The Revival of Masyarakat Adat PDF

A number of UN conventions and declarations (on the Rights of Indigenous
Peoples, the Protection and Promotion of the Diversity of Cultural Expressi-

ons and the World Heritage Conventions) can be understood as instruments of
7
Göttingen Studies in
Cultural Property, Volume 7
international governance to promote democracy and social justice worldwide.
In Indonesia (as in many other countries), these international agreements have
encouraged the self-assertion of communities that had been oppressed and de- Adat and Indigeneity in Indonesia
prived of their land, especially during the New Order regime (1966-1998). More
than 2,000 communities in Indonesia who define themselves as masyarakat adat Culture and Entitlements between
or “indigenous peoples” had already joined the Indigenous Peoples’ Alliance of Heteronomy and Self-Ascription
the Archipelago” (AMAN) by 2013. In their efforts to gain recognition and self-
determination, these communities are supported by international donors and Brigitta Hauser-Schäublin (ed.)
international as well as national NGOs by means of development programmes.
In the definition of masyarakat adat, “culture” or adat plays an important role

in the communities’ self-definition. Based on particular characteristics of their
adat, the asset of their culture, they try to distinguish themselves from others in
order to substantiate their claims for the restitution of their traditional rights and
Adat and Indigeneity in Indonesia

property (namely land and other natural resources) from the state. The authors
of this volume investigate how differently structured communities - socially, po-
litically and religiously - and associations reposition themselves vis-à-vis others,
especially the state, not only by drawing on adat for achieving particular goals,
but also dignity and a better future.
Brigitta Hauser-Schäublin (ed.)
ISBN: 978-3-86395-132-0
ISSN: 2190-8672
Universitätsverlag Göttingen Universitätsverlag Göttingen
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Published in 2013 by Universitätsverlag Göttingen
as volume 7 in the series “Göttingen Studies in Cultural Property”
Adat and Indigeneity

in Indonesia
Culture and Entitlements between

Heteronomy and Self-Ascription
Universitätsverlag Göttingen
2013
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Address of the Editor

Prof. Dr. Brigitta Hauser-Schäublin
Institute for Cultural and Social Anthropology
University of Göttingen
Theaterplatz 15
D-37073 Göttingen
This work is protected by German Intellectual Property Right Law.

It is also available as an Open Access version through the publisher’s homepage and
the Online Catalogue of the State and University Library of Goettingen
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read, download and distribute it.
Set and layout: Stephanie Suon-Szabo, Serena Müller and Miriam Harjati Sanmukri
English proofreading: Philip Saunders
Cover picture: Rehearsing a traditional war dance, cakalele, Tobelo.
Photo: Serena Müller 2012
© 2013 Universitätsverlag Göttingen

http://univerlag.uni-goettingen.de
ISBN: 978-3-86395-132-0
ISSN: 2190-8672
„Göttinger Studien zu Cultural Property“ / “Göttingen Studies in
Cultural Property”
Reihenherausgeber
Regina Bendix
Kilian Bizer
Brigitta Hauser-Schäublin
Gerald Spindler
Peter-Tobias Stoll
Editorial Board
Andreas Busch, Göttingen
Rosemary Coombe, Toronto
Ejan Mackaay, Montreal
Dorothy Noyes, Columbus
Achim Spiller, Göttingen
Bernhard Tschofen, Tübingen
Homepage
http://gscp.cultural-property.org
Table of Contents
Preface ........................................................................................................................................... 3
Introduction. The Power of Indigeneity:
Reparation, Readjustments and Repositioning ....................................................................... 5
Katja Göcke
Indigenous Peoples in International Law ..............................................................................17
Maria Victoria Cabrera Ormaza
From Protection to Participation?
Shifting Perceptions towards Indigenous Peoples under International Law...................31
Yance Arizona and Erasmus Cahyadi
The Revival of Indigenous Peoples:
Contestations over a Special Legislation on Masyarakat Adat ............................................43
Stefanie Steinebach
“Today we Occupy the Plantation – Tomorrow Jakarta”:
Indigeneity, Land and Oil Palm Plantations in Jambi .........................................................63
Anna-Teresa Grumblies
Being Wana, Becoming an “Indigenous People”.
Experimenting with Indigeneity in Central Sulawesi ...........................................................81
Serena Müller
Adat as a Means of Unification and its Contestation.
The Case of North Halmahera ................................................................................................99
2 Table of Contents
Miriam Harjati Sanmukri

Mobilities of Indigeneity
Intermediary NGOs and Indigenous Peoples in Indonesia ............................................ 115
How Indigenous are the Balinese?
From National Marginalisation to Provincial Domination.............................................. 133
Karin Klenke
Whose Adat is it?
Adat, Indigeneity and Social Stratification in Toraja ......................................................... 149
Fadjar I. Thufail
Becoming Aristocrats:
Keraton in the Politics of Adat................................................................................................ 167
Francesca Merlan
From a Comparative Perspective: Epilogue ....................................................................... 185
References ................................................................................................................................ 201
Abbreviations........................................................................................................................... 231
Contributors ........................................................................................................................... 237
Preface
This volume presents the results of five years’ research on the processes of the
propertisation of culture that have been carried out by the Research Unit 772 on The
Constitution of Cultural Property (speaker: Regina Bendix), sponsored by the German
Research Council (Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft).1 Our research focused on the
certification and heritisation of culture (nominations and listing of tangible and
intangible UNESCO World Heritages) during the first three years. Since 2011, we have
been investigating how “culture”, or more specifically adat (concepts of traditional
ways of life and values), is shaped and deployed by various actors in Indonesia to
define their identities, reclaim rights and property, and reposition themselves in the
multi-ethnic state of Indonesia since the fall of the Suharto regime (1998).
A workshop entitled “Adat between state governance and self-determined indigeneity

in Indonesia” was held at Göttingen University in October 2011. The preliminary
results of the most recent anthropological research on adat or rather on “indigeneity”
in Indonesia were presented by scholars at this workshop, including our much-valued
research fellow from Jakarta, Fadjar Ibnu Thufail, from the Göttingen projects, and
also by a scholar from Bonn University. Since the struggles for recognition of a special
adat particularly of “indigenous groups” in Indonesia can only be understood against
1 The research on which the chapter by Steinebach is based was carried out during a project within
the Collaborative Research Centre 990, “Ecological and Socioeconomic Functions of Tropical
Lowland Rainforest Transformation Systems (Sumatra, Indonesia)”, also based at Göttingen
University.
4 Brigitta Hauser-Schäublin
the background of international conventions and aid programmes for the promotion
of indigenous peoples, two scholars from the International Law Department of
Göttingen University (Katja Göcke and Maria Victoria Cabrera Ormaza) were invited,
as well as the well-known Indonesian lawyer and indigenous peoples activist, Sandra
Moniaga, to present their perspective on the issue of indigeneity.
The present volume mirrors this anthropological-international law co-operation and

exchange of views on indigeneity. We are grateful that two lawyers from Indonesia,
Yance Arizona and Erasmus Cahyadi, wrote an insightful paper on the current state of
affairs on a special law on indigenous peoples in Indonesia.
Francesca Merlan, the renowned anthropologist from the National University in

Canberra and an expert on “indigeneity”, spent a month as a Fellow of the Research
Unit at Göttingen in June 2013. We all benefitted tremendously from her lectures, the
comments she gave on earlier versions of several chapters and her insights. She has
written an Epilogue to the volume from an encompassing, comparative perspective. I
would like to thank her for writing this important chapter, for her commitment and
the fruitful discussions we had in a very friendly and relaxed atmosphere.
This research only took place with the great help of our research partners in Indonesia:
the Indonesian Institute of Sciences (LIPI) in Jakarta as a counterpart, and especially
the Alliance of Indigenous Peoples (AMAN) and its General Secretary, Abdon
Nababan, the non-governmental organisations (NGOs), particularly the Samdhana
Institute and several other NGOs and their representatives, as well as the many adat
communities in different provinces in Indonesia. All of these allowed and helped the
anthropologists to carry out their research. We would like to express our gratitude to
all of them. Terima kasih banyak!
All this work would not have been possible without the sponsors. I would like to thank
first and foremost the German Research Council for generously sponsoring all the
research projects mentioned, the Volkswagen Foundation (Volkswagen Stiftung),
Hannover, for supporting the workshop in 2012, and also the Volkswagen Stiftung and
the Ministry for Science and Culture of the Federal State of Lower Saxony and
Göttingen University for the research professorship (Niedersachsenprofessur) they
granted me. It is thanks to this professorship and its endowment that many
complementary journeys, additional research, meetings, the temporary employment of
additional research staff and assistants, as well as this publication became possible.
Brigitta Hauser-Schäublin, July 2013

