment in 2001 to the coalition of parties that rejected the results of the legislative elections in 2004 to Wiranto after his elimination in the first round of the presidential election to Megawati after her defeat against SBY in the second round of elections, there is a long list of politicians and parties that have challenged the results of political processes in parliament and at ballot boxes, thereby directly undermining the legitimacy of these processes and that of their electoral competitors.11 On the other hand, however, the outrage rarely lasts long. On the contrary, in Indonesia even parties that appeared to be irreconcilable enemies on one day can become allies the next as the case of Golkar and PKB exemplifies.12 The key problem is that no party is willing to accept the role of an opposition party. In fact, for the sake of being rewarded with governmental responsibilities, most parties would cooperate with any other party in Indonesia, regardless of religious orientations or personal animosities. The collusive nature of Indonesian party politics has been described most articulately by Slater (2004) who accused the major parties in general and Golkar and PDI-P in particular of acting like a cartel. Writing in the runup to the 2004 presidential election, Slater (2004: 62) argued that ‘Golkar and PDI-P have taken the lead in devising a system in which these parties share power far more than they fight over it.’13 Although the alliance between Indonesia’s two biggest parties was terminated soon after the publication of this article, it seems unlikely that PDI-P will be left out of the cartel for too long. Indeed, patterns of collusion between all the major parties have essentially remained intact as can be seen, for example, in their cooperation in various parliamentary committees (Sherlock 2005: 6–7). A third problem that hampers the institutionalization of the party system is its relatively low appreciation by the electorate. Despite comparatively high voter turnouts in both the 1999 and the 2004 legislative elections,14 public trust in the parties’ ability and willingness to pursue the interests of the people seems to be anything but high. Numerous public opinion surveys conducted throughout the post-New Order era showed that many people were convinced that parties would rather pursue their own political interest than that of the common people (IFES 2002, LP3ES 2003). Moreover, many Indonesians perceive political parties as among the most corrupt of all political actors and institutions, as consecutive surveys by Transparency International (2004b, 2005, 2006, 2007) have demonstrated. Surveys conducted by Indonesian organizations have come to

Conclusion and outlook

189

similar conclusions. In a 2006 report, for example, LSI asked respondents to rate the performance of political parties, the DPR, the president, the police and the army. Not surprisingly, political parties achieved the lowest scores, with only 48 per cent of respondents judging their performance as good (LSI 2006).15 Arguably, the main reason for this ‘anti-party reaction’ (Tan 2002) is the weak institutionalization of the political parties. Their constant internal bickering and their lack of professionalism (as discussed in the context of systemness) in particular, as well as their high susceptibility to corruption (as discussed in the context of decisional autonomy), have had an inherently negative impact on the levels of public trust in political parties and the overall party system. Yet, it is not only the current parties’ own misdemeanours that are responsible for their bad image. Today’s parties are also up against the powerful forces of history which have left Indonesia with a deeply embedded anti-party legacy inherited from the Sukarno and Suharto eras. It goes without saying that this legacy does not exactly enhance the prospects for party system institutionalization. In fact, in view of the enduring prevalence of widespread anti-party attitudes it seems that only the combination of generational change and a significantly improved performance by the parties will facilitate a higher degree of appreciation by the electorate. At this stage, Indonesians do not yet appear to be convinced of what Lipset (2000) called the ‘indispensability of political parties.’ Given these weaknesses of the party system, it is clear that an end to Indonesia’s protracted transition process is not yet in sight. As the poorly institutionalized parties still fail to fulfil even the most basic of their ideal-type democratic functions, such as the representation, integration and aggregation of societal interests or the formulation of policy alternatives for the voters, the legitimacy, effectiveness and efficiency of the political system remain low. Moreover, it needs to be stressed that problems such as the structural entrenchment of corruption or the prevalence of informal military power have not only impeded the institutionalization of the parties, but also the consolidation of other critical institutions (such as the judiciary) as well as the empowerment of civil society. Accordingly, by the time this book went to press Indonesia had not yet moved beyond the level of electoral democracy. With reference to the consolidation models by Linz and Stepan (1996) and Merkel (1998), briefly introduced in Chapter 2, it is fair to argue that so far only the developments in the dimension of constitutional consolidation have been satisfactory whereas representative, behavioural and attitudinal consolidation remain works in progress. Thus, it seems as if Törnquist was close to the mark when he gloomily predicted that a likely outcome of Indonesia’s democratization process would be a military-supported ‘bad guy’ democracy within which incumbent bosses on various levels are able to survive, pull in military and business allies, coopt some dissidents, and mobilize mass support through Islamic populism – all well before genuine democratic activists and ordinary people manage to organize themselves. (Törnquist 2001: 66)

190

Conclusion and outlook

Outlook: whither Golkar? If Indonesia’s overall democratization process has been marred by tensions between progress (in terms of constitutional consolidation) and stagnation (in terms of representative, behavioural and attitudinal consolidation), a very similar conclusion can be drawn for Golkar. Just like Indonesian politics in general, Golkar, too, is an ambiguous amalgam of progressive reformism and conservative status quo attitudes. On the one hand, the party has been widely – and rightly – credited for its constructive role in the constitutional reform process and for introducing innovative political ideas such as presidential conventions to Indonesia. On the other hand, the party is still associated with romanticized New Order nostalgia and concepts like pembangunan, pancasila democracy and the floating mass. How torn the party is between the past and the present is best exemplified in its relations with former president Suharto. In late 2005, for instance, Golkar leaders caused a public outcry after announcing plans to honour the former dictator and other former New Order stalwarts with the so-called Bhakti Pratama Award for merited party members.16 In January 2008, the party emerged as the driving force behind renewed efforts to block the formal prosecution of Suharto.17 Without a doubt, the party has made the most of its dual identity. Taking the best of both worlds, Golkar leaders have not taken much time to manoeuvre the party out of its self-imposed purdah period right back into the centre of power. And as this study has shown, the chances that the party will stay right there at the top are good, too. Although Golkar faces some significant challenges to its institutional integrity, the weakness of the other parties will ensure that the former regime party will remain the strongest force in Indonesian party politics for some time to come. It is indeed not inconceivable that of the seven parties discussed in this study, as many as five will diminish significantly or even completely disappear from the political landscape in the not-too-distant future. PPP may be the first to bite the dust of history, and PD is also likely to disappear again once SBY leaves the political scene. PDI-P, PKB and PAN also face difficult periods of soul-searching once Megawati, Gus Dur and Amien Rais depart from the political stage. In contrast to PD, however, these three parties at least have some sort of stable roots in fixed social milieux so that they may eventually outlast their founding fathers (and one founding mother), albeit almost certainly with less potent appeal to voters. Significantly, PKB and PAN face an additional challenge from an increasingly assertive PKS, which allegedly has already started to infiltrate traditional NU- and Muhammadiyahaffiliated pengajian groups in order to enlarge its support base beyond its established urban strongholds.18 If this strategy proves successful, and if broader social trends of Islamization continue in Indonesia, PKS may one day become the only sizeable Islamic party in Indonesia’s future party system.19 Admittedly, these are extraordinary constraints to overcome, and the recent slump in popularity indicates that the party still has a lot of work to do, but thanks to its strong institutionalization in the dimensions of systemness and value infusion, PKS is certainly in a position to tackle these challenges.

Conclusion and outlook

191

The only other party that looks set to stay is, arguably, Golkar. Given the limited life expectancy of PD and the potential decline of PDI-P after the end of Megawati’s political career, Golkar seems to be the only viable alternative for all those Indonesians who oppose the growing influence of Islamic forces in Indonesia. Of course Golkar cannot just simply absorb disappointed PDI-P supporters, as became abundantly clear in the 2004 election. But if the party can avoid making the same mistakes again that it did in the run-up to the 2004 election, and if the developments in the Islamic spectrum unfold as described above, then it is indeed quite possible that Golkar will gain at least some votes from disenchanted Megawati fans.20 Moreover, if Golkar plays its cards in parliament wisely over the next few years, there is a good chance that the party can strengthen its hold on power through electoral engineering. Speculations about more changes to the electoral system began to emerge as soon as the 2004 poll was over and by the time this manuscript was finished negotiations about reforming the election laws were indeed under way in the DPR. While no changes were finalized yet, Golkar seemed determined to use its experience in parliament to push through some changes that will further increase the party’s chances to cement its electoral superiority. In the words of deputy chairman Agung Laksono, ‘Golkar’s political machine is working to prepare the necessary hardware, particularly better political laws . . . to make it ready for the presidential elections.’21 In fact, as early as 2004 some high-ranking Golkar functionaries had hinted at the possibility that the former regime party might push for the implementation of a pure district system for the legislative election.22 In anticipation of fierce resistance from the smaller parties to such a reform, however, this option was not pursued subsequently. More realistic are an overhaul of the electoral schedule in order to streamline the current electoral marathon process and, perhaps in the long term, a raising of the electoral threshold.23 Both changes could be sold easily to the Indonesian people on the grounds of lowering costs of electoral administration and strengthening the efficiency of the party system. Ultimately, however, they will be beneficial primarily for Golkar as they are likely to reduce the number of parties in parliament and thereby increase Golkar’s share of seats. The scenario outlined in the preceding paragraphs could eventually pave the way for the emergence of a classical bipolar party system in which Golkar and PKS will both spearhead powerful blocks, comprised of one dominant and, maybe, several minor parties. In principle, such a party system would seem to provide for more stability, but this stability would come at a cost and would almost certainly be short-lived as question marks remain about the two protagonists’ commitment to democracy. While Golkar has still not entirely rid itself of its authoritarian past and continues to tinker with corruption, PKS is yet to elucidate in a satisfactory way how exactly it intends to blend its vision of an Islamic state with key pillars of democracy like, for example, freedom of religion. A party system in which these two parties play the main roles, therefore, would be built on precarious foundations. Unless Golkar and PKS both adjust their still ambiguous attitudes towards democracy, further instability would be almost inevitable.

192

Conclusion and outlook

The possibility that this scenario will become reality, however, seems remote anyway, even if it is not entirely inconceivable. It is unlikely though for two main reasons. First, it implies that Indonesian party politics will continue to be shaped strongly by traditional aliran patterns along the Islam versus secularism dividing line. This presumption runs contrary to recent electoral trends which point in the opposite direction. While aliran politics may still have some relevance, personalism and clientelism appear to have a much stronger impact on electoral behaviour than religious considerations. Second, the scenario outlined above is based on the assumption that, ultimately, institutionalized parties will have the edge over their weakly institutionalized competitors. But while the good results for Golkar and PKS in 2004 indicate that this may indeed be true to a certain extent, the developments of 2004 have also shown that institutionalization is not the only road to success in Indonesian party politics. On the contrary, the strong showing of PD has further strengthened the notion that the most striking trend is not institutionalization, but rather the increasing personalization of party politics. There is no reason to believe that this trend will be reversed, especially not after the introduction of the pilkada has added a new dimension to this trend. For a party like Golkar, which is not exactly blessed with charismatic leaders, this trend may pose some serious challenges. Initially, the party tried to counter this trend through its convention system which opened the door for party outsiders to seek nominations from Golkar. However, the primary goal of the presidential convention was not to elect a charismatic candidate from outside the party, but rather to ensure smooth passage for then-chairman Akbar Tandjung. The fact that this endeavour failed has certainly not been lost on Golkar’s current chairman, Jusuf Kalla, who in 2004 dropped out of the convention to seek the vice-presidential ticket under SBY. Should he decide to vie for the top job himself in 2009 (which is quite likely), Kalla will watch developments in and outside his party very carefully before determining the format of the candidate selection process. In order to minimize the chances that he may suffer the same fate as Akbar did in 2004, Kalla has already made it clear that the convention system will be replaced with a new selection mechanism.24 What exactly this new mechanism will look like will only be decided closer to the election date. Until then, however, Golkar looks comfortable in its position as quasi-government party. While many of the other parties are either embroiled in internal infighting or have disappeared into the familiar ‘beyondelection-hibernation,’ the Golkar leadership can basically sit back and relax. With Kalla performing well in the vice-presidential palace so far, the party can feel assured of continued access to almost unlimited amounts of patronage resources, which will certainly come in handy at the next election. Thus, in the near future, it seems almost inevitable that Golkar will concentrate on exploiting its strategic advantage of being in power rather than investing resources in cadre recruitment or the development of a more distinct corporate identity. At this stage it can still afford to do so, but whether this attitude will prove sustainable in the long term remains to be seen.

Appendices

Appendix I Composition of Golkar’s central board 1998–2004 Chairman Akbar Tandjung Deputy Chairmen Agung Laksono Abdul Gafur A. Affifuddin Thaib Sri Redjeki Sumaryoto Marzuki Darusman

Theo L. Sambuaga Freddy Latumahina Irsyad Sudiro Slamet Effendy Yusuf GBPH Joyokusomo

Fahmi Idris Aulia A. Rahman Marwah Daud Ibrahim Rambe Kamarulzaman Mahadi Sinambela

Secretary-General Budi Harsono Deputy Secretary-General Syamsul Muarif Andi Mattallatta Rully Chairul Azwar Bomer Pasaribu Mohammad Hatta Adi Sutrisno Gunarijah R. M. Kartasasmita Treasurer Mohamad S. Hidayat Deputy Treasurer Iris Indira Murti Djoko Purwongemboro

Enggartiasto Lukita Setya Novanto

Bobby S. H. Suhardiman Manimaren (deceased)

Department for Organization, Cadre Recruitment and Membership Tubagus Haryono Agung Laksono Yahya Zaini Syamsul Bachri Imannuel E. Blegur Azhar Romli Department for Election Victories Ibnu Munzir Slamet Effendy Yusuf Herman Widyananda Asep Ruchimat Sudjana

Hardisoesilo Djusril Djusan

Department for Education, Research and Technology Burhan D. Magenda Amir L. Sirait

Hajriyanto Y. Thohari

194

Appendices

Appendix I continued Department for Foreign Relations Darul Siska Said Abu Hasan Sazili Francisco Fernandes Da Silva Department for Youth Syarfi Hutauruk T. M. Nurlif

Ferry Mursyidan Baldan

Zamharir AR Chrysanthus Kelana Putrajaya

Ahmad Mujib Rohmat Andi Muhammad

Department for Social Affairs and the Empowerment of Women Juniwati Masjchun Sofwan Tisnawati Karna Oetarti Soewasono Department for Finance and Development Supervision, Cooperatives, Small and Medium Enterprises and Manpower Azwir Dainy Tara Adi Putra Darmawan Tahir A. Edwin Kawilarang Burhanuddin Napitupulu Andy Asmara Department for Law and Legislation Yuddy Crisnandi Lawrence T. P. Siburian

Farida Syamsi Chadaria Ridwan Sani

Department for Forestry, Agriculture and Fishery Abu Hanifah Awal Kusumah

Charles J. Mesang Simon P. Morin

Department for Human Resources Husni Thamrin Marzuki Achmad

Saut L. Tobing Sofhian Mile

Department for Arts, Culture and Tourism Dharma Oratmangun Ali Zulkirim Lym Campay

Hayani Isman Sutoyo Anton Lesiangi

Department for Defence and Security Muhammad Muas Yasril Ananta Baharuddin

Joeslin Nasution Watty Amir

Department for Religious Affairs Hasanuddin Mochdar Aisyah Baidlowi Dicky M. Mailoa

Sylvia Ratnawati Yosep A. Naesoi

Department for Politics and Regional Autonomy Ibrahim Ambong Imam M. Muhardio

Aly Yahya Anthony Z. Abidin

Department for Human Rights and the Environment Tisnaya I. Kartakusumah Satya Widya Yudha

Priyo Budi Santoso Sofyan Lubis

Source: www.partai-golkar.or.id (accessed 20 May 2004).

Appendices 195 Appendix II Composition of Golkar’s central board 2004–9 Chairman Jusuf Kalla Vice-Chairman Agung Laksono Secretary-General Sumarsono Deputy Secretary-General Iskandar Mandji Fatomy Asaari Malkan Amin Simon Patrice Morin Priyo Budi Santoso

Rully Chairul Azwar Ahmad Noor Supit T. M. Nurlif

Treasurer Andi Achmad Dara Deputy Treasurer Ratu Atut Chosiyah Bobby S. H. Suhardiman Edward Seky Soeryadjaya Suhaeli Kalla Poempida Hidayatulloh

Paskah Suzetta Airlangga Hartarto

Department for Organization, Cadre Recruitment and Membership Syamsul Muarif (Chairman) Syamsul Bachri Farida Syamsi Chadariah Yudhi Krisnandi Ibnu Munzir Department for Election Victories Andi Mattalatta (Chairman) Leo Nababan Hardisoesilo

Hajriyanto Y.Thohari Hari Salman F. Sohar

Department for Law and Legislation, Human Rights and Regional Autonomy Muladi (Chairman) Ariady Achmad Daniel Domoli Simanjuntak Edison Betaubun Nudirman Munir Department for Transport, Telecommunication and Information Theo L. Sambuaga (Chairman) Bambang Soesatyo Trulyanti Sutrasno I Gede Nyoman Arsana Husni Thamrin Department for Public Services and Housing Burhanuddin Napitupulu (Chairman) Bambang Riyadi Soegomo Idrus Marham

Abu Hasan Zazili Muhammad Oheo Sinapoy

Department for the Economy and Small and Medium Enterprises Tadjuddin Noer Said (Chairman) Muhidin M. Said Melkias Markus Mekeng Yusuf Sukardi Robert Samson Sumendap

196

Appendices

Appendix II continued Department for Energy and Natural Resources Enggartiasto Lukito (Chairman) Adi Putra Darmawan Tahir Roem Kono

Lili Asdjudiredja Bambang Sutrisno

Department for Social Prosperity Firman Subagyo (Chairman) Oelfah A. S. Harmanto Syahrul Udjud

Hernani Hurustiati Unggul Budi Sambodo

Department for Arts, Culture, Tourism and the Empowerment of Women Juniwati Maschun Sofwan (Chairwoman) Nurul Arifin Ulla Nuchrachwaty Rae Sita Supit Dharma Oratmangun Department for Religious Affairs Yahya Zaini (Chairman) Irsyad Djuwaeli Aisyah Hamid Baidlowi Hasanuddin Mochdar

Charles Jones Mesang Nusron Wahid

Department for Education, Youth, Sports and Research and Technology Yamin Tawari (Chairman) Tony Uloli Serta Ginting Mohamad Nasir Tamara Baiq Isvie Rupaeda Department for Foreign Relations, Defence and Security Agus Gumiwang Kartasasmita (Chairman) Yasril Ananta Baharuddin Natsir Mansur H. Yan Hiksas Muhammad Muas Department for Agriculture, Forestry, Fishery and the Environment GBPH Joyokusumo (Chairman) Anton Lesiangi Marzuki Achmad Gatot Sudariyono Gde Sumarjaya Linggih Department for Manpower and Transmigration Ali Wongso Sinaga (Chairman) Zainal Bintang Abu Hanifah

Idris Laena Ricky Rachmadi

Chairwoman KPPG Endang Syarwan Hamid Chairman AMPG Yorris T. H. Raweyai Source: www.golkar.or.id/index6_detail.php?cat_id=37 (accessed 8 December 2006).

Appendices 197 Appendix III Golkar’s election results in 1999 and 2004, all provinces Province

Votes in Votes in Gain/loss DPR Seats DPR seats Gain/loss % (1999) % (2004) in % (1999) in % (2004)

Aceh North Sumatra West Sumatra Riau Jambi South Sumatra Bengkulu Lampung Bangka Belitung Kepulauan Riau Jakarta* West Java Central Java Yogyakarta East Java Banten Bali NTB NTT West Kalimantan Central Kalimantan South Kalimantan East Kalimantan North Sulawesi Central Sulawesi South Sulawesi Southeast Sulawesi Gorontalo Maluku Maluku Utara Irian Jaya Barat Papua National

15.6 21.8 23.6 29.7 34.7 22.1 28.9 19.4 10.3 23.6 13.4 14.3 12.7 10.4 42.2 40.8 29.4 27.8 24.0 29.7 49.5 54.6 66.5 63.1 30.5 37.3 22.4

16.2 20.5 28.7 29.9 24.7 21.2 23.7 21.6 18.3 15.9 9.2 27.9 15.9 13.8 13.1 21.5 16.8 24.4 37.0 24.5 25.6 20.8 27.4 32.3 38.6 44.3 36.8 53.1 20.7 23.5 24.8 24.7 21.6

Note *Includes votes of overseas Indonesians.