Introduction.
The Power of Indigeneity:
Reparation, Readjustments and Repositioning
This volume analyses the way in which the legal category of “ indigenous peoples” and,
consequently, the notion of indigeneity as propagated by international conventions are
understood, deployed and implemented by different actors – national as well as
regional and local – in Indonesia. The first two chapters, therefore, discuss the
formation of the several different conventions dealing with “indigenous” or “tribal”
peoples and the recognition of their legal status as “peoples”, with its inherent right to
self-determination, from the perspective of international law. The third chapter, also
written from a legal and activist perspective, examines how Indonesia has classified its
citizens into different categories; among them, what could be translated as
“indigenous” too, but with a derogatory connotation, subsumed as communities which
were considered primitive and resistant to development. Only recently has this
situation changed, and a new bill on the recognition and protection of the rights of
indigenous peoples is now being passed through parliament. The following chapters
present case-studies from different parts of Indonesia. They show how international
discourses, often transmitted through NGOs or the Indigenous Peoples’ Alliance of
the Archipelago (AMAN), a nationwide organisation with more than 2,000 member
communities, have been adapted and implemented. The communities benefitting from
the recognition of being or becoming “indigenous” or, at least, “having” a special adat
(traditions, customs, regulations, and values) ranges from marginalised peoples who
fight for the restitution of their rights, especially control over natural resources from
which they had been expropriated, to stratified societies and even noble houses, who
claim the restitution of their rights and recognition. By deploying indigeneity, each of
these actor groups attempts to reposition itself within their particular historical, social
and political setting in the multi-ethnic state and to achieve recognition.
In this introduction, I would like to highlight a couple of encompassing issues
which arise in several of the subsequent case-studies; I consider them as fundamental
for the understanding of how “indigeneity” has been conceived and is nowadays
deployed by a wide range of actors in Indonesia. All of the chapters presenting case-
studies are written by “Indonesianists”. However, this book also aims at a readership
that is interested in Indonesian indigeneity issues from a comparative viewpoint; it is,
therefore, initially necessary to provide some basic information. The last chapter of the
book, the Epilogue, written by Francesca Merlan, then takes up some of the topics
briefly presented here. She elaborates on them from a higher, more comprehensive
anthropological perspective by both characterizing the particular “Indonesian” quality
of the cases presented, as well as linking them to general questions and concerns
expressed in other indigeneity discussions and movements in other regions of the
world.
The introduction, therefore, outlines firstly the historical background of the
category of indigeneity in Indonesia and the way in which international conventions
have interacted with nationwide movements fighting for recognition and the
restitution of rights. It is against this background that the translation of the Indonesian
term adat as “indigenous” has to be understood. In a further paragraph, the question is
raised to what extent the interactions between international conventions and the way in
which they are implemented through aid programmes also serve the (often hidden)
goals of the donors. In most discussions on “indigenous peoples” in Indonesia, and
even in the chapters of this book, the oppression or marginalisation of adat
communities is traced back to colonial and post-colonial regimes of domination. In the
last paragraph, I want to complement these explanations by showing that these more
or less recent processes of marginalisation and exclusion were, at least in some parts of
Indonesia, preceded by pre-colonial social and political conditions that were just as
little free from power relations as those during the 20th and 21st centuries. However,
these relations were not based on principles of worldwide capitalistic exploitation.
Historical Retrospective
AMAN (Aliansi Masyarakat Adat Nusantara), adopted the militant slogan, “If the state
does not recognise us, we will not recognise the state” at its first congress in Jakarta in
1999 (Moniaga 2004, 2007). This highlights the political situation of what, according to
Introduction 7
internationalist definitions, are called indigenous peoples in Indonesia at the end of the
New Order regime:
They had suffered marginalisation, discrimination and dispossession over decades
and were classified as inferior to “mainstream” Indonesians, who were following the
nationalistic path to progress and development as decreed by the government. Their
systematic discrimination, dispossession and displacement were not an invention of the
New Order regime (1965-1998); their genealogy can be traced back to the Dutch
colonial policy, as many publications and several chapters of this volume document.
The fall of the Suharto regime in 1998 and the subsequent onset of the reform era
(reformasi), which promoted decentralisation and aimed at democratisation, have
offered the opportunity to the indigenous peoples (masyarakat adat) and to the
government to recover the injustices and dispossessions which these people had
suffered.
Reformasi, whose major pillars are regional autonomy and democratisation, has opened
up the chance of negotiations for many indigenous peoples to recapture what they
have lost: dignity, recognition, rights, and possessions, namely land. However, the
decades in which several laws, especially those concerning agriculture (Basic Agrarian
Law, BAL, No. 5/1960), forestry (Forestry Law, BFL, no.5/1967) and mining (Mining
Law no. 11/1967), had been enacted have left their enduring traces which are difficult
to eliminate (Bakker and Moniaga 2010; Moniaga 2007; see the chapter by Arizona and
Cahyadi in this volume). These laws formed the basis for the expropriation of
indigenous peoples and the exploitation of natural resources to the profit only of the
central state.
These laws are one aspect of the repressive government’s legacy; the administrative
structure, for example the division of land management – land is the most hotly
disputed issue between the indigenous peoples and the government – into two
ministries, the Ministry of Agriculture and the Ministry of Forestry, each of them with
its own tasks and goals, is another. A third legacy of the decades of the New Order
regime is the bureaucratic authoritarianism (Bakker and Moniaga 2010:200) and the
corresponding habitus of many civil servants that has not (yet) really changed.
Since these reformation processes started in Indonesia after 1998, the masyarakat adat
in almost all provinces, the Alliance of the Indigenous Peoples of the Archipelago,
which in 2013 noted about 2,000 member communities, national and transnational
NGOs and, of course, the administration and the government on all its levels (local,
regional, provincial, and national) have been engaged in negotiations and even battles
over these issues.
A first milestone in the fight of indigenous communities to get back their rights and
especially their adat land (see chapters by Steinebach and Grumblies in this volume),
seems to have been set with the Constitutional Court’s decision in May 2013. It
decreed the elimination of
“the word ‘state’ from Article 1(f) of the 1999 Law on Forestry, which
previously declared that ‘customary forests are state forests located in the areas
of custom-based communities’. Also revised was Article 5 of the law, which
stated that state forests include customary forests”.
(Jakarta Globe 18.05.2013)
With this decision, the state formally loses millions of hectares of forest land, most of
them granted as concessions to natural resource industries (private as well as state-
owned companies), especially mining, logging and agriculture. The concession holders
will be obliged in the future to directly negotiate with the local communities and no
longer only with representatives of the national government. The impact of this change
and to what extent the state is forced to return all this land (which, by no means, is still
all covered with what is usually understood by “forests”) or how this will be
implemented in practice is difficult to anticipate. This case illustrates that the
indigenous communities and the state not “only” negotiate about ancestral forests, but
about fundamental means of production with considerable yields that have, so far,
officially gone into the treasury and contributed substantially to the national budget.
Interaction with the International Moves

The developments in Indonesia and the increasing voicing of indigenous peoples’
claims for recognition and rights since the early 1990s and the international support
they receive, cannot be considered independently from the international stage and its
worldwide campaigns and organisations, such as the United Nations (UN), the
International Labour Organisation (ILO) and UNESCO. The first “International
Decade of the World’s Indigenous Peoples”, launched by the UN General Assembly,
lasted from 1995 to 2004, and the second Indigenous Peoples’ Decade lasts from 2005
to 2014. These decades have drawn worldwide attention to the issue of marginalised
and oppressed peoples and made these peoples also aware that the time was ripe for
their requests to be heard and enforced.
In the aftermath of the World War II and in wake of decolonization, a few

conventions and declarations were issued that all display similar ideas about society and
humanity. They anticipated universal values, such as the separation of powers, rule of
law, social justice, equality of the citizens before the law, and freedom of the individual.
Such values are embodied in the UN Human Rights Convention (1948), the ILO 169
Indigenous and Tribal Peoples Convention (1989, entry into force 1991; not ratified by
Indonesia) and the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (2007;
adopted by Indonesia in 2007, but characteristically not by the four settler states
U.S.A., Canada, Australia, and New Zealand). These conventions and declarations (for
a detailed discussion, see the chapter by Göcke in this volume) all emphasise the
importance of “tribal” or “indigenous people” and the recognition and restitution of
the rights they deserve after decades of dispossession and oppression. All of these
international regulations, however, bear the mark of the problems settler states had
Introduction 9
(the relationship between the “white” or in any case dominant settlers and the
indigenous peoples) (see Merlan 2009). These regulations, therefore, seem to aim at
recognising the original inhabitants and at least partly restoring their rights in the states
established by the former colonizers. The special rights the decrees endow indigenous
peoples with, however, apply to the indigenous communities in all states, at least to
those who have signed these agreements. However, the formulation of special rights
for indigenous peoples in these agreements only marginally reflects the situation in
countries such as Indonesia with thousands of self-identified indigenous communities.
UNESCO complemented these UN human rights regulations with conventions
that have their focus somewhere else, but can clearly be identified as accompanying
measures to the UN decrees: The Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible
Cultural Heritage (2003) and the Convention on the Protection and Promotion of the
Diversity of Cultural Expressions (2005, in force since 2007; accession by Indonesia in
2012). These conventions focus on “culture”, and underline that “culture” can be
protected and promoted only if human rights and fundamental freedoms are
guaranteed. They also emphasise the role “culture” plays as a vehicle of identity and
how, in particular, indigenous peoples have acted as preservers and safeguards of
cultural heritage. Here, apart from the characterisation of indigenous peoples as social
groups that have suffered historical injustices in many ways, cultural values and
practices are in the foreground. In fact, “culture” lies at the core of what in Indonesia
is called adat.1 Indigenous peoples in Indonesia, apart from their history of oppression
and dispossession, ultimately argue with their particular localized “culture” that
distinguishes them from others; a specific definition of their cultural particularity is,
therefore, required to fill the “tribal slot” (Li 2000; and see below). Undoubtedly, the
way in which “culture” as a distinctive mark of indigenous peoples that others do not
possess is used in international and national or local discourses implies a “politicization
of culture and its treatment as property” (Greene 2004:212).
From Adat to “Indigenous”

The Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, for example, illustrates that
indigenous peoples are described as a distinct socio-cultural category and deserve
special promotion, protection – and rights. As the chapters by Göcke, Cabrera and
Arizona/Cahyadi (in this volume) explain, the category of “indigenous peoples” is only
loosely defined in the international decrees; no definite criteria are given that would
allow their unequivocal identification. An emphasis lies on the self-identification of
being “indigenous”. The self-identification as “indigenous” opens up a wide range of
possibilities for communities for a repositioning vis-à-vis the state. Tyson emphasised
that adat can be portrayed “as imaginative and adaptive, serving as a living and evolving
1 Adat, though a complex concept, can be briefly described as customary localised ways of life,
regulations and beliefs (for a detailed discussion of adat, its significance and use in present-day
Indonesia, see Davidson and Henley 2007). “Culture” is usually translated with budaya in Indonesia.
However, budaya refers to specific cultural expressions and arts rather than describing encompassing
ways of life and world-views.
body of agreements, rights and rules” (2011:655). The translation AMAN made of
masyarakat adat, which literally means “customary communities”2, as “indigenous
peoples” has to be understood as a possibility to interlink with the transnational
indigeneity movements, as one of my interlocutors in Bali pointed out (see the chapter
by Hauser-Schäublin in this volume).3 In short, the translation as “indigenous peoples”
is also a strategic positioning within the globe. The networking with transnational
indigeneity movements and with sponsor organisations is crucial for the funding of
AMAN and its projects, as well as for negotiations with the government. Without this
international ideational and financial support, AMAN would not be such a strong and
influential organisation as it is at present (see the chapter by Sanmukri in this volume).
In any case, “indigenous peoples” is a relational term in several ways (see also Merlan
2009). In a socio-political respect, this term refers to the relationship of a smaller, less
powerful society to a more powerful majority or dominant society or nation-state, and
implies the marginalisation and discrimination they experienced due to their culture.
Thus, what was once the reason for the suffering of all the injustices, their culture in
the widest sense, has become an asset in the meantime.
According to the new law on indigenous peoples4 that is currently (2013) being
discussed in parliament in Indonesia, masyarakat adat needs to display five features for
official recognition as masyarakat hukum adat, customary law community: to have a
shared history, to own customary land, to have adat law, to possess specific property
relations and inheritance/or adat artefacts, and to have a customary governance system
(see the chapter by Arizona and Cahyadi in this volume).5 Indigenous peoples or rather
customary law communities are to be granted a special status and corresponding rights
and entitlements.6 The international conventions, especially those from the UN
Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues, emphasise that self-identification is the major
factor of determining which community is “indigenous” or not (Gausset, Kenrick and
Gibb 2011:137). In the Draft Law on the Recognition and the Protection of the
Indigenous Peoples (RUU PPHMHA) in Indonesia, self-identification is a key criterion
for the communities’ self-determination. However, this is only a first, though
significant, step in the process of full official recognition and acceptance. The
2 During the New Order, one derogatory term to denote indigenous peoples was komunitas adat
terpencil, literally remote adat communities. This expression was derogatory in meaning in a similar way
that the colonial terms “the native”, as well as “indigenous”, “primitive” or “tribal people”, had in
anthropology before the transnational indigeneity movement gave “indigenous peoples” a positive
connotation (see Kuper 2003).
3 Merlan calls “indigeneity” an “internationalist category”, which is associated with some universalist
moral frames, and presupposes that relationships between peoples and their “Others” can be
generalised (2009:306).
4 The Draft Law on the Recognition and the Protection of the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (RUU
PPHMHA); see the chapter by Arizona and Cahyadi in this volume.

5 These criteria are more or less identical with those established by AMAN (see also Tyson 2011).
6 This special status is anchored in adat and legitimizes claims based on descent, or jus sanguinis, which
other citizens of the nation state whose equal rights are based only on jus solis do not enjoy; in fact,
they are excluded (see Tyson 2011).
Introduction 11
acknowledging of this status needs to be carried out in further steps by political bodies
(see the chapter by Arizona and Cahyadi in this volume).
Indigenous Peoples and their Missions

Since the international community has put the “indigenous peoples” on their agenda, a
number of inter- and transnational organisations, such as the World Bank, and also
state-funded development organisations and a large number of NGOs have put up
special education and “capacity building” programmes and funds for indigenous
peoples in all parts of the world, Indonesia included (see the chapter by Sanmukri in
this volume). Among the special education programmes are also those which teach
people about Human Rights and the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (Rights! Training
Manual 2010; ILO 2009). Here, (“community training”) processes with multiple
translations (with continuous reinterpretations) in both directions between
international and national organisations and the local people take place; they influence
the way in which these rights are finally understood and adopted by local communities.
As Merry has pointed out, intermediaries or facilitators play a crucial role in the way
they translate up and down (2013:214; see also Rottenburg 2002). The individual
cultural systems of particular values, rules and practices of this multitude of these
customary communities (“diversity” in its literal sense as spelled out by the national
motto7) are only marginally taken into account by the agents of inter- and transnational
organisations when they transfer such universally conceived rights from the
international through the national and, finally, to the regional and local level. Nor do
they seem to bother how the relationship between a (historically and culturally shaped)
nation state and – in the case of Indonesia – its thousands of indigenous communities
can be configured in a fair way for all parties. Thus, the situation of legal pluralism,
with all its inherent contradictions and competing goals, that arises from this situation
is a challenge to all stakeholders (see Benda-Beckmann 2010), especially policy-makers.
Moreover, in practice, national law and indigenous regulations are not separate
domains with regard to the actors: There are no clear-cut boundaries between the state
administration and its staff, as well as local deputies and political office holders, on the
one side, and actors who argue and act on behalf of adat on the other (see the chapter
by Müller in this volume). This creates a broad grey area for ambitious actors to make
use of both domains and their powers and combine them to reach their own goals or
those of their parties, depending on the particular circumstances and goals (see the
chapters by Grumblies and Müller in this volume).
The engagement of inter- and transnational institutions, that often hire NGOs to
transmit and implement programmes and money from industrialized nations to
countries of the south, often have a specific goal in mind that encompasses the
endeavour to assist indigenous peoples to achieve equality and a full enjoyment of
citizens’ rights (see the chapter by Sanmukri). Environmental issues are fundamental in
indigenous peoples’ claims for the restitution of their ancestral land. Yet,
7 The motto of Indonesia is “Unity in diversity” (Bhinneka Tunggal Ika).