+0.6 –1.3 +5.1 +0.2 –10.0 –0.9 –5.2 +2.2

16.7 20.8 28.6 30.0 33.3 26.7 25.0 20.0

–1.1 +4.3 +2.5 –0.5 +0.4

11.1 24.4 13.3 16.7 13.2

+6.4 –17.8 –3.8 –4.9 –2.2 –3.2 –2.3 –17.2 –16.0 –22.2 –26.3

11.1 44.4 46.1 33.3 33.3 27.3 28.6 57.1 60.0 66.7 60.0

–9.8

33.3

–12.6 –0.8

38.5 26.0

15.4 20.7 28.6 27.3 28.6 25.0 25.0 23.5 33.3 33.3 9.5 26.7 15.8 12.5 15.1 22.7 22.2 30.0 38.5 30.0 33.3 18.2 28.6 33.3 33.3 41.7 40.0 66.7 25.0 33.3 33.3 20.0 23.1

–1.3 –0.1 ±0 –2.7 –4.7 –1.7 ±0 +3.5 –1.6 +2.3 +2.5 –4.2 +1.9 +11.1 –14.4 –7.6 –3.3 ±0 –9.1 ±0 –23.8 –26.7 –25.0 –20.0 –8.3 –18.5 –2.9

Notes

1 Introduction: the remarkable resilience of Golkar 1 Over the years, the New Order regime has been conceptualized from various theoretical perspectives. Jackson (1978), for example, described it as a bureaucratic polity, while Crouch (1979) thought of it as a neo-patrimonial regime. After the fall of Suharto, retrospective reflections about the New Order have spawned a multitude of new descriptions. For Liddle (1999: 40), the regime was ‘a complex hierarchy of authoritarian institutions designed to curtail political participation and enable Suharto and the military to control society,’ while scholars like Robison and Hadiz (2004) or Chandra and Kammen (2002) have pointed out that the nature of the regime actually changed over the years. According to Chandra and Kammen (2002: 96), ‘Suharto’s New Order began as a typical hierarchical military regime (1965–74), took on additional characteristics of bureaucratic authoritarianism (1975–88), and during its last decade came increasingly to resemble a sultanistic regime (1989–98).’ From Robison and Hadiz’s neo-Marxist perspective, the New Order looked like a regime that in its early days contained a regulatory financial apparatus, highly organized political repression, and elements of both corporatism and patrimonialism. Towards the end, the authors argue, the New Order became ‘a capitalist oligarchy that fused public authority and private interest, epitomised in the rise of such families as the Soehartos.’ (Robison and Hadiz 2004: 43). 2 Golkar had been founded in 1964, but remained outside electoral politics until 1971. 3 These are just some of the key functions that political parties are expected to fulfil in modern democratic states. For a more comprehensive discussion see for example Diamond (1997), Gunther and Diamond (2001) or Sartori (1976). 4 This understanding follows Sartori’s (1976: 230) definition of hegemonic party systems as party systems that are one-party centered and yet display a periphery of secondary and indeed second class minor parties. [. . .] The hegemonic party neither allows for formal nor de facto competition for power. Other parties are permitted to exist, but as second class, licensed parties.

5 6 7 8

Throughout this book, Golkar will mostly be referred to as a ‘former hegemonic party,’ but at times the term ‘former regime party’ will also be used to highlight the party’s association with the New Order regime. Amien Rais, in an interview with the Bali Post newspaper (1 July 1998), as quoted in Soebekti et al. (2002: 52). ‘Partai Golkar Kembali,’ Kompas, 13 April 2004. Private communication with former Golkar executive, 18 August 2004. Having said that, party institutionalization is of course not the only concept in political science that suffers from this problem. Any study about power, for example, faces the same problem and yet power is a widely studied concept.

Notes

199

9 All interviewees who did not raise any objections against the use of their details are listed at the end of this book; those who preferred to remain anonymous have been omitted from this list. Where data is taken from such interviews, some brief background information about the interviewee is provided in the text. 10 ‘Prediksi Pemilu Sulsel: Mengepung Lumbung Golkar,’ Kompas, 26 February 2004. 2 Theoretical reflections: protracted transitions, uneven party institutionalization and the special role of former hegemonic parties 1 In addition, Randall (2006) also lists the negative side effects of ‘accelerated globalization’ as another reason behind the problems of many parties in the developing world. 2 While electoral democracy is a widely used umbrella term for all democratic regimes, political scientists have also identified various subtypes of electoral democracy – socalled ‘defective democracies’ (Merkel 2004). The most common of these subtypes appear to be ‘delegative democracies’ (O’Donnell 1994) and ‘illiberal democracies’ (Zakaria 1997, 2003) but Merkel (2004) has also listed ‘exclusive democracies’ and ‘tutelary democracies.’ 3 In fact, Levitsky himself has, in an article co-authored with Gretchen Helmke, used the term ‘protracted democratic transition’ for the Mexican case (Helmke and Levitsky 2004: 729). 4 The circumstances of the fall of Suharto have been dealt with extensively elsewhere and will not be recapitulated here in detail. For good accounts of the events that led to Suharto’s downfall see for example Aspinall et al. (1999), Van Dijk (2001), Emmerson (1999), Forrester and May (1998), Luhulima (2001), Schwarz (1999) or Ufen (2002). 5 Furthermore, the new parties were also reluctant to get involved in the lawmaking process because they were uncertain about what election system would actually be most beneficial for them. As Malley (2000: 171) pointed out, ‘they could not gauge the impact of the change on their electoral performance. None had ever competed, and few even knew how strong their organizations would be at election time.’ 6 The so-called ‘Regional Representatives Council’ (Dewan Perwakilan Daerah, DPD) is not really a second chamber in the true sense of the word as it does not have the power to actually pass legislation. Its functions are mainly advisory, putting it in a much weaker position than upper houses in countries like the United States, the United Kingdom or Australia. See Sherlock (2006) for more details. 7 See for example the election observation reports by the Australian Parliamentary Observer Delegation (2004) or the European Union Election Observation Mission to Indonesia (2004). 8 According to Webber (2006) Indonesia is a ‘patrimonial democracy,’ but that appears to be little more than yet another new sub-category of an electoral democracy. 9 According to a report by Indonesia Corruption Watch (2006), between 2005 and mid2006 alone a total of 328 local parliamentarians stood trial in 55 different corruption cases. 10 In a widely quoted report, Transparency International (2004a) named Suharto as the world’s most corrupt politician of the last two decades; he was alleged to have stolen between US$15 billion and 35 billion. 11 Among the most prominent court trials that eventually ended in acquittals for convicted corruptors were those of former Bank Indonesia governor Syahril Sabirin (convicted to three years in jail in March 2002, acquitted in August 2002) and of course former Golkar chairman Akbar Tandjung whose prolonged but eventually ‘successful’ legal battle will be covered in more detail in Chapter 4. For a detailed overview of the Bank Bali scandal, see for example Indonesia Corruption Watch (2003). 12 Particularly disturbing in this regard were the acquittals of high-ranking security

200

13 14

15 16

17

18

19

20

21

22 23

Notes

officials in the ad hoc trials that supposedly investigated human rights violations in East Timor in 1999 and in Jakarta’s port district Tanjung Priok in 1984. See for example ‘Sriyanto Juga Dibebaskan Pengadilan,’ Kompas, 13 August 2004; ‘Mayjen (Purn) Pranowo Dibebaskan Pengadilan,’ Kompas, 11 August 2004; ‘Police and Army Officers Acquitted of Rights Abuses,’ Jakarta Post, 16 August 2002. According to the law on the composition of the MPR, DPR and DPRD (Law No. 22/2003), which was passed in 2003, the legislature only consists of elected members. See Komisi Pemilihan Umum (2003) for more details. The military bill (Law No. 34/2004) was passed in September 2004. Although reformist legislators pushed through the scrapping of some of the most controversial paragraphs proposed by the TNI leadership, the new legislation still contains several blurry formulations that primarily serve the military’s conservative views on defence and internal security (International Crisis Group 2004). See for example Haris (2005a), Tan (2002, 2006), Romli et al. (2003), Sugiarto (2006) or Ufen (2006). There is indeed no doubt that electoral systems continue to be of enormous significance for the development of parties and party systems, as is evident, for example, in the changing contours of party politics in some Asian countries in the wake of a recent wave of electoral engineering (Reilly 2007). In one of his earlier works, Mainwaring (1999: 18) tells the reader that his study ‘moves back and forth’ between party and party system institutionalization. In another, more recent work, co-authored with Torcal, he stresses that the focus is firmly on party systems while at the same time conceding that the relationship between party and party system institutionalization may not always be linear (Mainwaring and Torcal 2005: 28). Despite the concession, however, the key components of the model have remained essentially unchanged. Several colleagues who provided comments on earlier drafts of this book have objected to the use of the term ‘systemness.’ Indeed, even Randall and Svåsand did not use this word in the original version of their 2002a article, which was published a year earlier in an edited volume (Haynes 2001b). In a paper delivered to an academic conference in 2006, Randall called this dimension of party institutionalization ‘organizational systemness.’ For this book, I have decided to label this dimension systemness/party organization in the matrix that helps to illustrate the model. For the remainder of the book, however, I will resort to the short version ‘systemness’ as suggested by Randall and Svåsand (2002a), even though I do acknowledge the linguistic awkwardness of the term. Here, the dimension of systemness overlaps with the other structural dimension as indeed the concentration of power in the hands of a charismatic leader also inhibits institutionalization in the area of decisional autonomy. Chapter 4 will examine this phenomenon in regards to Golkar. This does not necessarily refer to the increasing importance of TV campaigns. In fact, a television set is still considered a luxury in large parts of the world so that campaign rallies are often still the best way to reach voters. Accordingly, ‘old-fashioned, faceto-face politicking costs more than the new mass-marketing media-heavy approach’ (Pinto-Duschinsky 2002: 83). Significantly, the impact of corruption on institutionalization is not only visible in the dimension of systemness. As we shall see throughout this study, the prospects for institutionalization in the dimensions of decisional autonomy and reification are also directly influenced by the prevalence of corruption. Helmke and Levitsky (2004: 728) list informal bureaucratic decision-making procedures as well as judicial norms as examples for such so-called ‘complementary informal institutions.’ According to Beller and Belloni (1978: 419) a faction is defined as ‘any relatively organized group that exists within the context of some other group and which (as a

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24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34

35

36

37

38

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political faction) competes with rivals for power advantages within the larger group of which it is a part.’ See Bettcher (2005) for a slightly modified version of this characterization of factions. This line of argument is, as we shall see later on, closely linked to issues of value infusion. Scholars who have focused on party system institutionalization like Mainwaring (1999) have treated autonomy as part of the organizational dimension, an approach that has also been applied in the context of Indonesia (Tan 2002, 2006). See Chapter 7 for a discussion of PKB and other Indonesian parties. For Turkey, see for example Franz (1999) or Hale (1994); for Thailand see Bünte (2000) or Maisrikod (1992). Sinn Fein is the political arm of the Irish Republican Army (IRA) while Herri Batasuna represents the interests of the Basque Homeland and Freedom (Euskadi Ta Askatasuna, ETA). Given the de facto disbandment of GAM as a guerrilla force and the fragmentation of its leadership into several factions, however, it seems unlikely that these parties will face external interference. Thailand’s Thai Rak Thai Party under the leadership of former Prime Minister Thaksin Shinawatra and Silvio Berlusconi’s Forza Italia are obvious examples. See Nair (2007) for an interesting discussion about the failed efforts of Malaysia’s reformasi movement to overcome the salience of ethnicity in that country’s political party landscape. See for example Mainwaring’s review of Van Cott’s book in the Fall 2006 edition of Political Science Quarterly. However, the effects of such measures do not always match the expectations of the lawmakers. In Thailand, for example, widespread corruption and money politics have long undermined efforts to streamline the party system. In Indonesia, the country which according to Reilly (2007: 64) ‘has taken the engineering of party systems the farthest,’ electoral threshold regulations have been widely criticized for their lack of functionality and practicality (Mietzner 2006) since parties which fail to meet the threshold can simply reconstitute themselves under a new name. Outside Asia, the same thing happened in some cases where parties were banned. In Turkey, for example, the Refah Party reconstituted itself under the name Fazilet Partisi. Even worse, in Algeria the FIS resorted to terrorism after it was banned in 1989. Rüland (2001: 47–8) specifies this argument by referring to the special relevance of the military as the epitome of authoritarian rule in many developing world countries. Thailand is one country where the military has established its own party, but in most cases the armed forces prefer to sustain their political influence by supporting one of the formally civilian parties. Certain aspects of institutionalization in two different dimensions tend to be interrelated though. For example, factionalism is more likely to have a negative impact on systemness in a party that is weakly institutionalized in terms of value infusion than in a party with strong political values. Also, the availability of financial resources is a relevant issue for both systemness and decisional autonomy, even though the analytical focus may be slightly different. For example, decisional autonomy and value infusion often pull in opposite directions as the examples of PKB and PAN in Indonesia show (see Chapter 7). Due to their close links with religious mass organizations, both parties are highly institutionalized in terms of value infusion but poorly institutionalized in terms of decisional autonomy. The emphasis on competitiveness is important here as party systems in authoritarian or semi-authoritarian regimes are usually also very stable, although the parties that constitute the system may not be institutionalized at all (Randall and Svåsand 2002a: 7).

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39 For discussions of the impact of electoral rules on party systems and democratic governance see Farrell (1997), Lijphardt (1991), Reynolds and Reilly (1997) or Taagepera (1998). 40 Interestingly, mixed electoral systems have indeed become increasingly popular in recent years, especially in Asia. In contrast to what Merkel had proposed, however – and what is commonplace in some established Western democracies – few countries have adopted systems with equally weighted PR and majoritarian elements. Instead, ‘most Asian mixed systems are highly majoritarian in both design and practice’ (Reilly 2007: 61). 41 The bad image of parties has been described for numerous countries and regions, including Russia and other Eastern European countries (Lewis 2000, Remington 1999), Brazil (Mainwaring 1999) and of course Indonesia (Tan 2002). See also the annual surveys by Transparency International (2005, 2006, 2007) on perceptions of parties and parliaments in the context of political corruption. 42 For example, in the context of Eastern European transitions, several scholars have pointed to the importance of distinguishing between different institutional and cultural specifics of the previous regime type in order to explain the evolution of transformed communist parties (March 2002, Kitschelt et al. 1999, Ishiyama 1997). 43 Support for the CPRF has declined in recent years though. After strong performances in the 1995 and 1999 elections, where it garnered more than 20 per cent of the vote, the party only reached 13 and 11.6 per cent in the last two parliamentary elections in 2003 and 2007 respectively. 44 This argument is underlined by Mexican election results. Though the PRI lost badly in some of the urban centres during elections in the 1990s, the party continued to be strong in the more rural parts of Mexico (Philip 2002: 143). 3 Systemness: deconstructing the myth of Golkar’s party machinery 1 Among those who did make predictions, Fachri Ali proved to be best fortune-teller as he tipped Golkar to win 21 per cent in the poll. Other observers who came close to the real figures included Andi Mallarangeng who predicted 25 per cent for Golkar and Cornelis Lay who said the party would win 16 per cent. Others like J. Kristiadi (11 per cent) and Lance Castles (10 per cent) were way off the mark. See Legowo (1999) for details. 2 Interpretations of Golkar’s 1999 result vary greatly, but Suryadinata’s assessment seems to be the most accurate. Budiman (1999: 15) described it as a ‘surprising victory of Golkar,’ but that seems far too positive in view of PDI-P’s 33 per cent. In contrast to Budiman and Suryadinata, other observers have described the former government party as the ‘clear loser’ (Young 1999: 7) or the ‘big loser’ (Bourchier 2000: 20) of the election, which in turn appears a bit harsh given the fact that it won far more votes than new parties like PKB or PAN. 3 The origins of Suharto’s decision to use Golkar for electoral purposes are, as Elson (2001: 186) points out, ‘difficult to disentangle’. Apparently Suharto also contemplated using the PNI for his purposes because this party had an established organizational structure and was supported by large parts of the bureaucracy. Another option was the creation of a completely new party, but eventually Golkar emerged as the best solution because of its strong army backing and its aloofness from traditional party politics (Elson 2001: 186, Lidsker 1992: 24). 4 Apart from such ‘ “bulldozer” tactics’ (Crouch 1988: 269), the regime also sought to weaken the parties through institutional engineering. The new election laws which were passed in 1969, for example, gave the government significant leverage to interfere in the parties’ internal affairs. Furthermore, the ‘monoloyalty’ decrees from 1969 and 1970 prohibited civil servants from joining official political parties and

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9 10

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required them to vote for Golkar. Finally, a screening system for all party candidates was introduced in order to expel candidates with alleged links to the PKI. Before the 1971 elections, more than 3,800 candidates were screened and a total of 735 did not receive the authorities’ approval (Van Dijk 1992: 53). Lemarchand (1972) had argued that these two types should be distinguished from each other, but the case of Golkar shows that a party can combine both types of party machine. It should be noted that Scott (1972: 94) had stressed the ‘face-to-face, personal quality’ as a defining characteristic of patron–clientelism. However, as explained in Chapter 2, clientelism can also be understood in a more abstract sense, when parties as organizations, and not individuals, act as patrons. Kosgoro, MKGR and Soksi, all founded between 1957 and 1962 and collectively known as the Trikarya, were army-sponsored organizations which conducted various socio-economic activities in order to counter the rising influence of the PKI. For more details on these organizations see Pandiangan (1996), Reeve (1985) or Suryadinata (1989). According to Ricklefs (2001: 384), the party claimed to have 25 million members in 1988. Van Dijk (1992: 58) speaks of 30 million party members, while Ufen (2002: 278) quotes party sources that claim a membership of about 35 million in 1998, plus the ten million cadres who have at least completed simple Pancasila courses. The Dewan Pembina had existed since 1973 but only at Golkar’s third national congress (Musyawarah Nasional or Munas III) in 1983 were its powers substantially extended. Interestingly, Sudharmono was actually an ABRI man who carried the rank of lieutenant-general. However, he was never recognized as representing the armed forces since he had no battle experience and had served most of his career in the state bureaucracy (Vatikiotis 1993: 84). Clearly visible indicators for the incremental Islamization of Indonesia were the establishment of the Indonesian Muslim Intellectuals Association (Ikatan Cendekiawan Muslim Se-Indonesia, ICMI) in December 1990, Suharto’s pilgrimage to Mecca in 1991 and the opening of Indonesia’s first Islamic bank in May 1992 (Porter 2002: 88). Among the most prominent names in the Habibie-camp were then-secretary-general of the Supervisory Council Akbar Tandjung, economic czar and Supervisory Council member Ginanjar Kartasasmita, ICMI leader Haryanto Dhanutirto, the newly appointed commander-in-chief of the armed forces, General Feisal Tanjung, and Information Minister Harmoko. Together with Habibie, they became known as the ‘Team of Six’ (Tim Enam), a powerful informal group bound together by their Islamic identity and their strong power aspirations for the approaching post-Suharto period (Institut Studi Arus Informasi 1999). On a website run by people close to the former dictator, Suharto has rejected claims that the funds of Yayasan Dakab were exclusively for Golkar. However, he admitted that ‘Golkar received what they needed’ and that the party received ‘the biggest share of the funds.’ See www.soehartocenter.com/yayasan/dakab/index.shtml (accessed 20 March 2006). Additional resources for Golkar’s election campaigns came from Suharto’s cronies who ‘furnished virtually unlimited funds to cover whatever Golkar needed to secure the victory’ (Haris 2004: 29). In contrast to Golkar, PPP and PDI were generally shunned by the business community so that the opposition parties depended on small government subsidies and the minimal funds they generated from membership fees (Juoro 1998: 208). During the New Order the number of civil servants rose from 515,000 (1970) to more than four million in the mid-1990s (Ufen 2002). See Chapter 4 for further details on this.