environmental issues – the topic of forest conservation – are also dominant in many
international programmes destined for indigenous peoples. These programmes (and
the organisations) often have a particular concept of the “indigenous” that is
reminiscent of the noble savage of earlier times (see Greene 2004). Indigenous peoples
are assumed to be more or less the timeless guardians of the forest who have been
living in balance and harmony with nature for centuries at least. They are imagined by
experts as holders of communal land rights and, therefore, ascribed as the ideal
performers of “community-based forest management” (Li 2010:388). They are
considered to be destined to be the promoters and preservers of the forests and
biodiversity. At the same time, they are seen as those actors who, through their way
and life and world-view, will be able to counterbalance the CO2 emissions. They
should perform the role of the saviours from global warming (see also Benda-
Beckmann 1997).
As Li (2010) has already mentioned and as the chapters by Steinebach and Grumblies
(in this volume) show, “the indigenous peoples” or masyarakat adat cover a wider range
of peoples with different livelihood systems. Most of them are no longer nomads
roaming through the forests and living only from what nature offers them as the term
in its original and romanticizing sense suggests. Most of them today lead a sedentary
life as small-scale farmers and practice cultivation; they also engage in cash crop
production, such as coffee, cocoa, rubber, or even palm oil. There is a gap between the
local practices of indigenous peoples and the assessment by and the expectations of
outsiders.
Li has convincingly shown that the earlier practices of dispossession by the
(colonial) government of indigenous peoples from their land and natural resources are
now followed by procedures, implemented by transnational organisations (including
the World Bank), to fix indigenous peoples in place by conferring on them the task
and responsibility of safeguarding the forests – for global benefits. Li relates the
seemingly opposed mechanisms of dispossession which the indigenous peoples
suffered to the procedures of the “communal fix” (by advocating communal land
rights and, consequently, the community-based forest management they should carry
out) they are now supposed to undergo. She explains this as the dynamics of
capitalism, which she understands as “an assemblage of disparate elements, practices,
and processes each with its own history of violence, law, hope, and struggle”
(2010:400). Both the mechanism of dispossession and possession are, as Rata
comments, in the “interest of capitalism’s market forces”. Indigeneity is used as an
ideology of management of people to land (2010:406).
“Indigenous Peoples” and Earlier Systems of Domination

Nevertheless, it would be wrong to assume that before capitalism entered countries
like Indonesia, relationships existed based on equality between complex societies and
the smaller rather dispersed communities in forested or mountainous areas. Neither
were (and are) societies which nowadays claim to be indigenous or masyarakat adat
Introduction 13
egalitarian, such as the Toraja (see the chapter by Klenke in this volume) or Bali (see
the chapter by Hauser-Schäublin in this volume). Kingdoms and sultanates with a
ruling elite and subjects of different types, many of whom were slaves, existed in many
parts of the archipelago. In brief, social order in Indonesia was seldom egalitarian,
either within society or between societies (Henley and Davidson 2007:4-5). The
relationship between the dominant, mostly stratified, agrarian or trading societies (such
as the early kingdoms and later, the sultanates) and communities living away from the
centre and practicing a different form of livelihood was multi-facetted. Apart from
different forms of exchange and patron-client relationships, many of these
communities were regarded as inferior and treated in a derogatory way. They were also
the subject of encroachments by the dominant lowland societies or states which also
partly resulted in colonization, in human trafficking (as slaves, such as the Papuans
sent to the Chinese court; Papuan people had been raided and brought as slaves to
Java already since the 10th century, see Penders 2002:116) and even extinction (see, for
example, Hauser-Schäublin and Ardika 2008).
There is, however, a substantial difference between the pre-colonial and the
colonial and post-colonial, mainly the New Order era, which I can only briefly outline
here: The idea (and practice) of a territorial state, the nation-state, was imported and
implemented with colonialism. As is well known, the early Southeast Asian states were
not territorial states but geographically shifting polities lacking strict borders, especially
the idea of definite geographic borders. They have been characterised as mandala,
galactic or segmentary states (for an overview, see Day 2002), and the rulers’ power
was indicated by the number of his people rather than the extent of the territory.
Accordingly, expansionist attacks on neighbouring regions were not carried out to gain
land but rather manpower or goods (such as commodities brought by foreign
merchants or sacred regalia). The dominant societies, therefore, were not aiming at
evicting the communities living in fringe areas from their land. Exchange and trading
relations constituted a kind of division of labour and both parties needed and relied on
the knowledge and goods, the other was able to provide. Thus, there was no reason to
expel those who provided the dominant society with goods it otherwise, without the
knowledge of the providers, would not have received. The people had to remain in
place if their partners wanted to benefit from them.
Here, a fundamental difference from the system that started in Indonesia with
colonization becomes apparent: The different mode of production, capitalism, and the
role land plays as a means of production in this system. The production did not aim at
providing, first and foremost, the colonizers with what they needed for their daily
living. Instead, it was the production of commodities (or the raw material needed for
their manufacturing) for an international or global market. For this purpose, land was
the major resource and labourers (not peasants) could be transferred from any other
part of the colony to the location of production to carry out the work required. The
local people were an obstacle rather than an important partner with unique knowledge.
The processes of dispossession and marginalisation and expulsion started.8
Li has impressively shown (2010) how these processes of dispossession were indeed
linked to capitalism and its need and use of land as a means of production to launch
plantations, systematic logging, selling concessions to companies for various purposes,
and establishing mines or settlements. The dispossessed became characterised against
the backdrop of this “modern” and modernising capitalistic ideology: the backward,
the animistic, those who practiced a kind of primitive communism (communally
owned land) and had not yet completed the evolutionary step to a civilised way of life,
open to development. They were the “indigenous”, or as they were called under the
New Order, “suku terasing” (isolated tribes), komunitas adat terpencil (remote adat
communities) and the like. It was, therefore, the land on which these people were
living that the colonisers wanted to get hold of for their own commercial goals. It was
primarily for these reasons that they had to be evicted, dispossessed and resettled.
As Li suggested (2010), today’s self-identification as indigenous peoples (and even
the concept as such) may be understood as a defensive response to the dispossession
that has been taking place in the many guises of capitalism, through ascribing the role
to them as forest preservers or through indebtedness (mortgages, especially of small-
scale farmers). The use of adat – and along with it the revival of adat (or perhaps also
the other way round) – is also a means of achieving a reconfiguration of power
relationships which has become a potent instrument in Indonesia (Tyson 2011, 2010).
Adat as a general term is not only restricted to “indigenous peoples”, but also refers to
traditions and inherited values in a general way (see Davidson and Henley 2007). In
masyarakat adat, the meaning of “indigenous” overlaps and merges with
“autochthonous”. Gausset et al. state that “indigenous” implies people who have
already been marginalised, while autochthonous may be “reserved for people who are
dominant in a given area but fear future marginalisation” (2011:139) or, one could add,
as in the case of Bali (see the chapter by Hauser-Schäublin in this volume), who had
formerly suffered marginalisation which, however, has come to an end.
The indigenous peoples are not the only ones who were deprived of their rights and
possessions, land and power during colonisation. They do not claim to be “tribes” or
specific ethnic groups, but the former traditional elite, the nobility, the kings and
sultans, has its particular adat as well (Klinken 2007). It comes, therefore, as no surprise
that these people also refer to their particular adat (the courtly culture with its refined
arts) and reclaim recognition, rights and especially land. They have formed associations
as well and enter into networks with royal families elsewhere. Since many of these
aristocratic families were able to keep their symbolic capital (leading roles in rituals,
entitlement to awarding noble titles, etc.) or also managed to make accommodations
8 Despite all the flaws anthropological and legal studies carried out under colonialism might have,
such as the Adatrechtsbundels of the van Vollenhoven school, these and other publications are
important documents for many of today’s masyarakat adat, since they provide evidence of ancestral
rights and properties, especially land.
Introduction 15
with the ruling party during the New Order regime, several of them gained recognition
in the field of politics (see the chapter by Thufail in this volume).
Conclusion
All these manifold issues which are linked-up in the notion and use of adat, which
means so many different things to each of the actors, reveal the heterogeneity of
stakeholders and goals. As several chapters of this volume show, “the indigenous” as
imagined by international conventions and transnational organisations rarely exists.
There is a wider range of different actors who identify themselves as masyarakat adat.
Grown out of particular historical circumstances of oppression – colonial as well as
post-colonial – all these actors hope to (re-)gain dignity, recognition, rights, and
property. They share the effort to achieve a repositioning vis-à-vis the state, which
implies, though indirectly, also a repositioning vis-à-vis their “mainstream” Indonesian
co-citizens. They all aim at accomplishing a social, political and economic
reconfiguration – an advantage, so to say, without spelling out or considering at whose
expense. The strategy and power of these movements draw largely on international
conventions, all of them inspired by particular humanistic idealistic concepts of society,
social equality and participation. The implementation of these idealistic concepts
through the funding of international agencies, as well as national, regional and local
actors, however, are more pragmatically oriented and often have their own goals in
mind rather than those of particular masyarakat adat.
Indigenous Peoples in International Law
Katja Göcke
Introduction1
The subject of indigenous peoples in international law is an area of continuous
development with many new and decisive developments having taken place over the
past 30-40 years. One of the most prominent of these developments is the recognition
of indigenous peoples as “peoples” and – as a result – the recognition of their inherent
right to self-determination. The nature, scope and content of this right, however,
remain highly disputed.
The aim of this paper is to provide an overview and analysis of the current and
historic legal status of indigenous peoples in international law. To this end, the paper
will be structured as follows: Firstly, the issue of a definition of the term “indigenous
peoples” in international law will be discussed. Subsequently, an overview of the
historical development of the rights and status of indigenous peoples and the current
legal situation will be given. Ultimately, an appraisal of the position of indigenous
peoples in international law will be offered.
1 This publication expands upon the author’s previous work (Göcke 2010).
18 Katja Göcke
Definition
There is no universally accepted definition of the term “indigenous peoples”. Since
several international rights and corresponding duties of states are directly linked to the
status of indigeneity, the definition of the term is highly contentious, and international
legal instruments concerning indigenous peoples generally do not define the term. The
most widely accepted definition seems to be the one by UN Special Rapporteur on
Discrimination against Indigenous Populations, Martínez Cobo, from 1983, who
defines indigenous peoples as follows:
Indigenous communities, peoples and nations are those which, having a
historical continuity with pre-invasion and pre-colonial societies that developed
on their territories, consider themselves distinct from other sectors of the
societies now prevailing in those territories, or parts of them. They form at
present non-dominant sectors of society and are determined to preserve,
develop and transmit to future generations their ancestral territories, and their
ethnic identity, as the basis of their continued existence as peoples, in
accordance with their own cultural patterns, social institutions and legal
systems.2
(Martínez Cobo 1986:para. 379)

Although Cobo mentions several objective criteria, he stresses that, ultimately, self-
identification is the key criteria (Cobo 1986:para. 369). The importance of self-
identification has also been stressed in several subsequent international legal
instruments regarding indigenous peoples and has been advocated by indigenous
peoples themselves, who fear that a definition of the term would be used by states to
exclude certain groups (Simpson 1997:22-23). Accordingly, the International Labour
Organisation (ILO) in Art. 1 (2) of its Convention 169 concerning Indigenous and
Tribal Peoples in Independent Countries (ILO Convention 169) mentions that “[s]elf-
identification as indigenous or tribal shall be regarded as fundamental criterion for
determining the groups to which the provisions of this Convention apply”.3 Similarly,
the World Bank recognises in its Operational Policy 4.10 that one universal definition
of the term “indigenous peoples” could not grasp the diversity of indigenous peoples
(World Bank 2005:para. 3).4 The statement made by Chairperson-Rapporteur of the
UN Working Group on Indigenous Populations, Erica-Irene A. Daes, points in the
same direction. She stated that “the concept of ‘indigenous’ is not capable of a precise,
2 The United Nations Economic and Social Council mandated the Sub-Commission on Prevention
of Discrimination and Protection of Minorities in 1971 to prepare a study on the discrimination of

indigenous groups and appropriate measures to remedy this discrimination (UN Economic and Social
Council Res. 1589 (L), May 21, 1971). The study was published in 1986 (Martínez Cobo 1986).
3 Convention 169 concerning Indigenous and Tribal Peoples in Independent Countries (adopted June
27, 1989, entered into force September 5, 1991) 1650 UNTS 383.
4 “Because of the varied and changing contexts in which Indigenous Peoples live and because there is
no universally accepted definition of ‘Indigenous Peoples’.”

Indigenous Peoples in International Law 19
inclusive definition which can be applied in the same manner to all regions of the
world” (Daes 1996:para. 34). The United Nations Declaration on the Rights of
Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP)5 of 2007 also refrains from defining “indigenous
peoples”, but instead places emphasis on the criterion of self-identification (see also
Cole 2009:201-205).
To counter absurd claims by groups for indigenous status, international
instruments generally list certain objective criteria which indigenous peoples typically
possess, in addition to the subjective criterion of self-identification (Cobo 1986:paras.
379-380; Daes 1996; World Bank 2005:para. 4; International Law Association 2005:2-3;
see also Kingsbury 1998:453-455). However, there is only one objective criterion
which has repeatedly been mentioned to be essential in order for a group to be
regarded as indigenous: the special and spiritual connection to ancestral lands
(International Law Association 2005:3;6 ACommHPR7 2005:898). This connection,
which is also reflected etymologically in the original Latin word indigena – a fusion of
the words indu (in, within) and the root of gignere (to beget) (Barnhart 2003:521) – is
what defines indigenous peoples and distinguishes them from minorities.
Whereas in Europe, the Americas, Australia, and New Zealand the question of
who is indigenous is largely resolved, the situation is different in Asia and Africa,
where several states claim that the entire population has to be regarded as indigenous
since they were all already there at the time of colonisation (World Bank 1999:49;
Kingsbury 1998:416-418; Sanders 1999:8-10). Colonisation, however, is not an
essential prerequisite for a people to be regarded as indigenous. Hence, there can also
be indigenous peoples in Africa and Asia, and several states in these regions which
have in the past repeatedly denied the existence of indigenous peoples within their
borders now begin to recognise their existence, such as, for example, Japan in respect
of the Ainu.
According to estimations there are about 300-500 million individuals of indigenous
origin living in approximately 3,000-5,000 different indigenous communities in more
than 70 states. Hence, indigenous peoples represent approximately 5% of the world
population (Cole 2009:194; Koivurova 2008:21; European Commission 1998;
European Parliament 1994:A).9
5 UNGA Res. 61/295 (September 13, 2007).

6 “Only two of the listed criteria are to be considered as essential for a community to be considered
as an indigenous people; these two criteria are self-identification – which should also be regarded as
an essential element of the right to self-determination of indigenous peoples – and its special
relationship with its ancestral lands.”
7 African Commission on Human and Peoples’ Rights.
8 “A key characteristic for most of them is that the survival of their particular way of life depends on
access and rights to their traditional land and the natural resources thereon.”
9 However, the numbers vary; for instance, Alfredsson (1995:946) estimates the number of
indigenous persons at 100-200 million, and Broms (1992:304) speaks of 250 million indigenous
individuals.
20 Katja Göcke
Historic Overview and Current Legal Status

For many indigenous peoples, the preservation of their identity and culture is at stake,
and indigenous peoples all over the world have to fight for their physical and cultural
survival. Indigenous communities generally belong to the poorest and most
marginalised groups in the world and generally have the least income, education,
health, and life expectancy and the highest rate of infant mortality, alcoholism and
crime within a society. Therefore, indigenous communities have been labelled “The
Fourth World”10 or “The Third World in the First” (Young 1995).11
History of the Indigenous Peoples’ Rights Movement

The cause of the indigenous peoples’ desolate situation is that for centuries, indigenous
peoples have been dispossessed, disenfranchised and marginalised. Indigenous peoples
were not only robbed of their ancestral lands but they were also regarded as backward
societies, which for their own good, had to be assimilated into the mainstream society,
hence cultural, linguistic, religious and ethnic particularities of indigenous groups were
suppressed. This process, which started during colonisation in the 16th century, lasted
well into the 20th century. Indigenous peoples were prohibited from speaking their
own language, holding their rituals or wearing their traditional clothing.12 Up until the
1970s, indigenous children were taken out of their communities against their parents’
will and put into institutions far away to prevent the transmission of traditions to the
next generation.13 Accordingly, the ILO Convention 107 concerning Indigenous and
Tribal Populations of 1957 (ILO Convention 107),14 the first international instrument
for the protection of indigenous peoples, still aims at protection and development of
indigenous peoples through assimilation and integration into mainstream society.15
10 The term “Fourth World” was coined by George Manuel and Michael Posluns (Manuel and
Posluns 1974) and has increasingly been used since then to describe the situation of indigenous
peoples; see also Iorns 1992:201-202.
11 See also with regard to the Inuit in Canada, Légaré 2008:350-361, and with regard to the Aboriginal
Australians, Hocking/Hocking 1999:210-213.