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17 In 1999, Golkar had also won seats in every province, but back then it had to share the honour with PDI-P which had also managed to win seats in every province. 18 The party constitution and standing orders formally distinguish between party members and cadres. Eligibility criteria for simple membership include age (members must be at least 17 years’ old or already married), literacy, willingness to follow party activities, acceptance of the party’s formal institutions and political platform, as well as a voluntary expression of interest in becoming a party member. Cadres, on the other hand, form the core of the party and need to prove that they fulfil a number of special criteria including mental ideology, achievements, dedication, discipline, loyalty, lawfulness, leadership and independence. Party cadres also have to pass a political education and training programme. See DPP Partai Golkar (2003a: 9/20–2) for details on the formal differentiation. 19 According to the data presented by Tandjung (2007: 115), the number of Golkar’s cadres and members nearly doubled between October 2003 and March 2004, from 7,405,566 to 14,732,556. While it is understandable that party membership increases before an election, there is ample reason to believe that the Golkar’s administration of membership data is rather inaccurate, not least because Akbar Tandjung himself called for the establishment of a modern membership database in the run-up to the party’s national congress in December 2004. See ‘Mereka Berlomba Memanjat Puncak Beringin,’ Kompas, 16 December 2004. 20 ‘Golkar Registers for 2004 Election,’ Jakarta Post, 17 April 2003. 21 The KPU had ruled that a party could only register a maximum of 660 candidates (120 per cent of the 550 seats to be contested) for the legislative election. Golkar was the only party to reach this benchmark, while PPP (628) and PDI-P (615) were the only others to submit more than 600 names. See ‘Sebanyak 24 Parpol Serahkan Daftar Caleg ke KPU,’ Kompas, 30 December 2003. 22 Altogether, Golkar registered 811 campaigners. Other parties were only able to mobilize far smaller numbers, for instance PPP 572, PDI-P 571 or PKB 549. Online, available at www.kpu.go.id/kampanye/lihat-dalam.php?ID=3&cat=Kampanye (accessed 12 March 2004). 23 Moreover, as we shall see in Chapter 7, Golkar is by no means the only party that claims to have such a comprehensive organizational infrastructure. According to official figures, most other parties also possess a nationwide party apparatus and yet, the real scope of their territorial reach is in fact limited. Hence, the explanatory value of statistical figures is clearly insufficient in this regard. 24 Interview with journalists from local newspapers in Makassar, South Sulawesi, 1 July 2004. 25 See Chapters 4 and 5 for more details on Golkar’s performance during the pilkada. 26 This is not to say that Syachrul will turn his back on Golkar for good. On the contrary, despite running on behalf of another party in the 2007 election, he has remained a top Golkar official and is even likely to vie for the provincial chairmanship in the future. 27 As we shall see in Chapter 5, an important part of the problem for Golkar is that apart from patronage resources it has few other incentives to keep its members and supporters committed to the party. 28 Despite numerous attempts during the time of his fieldwork this researcher was unsuccessful in his efforts to conduct an interview with Akbar Tandjung. Accordingly, the personal views of the former party leader could not be accommodated in the following analysis. It should be noted, however, that in late 2007 – just before this book went to press – Akbar published his own account of Golkar’s performance in the post-Suharto period (Tandjung 2007). Wherever useful, excerpts from this book have been provided as a reference. 29 Akbar Tandjung was the first-ever Golkar chairman in the party’s history who was elected in an open contest. The right to vote was in the hands of Golkar’s then 27

Notes

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34

35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42

43 44 45 46

47 48 49 50

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provincial chapters and although the majority of these chapters were headed by retired military men who were believed to be sympathetic to Akbar’s challenger Edi Sudrajat, Akbar won the contest by 17 votes to 10 (Crouch 1999: 131–2). Furthermore, Akbar also successfully negotiated cabinet posts for some of his closest allies such as Bomer Pasaribu and Mahadi Sinambela. Altogether, Golkar secured four cabinet posts in Wahid’s first cabinet (Ufen 2002: 535). His cabinet posts included jobs as State Minister for Youth and Sports (1988–93) and State Minister for Housing (1993–8). He was State Secretary in the short-lived Habibie administration (1998–9) though. In his capacity as house speaker, Akbar was instrumental in negotiating the composition of house commissions and in determining the outcome of parliamentary procedures and the discussions of draft legislation. For a detailed analysis of the structure and functioning of the Indonesian parliament and the special role of the house speaker, see Sherlock (2003). While Mahadi and Bomer were chosen to represent Golkar in Gus Dur’s cabinet, Rambe Kamarulzaman became the first chairman of Golkar’s new youth organization AMPG (Angkatan Muda Partai Golkar, Golkar Party Youth Brigade) in 2000. Mohammad Hatta was appointed chairman of Golkar’s DPR fraction in 2003. Yahya Zaini for example was named a direct aide of fraction chairman Mohammad Hatta, while other young cadres like Ferry Mursyidan Baldan or Ade Komaruddin have played crucial roles in the parliament’s influential commissions. Iramasuka (literally: happy melody) is short for IRian Jaya, MAluku, SUlawesi, and KAlimantan. Interview with B. J. Habibie, 18 July 2003. Akbar Tandjung is a native Batak from North Sumatra, but he is sometimes described as more Javanese than his Solo-born wife. Interview with a member of Golkar’s central board, 4 May 2004. Fahmi, a former student activist and successful businessman, was born in Jakarta. ‘Golkar Plots Its Comeback,’ The Economist, 4 August 2001. At the occasion of Golkar’s 36th anniversary, Akbar harshly criticized the Wahid government for its failure to combat corruption. A public outcry followed, forcing Golkar back on the defensive. See ‘Akbar: Gus Dur Lebih Jelek Dari Orba,’ Media Indonesia, 23 October 2000. ‘Golkar Plots Its Comeback,’ The Economist, 4 August 2001. See Chapter 4 for more details on Akbar’s corruption trial. ‘Golkar ‘Rebels’ Join Call for Akbar’s Suspension,’ Jakarta Post, 23 October 2002. ‘Golkar to Finish Fourth Due to Akbar Factor: Fahmi,’ Jakarta Post, 26 October 2002. Another vice-chairman who was rumoured to support the bid to unseat Akbar was Agung Laksono, but in contrast to Fahmi and Theo, Agung never expressed his ambitions publicly. Most members of the Iramasuka faction were Muslims, some with ties to the Islamic think tank ICMI. ‘Akbar Ready to Lead Golkar from behind Bars,’ Jakarta Post, 14 October 2002. In the various polls before the presidential elections Akbar’s popularity index had never reached double digits. For an overview of various survey results see Sebastian (2004). As Golkar vice-chairman Slamet Effendy Yusuf explained, ‘a settled system like the one applied in the United States may not be suitable for a country like Indonesia.’ He did not elaborate though. See ‘The Show Must Go On, With or Without Akbar,’ Van Zorge Report, 24 February 2003. Officially, they argued that this would enhance the legitimacy of the elected candidate, but basically they knew that only with the inclusion of the district chapters did they have a realistic chance of challenging Akbar. See ‘Beringin Mencari Presiden,’ Tempo, 28 April–4 May 2003.

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52 See ‘Kandas, Penggelembungan Hak Suara DPP di Konvensi,’ Kompas, 1 May 2003. 53 Sultan Hamengkubuwono X. had also qualified for the convention, but had withdrawn after Akbar Tandjung’s acquittal by the Supreme Court. Another contender, Jusuf Kalla, had pulled out of the convention at the last minute after teaming up with Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono on a separate ticket. See ‘Kalla Siap Dampingi SBY,’ Suara Merdeka, 19 April 2004. 54 See for example, ‘Siapakah Pemenang Konvensi Partai Golkar?,’ Suara Pembaruan, 19 April 2004; or ‘Akbar dan Wiranto Bersaing Ketat,’ Suara Merdeka, 15 April 2004. 55 After none of the five candidates had received an absolute majority in the first round, Wiranto thrashed Akbar in the second round with 315 to 227 votes. Four votes were spoiled, while one delegate abstained. See ‘Wiranto Capres Golkar,’ Media Indonesia, 21 April 2004. 56 Seven provincial chapters did not even include Akbar in their lists of five nominees for the national convention. These seven provinces were West Sumatra, Central Java, Yogyakarta, South Kalimantan, East Nusa Tenggara, Southeast Sulawesi and North Maluku. See ‘Tiba di Mata, Konvensi Dipicingkan,’ Tempo, 20–6 October 2003. 57 Personal communication with convention participants, 20 April 2004. 58 During his campaign in the run-up to the convention, Akbar had repeatedly accused his competitors of showing little commitment to Golkar in the immediate aftermath of Suharto’s fall. Pointing to his role as the most conspicuous target for criticism directed at Golkar after 1998, Akbar frequently stressed that only he himself had shown the courage to defend Golkar against attacks from non-governmental organizations, student activists and other political parties. At the convention, he repeated these accusations in his final speech to the assembled delegates from all over Indonesia. Personal observation at convention, 20 April 2004. 59 I am grateful to J. Kristiadi for pointing out this factor to me. 60 ‘Menang Berkat Jual Beli Suara,’ Fajar, 26 April 2004. 61 Personal communications with local Golkar members in North and South Sulawesi between June and July 2004. 62 ‘Golkar-PKB Bantah Tidak Kompak,’ Kompas, 9 June 2004. 63 After the presidential election, a close confidant of Akbar’s indirectly confirmed that Golkar had held back funding for Wiranto. Alleging that Wiranto had simply miscalculated his budget and spent too much money for vote-buying at the convention, he argued that it was not the responsibility of Golkar to provide the funds for Wiranto’s campaign: ‘We [the party] do not have money for his campaign. It is his own problem if he spends all his money on the convention to buy the votes and then runs out of money during the campaign; we cannot support him, the party does not have money.’ Interview with a former member of Golkar’s central board, 6 August 2004. 64 Interview with Marzuki Darusman, 14 September 2004; personal communication with a member of Golkar’s Research and Development Department, 11 August 2004. 65 According to a report in Tempo news magazine, Megawati had offered Golkar at least Rp.100 billion if the party supported her bid for the presidency. Some observers, however, claim this was an understatement or, as Faisal Basrie called it, ‘a conservative guess.’ See ‘Lain Pucuk, Lain Akar dan Ranting,’ Tempo, 16–22 August 2004; interviews with Faisal Basri, 14 September 2004 and Ryaas Rasyid, 31 August 2004. 66 At least eight cabinet positions were rumoured to be reserved for Golkar, and not surprisingly, all of them were to be distributed to Akbar loyalists. See ‘Koalisi Bermesin Iming-Iming,’ Tempo, 30 August–5 September 2004.

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67 See ‘Rapim Golkar Dukung Penuh Pencalonan Mega-Hasyim,’ Kompas, 16 August 2004. 68 Personal communication with member of the provincial parliament (Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat Daerah, DPRD) South Sulawesi, 30 June 2004. 69 See ‘Koalisi Menabrak Tembok,’ Gatra, 20 August 2004. 70 West Java had been one of the few real success stories for Golkar in the legislative elections. With 27.9 per cent, the party gained 4 per cent compared with the 1999 election results, when it had only managed to win 23.6 per cent of the vote. In fact, West Java was one of only eight provinces where Golkar actually gained votes compared to 1999, and one of only five where these gains exceeded 1 per cent. The other provinces were Bali (up from 10.4 to 16.8 per cent, +6.4), West Sumatra (up from 23.6 to 28.7 per cent, +5.1), Central Java (up from 13.4 to 15.9 per cent, +2.5) and Lampung (up from 19.4 to 21.6 per cent, +2.2). 71 See ‘ “Perpecahan” di Partai Politik: Buah Personalisasi Politik,’ Pikiran Rakyat, 6 September 2004. 72 ‘Ibarat Daud Melawan Goliat,’ Tempo, 6–12 September 2004. 73 Interview with Fahmi Idris, 13 August 2004. 74 After SBY’s victory, Fahmi Idris was appointed Minister of Manpower and Transmigration. In 2005, he survived a cabinet reshuffle and moved on to become Minister for Industry. In contrast, Marzuki Darusman was not included in SBY’s cabinet. 75 Interestingly, Kalla and Muladi were only suspended from their positions in the central board, but not from their party membership. Conversely, Fahmi Idris, Marzuki Darusman, Burhanuddin Napitupulu, Yuniwati Masjchun Sofwan, Anton Lesiangi, Abu Hanifah, Abu Hasan Sadjili, Priyo Budi Santoso and Yuslin Nasution were all dealt the ultimate penalty – dismissal from the central board and from the party. Additionally, three other supporters of the Reform Forum who did not hold any positions in the central board were temporarily stripped of their party membership. These were Edison Betaubun, Yorris Raweyai and Malkan Amin. See ‘Golkar Pecat Pengurus dan Kader “Mbalela” ,’ Suara Merdeka, 16 September 2004. 76 In his own book, Akbar justified the harsh penalties against the dissidents by describing their actions as a ‘political rebellion [which] caused a lot of questions and confusion amongst cadres in the regions’ (Tandjung 2007: 125). 77 The lack of cooperation between oppositional figures was criticized by one of the dismissed Reform Forum founders, Muladi, who argued that Akbar could only be toppled if Wiranto and Surya Paloh united and agreed on some sort of powersharing deal. See ‘Wiranto, Akbar Tandjung, dan Surya Paloh Dominasi Bursa Calon Ketua Umum Partai Golkar,’ Kompas, 24 November 2004. 78 After the dismissal of the members of the Reform Forum, resistance against Akbar in the DPP was far less pronounced. 79 ‘DPD II Partai Golkar Tak Punya Hak Suara,’ Pikiran Rakyat, 11 December 2004. 80 Just before the congress, Agung had briefly contemplated running for the top job himself, but he gave up that plan when Jusuf Kalla entered the fray. 81 Agung was chairman of AMPI between 1983 and 1988 and has been chairman of Kosgoro 1957 since 2002. For more details on Agung Laksono, see www.tokohindonesia.com/ensiklopedi/a/agung-laksono/index.shtml (accessed 1 February 2006). 82 Surya Paloh, who was never an active member of the armed forces, was one of the founding members of FKPPI and chaired the organization between 1979 and 1983. He also has links with AMPI, where he is a member of the Advisory Council. Surya, however, is most famous for his media empire, which comprises, among other companies, the newspaper Media Indonesia and the television channel Metro TV. Online, available at www.tokohindonesia.com/ensiklopedi/s/surya-paloh/index. shtml (accessed 1 February 2006). 83 After the last-minute changes, voting rights had eventually been granted to the central board, all provincial and all district boards, AMPG and KPPG, and the entire

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88 89 90 91

92 93 94 95

96

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98 99 100 101 102 103

Notes Hasta Karya. Altogether, the number of votes eventually amounted to 484. In the final round of the contest, there were two abstentions and three invalid votes. See ‘Jusuf Kalla Ketua Umum DPP Golkar 2004–2009,’ Tempo Interaktif, 19 December 2004; ‘Akbar Mengaku Dikeroyok,’ Suara Merdeka, 20 December 2004. ‘ “Blitzkrieg” Jusuf Kalla Berhasil,’ Kompas, 20 December 2004. This may be true for all parties, but Golkar’s appetite seems to be particularly fierce. In contrast to other parties such as, for example, PDI-P, Golkar has demonstrated that its cadres will not hesitate to remove their leader if he fails to deliver access to power. As quoted in ‘Akbar Tandjung’s Event-filled Political Career Grinds to Halt,’ Jakarta Post, 20 December 2004. Not surprisingly, congress participants were generally tight-lipped about the prevalence of money politics. Newspaper reports alleged that candidates and their allies paid up to Rp.350 million to secure the support of provincial boards, whereas district boards received up to Rp.75 million. See ‘Penguasa dan Pengusaha Kuasai Golkar,’ Kompas, 22 December 2004. As quoted in ‘Akbar Tandjung’s Event-filled Political Career Grinds to Halt,’ Jakarta Post, 20 December 2004. ‘Kalla’s Rise Reignites Fears,’ Jakarta Post, 20 December 2004. ‘Jusuf Kalla: “Saya Memang Oportunis” ,’ Tempo, 2 May 2004. Interview with Mahadi Sinambela, 6 August 2004. Unfortunately, no official data were available to verify this but, given the relatively low socio-economic status of Golkar’s grassroots constituency, it is indeed likely that the party does not generate any substantial income from its rank and file. After 1998 Golkar not only lost access to the financial resources of Suharto’s notorious foundations, but also lost its monopoly on non-budgetary funds from stateowned cash-cows like Pertamina or Bulog. This is indeed not an exclusively Indonesian phenomenon, but a natural condition of party finance all over the world. See Chapter 4 for details on how money compromises Golkar’s decisional autonomy. For the 2009 election, these limits are set to be raised quite substantially. The draft of the new party law, which was passed by the DPR in December 2007, states that individuals will be allowed to donate up to Rp.1 billion while the limit for private enterprises was raised to Rp.4 billion. See ‘Pemilik Modal Bisa Kontrol Partai Politik,’ Koran Tempo, 6 December 2007. For the 2009 election, the law on general elections will, just like the law on political parties, also be replaced by a new bill. By the time this book went to press, however, negotiations about the exact wording of the document continued in the DPR and no draft bill had been passed. Many parties, for example, ignored the request to submit an audited financial report. Altogether, only 13 parties submitted their financial reports in accordance with the formal guidelines, but only four, including Golkar, had done so before the deadline. See ‘Political Parties Ignore Campaign Fund Regulation,’ Jakarta Post, 24 December 2004. See comments by Agung Laksono in ‘Golkar Pungut Rp.100 Juta Dari Caleg Jadi,’ Media Indonesia, 26 February 2004. ‘Golkar Pungut Rp. 100 Juta Dari Caleg Jadi,’ Media Indonesia, 26 February 2004. ‘Parties Not Transparent about Legislative Poll Funding,’ Jakarta Post, 29 May 2004. See comments by Baharuddin Aritonang in ‘How Costly Was Your Campaign?,’ Jakarta Post, 5 April 2004. Interview with Golkar legislative candidate, 26 August 2004. These computations are based on data taken from Tim Litbang Kompas (2000,

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107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115

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2005) and are similar to those of Sugiarto (2006: 92). Suryadinata (2002: 121), on the other hand, has put the number of entrepreneurs for the 1999–2004 period much lower (21.7 per cent). His data, however, appear to be based on what legislators named as their most recent occupation in the KPU datasheets. Significantly, this method of counting excludes, for example, all those entrepreneurial legislators who had already been in parliament in the 1997–9 period because they would count as politicians and not as businessmen. In the context of this study, however, it is considered more meaningful to include all legislators with a background in business, regardless of when they abandoned their entrepreneurial activities. Prabowo’s name is probably more closely associated with the military and his career in the special forces, but it is significant to note that after his expulsion from the armed forces in 1998, Prabowo also made his name as a businessman. ‘Penguasa dan Pengusaha Kuasai Golkar,’ Kompas, 22 December 2004. Interview with Faisal Basri, 14 September 2004. Similarly, former party chairman Akbar Tandjung has also argued that Golkar’s ‘special relationship’ with many businesspeople has helped the party tackle the financial challenges of the early postSuharto era (Tandjung 2007: 175). As noted previously, the actual number would have been four out of seven, but Jusuf Kalla and Sultan Hamengkubuwono X. withdrew from the race. Interviews with members of Golkar’s DPR fraction, 16 and 31 August 2004. It should, however, be noted that it is impossible to establish how regularly the legislators make these payments as information from the treasury was not available. Presiden Republik Indonesia (2001), Peraturan Pemerintah Republik Indonesia No. 51/2001 Tentang Bantuan Keuangan Kepada Partai Politik. Presiden Republik Indonesia (2005), Peraturan Pemerintah Republik Indonesia No. 29/2005 Tentang Bantuan Keuangan Kepada Partai Politik. In 2005, payment for two parties embroiled in internal infighting (PKB and PBR) was delayed. See ‘14 Parpol Menerima Bantuan Rp. 10,264 M,’ Pikiran Rakyat, 4 January 2006. ‘Partai Politik Terima Dana Rp 21 Juta per Kursi DPR,’ Kompas, 20 July 2005. ‘14 Parpol Menerima Bantuan Rp.10,264 M,’ Pikiran Rakyat, 4 January 2006. This point will be picked up again in Chapter 5. Interview with Sjachrir Sjafruddin Daeng Jarung, 26 August 2004. Similar comments were also made by a number of other legislative candidates who felt that they had been treated unfairly. Ibrahim Ambong, for example, said that according to the rules his membership in the DPP and his post as chairman of the DPR commission on foreign affairs should have made him eligible for a high list place. To his disbelief, however, he was dropped to list place no. 7 without, so he claimed, receiving any explanation from the central board. Interview with Ibrahim Ambong, 2 June 2004. See Chapter 7 for details on how Megawati, Abdurrahman Wahid and Amien Rais dealt with challenges to their leadership after the 2004 elections.

4 Decisional autonomy: the main problems lurk inside the party 1 In the case of Golkar, such beneficial relations exist with a number of organizations, especially Golkar’s three founding organizations Kosgoro 1957, MKGR and Soksi, as well as youth organizations such as AMPI and, to a lesser extent, KNPI, which used to be part of Golkar during the New Order, but is now independent. These groups are now all formally independent, but basically they are little more than recruitment pools for Golkar. They hardly conduct any activities on their own, but aspiring politicians still use these organizations to kickstart their careers because they provide invaluable access to lucrative patronage networks, most of which are somehow linked to Golkar. Given their general insignificance in the political process, these groups are of minor interest in the context of this book.

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2 The doctrine ‘karya dan kekaryaan’ is difficult to translate into English. While karya can be translated as function or functional, it can also mean work. The usage of the word goes back to Sukarno’s idea of functional groups’ representation as an alternative to political parties (Reeve 1985), and was later adapted by the Suharto regime. In the post-New Order era Golkar has retained it as the core element of its programme, defining it as a combination of ‘performance,’ ‘professionalism,’ ‘fighting spirit’ and ‘dignity’ (DPP Partai Golkar 2004b: 2). Kekaryaan is usually associated with the military’s New Order practice of seconding military personnel to civilian posts (in fact kekaryaan was already practised by the military before the New Order, but only under Suharto did it become institutionalized), but in the context of Golkar’s political platform it should be understood as ‘achievement,’ in a practical sense. See statement by Theo Sambuaga, online, available at www.golkar.or.id/detail_ tokoh_kita.php?option=content&task=view&id=173 (accessed 28 August 2006). 3 That includes the various departments that are part of the central board such as the organizational department or the religious department, to name but a few. Between 1999 and 2004, the rapat pleno comprised 97 members, but after the election of Jusuf Kalla as general chairman it was reduced to 88 members. See Appendix for the full line-ups of the central boards under Akbar Tandjung and Jusuf Kalla. 4 Tasks, functions and composition of the Advisory Council are regulated in Chapter X of the party constitution and in more detail in Chapter VI of the party’s standing orders (DPP Partai Golkar 2003a: 14; 29–30). 5 See ‘Pangab: ABRI Kembangkan Empat Paradigma Peran Sosial Politik Baru,’ Republika, 18 July 1998. 6 Statement by Wiranto, as quoted in The Editors (1999: 143). 7 Statement by Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, as quoted in The Editors (1999: 143). 8 Based on interview data from Agus Wirahadikusumah, Rinakit (2005: 232) argues that military commanders were asked to call on businessmen to support Golkar’s electoral activities with financial contributions. 9 Interestingly, in an earlier draft Kingsbury (2001: 104) still argued that the military had been ‘relatively successful’ in implementing its New Paradigm. In an updated version of the same manuscript, published just two years later, he describes most of the individual components of the New Paradigm as a failure, with the severance of ties with Golkar being one of the notable exceptions (Kingsbury 2003: 173). 10 Owing to the secret nature of the vote, it is not exactly clear whether the 38 TNI/police representatives all followed Wiranto’s instructions and voted for Gus Dur. According to Mietzner (2004: 191), however, ‘it seems likely that at least a majority of military members opted for Abdurrahman.’ 11 Golkar secured four cabinet posts, the military even got six ministerial positions. For a complete line-up of the cabinet see Ufen (2002: 535). 12 Charges against Kalla were never laid and many observers believed that the allegations were completely baseless. 13 Given her conservative ideological worldview Megawati was widely regarded as a natural ally or even a ‘mascot’ for the military. Commenting on Megawati’s ascension to the presidency, Sidney Jones argued that ‘we expect that one of the direct results (of Megawati’s ascendancy) will be a green light to the military to do whatever it wants on Aceh and Papua and to some extent other areas of conflict.’ Quoted in ‘U.S. Warned against Full Embrace of Megawati,’ Inter Press Service, 25 July 2001. 14 Interview with Alan Wall, 5 August 2004. 15 As one observer put it, ‘external actors are important in any parliament and of course the DPR is no exception. But their influence through lobbying and financial contributions is difficult to substantiate.’ Email interview with Patrick Ziegenhain, 28 February 2006. 16 Until 2004, the military held 38 reserved seats in parliament. It was only after the 2004 election that military representation in parliament was abolished.

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17 Interview with J. Kristiadi, 11 August 2004. 18 When in mid-2003 the government declared martial law in Aceh after a series of halfhearted attempts at peace, the decision was unanimously supported by parliament and by all accounts, this support was in no need of any extra push from the military. In the following months, the DPR approved of extensive financial assistance for the Aceh operation, even though the Supreme Auditing Board bemoaned the TNI’s unsatisfactory financial reports (Mietzner 2004: 216) 19 At that time, the province was still officially called Irian Jaya. The name change from Irian Jaya to Papua was not endorsed before December 2000. 20 For example, Megawati persistently refused to arrange for the establishment of a Papuan People’s Assembly (Majelis Rakyat Papua, MRP), even though the autonomy law clearly prescribed the establishment of this institution. It was eventually inaugurated in October 2005, but with much fewer responsibilities than the law had actually called for. See ‘Papuans Need Sincerity,’ Jakarta Post, 7 November 2005. 21 The court argued that by the time the verdict was finally reached, the province of West Irian Jaya already had an operating central administration, a legislature and four elected members to the Regional Representatives Council (DPD) in Jakarta. See ‘Provinsi Irjabar Sah,’ Kompas, 12 November 2004. 22 See Wing and King (2005) for a harshly critical report on TNI’s business activities in Papua. 23 See for example Morin’s critical comments at a conference in Berlin in June 2003, online available at http://home.snafu.de/watchin/AfP2003morin.htm or ‘Kaji Ulang Pemekaran Papua,’ Suara Pembaruan (accessed 26 August 2003). 24 ‘Leaders Slam Government Plans to Split Papua,’ Jakarta Post, 12 January 2006. 25 ‘Kalla Seeking to Restore Papuan Confidence,’ Jakarta Post, 26 November 2005; ‘One Policy on Papua Needed,’ Jakarta Post, 27 June 2005. 26 See for example ‘Lagi, Calon Presiden Dari Militer Ditolak,’ Tempo Interaktif, 26 April 2004. 27 An exception may be PD, but in this case doubts about the decisional autonomy had persisted anyway. These doubts were, however, aimed more directly at SBY’s personal role in the party and not the military as an external influence. See Chapter 7 for a more detailed discussion of the other parties’ decisional autonomy. 28 At times, the members of his own success team even refused to wear the yellow Golkar uniform, indicating how little the former general identified himself as a Golkar figure. Personal observations from Wiranto’s campaign in North Sulawesi, 26 June 2004. 29 See below for a discussion of the discrepancies between the autonomy of a small oligarchic party elite and the party as a collective organization. 30 Email interview with Marcus Mietzner, 24 February 2006. 31 Email interview with Marcus Mietzner, 24 February 2006. 32 Simply defined, corruption is ‘the misuse of public power for private gain’ (RoseAckerman 1999: 91). As we shall see later on, this misuse of power can take many forms, but money politics – that is the payment of cash or other financial contributions in expectation of a quid pro quo – is regarded as the most significant in the context of this chapter. 33 Altogether, seven foundations were handed over to the government, including Yayasan Dakab, Yayasan Dharmais, Yayasan Supersemar, Yayasan Amal Bakti Muslim Pancasila, Yayasan Dana Mandiri Sejahtera, Yayasan Dana Gotong Royong and Yayasan Trikora. See ‘Kejagung Segera Sita Kekayaan Soeharto,’ Indonesia Media Online, online, available at www.indonesiamedia.com/rubrik/berta/ berta00may.htm (accessed 24 April 2000). 34 Despite the Keppres, the run-up to the 1999 election was still marred by rumours that the foundation continued to supply funds for Golkar. One magazine, for example, reported that Yayasan Dakab would provide up to Rp.800 billion for the campaign.

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These figures, however, seem vastly exaggerated. According to McBeth (1999), for example, Golkar’s entire campaign spending was set to reach ‘only’ Rp.300 billion. While this is of course still massive, especially in comparison to the other parties, it is a far cry from what the party used to have at its disposal during the New Order. For details on the Rp.800 billion rumour, see ‘Beringin Itu Belum Tumbang,’ Forum Keadilan, 22 February 1999. The second factor that contributed to Habibie’s downfall was his decision to allow East Timor to hold a referendum on its independence. Buloggate I had involved Abdurrahman Wahid in 2001. Apart from Akbar, several other former Golkar officials including then-treasurer M. S. Hidayat, then-deputy treasurers Fadel Muhammad, Setya Novanto and Enggartiasto Lukito, as well as former vice-chairman Mahadi Sinambela were implicated in the case, but only Akbar and two non-party figures were prosecuted. The final judgment was given against the dissenting opinion of Abdul Rahman Saleh, one of five judges at the Supreme Court. See ‘Akbar Tanjung Bebas – Abdul Rahman Saleh Ajukan Dissenting Opinion,’ Kompas, 13 February 2004. For a succinct summary of the case see ‘Bulwark of Justice?,’ Jakarta Post, 13 February 2004. Two of the most outrageous examples of collective corruption by regional legislators were the scandals in Kampar and Padang. In Kampar, which is located in Riau province, all 45 members of the local DPRD were implicated in a large-scale corruption scam while in Padang (West Sumatra), 43 legislators were found guilty of corruption and sentenced to jail terms. For an overview of corruption scandals involving regional parliamentarians see www.antikorupsi.org/docs/korupsidprd04.pdf (accessed 25 March 2006). For a general overview of Indonesian corruption cases in 2005, see the ICW report at www.antikorupsi.org/docs/voniskorupsi2005.pdf (accessed 25 March 2006). Nurdin Halid is a controversial businessman from South Sulawesi who represented Golkar in the DPR between 1999 and 2004. His bid for re-election in 2004 failed because he had been degraded to a lower place on Golkar’s list of legislative candidates. Following the election disaster, Nurdin’s fortunes declined further when he was embroiled in a series of corruption cases. While he escaped conviction in two of the cases (embezzling money from Bulog and illegally importing sugar), he was finally found guilty of illegally importing rice and sentenced to two and a half years in jail in August 2005. Email communication with Marcus Mietzner, 24 February 2006. In view of the potential windfall that every new district produces for the legislators it is hardly surprising that the vast majority of legislation initiated by the DPR in the first reformasi years has constituted those laws which regulate the creation of new administrative regions (Ziegenhain 2005: 31). It should, however, be reiterated here that most of the important decisions in parliament are made in the powerful committees, which are staffed by members from all parties. Often, it is sufficient to bribe the members of these committees to get a law passed. As Sherlock (2005) has pointed out, members of the committees often feel a greater commitment to their fellow committee members than to their party fractions. Significantly, the local cadres’ expectation that they would receive money in exchange for their support was so explicit that one prominent pre-convention participant, respected Muslim intellectual Nurcholish Madjid, pulled out in disgust. See ‘Nurcholish Urung Ikut Konvensi Golkar,’ Kompas, 31 July 2003. Jusuf Kalla actually pulled out shortly before the national convention in order to become running mate for Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono who was nominated by PD. Exceptions were of course made occasionally, for example for celebrity candidates like Nurul Arifin who had only entered the party in 2001 but was still given a spot on the party list. His conclusions are supported by a number of local case studies. For interesting references to Golkar see, for example, Yanuarti (2005), Nuryanti (2005), Ratnawati (2005) and Haris (2005c).

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47 ‘Golkar Sulsel “Melawan” ,’ Fajar, 28 December 2003. 48 Marwah’s case was not the only controversial example of list allocation in South Sulawesi. With Ibrahim Ambong and Nurdin Halid there were at least two other candidates who reacted angrily to their degradation to lower list places. 49 This stipulation was in fact later overturned by the Constitutional Court. First it ruled that parties must have not only 15 per cent of seats, but also 15 per cent of the votes to be eligible to nominate candidates. This gave smaller parties a better chance to compete in the pilkada than the original rule. Later on it even ruled that independent candidates, who according to the original law had been banned from participation in the pilkada, have to be allowed to run in local elections, thereby further eroding the power of the parties. By the time this manuscript was completed, however, the DPR had still not revised the relevant legislation so that no pilkada with independent candidates had been held yet. Thanks to Marcus Mietzner for drawing my attention to the first court ruling. 50 According to some estimates, the costs of an entire election campaign for a candidate in a pilkada on district level in Eastern Indonesia could easily reach between US$500,000 and US$700,000 (Buehler 2007: 144). Clearly, these sums limited the chances of participation to a few selected elites. 51 Significantly, and in contrast to the presidential election, during the pilkada many other parties emulated Golkar’s convention model. For prospective candidates, this meant that they often campaigned simultaneously on various fronts as they registered for not only one, but many conventions, in order to increase their chances of securing a candidature. Not surprisingly, these multiple campaigns also led to an increase in expenditure for prospective candidates. 52 This was in contrast to the legislative elections, where Golkar had made party membership a condition of eligibility to run. During the pilkada, party membership was only compulsory for candidates in districts where Golkar had gained more than 50 per cent in the 2004 legislative election. 53 See ‘Rekrut Calon Kepala Daerah Akan Dievaluasi,’ online, available at www.partaigolkar.or.id (accessed 10 July 2005). 54 See Chapter 7 for more details. 5 Value infusion: in search of Golkar’s roots 1 In fact, it is not only difficult to find such parties outside Europe, but also in Europe itself, as non-ideological catch-all parties have become the norm in many European countries. 2 Interview with Sarwono Kusumaatmadja, 19 August 2004. 3 Pancasila (‘five principles’) is Indonesia’s state philosophy as formulated in the preamble of the constitution. The five principles are: (1) Belief in the One and Only God, (2) A Just and Civilized Humanity, (3) The Unity of Indonesia, (4) Democracy Guided by the Inner Wisdom in the Unanimity Arising out of Deliberation among Representatives and (5) Social Justice for the Whole of the People of Indonesia (Department of Information of the Republic of Indonesia 1991: 14). 4 Interview with Marzuki Darusman, 14 September 2004. 5 These included, in the rhetoric of the regime, political Islam (the extreme right), communism (the extreme left) and liberal democracy (the extreme centre). 6 This impression was gleaned from interviews with a number of Golkar cadres; some even expressed fears of a communist comeback. Akbar Tandjung, too, talks at great length about the need to be vigilant of extreme ideologies and lists anti-communism as one of Golkar’s basic core values (Tandjung 2007: 208). 7 Interviews with Marwah Daud Ibrahim, 15 July 2004; Marzuki Darusman, 14 September 2004; Nurul Arifin, 11 August 2004; and HM Zain Katoe, 2 July 2004. 8 One of the most striking examples of this attempted de-ideologization was the

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17 18

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21 22

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enforced acceptance of pancasila as the only relevant ideology for the Islamic PPP and all other Islamic mass organizations (asas tunggal legislation in 1984). The immediate aim of the measure was to weaken political Islam, but put in a broader context, it generally aimed at expunging or at least softening existing aliran structures. King (2003: 153) mentions a positive correlation between previous Masyumi strongholds as well as a certain degree of ‘Islamicness’ with Golkar’s results in 1999. At the same time, however, he emphasizes that the strongest incentive for Golkar voters was regional affiliation from Eastern Indonesia. See Suryadinata (2002: 142) for religious backgrounds of the legislators, LSI (2003) and LP3ES (2004) for religious backgrounds of Golkar’s voters in 2004. Though it should be noted that the HMI network has actually spread out well beyond party boundaries. Fuller Collins (n.d.) notes that ‘during the Suharto era, HMI became a training ground for students with political ambitions.’ The main function of HMI becomes obvious when she quotes an HMI member from Palembang as saying that ‘ “HMI is an important organization for establishing networks. Your university no longer matters – you are all HMI”.’ Akbar’s public display of devout religiosity during his corruption trial in particular drew ire from segments of the Muslim student community who claimed that the Golkar leader was just window dressing to enhance his public reputation. Personal communication with students from IAIN Jakarta, 10 July 2003. Personal communication with HMI activist from Jakarta, 28 May 2004. Ade Komaruddin became general chairman of HMI in 1988. In the same year, Ferry Mursyidan Baldan was elected chairman of HMI’s West Java chapter, and in 1990 he succeeded Ade as general chairman. When Ferry vacated the post in 1992, another bright young prospect, Yahya Zaini took over the post. Like his predecessors, Zaini too went on to become a Golkar legislator, but his career came to an abrupt end when he was forced to resign from politics after an embarrassing sex scandal in late 2006. For brief resumes of the three, see Tim Litbang Kompas (2000). Factional dynamics have put Ferry and Ade on the back seat for the moment as they were dropped from the party’s central board after Akbar Tandjung’s defeat by Jusuf Kalla. Thohari, Santoso and Zaini, on the other hand, had switched to the Kalla camp just in time to retain their positions in the DPP (Zaini only until later 2006; see previous note). It should be noted that the cooperation brings benefits not only for Golkar but also for the Islamic organizations themselves as they can gain access to highest political offices. I am grateful to Suaidi Asyari for pointing this out. In 34 of the remaining 36 electoral districts, the number of people punching both the party symbol and the candidates’ names was higher than the number of those who only punched the party symbol. The only exceptions were South Sumatra II and West Nusa Tenggara. See ‘Hamka Haq Tinggalkan Golkar,’ TVRI online, 30 December 2003, online, available at www.tvri.co.id/beritadaerah/brada.php?id=622&daerah=Sulawesi_Selata (accessed 15 May 2004). During the ensuing presidential election, Hamka approached local Muhammadiyah leaders in an obvious attempt to drum up support for Megawati. In view of the fact that Megawati’s running mate Hasyim Muzadi was the chairman of NU, Hamka’s actions drew a number of cynical comments from young NU figures. See ‘Siapa Kutu Siapa Loncat,’ Gatra, 16 July 2004. Significantly, the local leaders of NU, Muhammadiyah and MUI were all involved in the genesis of KPPSI (Pradadimara and Junedding 2002). Pradadimara and Junedding were writing in 2002, but apparently the male bias within the organization has not changed at all as can be seen from the fact that the 2005

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26 27 28

29

30

31

32 33

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congress was not attended by a single female activist. See ‘Tak Satupun Perempuan di Kongres III Umat Islam se Sulsel,’ Media Indonesia online, 28 March 2005. See ‘Abdul Azis Kahar Muzakkar: Hukum Belanda Saja Bisa, Apalagi Hukum Islam,’ Republika, 1 April 2005. Interview with Arskal Salim, 26 June 2005. See for example the various articles in the series ‘Prediksi Pemilu’ in Kompas (various issues between 18 February 2004 and 6 March 2004) or a similar series in the ‘Politik dan Keamanan’ section of Media Indonesia (issues between 25 February 2004 and 9 March 2004). See for example ‘Mencari Peluang di Jazirah Golkar,’ Kompas, 27 February 2004. The terms ‘traditional relationship’ or ‘emotional relationship’ were also frequently used by local politicians in interviews during fieldwork in South Sulawesi. Interview with Abdul Madjid Sallatu, 24 June 2004. While most interviewees chose their words carefully when asked to comment on the dilemma, some were less restrained. A leading member of Golkar’s campaign team in South Sulawesi, for example, responded with resounding laughter when he was asked to comment on Wiranto’s defeat. ‘He was destroyed,’ he said without the slightest hint of regret. Interview with Arfandy Idris, 6 July 2004. Local PKS leader Tamsil Linrung relentlessly spoke about his party’s desire to nominate Habibie as presidential candidate. His comments provoked angry reactions from members of the Habibie clan, some of whom had agreed to run as legislative candidates for PD and Golkar. See ‘Fanny Habibie Marah Besar,’ Fajar, 26 March 2004. In an interview in his adopted home in Germany, Habibie admitted that politicians from various parties had approached him to enquire about his readiness to run for the presidency. However, he denied that he had made any commitment whatsoever, pledging instead to stay in Germany to take care of his wife and enjoy the life of a retiree. In the run-up to the election he reiterated this stance, but that did not stop the rumours. Interview with B. J. Habibie, 17 July 2003. See also ‘Habibie Pilih Urusi Istri,’ Fajar, 19 February 2004. In fact, local Golkar politicians were divided over the significance of the Habibie factor. Andi Mattalatta, for instance, claimed that it was one of the main reasons for Golkar’s unsatisfactory result, while provincial chairman Amin Syam was among those who alleged that it did not play a noteworthy role at all. Interviews with Andi Mattalatta, 4 May 2004, and Amin Syam, 7 May 2004. Interview with Amin Syam, 7 May 2004. See ‘Golkar Optimis Raih 77 Persen Suara,’ Fajar, 5 January 2004. The election target for every district in South Sulawesi was displayed on a big map on the wall of the main meeting room in Golkar’s provincial head office in Makassar. Surprisingly, few officials seemed to be bothered by the huge discrepancy between the official targets and the actual results as the map had still not been removed several months after the elections. During fieldwork in 2004, several older party functionaries in South Sulawesi were asked to describe the main points of the New Paradigm, but not everyone could answer this question. Along with DI Yogyakarta, South Sulawesi was the only province where not a single parliamentary seat was won by a new face (In Yogyakarta, Golkar only won a single DPR seat, so the effect is not as significant there as in South Sulawesi). Even if Golkar had won four seats more in the province, there would still be no newcomer as the first seven list places in both electoral areas of South Sulawesi were occupied by incumbent DPR members. Yet, it should be noted that many of the new faces in the other provinces were not really that new either. On a back-to-back basis they may be new because they were not DPR members in the 1999–2004 period, but many of these candidates had already been in parliament during the New Order period so that