12 See e.g. with regard to Canada, An Act Further to Amend “The Indian Act, 1880” S.C. 1884
(47 Vict.), c. 27, sec. 3, which banned the potlatch, a ritual festival practiced by Indian tribes of
the Pacific Northwest Coast.
13 With regard to Australia, see Human Rights and Equal Opportunity Commission 1 997, and
with regard to Canada, see Milloy 2004; see also Buti 1999.
14 Convention 107 concerning the Protection and Integration of Indigenous and Other Tribal
and Semi-Tribal Populations in Independent Countries (adopted June 26, 1957, entered into
force June 2, 1959) 328 UNTS 247.
15 See, in particular, Arts. 2 and 3 ILO Convention 1957.
Art. 2
(1) Governments shall have the primary responsibility for developing co-ordinated and systematic
action for the protection of the populations concerned and their progressive integration into the life
of their respective countries.
(2) […]
(3) The primary objective of all such action shall be the fostering of individual dignity, and the
advancement of individual usefulness and initiative.
Art. 3
Indigenous peoples have resisted this integration for centuries and have tried to draw
attention to their desperate situation and to establish a fair cooperation between the
indigenous and non-indigenous population. However, their rights and interests were
ignored for a very long time – not only on the national but also on the international
level. Since the treatment of indigenous peoples was regarded as an internal affair
(domaine resérvé) of the respective state, and indigenous peoples were not regarded as
sovereign, the international community was of the opinion that, due to state
sovereignty, no interference was allowed.16
Nevertheless, this began to change in the 1960s. In the course of decolonisation,
the civil rights movement and the growing importance of human rights, a new
generation of indigenous men and women, educated according to Western standards,
began to use the mechanisms of the system forced upon them, and several national
indigenous organisations were formed, particularly in Australia, Canada and the US
(Anaya 2004a:56; Thornberry 2002:21).
A starting point of the international mobilisation of indigenous peoples was the
1977 UN Conference concerning the Discrimination of Indigenous Communities held
in Geneva,17 which took place under the auspices of the UN Economic and Social
Council and attracted more than 150 representatives of indigenous groups. This
conference not only helped to form a common indigenous identity, but also laid the
foundations for future close cooperation between indigenous peoples as regards the
stipulation and claiming of their rights (Anaya 2004a:57). Through the establishment of
contacts with indigenous communities and organisations in other countries, a
worldwide network was established which allowed indigenous peoples to present their
demands to a broad and international public, to lobby internationally for their rights,
and to put pressure on their respective home states. As a result, their demands were
increasingly taken up by the international community, and several international
organisations began to advocate indigenous interests.
In this context, ILO Convention 169 of 1989 needs to be mentioned as the first
international convention which abandoned the assimilation approach and, instead,
established the protection of indigenous cultures as its objective (see e.g. Art. 5 ILO
Convention 169; see also Anaya 2004a:58-59, with further references; Xanthaki
(1) So long as the social, economic and cultural conditions of the populations concerned prevent
them from enjoying the benefits of the general laws of the country to which they belong, special
measures shall be adopted for the protection of the institutions, persons, property and labour of
these populations.
(2) Care shall be taken to ensure that such special measures of protection
(a) are not used as a means of creating or prolonging a state of segregation; and
(b) will be continued only so long as there is need for special protection and only to the extent
that such protection is necessary.
See also Anaya 2004a:55-56.
16 For example, Chief Deskaheh, spokesman of the Iroquois Confederacy, failed in his attempt to
persuade the League of Nations regarding the matter of Iroquois independence and sovereignty in
1923 (Anaya 2004a:57, with further references; Garrow 2008:341-342; Niezen 2003:31-36; Sanders
1998:73-74).
17 International NGO Conference on Discrimination against Indigenous Populations – 1977 – in the
Americas: Proposals Made by the Indigenous Participants, printed in Cobo 1981:Annex 4.

22 Katja Göcke
2007:67-70). ILO Convention 169 was meant to replace ILO Convention 107.
Although ILO Convention 107 remains in force for the time being for those 17 states
which have ratified it, it has been closed for ratification since the adoption of ILO
Convention 169.18 Besides the outdated ILO Convention 107, ILO Convention 169
remains the only binding international instrument regarding indigenous peoples to the
present day.
However, only 22 states have ratified it so far; hence, it is directly binding only for
these 22 states.19 Yet, its relevance goes beyond the mere number of ratifications. It is
a strong statement of international law since it was adopted without a dissentient
vote,20 and many national and international organisations and courts refer to the
Convention when interpreting duties of states towards indigenous peoples, even if the
respective state has not ratified the Convention (Anaya 2004b:40). This indicates that
at least its central provisions nowadays constitute customary international law and are,
therefore, binding even for those states that have not ratified the Convention (Anaya
2004a:61; Anaya 2004b:40).
ILO Convention 169 lays down several important rights of indigenous peoples,
such as the right to culture (Arts. 4 and 23), preservation of language (Art. 28) and the
right to ancestral lands and resources (Arts. 13-19). It also refers to indigenous peoples
as “peoples” whereas before, indigenous peoples were referred to as “indigenous
populations”. States generally refrain from labelling a group of individuals as “people”
because – as a general principle of international law – all peoples have the right to self-
determination. This is firmly entrenched in the UN Charter21 and in the two
International Covenants on Human Rights,22 which together form the International
Bill of Human Rights. Hence, out of fear for their territorial integrity, states have
always been very reluctant to refer to indigenous peoples as “peoples”. Therefore
changing “populations” to “peoples” seems like a big step. However, Art. 1 (3) of the
ILO Conventions expressly states that “[t]he use of the term peoples in this
Convention shall not be construed as having any implications as regards the rights
which may attach to the term under international law”, which was meant to deny
indigenous peoples their right to self-determination (Iorns 1992:263-264). This and the
fact that indigenous peoples had not been invited to participate in the elaboration of
the Convention has been heavily criticised by indigenous representatives (Anaya
2004a:59, 64; Xanthaki 2007:68).
18 In the case where a state has ratified ILO Convention 107 as well as ILO Convention 169, ILO
Convention 107 is completely replaced by ILO Convention 169.
19 The list of member states is available on http://www.ilo.org/ilolex/cgi-lex/ratifce.pl?(C169)
<December 15, 2012>. Indonesia has not yet signed the Convention.
20 State representatives of 92 states have voted in favour of the adoption of the Convention with 20
abstentions (Anaya 2004a:64).

21 See Arts. 1 (2) and 55 UN Charter (adopted June 26, 1945, entered into force October 24, 1945) 1
UNTS 16.
22 See Art. 1 (1) International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (adopted December 16, 1966,
entered into force March 23, 1976) 999 UNTS 171; Art. 1 (1) International Covenant on Economic,
Social and Cultural Rights (adopted December 16, 1966, entered into force January 3, 1976) 993
UNTS 3.
Therefore, indigenous peoples pressed for the elaboration of another international

legal instrument – this time in collaboration with indigenous peoples – and they
insisted on the inclusion of the express recognition of their inherent right to self-
determination.
States’ Attitude towards Indigenous Peoples’ Sovereignty and Self-

Determination during the Age of Colonisation
In this context, it needs to be mentioned that the idea that indigenous peoples are not
“peoples” and, therefore, do not have a right to self-determination is a relatively recent
one. For centuries, indigenous peoples had been regarded as subjects of international
law and holders of sovereignty. In the early days of colonisation, there was a general
consensus that indigenous peoples had sovereignty over their territories since, from
the point of view of the colonial powers, indigenous peoples fulfilled all aspects
necessary for the recognition of sovereignty: some form of political organisation, a
certain territory and independence (McNeil 2000:11). Hence, according to state
practice, indigenous peoples’ territories could only be placed under one’s own
sovereignty through conquest or voluntary subjection – not, however, via mere
discovery and occupation (Lindley 1926:43-44). This is proven by the existence of
countless “treaties” – defined as international agreements between two or more
sovereigns – that were concluded between the colonial powers and indigenous peoples
in the 16th-20th centuries. The US alone concluded more that 800 treaties with Indian
tribes between 1776 and 1871 (Wiessner 1995:575, note 39). Contents of these treaties
were the cession of territorial sovereignty and the transfer of ownership of land,
extradition agreements, pledges of peace and amity, and agreements relating to the
crossing of Indian lands. The ratification of these treaties was carried out in the same
manner as the ratification of treaties with other states (Goldberg 2008:14). There were
also more than 80 such treaties concluded with Indian tribes within Canada (Reiter
1996:Chapter V). The recognition of indigenous peoples’ sovereignty as regards the
Maori of New Zealand is particularly evident. The British Colonial Secretary stated in a
letter to the Governor of New Zealand in 1839 that the British Crown
“acknowledge[s] New Zealand as a sovereign and independent state”, 23 and in
1840, the British Crown concluded a treaty with more than 540 Maori chiefs – the
Treaty of Waitangi – in which the Maori expressly ceded sovereignty over New
Zealand to the Crown.
23From the Marquis of Normanby to Captain Hobson (August 14, 1839) British Parliamentary
Papers 1840 [238] vol. XXXIII, 37, pp. 38-39.
24 Katja Göcke
The respective article in the English version reads:

The Chiefs […] cede to Her Majesty the Queen of England absolutely and
without reservation all the rights and powers of Sovereignty which [they]
exercise or possess, or may be supposed to exercise or to possess over their
respective Territories as the sole sovereigns thereof.24
(Art. 1 Treaty of Waitangi, 1840)

At the beginning of the 18thcentury, however, the attitude of the colonial powers
began to change. They then increasingly took the view that indigenous peoples were
too primitive to hold sovereignty. In addition, since the number of indigenous
inhabitants had steadily decreased due to diseases being introduced, whereas the
number of settlers had steadily grown, and since the territorial claims between the
colonial powers had largely been settled, indigenous peoples were not considered
serious military opponents or useful allies any more. Instead, they were increasingly
regarded as obstacles to the modernisation and prosperity of the country.
Consequently, especially with many indigenous peoples that were colonised later, no
treaties were concluded and no acts of conquest took place. Instead, the existence of
indigenous peoples was utterly ignored and their lands taken according to the so-called
terra nullius doctrine. This was the case, for example, in Australia, the Northwest coast
of North America, Alaska, the northern regions of Canada, and in Greenland.
Furthermore, existing treaties were also no longer regarded as binding, on the grounds
that indigenous peoples had never been subjects of international law and, therefore,
had not had the legal capacity to conclude treaties (Gilbert 2006:47-48, with further
references).25
The concept that lands inhabited by indigenous peoples were terrae nullius – i.e. no
man’s land – was approved by the Permanent Court of International Justice in 1933 in
its decision regarding Eastern Greenland.26 The case was brought before the Court by
Denmark and Norway, who had a dispute over the question which of these two states
held territorial sovereignty over Greenland. The Court decided that Denmark held
sovereignty because it had peacefully and continuously exercised public authority
24 The Treaty of Waitangi was drafted in English and Maori. However, the English and Maori
versions differ significantly. The Maori version of the Treaty translated the term “sovereignty” as
kawanatanga. The exact translation of this term is disputed (Tiemann 1999:26-27). It seems to be
predominantly translated as “governorship” or “government” (Kawharu 1989:319-321; Walker
1989:263). Yet, the vast majority of scholars agree that kawanatanga means less than full sovereignty
(Tiemann 1999:26-27). See also Waitangi Tribunal 1985:111: “In the Maori text the chiefs ceded to
the Queen ‘kawanatanga’. We think this is something less than the sovereignty (or absolute authority)
ceded in the English text”; Waitangi Tribunal 1987:para. 11.11.4 (a): “In the Maori text the chiefs
ceded to the Queen ‘kawanatanga’. This is less than the sovereignty ceded in the English text, and
means the authority to make laws for the good order and security of the country but subject to the
protection of Maori interests.”
25 See also Wi Parata v. The Bishop of Wellington (1877) 3 N.Z.Jur. (N.S.) 72, in which Chief Justice
Prendergast refers to the Treaty of Waitangi as “a simple nullity” (78).

26 Legal Status of Eastern Greenland (1933) P.C.I.J. (Ser. A/B) No. 53:22.
during the last years by undertaking explorations, mapping the region and formulating
fishing laws.27 That the Inuit had in fact lived in Greenland for thousands of years and
had their own traditional hunting and fishing laws was not taken into consideration by
the Court, which thus impliedly stated that indigenous peoples were not subjects of
international law and could not hold territorial sovereignty. So, whereas indigenous
peoples’ sovereignty was taken for granted in the early days of colonisation, it was not
until quite recently that their status as subjects of international law has been
disregarded.
Recognition of Indigenous Peoples’ Right to Self-Determination under the

Current International Legal Regime
This attitude began to change once again in the 1970s in the course of the indigenous
peoples’ international mobilisation. In 1975, the International Court of Justice
expressly rejected the decision of its predecessor in the Eastern Greenland Case when it
decided that the region of the Western Sahara, which at the time of colonisation was
inhabited by nomadic people, could not be regarded as terra nullius because, despite
their nomadic lifestyle, the tribes were socially and politically organised and thus held
sovereignty over their lands.28
The terra nullius doctrine was also rejected by more and more national courts. The
decision of the High Court of Australia in the Mabo Case in 1992, in which the Court
decided that the idea that Australia at the time of colonisation was no man’s land and
open to occupation, was “false in fact and unacceptable in [the Australian] society”29 is
generally regarded as the fall of the last fortress of the terra nullius doctrine (Gilbert
2006:29).
However, these decisions only recognised that indigenous peoples once held
sovereignty and thus legal personality. They did not, however, state that they still held
sovereignty as a people, and thus, had an inherent right to self-determination. Instead,
many states continued to deny the existence of indigenous peoples’ parallel sovereignty
within the state’s territory, and thus, of an inherent right to self-determination.
Despite the fierce opposition by many states, indigenous peoples celebrated their
biggest success so far in the protection and enforcement of their rights when the UN
General Assembly on September 13, 2007, after more than 20 years of preparatory
work, adopted the Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples with only four
dissenting votes.30 All of the objectors have in the meanwhile reversed their decision
and declared their support for the UNDRIP (UN News Centre 2010). Indigenous
peoples were able to decisively participate in the elaboration of this Declaration (Barelli
2009:970; Charters 2007:122) and, after years of negotiations, they ultimately managed
27 Ibid.:62-64.
28 Western Sahara Advisory Opinion (1975) I.C.J. Reports 1975 12:paras 80-82.
29 High Court of Australia, Mabo v. Queensland (No. 2) (1992) 175 C.L.R. 1:para. 39.
30 In the General Assembly, 143 states voted in favour and four against the UNDRIP and 11 states
abstained. Thirty-four states did not participate in the vote. The four states voting against were
Australia, Canada, New Zealand, and the USA.
26 Katja Göcke
to have the one provision included in the document which they regarded as its key
provision – Art. 3, which states:
Indigenous peoples have the right to self-determination. By virtue of that right

they freely determine their political status and freely pursue their economic,
social and cultural development.
(Art. 3 UNDRIP)
As a General Assembly resolution, the Declaration is not per se binding but merely
constitutes “soft law” (Arts. 10 and 11 UN Charter). The adoption of a General
Assembly resolution is neither evidence of existing legal rules, nor does it immediately
create new customary international law (Voyiakis 2011:209-223). However, the fact
that the Declaration is one of the most discussed texts in the history of the UN (Barelli
2009:969-970) and has been supported by a broad majority of states indicates that
many of the aspects laid down in the Declaration have now to be considered as
customary international law (Barelli 2009:966-967; Charters 2007:123).
The assumption that indigenous peoples have an inherent right to self-
determination under international law is supported by the fact that several UN
institutions, such as the Human Rights Committee31 and the Committee on Economic,
Social and Cultural Rights32 – the treaty monitoring bodies of the International
Covenants on Human Rights – as well as regional human rights courts, such as the
African Court of Human and Peoples’ Rights,33 have, in the meantime, also expressly
recognised indigenous peoples’ inherent right to self-determination as a peremptory
norm of customary international law.
Based on this inherent right to self-determination, indigenous peoples can claim
many other rights as inherent to their status as peoples, e.g. the rights to own and live
on their ancestral lands, to use their own language and to live according to their own
traditions. States are no longer regarded as rights-granting entities that transfer
31 See e.g. Concluding Observations on Canada (1999) UN Doc. CCPR/C/79/Add.105:para. 8;