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49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57

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the bad track record of South Sulawesi appears in a slightly better light. See ‘Muka Lama di Dewan Yang Baru,’ Kompas, 27 May 2004. Muhammad Roem in electoral district III was the only exception to this pattern. All other areas had three or more old faces on the top positions of the list. See ‘Golkar Andalkan Muka Lama,’ Fajar, 3 February 2004; see also Komisi Pemilihan Umum Provinsi Sulawesi Selatan (2004) for a full listing of all candidates. See ‘Amin Syam Kembali Pimpin Golkar Sulsel,’ Suara Pembaruan, 6 December 2004. Interviews with Sjachrir Sjafruddin Daeng Jarung, 26 August 2004, and Fadhilla Mallarangeng, 22 September 2004. See ‘Pembukaan Musda Golkar Sulsel Berlangsung Rusuh,’ Kompas, 4 December 2004. Interview with LSIM activists, 30 June 2004. See ‘Prediksi Pemilu Sulsel: Mengepung Lumbung Golkar,’ Kompas, 26 February 2004. Interview with Andi Mattalatta, 4 May 2004. See for example ‘FLP Palopo Laporkan Akbar Tanjung ke Polisi,’ Fajar, 14 January 2004, ‘MDI Konsisten Tolak Akbar,’ Fajar, 29 January 2004. As described in Chapter 3, Akbar tried to set up several rules that weakened the chances for his convention rivals. One of these was an instruction that forbade all convention contenders except himself from campaigning outside Java and Bali. The instruction was heavily criticized and widely ignored by most of the convention participants, especially Surya Paloh and Prabowo Subianto. See for example ‘Surya Paloh Tak Indahkan Putusan DPP Golkar,’ Kompas, 10 March 2004; ‘Capres Golkar Keberatan Dibatasi Kampanye,’ Fajar, 11 March 2004. Despite far-reaching reforms in the election and party laws, the communist party itself remains outlawed until the present day. But the first positive step towards ending the demonization of communism was finally undertaken in February 2004 when the Constitutional Court ruled that the ban on ex-PKI members voting or being elected was unconstitutional. See ‘Mahkamah Konstitusi: Bekas PKI Boleh Memilih dan Dipilih,’ Tempo Interaktif, 24 February 2004. The surveys were conducted on request by Golkar’s election-campaign team, led by experienced party strategist Slamet Effendy Yusuf. All data in this paragraph is taken from LSI (2003). Different sources have used different meanings for the individual letters in the acronym SARS, ranging from ‘Saya Amat Rindu Suharto’ to ‘Sindrom Amat Rindu Suharto’ to ‘Sindrom Aku Rindu Suharto’. Translated into English, however, they essentially all mean the same, namely ‘I miss Suharto syndrome.’ Despite a big media hype the party only gained a disappointing 2.1 per cent in the 2004 election, a result that sent it straight back to oblivion. According to LSI (2003: 18 and 33), the number of respondents who believed that life was better under the New Order than in the reformasi era had reached more than 60 per cent by November 2003. See Chapter 6 for more details on how Golkar changed its image. Interview with Dias Pradadimara, 29 June 2004. Interview with Dias Pradadimara, 29 June 2004. Interview with Dias Pradadimara, 29 June 2004. I am grateful to Harold Crouch for directing my attention to this point. See ‘Hidayat, Ketua Umum Kadin Indonesia,’ Kompas, 21 February 2004. Some observers claim that this is true for all parties. For example, Hadiz (2005: 45) understands political parties in general as ‘primarily the vehicles of emerging coalitions of interests, older and newer, forged in battles to secure control over state power and its resources.’ However, as I will argue in Chapter 7.3., at least some of the other parties have, in contrast to Golkar, a bit more to offer than simply access to power.

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58 Until 2006, no independent candidates were allowed in any elections in Indonesia, regardless of whether it was a legislative, presidential or local election. Then, in December 2006 the first exception to this rule was made in the province of Aceh where independent candidates were allowed to run in the pilkada as part of the special autonomy package for the province. Soon after the Aceh election, the Constitutional Court in Jakarta ruled that independent candidates should be allowed to participate in other pilkada, too. With this judgment, the monopoly of political parties to nominate candidates for all legislative and executive elections in Indonesia looks set to be broken, however, by the time this book went to press not much progress had been made in regards to the necessary revisions of the relevant law (Law No. 32/2004). Although the DPR had finalized new draft legislation and submitted it to the government by November 2007, this draft contained so many contentious passages (especially in regards to the eligibility requirements for independent candidates) that many observers expected prolonged negotiations before the new legislation would eventually be passed. Therefore, NGO activists like Ray Rangkuti predicted that there will be no pilkada with independent candidates before 2009. See ‘Coalition Rejects Criteria for Independent Candidates,’ Jakarta Post, 19 November 2007; ‘Calon Perseorangan Tak Bisa Tahun Ini,’ Kompas, 12 January 2008. 59 This threshold is due to be further increased in 2009 when only parties that gain 15 per cent of the seats in the DPR or 20 per cent of the vote will be allowed to nominate candidates. See Ellis and Yudhini (n.d.) for a discussion on the law or KPU (2003) for the full text. 60 As mentioned above, these are currently being revised. By the time this book went to press, however, all indications were that the parties would make it as unattractive as possible for independent candidates to run in future pilkada so that they can retain their powerful roles in the nomination processes. 61 Interview with Abdul Nurhaman, 29 July 2004. 62 Interview with Happy Bone Zulkarnain, 19 August 2004. If not indicated otherwise, all information in this paragraph is taken from this interview. 63 See ‘Kalla Expects to Take Golkar Hands Down,’ Jakarta Post, 16 December 2004. 64 Interview with Nurul Arifin, 11 August 2004. 65 Interview with Nurul Arifin, 11 August 2004. 66 Interview with Nurul Arifin, 26 May 2004. 67 ‘Aturan Konvensi Diubah, Capres Tetap Tujuh Orang,’ Kompas, 20 October 2003. 68 Had the convention been held as planned in February, losing candidates may have jumped ship and supported another party during the election campaign. Jusuf Kalla’s late withdrawal in favour of a vice-presidential candidature alongside SBY was evidence that this fear was well grounded. 69 While it can only be speculated, it is highly likely that if Kalla had dropped out of the convention before the election, Golkar would have received far less votes in Eastern Indonesia than it actually did. 70 During the last days of the Suharto regime, the sultan was one of the most outspoken advocates of reform. He not only led a large demonstration through the streets of Yogyakarta in May 1998, but also later joined other ‘opposition’ leaders Megawati Sukarnoputri, Abdurrahman Wahid and Amien Rais in the so-called Ciganjur meetings which were arranged by student leaders to apply pressure on the transitional Habibie government. 71 In contrast to Sulawesi, however, the calculation did not work out in Yogyakarta as Golkar only scored a disappointing 13.8 per cent in the province. 72 In addition to his reputation as a military man, Wiranto also had another, somewhat curious market value, namely his musical talent. During his campaign appearances, he regularly performed traditional Indonesian songs to entertain the crowds. Significantly, the audience was often more interested in hearing him sing than presenting his ‘platform.’ For more details on the importance of musical performances during the

218

73 74

75

76 77

Notes

election campaign see Luwarso, Samsuri and Siswowiharjo (2004) or the various contributions in Kartomi (2005). Comments made by Rully Chairul Azwar, quoted in ‘Rekrut Calon Kepala Daerah Akan Dievaluasi,’ online, available at www.partai-golkar.or.id (accessed 10 July 2005). The prefix ‘ersatz’ is used here on purpose in order to signal the inferiority of this ‘culture’ in comparison with genuine political values. Just like Yoshihara (1988) described Southeast Asian ersatz capitalism as an inferior variant of European or Japanese capitalism, so too is Golkar’s distinctive culture as a government party merely an inferior alternative to genuine political values. The deep resentment of an oppositional role for Golkar was evident in numerous interviews with Golkar politicians in the run-up to the second round of the 2004 presidential election. For example, one Golkar member from South Sulawesi who had run unsuccessfully for a legislative seat in the parliamentary election said that she did not even like the party that much, simply because she disapproved of Akbar Tandjung’s determination to lead it into opposition. ‘If Golkar does not elect a new leader at the Munas,’ said Fadhilla Mallarangeng, ‘I may as well try my luck with another party.’ Interview with Fadhilla Mallarangeng, 22 September 2004. Interview with Nurul Arifin, 11 August 2004. Interview with young Golkar member from Jakarta, 3 February 2005. Significantly, he had not yet decided in which electoral area he would run.

6 Reification: mastering the use of symbols and the pitfalls of political communication 1 Only the two other New Order survivors, PPP and PDI-P, could come close to matching these figures. See Chapter 7 for comparative details. 2 See ‘The Golkar Stigma,’ Jakarta Post, 18 June 2001. 3 As Antlöv (2004: 134) pointed out, Golkar during the New Order was, despite the undemocratic nature of the regime and the rigged character of the elections, ‘not necessarily a very unpopular party.’ Especially in rural areas the party enjoyed genuine support as it was associated with economic growth and political stability. See also Chapter 5 in this study for Golkar’s image in South Sulawesi. 4 As data from IFES surveys between 2001 and 2005 show, Golkar’s level of name recognition remained consistently high, with figures of 81 per cent in 2001, 88 per cent in 2003 and 92 per cent in 2005 (IFES 2001, 2003, 2005). 5 Before 1998, this article read ‘This organization is called Golongan Karya, shortened Golkar’ (DPP Golkar n.d.: 61). 6 Continuity was further stressed by retaining Chapter I, Article 2, which states that Golkar is the successor organization to Sekber Golkar, which was founded back in 1964 (DPP Partai Golkar 2003a: 6). 7 In many Eastern European countries, formerly hegemonic communist parties changed their names after the transition. In other cases of protracted transitions like Taiwan or Mexico, however, the dominant parties retained their names and contested competitive elections under the same labels. 8 As quoted in ‘Golkar Was Not a “Ruling Party”, but a “Ruler’s Party” ,’ Van Zorge Report, Vol. IV, No. 7, 18 April 2002, pp. 20–1. 9 Interview with Sjachrir Sjafruddin Daeng Jarung, 26 August 2004. 10 In early 1999, then-party chairman Akbar Tandjung even offered an official apology for Golkar’s role in the New Order in early 1999 (Schwarz 1999: 384). 11 Golkar had to make several concessions, especially in regards to the status of civil servants (King 2000), but the laws eventually contained numerous regulations which benefited Golkar, most notably the strong imbalance between the weight of electoral districts in and outside Java (Malley 2000).

Notes

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12 Kingsbury (2002: 249) has suggested that some of the new parties, which had been established by Golkar-affiliated groups, deliberately chose party symbols similar to those of the big opposition parties in order to confuse voters and entice them to vote for Golkar. 13 Arief Budiman has suggested that the Suharto regime may have chosen yellow as a token of appreciation for the students of the University of Indonesia (UI) who in 1965–6 were heavily involved in demonstrations against Sukarno and the Old Order (UI students traditionally wear yellow jackets as part of their uniform). Elsewhere, it has been alleged that yellow symbolizes the intellectual ambitions of Golkar as the colour supposedly represents wisdom, good education and a noble character (Tim Litbang Kompas 2004: 540). But a senior member of the Centre for Strategic and International Studies (CSIS) in Jakarta, Harry Tjan Silalahi, believes that there was actually no deeper meaning at all behind the choice of yellow as the party’s colour: ‘Yellow does not mean or represent anything particular. When Golkar was founded, there wasn’t much choice because green and red were already occupied by Islam and communism. Maybe yellow was chosen because it stands for royalism and the old priyayi culture, but I’m not sure about that’ (Interview with Harry Tjan Silalahi, 3 July 2003). 14 Online, available at www.indonesianembassy-china.com/EN/info/25.htm (accessed 12 December 2005). 15 Interviews with Harry Tjan Silalahi, 3 July 2003, and Rahman Tolleng, 9 July 2003. 16 The following paragraph is largely based on official information from Golkar as provided in Tim Litbang Kompas (2004). 17 Hence its conceptualization as an external dimension of party institutionalization (Randall and Svåsand 2002a). 18 At this point it is important to note that Golkar actually owns its own newspaper, Suara Karya. Founded in 1971 to help Golkar win the first New Order election, this paper was compulsory reading for civil servants throughout the Suharto era and was thus, for most of its existence, more a part of the party infrastructure than an independent media organization. After the fall of Suharto in 1998, Suara Karya’s readership numbers plummeted, eventually resulting in attempts to give the paper a new design in order to reach a broader spectrum of readers. In 2005, a newly appointed management team vowed to reform the paper’s image, announcing that it would no longer be biased towards Golkar. Despite the good intentions and claims that circulation had increased again to 80,000, however, it seems as if Suara Karya continues to function primarily as a mouthpiece of the party. It is still owned by the party and is often used by Golkar members to express their opinions, although it should be noted that objective contributions by neutral observers can also be found occasionally. Overall, however, Suara Karya’s role in Indonesia’s contemporary media landscape is rather marginal so that it is deemed irrelevant to the following analysis of independent media coverage of Golkar. For an overview of the history of Suara Karya see the website www.suarakarya-online.com/aboutus.html or ‘Golkar Gives “Suara Karya” a Makeover,’ Jakarta Post, 31 March 2005. 19 This selective focus is mainly due to the limited impact that radio and the internet have on shaping the public images of political parties. The internet in particular is still fairly new to Indonesia and has not yet extended far beyond the urban centres of Java. According to Hill and Sen (2005: 57), the number of internet users rose from 110,000 in 1996 to 12 million in 2004; by the end of 2007 the Indonesian Internet Service Provider Association (APJII) reported that the number had reached about 25 million. While this is a dramatic increase, the absolute numbers are still very small in relation to Indonesia’s overall population (about 10 per cent). Radio on the other hand may reach a larger proportion of the Indonesian populace than newspapers or the internet, but its popularity is nowhere near that of television. In 2006, radio had an accessibility rate of only 40.26 per cent while television stood at a massive 85.86 per cent. Details

220

20

21 22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

Notes

online, available at www.apjii.or.id/news/index.php?ID=2002052301464 &lang=ind and www.bps.go.id/sector/socwel/table3.shtml. During the New Order, all media outlets needed a so-called Press Publication Business Licence (Surat Izin Usaha Penerbitan Pers, SIUPP) from the Ministry of Information. Notably, this ministry was run for more than ten years (1983–97) by former Golkar chairman Harmoko. In comparison, by the time Suharto stepped down in May 1998, only 289 such licences were in operation (Mann 1999). The respected NGO Reporters Sans Frontières (Reporters without Borders) has quoted figures which estimate that ‘there were half the number of newspapers in 2003 as in 1998.’ Online, available at www.rsf.org/article.php3?id_article=10172 (accessed 5 January 2006). One of these effects is the growing number of local television channels. In late 2005, Indonesia had 41 local TV stations, 16 of which were located outside Java. A year later, the number had risen to 76 local stations, with 33 located outside Java. In late 2007, there were at least 109 local TV stations in Indonesia, and 46 of them were operating from outside Java. The full, up-to-date list of all stations is online, available at www.asiawaves.net/indonesia-tv.htm. According to official census data, television accessibility was at its peak in 1998 when it reached 88.72 per cent. In 2000, it stood at 87.97 per cent, before declining to 84.94 per cent in 2003. By 2006, it had risen again to 85.86 per cent. Latest details online, available at www.bps.go.id/sector/socwel/table3.shtml (accessed 29 December 2007). It should be noted that newspaper circulation in Indonesia is not audited by an independent organization. The figures cited by Low should therefore be treated with some caution (the same is true for the Suara Karya figures mentioned in note 18). It is, however, widely acknowledged that Kompas is Indonesia’s biggest-selling newspaper, with Jawa Pos in second place. Indonesia used to have two more English-language newspapers, but the Indonesia Times and the Indonesian Observer stopped operating in 1998 and 2001 respectively, owing to financial problems (Low 2003: 18). Tempo, the country’s leading news magazine, produces an English-language edition, albeit with limited contents. In addition to these national papers and magazines, hundreds of local newspapers, often owned by the big national media corporations, fulfil similar functions in more narrowly confined local contexts. See Chapter 6 for a case study of local media in South Sulawesi. Samples were taken by typing the party name into the search engine of the newspaper’s online archive. While in the case of Golkar this was a straightforward exercise, the search for other parties’ names was more complicated as full party names had to be matched with acronyms (for example ‘United Development Party’ would not necessarily produce the same result as ‘PPP’). Overall, the results revealed that the Jakarta Post reported in 5,331 articles about Golkar, more than twice as much as parties like PKB (2,211), PAN (2,142) or PPP (2,026). The only party that came close to the Golkar figures was PDI-P which claimed 5,084 articles. One may argue that the Jakarta Post is not particularly representative of Indonesian media trends because of its atypical readership which mainly consists of welleducated Indonesians and expatriates living in Indonesia. However, it is probably fair to assume that the distribution of coverage on political parties as depicted in Figure 6.1 would not have been very different in other newspapers. In fact, limited content analyses of a number of Indonesian-language newspapers during the time of the 2004 general election revealed very similar proportions of coverage. Jakarta Post was chosen here as a case study because of its comprehensive and easily accessible online archive. It should, however, be noted that the online edition is not exactly identical to the print edition. It should be emphasized here that in the articles sampled Golkar was not always the

Notes

31 32 33

34 35 36 37

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dominant or main actor (pelaku utama) in the sense Steele (2005) has defined it in her outstanding study on Tempo. Articles were merely searched for the name of the various political parties. A qualitative content analysis, which would have identified the main actor in the sample articles, was not conducted, mainly because of the cross-cultural complexities inherent in such an analysis. See Steele (2005: 149–50) for more details on the difficulties in determining a main actor in Indonesian media articles. As quoted in ‘Indonesian Press Charged with Disinformation,’ Jakarta Post, 23 June 2001. Quoted in ‘Media’s Election Coverage Biased, Say Observers,’ Jakarta Post, 15 July 1999. Other publications critical of Golkar included Jawa Pos and Rakyat Merdeka, both of which more or less openly supported PDI-P (Kingsbury 2005: 127). On the other hand, however, there were also newspapers which openly supported Golkar, including the semi-official party newspaper Suara Karya and the ICMI-backed Republika. ‘Media’s Election Coverage Biased, Say Observers,’ Jakarta Post, 15 July 1999. ‘Golkar Plots Its Comeback,’ The Economist, 4 August 2001. Interview with representative of Indonesia Corruption Watch (ICW), 18 June 2004. Hanitzsch attributes the inability and unwillingness of Indonesian journalists to become actively involved in political discourses to the lasting legacies of the New Order, which for more than three decades had systematically depoliticized the media. As a result Indonesian journalists clearly do not carry any prior intention to disseminate their opinion (partisanship), to set the political agenda or to serve as an adversary of the government and business, even though they rate values such as ‘criticism’ and ‘control’ high. (Hanitzsch 2005: 499)

38 39

40

41 42 43 44 45 46

This assessment contrasts with that of other scholars like Heryanto and Adi (2001) who see the Indonesian press in a more positive light. ‘Uji Coba dari Cendana,’ Tempo, 8–14 December 2003. Hartono’s comments evoked strong resentment from large sections of the general public, but the extensive media coverage of the general’s provocative rhetoric also had the effect of boosting PKPB’s electoral prospects. In the run-up to the election, several alarmist comments strengthened the impression that PKPB would be a strong electoral contender. See for example ‘Maswadi Rauf: Jangan Anggap Enteng Kebangkitan Cendana,’ Kompas, 29 March 2004. In a survey conducted in December 2003, about 60 per cent of respondents stated that they considered Suharto’s New Order a better system of government than the current democratic regime (LSI 2003). Another survey, also published in late 2003, asked respondents whether they agreed with the statement ‘This democratic government is too weak. We need a strong leader like Suharto, who can make decisions and restore order, even if it reduces rights and freedoms.’ Fifty-three per cent answered this question in the affirmative (Asia Foundation 2003: 120). Statement made by Agung Laksono, as quoted in ‘Golkar Rejects Its Old Image,’ Jakarta Post, 18 March 2004. See for example ‘Political Interests Threaten Amendments of the Constitution,’ Jakarta Post, 30 July 2002. Metro TV and Media Indonesia especially, both of which are owned by convention contender Surya Paloh, dedicated extensive and not always neutral coverage to the convention. See the various articles in Kompas, 7 May 2005. ‘Golkar Party’s Continuing Democratic Growing Pains,’ Jakarta Post, 27 November 2006. By 2004, apart from Makassar only Parepare and Palopo had their own local newspapers. See Morrell (2005) for a case study of the Palopo Pos.

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Notes

47 Fajar, Ujungpandang Ekspres and Berita Kota Makassar all belong to Sulawesi’s biggest media organization, the Makassar-based Fajar Media Group, which in turn is part of the Jawa Pos media conglomerate. Tribun Timur is affiliated with the KompasGramedia Group while Pedoman Rakyat remains the only independent paper in Makassar. See ‘Makassar, Ranah Pers Yang Subur,’ Kompas, 3 March 2004. 48 Interview with Muliadi Mau, 30 June 2004; email communication with Elizabeth Morrell, 21 December 2005. 49 The report by Media Watch listed 79 articles that featured Golkar. Thirty-two of these articles were regarded as negative, 27 as neutral and only 20 as positive. The second biggest amount of coverage was attributed to PDI-P (56), which had an almost evenly balanced number of pro- and contra-articles (15 positive, 14 negative, 27 neutral). See Morrell (2003: 240) for details. 50 Personal communication with senior journalists from Fajar, 8 May 2004. 51 ‘Indonesian Press Charged with Disinformation,’ Jakarta Post, 23 June 2001. 52 Email communication with Elizabeth Morrell, 21 December 2005. 53 Interview with Muliadi Mau, 30 June 2004. 54 Most newspapers are only read by small parts of the population, mostly urban middleclass people. The readership of Fajar for example is predominantly male (64.2 per cent), aged between 35 and 45 (55.5 per cent), has an academy or a university degree (51.6 per cent), works in the bureaucracy or in business (66.4 per cent) and earns more than Rp. 1.5 million a month (59.3 per cent). Details online, available at www.fajar.co.id/profil.php#e (accessed 6 February 2006). 55 Interview with LSIM activists, 30 June 2004. 56 Six different companies of Aksa Machmud’s Bosowa Group contributed to the election campaign of SBY and Kalla. Altogether the donations amounted to more than Rp. 4 billion. For details see the data provided by the KPU online, available at www.kpu.go.id/ kampanye/link/dana_kampanye_SBY_Kalla.htm (accessed 5 February 2006). 57 See www.tribun-timur.com/profil.php (accessed 10 February 2006). 58 Interview with LSIM activists, 30 June 2004. 59 Coverage of most other parties was also very similar. Only the figures of PDI-P (14 per cent in Tribun Timur, 24 per cent in Jakarta Post) and PPDK (9 per cent in Tribun Timur, 2 per cent in Jakarta Post) showed significant discrepancies. 60 This is hardly surprising as this section extended over two pages (pages 4 and 5). 61 Significantly, there were additional articles that focused on the bupati of Bone and the mayor of Luwu respectively without explicitly mentioning that they were Golkar members (which of course they were). 62 It may be noteworthy to recall in this context that in 1999 Golkar had also received far more coverage than the other parties but that, according to the media watchers from LSIM, the majority of this coverage was actually negative (Morrell 2003: 240). 63 Thus, this book does not differentiate between negative reporting and a negative story. For example, an article on campaign violations by Golkar is classified as negative, regardless of whether the language is inflammatory or neutral. This classification pattern is of course highly subjective and only represents the views of the author. It is based on the presumption that in South Sulawesi it is already noteworthy that Golkar’s violations are mentioned at all in the local press. 64 ‘Golkar Cetak 21 Ribu Kaos,’ Tribun Timur, 13 March 2004. 65 ‘Bambu dari Pinrang Diminati,’ Tribun Timur, 17 March 2004. 66 ‘Ribuan Baju Kaos Golkar Tiba di Luwu,’ Tribun Timur, 24 March 2004. 67 ‘Hari Ini Golkar Kuningkan Palopo,’ Tribun Timur, 25 March 2004. 68 Interestingly, the following day (26 March) there was no news about the rally, indicating that not everything had gone according to plan. Only on 27 March did the paper eventually cover Golkar’s campaign. While the language was as flowery as ever, the author of the article made no mention of the previously advertised marquee speaker Prabowo Subianto, suggesting that the presidential hopeful had probably skipped the trip to

Notes

69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

82 83

223

Palopo. Sometimes, it is actually more insightful to look at what is not written than what is. See ‘Aktor Mak Lampir Hadir di Palopo,’ Tribun Timur, 27 March 2004. At the time of the 2004 elections, Galego and Katoe were both chairmen of their party branches while Tenriadjeng was a member of the Advisory Council. Interview with Muliadi Mau, 30 June 2004. Interview with Muliadi Mau, 30 June 2004. ‘Cuaca Buruk Kalla Batal Naik Heli,’ Tribun Timur, 14 March 2004; ‘Kalla Tetap Incar Kursi Presiden,’ Tribun Timur, 1 April 2004. ‘Akbar Batasi Kalla,’ Tribun Timur, 21 March 2004; ‘Ditegur Akbar, Paloh Tak Goyah,’ Tribun Timur, 24 March 2004; ‘Siapa Jamin Tak Ada Koruptor di Golkar,’ Tribun Timur, 25 March 2004. ‘Massa Sulsel Tolak Akbar Tandjung,’ Tribun Timur, 19 March 2004. ‘Akbar: Saya Berhak Kampanye di Sulsel,’ Tribun Timur, 20 March 2004. Indicators were, for example, the use of predominantly neutral language or the attempts to shift the focus in election-related articles from Golkar to other parties and to mention Golkar’s losses only in passing. ‘PPDK Kalahkan Golkar di Kelurahan Sungguminasa,’ Tribun Timur, 7 April 2004. ‘Suara Golkar Sulsel Turun 25%,’ Tribun Timur, 12 April 2004. ‘Jatah Golkar Turun Sampai 50 Persen,’ Tribun Timur, 14 April 2004. ‘Golkar Pecahkan Rekor Pelanggaran,’ Tribun Timur, 17 March 2004; ‘Golkar Lakukan 13 Pelanggaran,’ Tribun Timur, 25 March 2004. Generally speaking, this is a common criticism of the Indonesian press. Too often have Indonesian journalists misused their power as image-shapers by sexing up reports at the expense of accuracy and neutrality. According to Hanitzsch (2005: 494), the main reasons behind this lack of professionalism are ‘the carelessness of young journalists, the inefficiency of journalism education [. . .] and the weak selfcontrol of the press.’ Moreover, bribery among journalists remains widespread and continues to inhibit efforts to improve professionalism among the media corps. ‘Golkar Makassar Dituduh Mark Up,’ Tribun Timur, 11 April 2004. ‘Golkar Bone Juga Dituduh Mark Up,’ Tribun Timur, 12 April 2004.

7 Gauging uneven party institutionalization: how strong are the others? 1 Ikrar Nusa Bhakti, as quoted in ‘Internal Conflict Sign of Parties’ Immaturity: Experts,’ Jakarta Post, 2 May 2005. 2 A detailed chronology of the full registration and verification process from 1999 to 2004 can be found at http://fisip.unmul.ac.id/modules.php?op=modload&name= PagEd&file=index&topic_id=2&page_id=15 (accessed 31 July 2005). 3 The term ‘taxi party’ refers to parties that are so small that all of their members can fit in one taxi. In Indonesia, these parties are usually called ‘insignificant parties’ (partai gurem). 4 In 1999, the electoral threshold was 2 per cent of the seats in the DPR (10 seats) or 3 per cent of the seats in the provincial and district assemblies distributed in half of the provinces and half of the districts in Indonesia. In 2004, it was 3 per cent of the seats in the DPR or 4 per cent of the seats in the provincial and district assemblies distributed in half of the provinces and half of the districts in Indonesia (NDI 1999: 6, KPU 2003: 30). For the 2009 election, the threshold has been lowered again marginally (down to 2.5 per cent of the vote), however, the main problem is not the actual percentage level of the threshold but rather the ineffectiveness and lack of practicality of the system which in its current form allows parties to take up seats in parliament even if they fail to reach the threshold (Mietzner 2006). In order to draw a clear line between big and medium-sized parties on the one hand and small parties on the other hand, the benchmark for this book has been set at 5 per cent. 5 This is in stark contrast to the smaller parties which are not covered in this section.

224

6 7

8

9 10

11

12

13 14 15 16

17

Notes

With the exception of the Crescent and Moon Party (Partai Bulan Bintang, PBB), which had actually passed the electoral threshold in 1999, none of the remaining parties that contested the 2004 elections reached factual verification in more than 24 provinces (Ananta, Arifin and Suryadinata 2005: 16–17). ‘Hadi Utomo Calon Kuat Ketua Umum PD,’ Kompas, 23 May 2005. Even if it was, it would probably be more instructive to compare numbers at subdistrict and village level where Golkar is likely to maintain a comparative advantage over the new parties. However, no data were available for most of the parties here so that a meaningful analysis of the two lowest administrative levels was not possible. Many parties are unwilling to set up their own training schemes and also rather reluctant to send their cadres to training programmes organized by international organizations like UNDP, NDI or IRI. Programme coordinators from these organizations reported that Golkar was the only party that was always easy to communicate with whereas cooperation with some other parties was difficult. The most frequently cited reason was that party executives in charge of selecting cadres for training were often difficult to reach. Another problem seems to be that party bosses tend to use international training schemes to reward lower-ranking members of their patronage networks for their loyalty. As a result, training programmes are not always attended by those who had actually been targeted by the organizers, namely young and capable cadres with good prospects for their political careers, but rather by those who are close to powerful party leaders. Interviews with local staff from UNDP, NDI and IRI, conducted in July 2003, August 2004 and February 2005. Typical complaints this author heard during fieldwork in 2004 were lack of knowledge about parliamentary rules and regulations, inadequate preparation for committee hearings and frequent absence from important meetings. Interview with Happy Bone Zulkarnain, 19 August 2004. At the same time, he also conceded that the atmosphere in parliament is now much livelier than during the New Order when the DPR was full of smart people, but the system was too repressive for them to actually use their smartness properly. PD is a special case as SBY plays little more than a symbolic role for the party. Although he was directly involved in the establishment of the party in 2001, he is barely involved in the party’s day-to-day affairs. As chairman of the Advisory Council, however, he is believed to possess something like an informal veto power. See Tim Litbang Kompas (2004: 170ff.) for a brief overview of the genesis of PD. Soetrisno won the leadership contest in Semarang against powerful opposition, including the former Golkar functionary Fuad Bawazier who after his defeat defected to PKS. Most observers believed that Soetrisno was only able to become PAN chairman because Amien Rais had thrown his support behind him. See ‘New PAN leader Soetrisno, Amien’s heir apparent,’ Jakarta Post, 11 April 2005; ‘Bachir Menang, Amien Dikecam,’ Suara Merdeka, 11 April 2005. At the sidelines of the congress, Amien announced that he intended to step down from this position within a year or two. See ‘PAN Tetap Dibayang-bayangi Amien,’ Suara Merdeka, 12 April 2005. See below for a discussion of factionalism within PDI-P and PKB. In fact, both were determined by acclamation rather than elected. See ‘Megawati Terpilih Aklamasi, Guruh Ikut,’ Kompas, 1 April 2005; ‘Gus Dur Jadi Ketua Dewan Syuro PKB,’ Kompas, 18 April 2005. Among other things, the chairman of the Dewan Syuro has the prerogative right to endorse or reject any candidate who wants to run for the Dewan Tanfidz chairmanship. This regulation is prescribed in PKB’s standing orders, Chapter IX, Article 36, 1e. For a full text of the standing orders see the PKB website www.kebangkitanbangsa.org/statis_anggaran_rt.shtml (accessed 11 November 2005). Saifullah, along with the former chairman of the Dewan Tanfidz, Alwi Shihab, had in fact been dismissed from the party after he had accepted the post of State Minister for

Notes

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19 20 21

22 23 24

25

26 27

28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35

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the Development of Disadvantaged Regions in Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono’s cabinet without the approval of Gus Dur. Prior to his dismissal, Saifullah had served as PKB secretary-general. In addition to that, further regulations were set up to prevent anyone but Muhaimin from winning the contest. These regulations included a passage that prohibited eligible candidates to be active in social organizations (including NU and its affiliated organizations) as well as a stipulation which stated that a candidate must never have been involved in ‘organizational conflict’ with the NU chief patron, namely Gus Dur. See ‘PKB Sets Dual Standards on Double Jobbing,’ Jakarta Post, 19 April 2005. ‘Muhaimin Iskandar Elected PKB Leader,’ Laksamana Net, 20 April 2005. Apart from Wahid’s nephew Muhaimin, another notable appointment in the new central board was Wahid’s daughter Yenny who became deputy secretary-general. Matori had fallen from Wahid’s grace after the 2001 impeachment process against Wahid. In defiance of PKB’s official stance, Matori had attended the various parliamentary sessions that sealed Wahid’s fate as president, thereby indirectly indicating his support for the impeachment. After he was expelled from PKB, Matori founded his own party (Partai Kejayaan Demokrasi) which, however, failed to fulfil the eligibility criteria for the 2004 elections (Tim Litbang Kompas 2004: 257). He passed away in May 2007. See ‘PKB Tidies up, Readies for 2009 General Elections,’ Jakarta Post, 27 August 2007. See ‘Minister Makes Move to PPP,’ Jakarta Post, 18 January 2007. The movement had several high-profile members like Sophan Sophiaan, Laksamana Sukardi, Didi Supriyanto and, at least in the beginning, Megawati’s brother Guruh Sukarnoputra. Guruh in fact was initially touted to be the movement’s candidate for the chairmanship, but he switched camps in the last minute and was later rewarded by Megawati for this manoeuvre with a position in the new PDI-P central board. See ‘Reformists Challenge Mega’s Leadership,’ Jakarta Post, 17 January 2005; ‘Megawati Vows to Restore PDI-P Pride,’ Jakarta Post, 2 April 2005. The 12 members of the faction who were dismissed from the party were Arifin Panigoro, Laksamana Sukardi, Sophan Sophiaan, Roy B. B. Janis, Didi Supriyanto, Postdam Hutasoit, Tjiandra Wijaya, Pieters Sutanto, Pius Lustrilanang, Angelina Pattiasina, Imam Mundjiat and Sukowaluyo Mintohardjo. They later went on to form a new party, called the Democratic Renewal Party (Partai Demokrasi Pembaruan, PDP). See ‘PDI-P Fires Dissidents, Internal Rift Worsens,’ Jakarta Post, 11 May 2005; ‘Eks GP PDI-P Bentuk PDP,’ Kompas, 1 December 2005. Initially, Zainuddin named his party PPP-reformasi, but the PPP leadership around Hamzah took legal action against this move so that Zainuddin was eventually forced to change the name of his party to PBR (Legowo 2002, Soebekti et al. 2002: 63ff). Ironically, PBR itself soon split into two camps after Zainuddin MZ was accused of coercive practices in securing his re-election as party leader at the first national party congress in April 2005. In the end, Zainuddin was axed from the party he once founded. See ‘PBR Pecah, Zainal Pecat Zainuddin MZ,’ Pikiran Rakyat, 29 April 2005. See ‘PPP Wants to Replace Hamzah Haz,’ Jakarta Post, 28 February 2005. ‘PPP Wants to Replace Hamzah Haz,’ Jakarta Post, 28 February 2005. See ‘DPP PPP Berhentikan 30 Pengurus DPW dan DPC,’ Kompas, 25 April 2005. See ‘PPP Dipastikan Tak Jadi Oposisi,’ Kompas, 4 February 2007. I am grateful to Bima Arya Sugiarto for pointing that out to me. These figures refer to the early post-Suharto years. Over time, the levies were apparently – and probably unsurprisingly – raised. Mietzner (2007: 246) reports that PAN charged Rp. 5 million until November 2006, and Rp. 10 million after that. Interview with Rizal Sukma, 21 September 2004. One commentator likened the current status of PAN to that of a flower vase that is put

226

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37

38 39 40 41

42

43 44

45

46 47

48

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in a corner of a room. ‘If it’s there, it’s nice to look at, but if it’s not there, it doesn’t matter either.’ Interview with Rizal Sukma, 21 September 2004. In the early reformasi years, ‘only’ 38.9 per cent of the central leadership board were Muhammadiyah cadres, although a higher percentage of Muhammadiyah cadres could be found in PAN’s regional leadership boards. After the party’s 2005 national congress, the connections with Muhammadiyah were further tightened as the new party chairman Soetrisno Bachir appointed a central board that consisted of around 65 per cent of Muhammadiyah cadres or members. See ‘Soetrisno Bachir Bantah Kepengurusan PAN “Gemuk” ,’ Kompas, 1 May 2005; Mietzner (2004: 234); Najib (2000: 29). It should be noted, however, that Muhammadiyah support for PAN is waning. According to a survey conducted just two weeks before the 2004 elections, only 32 per cent of Muhammadiyah supporters intended to give their vote to PAN (Qodari 2004b). The first chairman of the Dewan Syuro was Ma’ruf Amin, but Gus Dur assumed the post in 2000 and was then re-elected in 2005. Thanks to Marcus Mietzner for pointing that out. See ‘NU Yet to Support Gus Dur for President,’ Jakarta Post, 20 April 2004. See ‘Megawati Terima Tiga Syarat PPP, Golkar Dekati Hasyim Tanpa Gus Dur,’ Media Indonesia, 29 April 2004. For example, where charismatic leaders do not only glorify their own personality but also communicate a value-based political ideology, the party can indeed gradually institutionalize if it becomes associated with this ideology just as much as it is with the leader himself (or herself). India’s Congress Party or the Peronist Party in Argentina are but two examples of such parties. In 2004, PAN improved its results in 14 provinces while it lost votes in 12 provinces (the other six were new provinces). In most cases, however, the gains and losses were very small indeed. PKB results were even more stable on a provincial level as only two provinces recorded losses of more than 4 per cent. Significantly, one of these provinces was the party’s main stronghold East Java where the party was downgraded from 35.5 per cent to 30.6 per cent. Online, available at www.kpu.go.id (accessed 3 April 2005). In 1999, PDI-P was widely believed to have received many sympathy votes from people who were not necessarily genuine PDI-P supporters. Accordingly, the variations between PPP’s 1999 and 2004 election results were much bigger than those of PKB or PAN. For example, PPP lost heavily in provinces like Aceh (–15.0), Maluku (–12.0), West Sumatra (–8.7) and Jakarta (–8.3), online, available at www.kpu.go.id (accessed 3 April 2005). Panebianco (1988: 52/53) distinguishes between ‘pure’ and ‘situational’ charisma. While pure charisma always carries a messianic element, situational charisma refers to leaders who emerge rather suddenly, often in a situation of acute social stress, and then utilize the people’s yearning for strong leadership. Party executives openly admitted that they aimed at replicating the feat of Thailand’s Thai Rak Thai Party, which catapulted Thaksin Shinawatra to the Prime Minister post (Tim Litbang Kompas 2004: 174). Nur Wahid, who resigned from his position as party chairman after becoming MPR speaker, was one of only two legislative candidates who acquired the requisite amount of votes to be directly elected into parliament. The other one was H. Saleh Djasit, a Golkar candidate from Riau. The term dakwah is usually used to describe activities conducted to spread the teachings of Islam. Among other things, such activities can include the organization of religious discussion groups or the implementation of social-welfare activities. A dakwah party like PKS regards the spreading of Islamic values as one of its most important political activities and rejects the differentiation between politics and religion that is common in secular societies.

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49 A total of 37 per cent of respondents ticked this category. Significantly, ‘taking care of common people,’ another major focus of the PKS campaign, was the second most frequently named reason (29 per cent) whereas religious affiliation (4 per cent) came a distant ninth in the poll (IFES 2004c). 50 The Medina Charter was the constitution written by the Prophet Muhammad when he lived in Medina. The significance of the Medina Charter lies in its provision for adherents of other religions than Islam to be allowed to freely practise their own faith. By referring to the charter, PKS is trying to allay fears that it wants to turn Indonesia into an Islamic state where sharia law is applied to all citizens. 51 Interview with Untung Wahono, 15 September 2004. 52 Thanks to Marcus Mietzner for providing this information. 53 One of the other psychological factors dismissed by Liddle and Mujani as rather insignificant is the impact of clientelism. However, as the analysis in previous chapters has shown, changes in the 2004 electoral system seem to have brought clientelistic patterns of voter recruitment back to the forefront. As individual candidates have featured much more prominently on ballot papers in 2004 than in 1999, the incentives for clientelistic practices have become much stronger than they were in 1999. Anecdotal evidence from South Sulawesi suggests that especially smaller parties have relied more heavily on clientelism than Liddle and Mujani have argued for the 1999 elections. 54 See Chapter I, Article 2 of the party’s constitution online, available at http://pksejahtera.org/organisasi.php? (accessed 10 November 2005). 55 See ‘PPP Bisa Jadi Partai Gurem,’ Kompas, 25 February 2005. 56 One of the most controversial issues was the proposed anti-pornography law which, in its PKS-backed draft, intended to ban kissing in public, the flaunting of sensual body parts, the wearing of tight clothes, and the display of nudity in artworks. For a good overview of the key issues in the debate and especially the anti-draft position see www.aliansimawarputih.com (accessed 25 August 2006). 57 Throughout 2005, PKS’s popularity declined continuously. After starting the year at an all-time high of 10.1 per cent in January, the party dropped to 6.8 per cent in April, to 2.9 per cent in July and eventually to only 2.7 per cent in September and December 2005. In 2006, it regained some ground and reached fairly consistent support of around 4–5 per cent (Lembaga Survei Indonesia 2006, 2007). 58 While Megawati, Amien Rais and Gus Dur opted for new names, some new parties featured clear references to the 1950s. The most blatant attempt to establish a bond with Masyumi was the foundation of the Crescent and Moon Party (Partai Bulan Bintang, PBB), which used Masyumi’s symbol in its logo. There were also parties like Partai Masyumi Baru or, in the traditionalist camp, Partai Nahdlatul Ummat. On the secular side of politics, a number of parties that carried the words Partai Nasional Indonesia in their names sprung up, including Partai Nasional Indonesia Supeni, Partai Nasional Indonesia Front Marhaenis, Partai Nasional Indonesia Massa Marhaen and Partai Nasional Bangsa Indonesia. Of all these parties PBB was the only one to reach the electoral threshold in the 1999 elections. 59 PDI-P is a bit of a borderline case. Arguably, this party, officially founded in 1999, is one of the most obvious embodiments of reformasi as it is led by one of the most prominent victims of New Order-style political repression. On the other hand, the history of PDI-P cannot be separated from the history of the old PDI which was created as a nationalist-secular umbrella organization in 1973. PDI-P came into existence as the successor party of one particular faction within the old PDI. For a history of PDI see Chapters 6 and 7 in Aspinall (2005) or Eklöf (2004). 60 PKS came to be known under its current name only in early 2002, but it is of course the successor party to the old Partai Keadilan (PK), which was originally set up on 9 August 1998 (Amir 2003: 83). It changed its name because it had failed to reach the electoral threshold in 1999.

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61 See ‘Indonesian Parties Taking over Media,’ The Straits Times, 18 March 2004. 62 In the first week of campaigning, the team from Election News Watch recorded 11 violations by PDI-P, five by the small PKPB and two by Golkar (Election News Watch No. 1: 13–15). 63 ‘Berlomba Jualan Partai Lewat TV,’ Kompas, 21 March 2004. 64 According to Election News Watch (No. 1: 11), PDI-P had prepared a budget of Rp. 40 billion for the campaign in the mass media. 65 Moreover, Megawati was by far the most frequently shown individual politician during the campaign, followed by SBY. For details, see the report of the European Union Election Observation Mission to Indonesia (EUEOM 2004). 66 As mentioned in Chapter 6, there was of course one exception to the overall fair press coverage, namely the blatantly obvious bias towards Golkar and Surya Paloh in Metro TV and Media Indonesia, which was largely due to Surya Paloh’s participation in Golkar’s presidential convention. For assessments on the fairness of media coverage during the election campaign see Election News Watch, Vols 1–3 or EUEOM (2004). 67 Dangdut is one of the most popular genres of Indonesian music. During election campaigns dangdut artists are routinely used by political parties to entertain the audience. See Kartomi (2005) for more details on the connection between popular culture and politics. 68 See ‘Parties Break Rules, Big Money for “Supporters” ,’ Jakarta Post, 26 March 2004. 69 See for example ‘Moncong Putih Memerahkan Senayan,’ Liputan 6, 29 March 2004, online, available at www.liputan6.com/view/0,75071,1,0,1133760717.html (accessed 16 June 2004). See also ‘Mega Ancam Tak Mau ke Jateng,’ Suara Merdeka, 31 March 2004. 70 See ‘Massa dan Simpatisan PAN Siap “Birukan” Jakarta,’ Kompas online, 29 March 2004; ‘Kampanye Dengan Semprot DB,’ Suara Merdeka, 22 March 2004. 71 See ‘PPP Hijaukan Jakarta,’ Jawa Pos, 5 January 2004; ‘PKB Siapkan Cadangan Capres,’ Pikiran Rakyat, 30 March 2004. 72 ‘PKS: Indonesia Masih Punya Harapan,’ Kompas, 31 March 2004. 73 Although the party’s sometimes questionable selection of candidates for local elections, as exemplified in the Jakarta pilkada where PKS candidate Adang Daradjatun was alleged to have paid billions of rupiah to the party (Mietzner 2006: 252), may be a sign of things to come. 8 Conclusion and outlook: uneven party institutionalization and the future of democracy in Indonesia 1 Writing about the parties in the early post-colonial period, Lev (1967: 59) was referring to Masyumi’s and NU’s inability to ‘transcend the basic symbol of the Faith to reach out to the complex world of social and economic change.’ Arguably, this reservation is irrelevant in the case of PKS as the emergence of this party is, at least partly, a direct response to this complex world of social and economic change. Nonetheless, Islam as an ideological value in politics still remains inherently confining, simply because of its highly exclusivist character. PKS, for example, is in fact popular among many non-Muslims because of its anti-corruption stance, but at the same time many of those who like this aspect of the party still remain suspicious about the party’s real long-term goals. 2 See below for a discussion of the interdependence of party institutionalization and party system institutionalization. 3 Significantly, the authors emphasize that the scores in three of their four dimensions and the overall score are ‘rough and incomplete approximations’ (Mainwaring and Scully 1995: 16).

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4 Actually, she is using Mainwaring’s later work on Brazil as a theoretical basis, but the theoretical approach is the same as in the comparative study by Mainwaring and Scully. 5 Apart from the problem of subjectivity in determining the point values, the rating scale has of course another weakness. While it can highlight in concise form the key strengths and weaknesses of the parties, and while it can pinpoint the uneven character of party institutionalization in the individual dimensions, it cannot capture the underlying dynamics that shape the process of party institutionalization. As a matter of fact, party institutionalization is never a static condition, but rather a dynamic process that is constantly evolving. Moreover, it is a process that does not necessarily have to be irreversibly linear as, for example, the gradual de-institutionalization of Golkar in the dimension of systemness has shown. These dynamics can of course not be depicted in a simplified matrix and underline the notion that such a matrix can only be a snapshot of the state of party institutionalization at a certain moment in time. 6 In contrast to Mainwaring and Scully, who in the end aggregated all individual scores into one final score, this table does not suggest a definite institutionalization score for all parties. Such an aggregation would imply that all individual dimensions carry the same weight. This, however, is not necessarily the case. A party like PKB, for instance, may be rather poorly institutionalized overall, but its high level of value infusion compensates for some of the weaknesses in the other dimensions. Also, decisional autonomy seems to have a much smaller impact on the electoral performance of parties than the other dimensions so that its significance should not be measured on a par with the impact of, for example, systemness. 7 The only dimension of the party system that seems to be reasonably well institutionalized at this stage is the structural/external dimension which deals with the relations between the party system and the state (Randall and Svåsand 2001). Even though the state has influenced the development and shape of the party system through measures of electoral engineering (for example the setting of electoral thresholds), political parties in contemporary Indonesia are formally granted autonomy from the state – even more so, one may argue, after the cancellation of subsidies. This is obviously a big improvement compared to the New Order when parties were permanently scrutinized and candidates screened. Furthermore, the independence of the election commission and regulated access to media and election campaigning for all parties are other important indicators of the parties’ autonomy from the state. 8 As discussed in Chapter 3, the introduction of candidates’ names and pictures on the ballot papers altered the electoral behaviour of many voters and increased the chances of smaller parties achieving good results, especially on the local level. Moreover, the success of PD can be explained almost exclusively as a consequence of the introduction of direct presidential elections since many PD voters supported the party only because they knew that in order to get SBY elected, they would have to lift PD over the 5 per cent benchmark set as a threshold for parties which wanted to nominate a presidential candidate. 9 The volatility index, which was originally developed by Pedersen (1983), measures the degree of change in support for each party from one election to the next. It is derived ‘by adding the net change in percentage of seats or votes gained or lost by each party from one election to the next, then dividing by two’ (Mainwaring and Scully 1995: 6). Calculated by votes, the volatility index in Indonesia in 2004 was 28.55, which is relatively high by normative standards, but still moderate compared to the figures Mainwaring and Scully (1995: 8) found for their Latin American case studies. 10 The effective number of parties is calculated by squaring each party’s share of seats or votes, adding all of these squares, and then dividing 1.00 by this number. See Laakso and Taagepera (1979) for details. 11 Dozens of other examples could be added from various gubernatorial and bupati

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14 15

16

17 18

19

20

21 22 23

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elections, where defeated candidates often mobilized mobs in order to force the nullification of the result. In July 2001, when parliament impeached Gus Dur, the defiant president responded by issuing a bizarre decree which mandated the banning of Golkar as a political party. Subsequently, PKB politicians were instrumental in the moves to bring Akbar Tandjung to court. Shortly afterwards though, all bad blood was forgotten and eventually the two parties collaborated in the first round of the 2004 presidential election. One PDI-P politician described his cooperation with Golkar politicians in the special committee for constitutional reform as so extraordinary that he had the feeling that they should ‘call themselves a party of their own’. Interview with Jakob Tobing, 11 June 2004. After the exceptional voter turnout of 91 per cent in 1999, figures dropped slightly to 83 per cent in 2004. By international standards, however, even 83 per cent is still quite high (NDI 2004: 15). Fifty-two per cent of respondents judged the performance of the DPR as good, 69 per cent opined that the police were performing well, 71 per cent thought the president was performing well and 80 per cent believed that the armed forces were doing well (LSI 2006). Suharto was eventually withdrawn from the list of those who received the award at the official ceremony, but Golkar officials were adamant that they would still give the award to the former president on a separate occasion. See ‘Golkar dan HM Soeharto,’ Suara Pembaruan, 28 November 2005; ‘Golkar Partai Pendukung Pemerintah,’ Kompas, 27 November 2005. See ‘ “Drop Charges” against Soeharto,’ Jakarta Post, 7 January 2008. Based on extensive survey data, Mujani and Liddle (2004: 118) have identified the existing networks of NU and Muhammadiyah as ‘a major obstacle to the further growth of PK [PKS].’ Therefore, it is little surprising that the infiltration of these networks is part of PKS’s strategy to enlarge its influence. Another ‘if ’ may concern its current reputation as a clean and non-corruptible party. Having achieved much of its success due to its clean record, much of PKS’s future development will depend on how the party uses its unprecedented influence in politics, especially in many regional parliaments. The end of Megawati’s career, however, is unlikely to come any time soon. In September 2007, the PDI-P leader had already announced her willingness to contest the 2009 presidential election and if surveys and election results for PDI-P candidates in a number of pilkada throughout 2007 are any indicator of things to come, she may even win. See ‘Megawati Calon Presiden 2009,’ Kompas, 11 September 2007. As quoted in ‘Golkar in the Gates but Staying Steady,’ Jakarta Post, 23 October 2007. Interviews with Theo Sambuaga, 28 April 2004 and Bomer Pasaribu, 11 August 2004. ‘Golkar Proposes Two-tier Election System for Efficiency,’ Jakarta Post, 11 February 2006; ‘Kinerja Parpol Jeblok, UU Parpol Harus Dikaji Ulang,’ Detikcom, 23 March 2006. See Mietzner (2006) for a critical comment on the debate about the electoral threshold. ‘Kalla Minta Golkar Cari Pengganti Konvensi,’ Koran Tempo, 23 November 2007.

Bibliography

Official party documents DPP Golongan Karya (1998) Materi Penyegaran Kader Golongan Karya. DPP Golongan Karya (n.d.) Buku Saku Anggota Golkar 1993–1998. DPP Partai Golkar (2003a) AD/ART dan Peraturan Organisasi Partai Golkar, Jakarta: DPP Partai Golkar. DPP Partai Golkar (2003b) Keputusan Badan Pelaksana Konvensi Pemilihan Calon Presiden Partai Golkar Nomor 06/Balak Konvensi/Golkar/IX/2003, 23 September. DPP Partai Golkar (2003c) Keputusan Dewan Pimpinan Pusat Partai Golkar Nomor KEP-333/DPP/Golkar/VI/2003, 4 June. DPP Partai Golkar (2003d) Keputusan Rapat Pimpinan Paripurna VI Partai Golkar 2003, Nomor I/Rapim VI/Golkar/2003 Tentang Pedoman Penyusunan Bakal Calon Anggota DPR-RI, DPRD Provinsi, dan DPRD Kabupaten/Kota. DPP Partai Golkar (2004a) Keputusan Badan Pelaksana Konvensi Pemilihan Calon Presiden Partai Golkar Nomor 12/Balak Konvensi/Golkar/IV/2004, 18 April. DPP Partai Golkar (2004b) Platform Perjuangan Partai Golongan Karya: Bersatu untuk Maju, 29 February.

Other documents Komisi Pemilihan Umum Provinsi Sulawesi Selatan (2004) Surat Keputusan Komisi Pemilihan Umum Provinsi Sulawesi Selatan Nomor: 60/KPU-SS/I/2004 tentang Pengesahan Calon Tetap Anggota DPRD Provinsi Sulawesi Selatan Komisi Pemilihan Umum Provinsi Sulawesi Selatan. Presiden Republik Indonesia (2001) Peraturan Pemerintah Republik Indonesia No. 51/2001 Tentang Bantuan Keuangan Kepada Partai Politik. Presiden Republik Indonesia (2005) Peraturan Pemerintah Republik Indonesia No. 29/2005 Tentang Bantuan Keuangan Kepada Partai Politik.

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Interviewees

Abdul Madjid Sallatu, Hasanuddin University, 24 June 2004. Abdul Nurhaman, former Chairman of West Java Provincial Leadership Board, Partai Golkar, Member of Parliament, Partai Golkar (2004–present), 29 July 2004. Alan Wall, International Foundation for Election Systems, 5 August 2004. Amin Syam, Chairman of South Sulawesi Provincial Leadership Board, Partai Golkar, and former Governor of South Sulawesi (2002–2008), 7 May 2004. Andi Mattalatta, Member of Parliament, Partai Golkar (1992–present), 4 May 2004. Arfandy Idris, Member of Provincial Parliament South Sulawesi, Partai Golkar (1999–present), 6 July 2004 and 16 September 2004. Arief Budiman, University of Melbourne, 20 December 2005. Arifuddin Saransi, Member of Provincial Parliament South Sulawesi, Partai Golkar (1999–present), 30 June 2004. Arskal Salim, IAIN Jakarta, 26 June 2005. B. J. Habibie, former Indonesian President (1998–9), 18 July 2003. Bomer Pasaribu, Member of DPP Partai Golkar (1998–2004) and Member of Parliament, Partai Golkar (1982–1997 and 2004–present), 11 August 2004. Damien Kingsbury, Deakin University, 3 March 2006. Deddy Yevri Sitorus, National Democratic Institute (NDI), 10 July 2003. Dias Pradadimara, Hasanuddin University, 29 June 2004. Elizabeth Morrell, Flinders University, 21 December 2005. Fadhilla Mallarangeng, Legislative Candidate Partai Golkar (2004), 22 September 2004. Fahmi Idris, Member of DPP Partai Golkar (1998–present), Minister of Industry (2005–present), 13 August 2004. Faisal Basri, former member of PAN, Commission for the Supervision of Business Competition (KPPU), 14 September 2004. Ferry Mursyidan Baldan, Member of Parliament, Partai Golkar (1997–present), 11 July 2003. Hajriyanto Y. Thohari, Member of Parliament, Partai Golkar (1997–present), 16 August 2004. Happy Bone Zulkarnain, Member of Parliament, Partai Golkar (1999–present), 19 August 2004. Harry Tjan Silalahi, Centre for Strategic and International Studies (CSIS), 3 July 2003. HM Zain Katoe, Chairman of Parepare Leadership Board Partai Golkar, and Mayor of Parepare, 2 July 2004. Ibrahim Ambong, Member of Parliament, Partai Golkar (1997–2004), 2 June 2004. J. Kristiadi, Centre for Strategic and International Studies (CSIS), 11 August 2004.

254

Interviewees

Jakob Tobing, Member of Parliament Golkar (1972–92), Member of Parliament PDI-P, 1999–2004, 11 June 2004. Luky Djany, Indonesia Corruption Watch, 18 June 2004. Mahadi Sinambela, Member of DPP Partai Golkar (1998–2004) and Member of Parliament, Partai Golkar, (1994–9 and 2004–present), 6 August 2004. Marcus Mietzner, formerly US AID, 24 February 2006. Marwah Daud Ibrahim, Member of DPP Partai Golkar (1998–2004), Member of Parliament, Partai Golkar (1992–present), 15 July 2004. Marzuki Darusman, Member of DPP Partai Golkar (1998–2004), Member of Parliament, Partai Golkar (2004–present), 14 September 2004. Muliadi Mau, Lembaga Studi Informasi dan Media Massa (LSIM), 30 June 2004. Nurul Arifin, Legislative Candidate, Partai Golkar (2004), 26 May 2004 and 11 August 2004. Patrick Ziegenhain, Arnold-Bergstraesser Institut, 28 February 2006. Rahman Tolleng, former student activist, 9 July 2003. Rizal Sukma, Centre for Strategic and International Studies (CSIS), 21 September 2004. Ryaas Rasyid, former Minister for Regional Autonomy, Chairman/President Partai Persatuan Demokrasi Kenbangsaan (2002–present), 31 August 2004. Salim Said, Political observer and Indonesian Ambassador to the Czech Republic, 10 August 2004 and 3 February 2005. Sarwono Kusumaatmadja, Member of Regional Representatives Council, former secretary-general, Golkar, 7 July 2003 and 19 August 2004. Sjachrir Sjafruddin Daeng Jarung, Legislative Candidate, Partai Golkar (2004), 26 August 2004. Slamet Effendy Yusuf, Member of DPP Partai Golkar (1998–2004), Member of Parliament, Partai Golkar (1992–present), 11 July 2003 and 1 September 2004. Stephanie Lynn, National Democratic Institute (NDI), 4 February 2005. Suwardi Thahir, Fajar, 8 May 2004. Syamsu Nur, Fajar, 8 May 2004. Theo Sambuaga, Member of DPP Partai Golkar (1998–2004), Member of Parliament, Partai Golkar (1982–1998 and 2004–present), 28 April 2004. Tom Garrett, International Republican Institute (IRI), 11 July 2003. Untung Wahono, Chairman Political Department and Member of Parliament (2004– present), Partai Keadilan Sejahtera, 15 September 2004. Yahya Zaini, Member of Parliament, Partai Golkar (1997–2006), 31 August 2004.

Index

Abeng, Tanri 85 Acehnese Independence Movement 24 Ali, Suryadharma 158, 167 aliran 97–103, 166, 169–70, 192 AMPG 107 AMPI 107 Ananta, Aris 98, 99, 110, 112 Anderson, Benedict 125–6 Ansor 39, 100 Arifin, Nurul 116 armed forces: influence of 6; New Paradigm 73–5; role in politics 13, 15, 24, 72–82, 162–3, 179 Aspinall, Edward 75 authoritarian regimes 10, 27, 32, 185 Ba’asyir, Abu Bakar 167 Bachir, Soetrisno 154–5 Bachri, Syamsul 90 Baharuddin, Yasril Ananta 104 Baidlowi, Aisyah Hamid 100 Bakrie, Aburizal 59, 65, 88 Baldan, Ferry Mursyidan 99 Baligate 75, 84–6 Bank Bali scandal 75, 84–6 Baramuli, Arnold 85 Basri, Faisal 66 Baswedan, Anies Rasyid 98, 167 Beller, Dennis C. 21–2, 50 Belloni, Frank P. 21–2, 50 Buehler, Michael 43, 119 Buloggate 84–6, 132–3 businessmen and politics 24, 64–6, 88, 113, 138; Golkar and businessmen 64–6, 83, 113, 159 Chandra, Joko 66 charismatic leaders 20, 27, 45, 154, 167, 170, 179, 226n45

Chu, Yun-han 12 Ciputra family 66 clientelism 21–2, 42–4, 166, 227n53; see also patron-clientelism communication, political 7, 27, 122–50, 127–36, 172–8 corruption 111, 188–9, 199n9, 199n11, 201n34, 211n32; and decisional autonomy 86–7, 88, 161, 165; in Golkar 7, 60, 84–6, 148, 183; and institutionalization 21, 200n21 Council of Asian Liberals and Democrats 24 Crouch, Harold 14, 73, 198n1 Daud Ibrahim, Marwah 47–8, 49, 51, 59, 90, 104 decentralization 43, 45, 69, 87 decisional autonomy 6, 22–5, 32, 93–4, 161–5, 178–9; Golkar’s 71–94, 181 democracy 180–92; electoral democracies 10, 199n2; in Indonesia 180–92; liberal democracy 10; ‘pancasila’ 95–6 democratic consolidation 8, 9, 16, 17, 31, 189; and party system institutionalization 185–9 democratic deficits 10 democratic transition 9–16, 17, 31, 33, 119, 181; in Indonesia 13–16, 119, 137, 166, 189; and the media 130; protracted transitions 11–12; regime types 9–11 developing countries 62 Diamond, Larry 13, 26 Duverger, Maurice 62 economic development 96–7, 122 Eisenstadt, Todd 11

256

Index

elections 9; competitive 10, 33, 35, 43, 65, 83, 201n38; in Indonesia 14, 35; see also under Indonesia; voting behaviour and social background 169–70 electoral systems 30, 200n16, 202n40 Elklit, Jørgen 9 Emmerson, Donald K. 111 ‘ersatz’ values 114–20, 119, 120, 182, 218n74 factionalism 21–2, 38–40, 45–62, 156–9, 178–9 Fauzi, Ihsan Ali 159 former hegemonic parties 32, 198n4 Forum magazine 128–9 Fox, James J. 168 Freedom House 14 Fuller Collins, Elizabeth 159 GAM see Acehnese Independence Movement genetic model 20, 36–40, 68 gizi 88; see also corruption Golkar 65–6; and the 1999 election 75–6; and the 2004 elections 69, 80–1, 105, 106–8; and the 2004 national congress 51–61; absence of ideological values 45, 96, 119, 120, 121, 183; appeal of 99–101, 104–5, 112–14; and the armed forces 71–2, 72–82, 93; and the business community 64–6, 83, 113, 159; cadre recruitment 115–16; candidates’ distribution of money 53, 64–5; central board 74, 193–6; characteristics of its constituency 97, 103; coherence 45, 50, 56, 69; the colour yellow and the banyan tree 123–7, 219n13; communication patterns 36, 127–36, 149; corporate identity 124–5; corruption 7, 60, 84–7, 148, 183; coverage in the Tribun Timur newspaper 139–49, 144, 145, 146; culture of 60, 114–15, 116, 119, 120; decentralization of, 61; decision-making processes 36, 38, 72, 78, 89–90, 92, 93, 94; decisional autonomy 71–94, 181; donations to 63–6; dual identity of 122, 133–4, 135–6, 190; electoral performance 41, 95, 100–1, 103–4, 104, 183, 197; ‘ersatz’ values 114–20, 119, 120, 182, 218n74; factionalism 38–40, 45–62, 68, 69, 90, 134, 183; financial resources 36, 40, 62–8, 83–4, 182, 203n14; founding organizations 38, 209n1; future of 190–2; genetic model

of 36–40, 68; Golkar Party Reform Forum 57–8; hegemonic status of 2, 36, 37, 120, 122, 149, 182; influence of entrepreneurs 65; institutional strength 3, 35, 45; institutional weakness 36, 54, 86, 107, 181; Iramasuka faction 47–9, 49–50, 61, 109, 205n36; and Islam 98–9, 100; leadership 38–40, 45–62, 59, 68, 80, 183; local electoral contests 90–2; and local media, 136–49; loyalty to 105–6; and the media 23, 130–4, 135, 150; and the Megawati administration 77–8; money politics 61, 72, 83, 92, 94; name recognition 124–5, 130, 135, 173–4, 182; Nationhood Coalition 56, 115; and the New Order regime 36–40, 61; New Paradigm 73–5, 106; as newsmaker 129–30; organizational infrastructure 37, 41, 68; and the Outer Islands, 102–9; and Papua 78–80; party constitution 113, 123, 204n18; party logo 126, 149; party organization 68; patron-clientelism 37, 42–4, 60–1, 68, 70, 99–101, 115–16, 118–19, 120; personalistic politics 117–18; political communication 122–50; political culture 60, 116, 119–20; positive coverage in the Tribun Timur newspaper 143–8; and the Preparatory Committee for the Implementation of Islamic Law (KPPSI) 101–3; presidential convention 50–4, 69, 88–9, 113, 117, 135, 174–5, 192; presidential election in 2004 3, 51, 54–8, 95, 104, 183; recruitment of personnel 182, 204n19; regional cadres, 45–62; reification 122–50, 177; resilience of 1–7; selection of candidates 89–90, 91, 94; socio-economic profile of its constituency 110, 112, 113, 114; sources of funding 62, 66–7, 68, 83, 94; and Suharto 83–4; Supervisory Council (Dewan Pembina) 38; systemness 35–70, 181, 182; territorial reach 37, 40–4, 68–9, 105; uneven party institutionalization 181–3; use of symbols 122–50, 219n13; value infusion 95–121, 181, 182; see also Golkar, ‘ersatz’ values; voter mobilization 118; and the Wahid administration 76–7; Yayasan Dakab 40, 84; youth organizations 107 Gumelar, Agum 80 Gunther, Richard 26 Gus Dur see Abdurrahman Wahid

Index 257 Habibie, B. J. 39, 78, 106, 128; and Akbar Tandjung 46, 48; Bank Bali scandal 75, 84–5; Yayasan Dakab 84 Hadiz, Vedi 13, 15 Hafidz, Wardah 130, 138, 150 Hafild, Emmy 64 Halid, Nurdin 86 Hamu, Alwi 138–9, 156 Haq, Hamka 101 Haris, Syamsuddin 90 Haynes, Jeff 10 Haz, Hamza 80, 157, 158, 167 Helmke, Gretchen 21 Hidayat, Mohammad 63, 113 HMI 99, 100 Honna, Jun 162 Huntington, Samuel P. 22 ICMI 100 Idris, Fahmi 49, 51, 57, 58, 59, 65 Indonesia: Acehnese Independence Movement 24; aliran structures 97–103, 192; anti-political party attitudes 173, 189; armed forces, role of in politics 13, 15, 24, 72–82, 162–3, 179; businessmen and politics 24, 88; campaign expenditure 160; characteristics of party politics in 6, 66, 69, 187; class politics in 109–10; constitutional amendments 14; corruption in 7, 15; deideologization 97; decentralization programme 43, 45, 69, 87; democracy in 180–92; democratic transition 13–16, 119, 137, 166, 189; donations to political parties 63; election in 1971 36–8; elections in 1999, 75–6, 174; elections in 2004 139–49, 154, 160, 170, 176; electoral laws 42–3, 63, 107, 119, 186–8, 191, 202n4; freedom of the press 127, 128; GAM 24; gizi 88; human rights violations 15; independent candidates 115, 217n58; institutionalization of political parties 186; Islam in 39, 99, 168–9, 171, 203n11; Islamic law 101–3; legislative elections 2, 14, 45; local politics in 42; mass rallies 176–7; media in 128–9, 137, 150, 176, 219n19, 220n20; money politics in 7, 24; nepotism 15; New Order regime 36–40, 198n1; newspapers 128–9, 130, 131, 220n25; oligarchic power networks 15; pancasila 95–6, 166, 213n3; parliamentary election, 14; party institutionalization in 160;

personalization of politics 119, 120, 161, 178, 183; political parties 151–79, 173, 178, 187; presidential elections 14, 54–8, 186; reforms in 13, 15, 73; regional identity politics 48; religion in 23, 98, 105, 109, 171, 192; SARS syndrome 109–14, 133–4; separatist violence in 24, 111; social movements, 166; socio-economic profile of the population 110, 112, 113, 114, 167, 169; state subsidies to political parties 66–7, 160; television 130, 131, 135, 175, 220n23; transparency of the parliament 77, 87, 161; uneven party institutionalization 160, 184–5 institutional regulations 26 institutionalization, 4, 8, 17–19; and corruption 200n21; decisional autonomy 6, 22–5, 32, 161–5; dimensions of 6–7, 19, 28–9, 32, 94, 184–5; and financial resources 20; importance of 16–33; level of 17; measurability of 5, 184–5; models of 3, 28–9, 71, 180, 182; and party system institutionalization 4, 18, 29–31, 18; reification 7, 27–8, 32, 33, 172–8; systemness 6, 20–2, 31, 152–61; theoretical aspects of 8–34; uneven party institutionalization 31–3, 34, 151–79, 180–92; value infusion 7, 25–7, 166–72 institutions, informal 21 Iramasuka faction 47–50, 61, 109, 205n36 Iskandar, Muhaimin 155–6 Islam 98–103, 167–72, 203n11 Islamic law 101–3 Islamic organizations 39, 100, 101, 171, 179 Islamic values 99, 168–9 Jakarta Post (newspaper) 128, 129, 130, 220n29 Janda, Kenneth 22, 27, 172 Jawa Pos (newspaper) 128 Johnson, Elaine Paige 4, 184–5 Jones, Sidney 29 Junedding, Burhaman 102 Kalla, Jusuf 65, 102, 192; and the media 138–9, 147, 149; reputation 117; rise to power 58–62, 88, 105–6, 109, 120 Kalla, Suhaeli 65 King, Dwight Y. 97, 109 Kingsbury, Damien 75, 127 Komaruddin, Ade 99

258

Index

Kompas (newspaper) 128 KPPSI see Preparatory Committee for the Implementation of Islamic Law Laksono, Agung 59, 60, 65, 89, 191, 207n81, 208n98 Lauth, Hans-Joachim 21 leadership 38–40; charismatic leadership 20, 27, 45, 154, 167, 170, 179, 226n45 legitimacy 18 Lev, Daniel 1, 183 Levitsky, Steven 10, 22, 28, 29 Liddle, R. William 37, 97, 109, 170 Lindberg, Staffan I. 18 Linz, Juan J. 9–10, 189 Lipset, Seymour Martin 25, 189 Machmud, Aksa 138–9 Mainwaring, Scott 4, 5, 8, 18, 27, 29, 126, 166, 184, 229n6 Malley, Michael 13, 14 Marzuki Darusman 57, 58, 96 Masyumi 26, 166–7, 172–3; see also Islamic organizations Matta, Anis 158 Mattalatta, Andi 104, 108 Media Indonesia (newspaper) 128 Megawati Sukarnoputri 77–8, 111, 132, 154, 155, 188; Golkar alliance with 55–8; and Papua 79 Merkel, Wolfgang 9–10, 16–17, 30, 189 Mexico 12, 33 Meyer, Thomas 127 Michels, Robert 25 Mietzner, Marcus 44, 67–8, 75, 81, 91, 160 money politics 7, 13, 24, 47, 61, 69, 72, 83–94, 201n34, 211n32 Morgenstern, Scott 17 Morrell, Elizabeth 138, 143 Morin, Simon Patrice 79 Muhammadiyah 100, 101, 179; and PAN 163–4 Mujani, Saiful 92, 109, 155, 170 Murdani, Benny 39 Muzadi, Hasyim 164, 165 Nahdlatul Ulama 39, 100, 101, 164–5, 179; and PKB 164–5 nationalism 26–7 New Order regime 1, 61, 36–8, 198n1 newspapers 128–9, 130–1, 138, 220n25 Novanto, Setya 84–5 O’Donnell, Guillermo 9

oligarchy 25, 89 Ottaway, Marian 10 Paloh, Surya 59, 60, 65, 88, 148 PAN 190; decisional autonomy 161, 163–4; factionalism 158; and Islamic organizations 163–4, 179; name recognition 173–4; reification 177; value infusion 167, 170, 171, 179 pancasila 95–6, 114, 120, 125, 166, 213n3 Panebianco, Angelo 20, 22, 37 Panigoro, Arifin 157 Papua 78–80 party organization 18 party system institutionalization 4, 29–31, 151, 185; appreciation by the electorate 30, 33, 188–9; components of 18; and democratic consolidation 185–9; dimensions of 29; and interference from the state 30; legitimacy 18; party organization 18, 19; stability 18; types of 30 patron-clientelism 156–9, 203n6 PBR 157–8 PD 175, 190, 191; electoral performance 183; name recognition 173–4, 178; reification 177, 179; value infusion 167–9, 171, 179 PDI-P 2, 35, 101, 175–6, 191, 227n59; decisional autonomy 161–2; factionalism 157; name recognition 173–4, 178; patron-clientelism 157; reification 177, 179; systemness 155–6; value infusion 167, 170, 171, 179 PDI-P Reform Movement 157 personalization of politics 119, 120, 161, 166–7, 178, 183 pilkada 14, 43, 82, 90–2, 119, 169, 172 PKB 190; decisional autonomy 161, 163, 164–5; factionalism,156; and Islamic organizations 164–5,179; name recognition 173–4, 178; patronclientelism 156–7; reification 177; systemness 155, 155–6, 156; value infusion 167, 170, 171, 179 PKI 23 PKPB 111, 134 PKS 175, 190, 228n1; decisional autonomy 162; electoral performance 183; factionalism 158–9; institutionalization 178, 180; name recognition 173–4, 178; reification 177; systemness 161; value infusion 167–9, 170, 171, 172, 178

Index 259 political parties 1–2, 4, 151; appreciation by the electorate 30, 33, 188–9; and businessmen 24; characteristics of their constituencies 170; clientelism 21–2; in developing countries 62; factionalism 21–2; financial resources 159, 160, 161, 179; former hegemonic parties 8–34, 11–12, 33, 181; functions of 2, 20, 16–33, 120, 198n3; genetic model of 20; hybrid parties 166–7; institutional weakness 166; interference from external actors 162–5; lack of human resources,153; mutual acceptance 30, 33, 188; name recognition 172; nationalism and 26–7; opposition parties 33; organizational strength at the local level 153; organizational weakness 165; party cohesion 44; performance of 15–16; personalization of politics 119, 120, 161, 166–7, 178, 183; public awareness of 172, 173; recruitment and training of personnel 154, 178, 224n8; socio-economic profile of their constituencies 179; use of symbols 176–7 PPDK 108 PPP 177, 190; factionalism 157; name recognition 173–4, 178; patronclientelism 157; value infusion 167–9, 179 Pradadimara, Dias 102, 112 Preparatory Committee for the Implementation of Islamic Law (KPPSI) 101–3 print media 128–9 Qodari, Muhammad 134 Rais, Amien 2, 154–5, 158, 161, 163, 171 Randall, Vicky 3, 4–5, 19, 26, 31, 71; decisional autonomy 23; reification 28; systemness 22; value infusion 25 Rasyid, Ryaas 108 reification 7, 27–8, 32, 33, 172–8, 179, 182; in Golkar 122–50; and name recognition 172–4; role of the media 174–6; symbolism of colour 176–7 Reilly, Benjamin 26 Republika (newspaper) 128 Rigger, Shelley 12 Rinakit, Sukardi 75 Robison, Richard 15 Rokhmad, Abu 156

Rokkan, Stein 25 rootedness see value infusion Saefullah, Avip 57 Sambuaga, Theo 49, 230n22 Santoso, Priyo Budi 100, 124–5 Sasdi, Ardinas 80, 133 Saya amat rindu Suharto, SARS 111–12 SBY see Yudhoyono, Susilo Bambang Schedler, Andreas 10–11 Schmitter, Philippe C. 9 Scott, James 37 Scully, Timothy R. 5, 43, 184, 229n6 Slater, Dan 188 social background and voting behaviour 169–70 social conflict theory 17 Socialist International 24 Soebhan, Syafuan Rozi 106–7 South Sulawesi 6, 42, 90, 101, 104, 117, 140, 215n35; ethnic groups 104; Golkar’s performance in 106–8, 108; media in 136, 137–8; patrimonial structures in 107, 108, 118; political ‘sub-system’ in 118; traditional rulers 118–19; Yasin Limpo family 43–4 stability 18, 29, 30, 33, 95, 96, 122, 187 Stepan, Alfred 9, 189 Suara Pembaruan (newspaper) 128 Sudharmono 38–9 Suharto 38–9, 84, 111, 199n4; and Golkar 83–4, 122; Saya amat rindu Suharto SARS 111–12, 133–4 Sukma, Rizal 159 Sultan Hamengkubuwono X 117–18 Svåsand, Lars 3, 4, 19, 31, 71; decisional autonomy 23; reification 28; systemness 22; value infusion 25 Syam, Amin 106, 107 Syariat Islam 102 symbols, use of 122–50, 176–7, 219n13 systemness 6, 20–2, 31, 35–70, 178, 182, 200n18; and factionalism 156–9; Golkar’s 35–70; and lack of financial resources 159–60; and patronclientelism 156–9; and personalistic party structures 154–6; problems with 152–61; and quality of party functionaries 152–4; and territorial reach 152–4 Taiwan 12, 31–2 Tan, Paige Johnson 43, 98, 166, 175

260

Index

Tandjung, Akbar 3, 39, 45–62, 99, 108; and the 2004 national congress 58–61; corruption scandal 49, 52, 85, 132–3; leadership 48, 59, 61, 70; and the presidential convention 50–2, 53, 55; rise to power 46–7 television 128, 130, 131, 135, 175, 220n23 Tempo magazine 128–9 terrorist movements 24 Thohari, Hajriyanto 100 Titra, Adam 124–5 TNI see armed forces Torcal, Mariano 18, 166 Törnquist, Olle 189 trade unions 23 Tribun Timur (newspaper) 138–9; coverage of political parties in 141, 142, 144, 145, 146; Golkar’s domination of election coverage in 140–2; reporting of the 2004 elections 139–49

Von Beyme, Klaus 27, 152 voting behaviour and social background 169–70 Wahid, Abdurrahman 3, 76–7, 111, 154, 155, 156, 164; impeachment 132, 188 Wahid, Hidayat Nur 158, 168, 169 Wahid, Solahuddin 165 Wahono, Untung 169 Wall, Alan 76–7 Wallis, Darren 19 Ward, Ken 37 Winata, Tomy 66 Wirahadikusumah, Agus 75 Wiranto 52–4, 59, 80–1, 118, 188; role of the military 73–4, 75 Wolinetz, Steven B. 18

Ufen, Andreas 17, 26, 114, 167 United Democratic Nationhood Party 108

Yasin Limpo family 43–4 Yosfiah, Yunus 128 Yudhoyono, Susilo Bambang (SBY) 57, 58, 60, 75, 167–8, 171, 188 Yusuf, Saifullah 155–6 Yusuf, Slamet Effendy 39, 100, 124

value infusion 7, 25–7, 114, 166–72, 179; in Golkar 95–121; sources of 25, 120 Vásquez-D’Elia, Javier 17

Zainal Abidin 108 Zainuddin MZ 157–8 Zulkarnain, Happy Bone 116