Concluding Observations on Mexico (1999) UN Doc. CCPR/C/79/Add.109:para. 19; Concluding
Observations on Norway (1999) UN Doc. CCPR/C/79/Add.112:para. 17; Concluding Observations
on Australia (2000) UN Doc. CCPR/CO/69/AUS:para. 10; Concluding Observations on Denmark
(2000) UN Doc. CCPR/CO/70/DNK:para. 11; Concluding Observations on Sweden (2002) UN
Doc. CCPR/CO/74/SWE:para. 15; Concluding Observations on Canada (2006) UN Doc.
CCPR/C/CAN/CO/5:paras. 8-9; Concluding Observations on Chile (2009) UN Doc.
CCPR/C/CHL/CO/5/Add.1:para. 19; Concluding Observations on Sweden (2009) UN Doc.
CCPR/C/SWE/CO/6:para. 21.
32 See e.g. Concluding Observations on the Russian Federation (2003) UN Doc.
E/C.12/1/Add.94:para. 11; Concluding Observations on Argentina (2011) UN Doc.
E/C.12/ARG/CO/3:para. 10.
33 See The Social and Economic Rights Action Center and the Center for Economic and Social Rights v. Nigeria
(Ogoni Case) (2001) Comm. No. 155 /1996:para. 58; Centre for Minority Rights Development (Kenya) and
Minority Rights Group International on Behalf of Endorois Welfare Council v. Kenya (2010) Comm. No.
276/2003:paras. 252-298.
derivative rights to indigenous peoples out of goodwill, but are now viewed as being
obliged to recognise and protect the inherent rights of indigenous peoples.
States have tried to install a safeguard to protect their territorial integrity by insisting on
the inclusion of Art. 46, which states:
Nothing in this Declaration may be interpreted as implying for any State,

people, group or person any right to engage in any activity or to perform any
act contrary to the Charter of the United Nations or construed as authorizing or
encouraging any action which would dismember or impair, totally or in part, the
territorial integrity or political unity of sovereign and independent States.
(Art. 46 UNDRIP)
However, since the right to self-determination is an inherent right that belongs to
indigenous peoples in their capacity as peoples, states cannot restrict it. The UNDRIP
does not create the right, but merely recognises its existence. Hence, under the same
condition as other peoples may claim a right to secession, indigenous peoples also have
a right to external self-determination. Nevertheless, only on very rare occasions does
the right to self-determination encompass a right to secession, since secession runs
counter to the principle of territorial integrity – a fundamental principle of the
international legal regime (see Art. 2 No. 4 UN Charter). Therefore, although the right
to self-determination generally consists of an internal/defensive and an
external/offensive element, its entire range is not applicable in every situation (Cole
2009:347-349). Instead, in most cases, the right to self-determination will be limited to
a right to internal self-determination. A right to external self-determination is only
permissible in absolutely exceptional cases, in particular when there are widespread and
systematic human rights violations or a total exclusion of a certain group from the
decision-making process (Cole 2009:125, with further references; Tomuschat 1993:9).34
The treatment of indigenous peoples from the 16th to the mid-20th centuries would
– without any doubt – have exceeded this threshold. Indigenous peoples were
disenfranchised; they were without justification killed by soldiers in great numbers or
not protected against violent attacks by third parties; they were denied essential basic
services, such as sufficient food, health services and education; indigenous children
were taken away from their communities without their parents’ consent; indigenous
persons were barred from exercising their culture; and they were completely excluded
from the political decision-making process. Since the states’ actions back then would
have constituted genocide according to Art. II of the Genocide Convention,35 such
actions would – if they took place today – give indigenous peoples a right to secede.
34 See also Supreme Court of Canada, Case concerning Certain Questions relating to Secession of Quebec from
Canada (1998) 2 S.C.R. 217:paras. 111-139.
35 Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide (adopted December 9,
1948, entered into force January 12, 1951) 78 UNTS 277.

28 Katja Göcke
However, in recent years, states have increasingly tried to improve the situation of
indigenous peoples and to reconcile past injustices. Assimilation of indigenous peoples
into the majority society no longer constitutes a goal of government actions. Instead,
states recognise that indigenous cultures should be preserved for their own sake. Land
restitutions also constitute decisive concessions from states towards indigenous
peoples. Furthermore, indigenous peoples have access to national and international
courts and tribunals to enforce their rights against the respective governments. It is
true that many of the concessions continue to be insufficient, and indigenous peoples
are still discriminated against. Nevertheless, positive trends are clearly discernible.
Since, in practice, secession is only accepted as ultima ratio, i.e. after all available
national and international mechanisms have been exhausted, and usually only following
long and violent conflicts (Titanji 2009:63; Skaale 2004:161), it must be assumed that
indigenous peoples do not generally have a right to external self-determination.
However, there are hardly any indigenous peoples that want external self-
determination in the form of secession. What most indigenous peoples want is internal
self-determination, i.e. the right to determine their own political status and their
economic, social and cultural development within existing state borders.36
In recent years, such a right to inherent self-determination has been increasingly
recognised and implemented by several states. Canada, for example, adopted an
Inherent Right of Self-Government Policy in 1995 and created the Inuit-governed
Nunavut Territory, which came into being in 1999 with the splitting of the Northwest
Territories into two separate units. In the US, under the heading of “tribal
sovereignty”, Indian tribes may – to a certain degree – formulate their own civil and
criminal laws, establish their own courts and government institutions, and enjoy special
rights on reservations (e.g. tax benefits and exemptions or the right to run casinos). In
Greenland, which forms an integral part of the Danish Realm but has enjoyed home
rule since 1979,37 a successful referendum was held in November 2008, which led to
the enactment of the Act on Greenland Self-Government in 200938 establishing a new
form of self-government. Under the new legal regime, the Inuit may expand their
competences to almost all areas that are usually under state jurisdiction.39 Furthermore,
the Act on Greenland Self-Government expressly recognises the people of Greenland
as a people40 and even stipulates their right to secede from Denmark and form an
independent state.41
36 Secession was, however, the goal of the indigenous peoples of East Timor and is strived for by the
indigenous people of Western Sahara.
37 See Greenland Home Rule Act, Act No. 577 (enacted November 29, 1978, entered into force May
1, 1979).
38 Act on Greenland Self-Government, Act No. 473 (enacted June 12, 2009, entered into force June
21, 2009).
39 See Arts. 2-4 Act on Greenland Self-Government. Only the areas constitution, Supreme Court,
defence and security policy, nationality, monetary policy and exchange rates, as well as foreign affairs,
remain within the competence of the Danish government, with Greenland having a say in certain
areas of foreign affairs (Greenland-Danish Self-Government Commission 2008:5).
40 Preamble to the Act on Greenland Self-Government.
41 Art. 21 Act on Greenland Self-Government.
Appraisal
The new developments in international law and state practice show that states are
becoming increasingly aware of their historic responsibilities towards indigenous
peoples. The current state practice, along with international court decisions and
statements by the UN and other international organisations, indicate that the right of
indigenous peoples to self-determination and – attached to this right, their rights to
land, resources and the maintenance of their culture – are, nowadays, widely
recognised on the national and international level, and can be classified as customary
international law. This recognition of indigenous peoples’ right to self-determination,
and thus, the recognition of their – partial – sovereignty and international legal
subjectivity constitutes, however, not a new development in international law, but a
return to a previous state of affairs. The recognition of indigenous peoples’ right to
self-determination has to be regarded as the reinstatement of a status of which
indigenous peoples have unlawfully been deprived of a long time ago and denied for
centuries.42 Therefore, the indigenous peoples’ right to self-determination cannot be
classified as derivative right given to them by states out of goodwill, but it constitutes
an inherent right held by them in their capacity as peoples. Under the international law
doctrine of reversion, the indigenous peoples’ right to self-determination has never
been extinguished, but has only lain dormant awaiting restoration (Cassidy 1998:69).
Hence, the right to self-determination, which cannot be restricted or interfered with by
states, enables indigenous peoples, who have always regarded themselves as sovereign
nations and holders of a right to self-determination, to recapture their previous
position within the international community (Dahm et al. 2002:294).
42Regarding the illegality of the disenfranchisement of indigenous peoples under international

law at that time, see e.g. Gilbert 2006:15-20; Cassidy 1998:88-99; Oppenheim 1992:para. 253.
From Protection to Participation?
Shifting Perceptions towards Indigenous Peoples
under International Law
Maria Victoria Cabrera Ormaza
Introduction
“Indigenous Peoples”, as a legal category (Kingsbury 2001:189, 244), has both human
rights and functional considerations. The two international conventions on indigenous
peoples’ rights (ILO Convention No. 107 and ILO Convention No. 169) depict
indigenous peoples as vulnerable societal groups to whom special protection must be
afforded. In legal literature, in addition, the definition of indigenous peoples heightens
indigenous peoples’ past and on-going situation of oppression, disenfranchisement and
exploitation (cf., for example, Daes 1996:22 or Kingsbury 1998:414, 455). Based on
this conception, the focus of the initial work of international organisations with regard
to indigenous issues was placed on the protection of indigenous peoples against
cultural assimilation and dislocation (Oguamanam 2004:348, 362). However, some
international organisations are progressively leaving this human rights-based approach
aside and are favouring a “functional approach” based on the contribution of
indigenous peoples to the realisation of a certain set of common aims (Cabrera
2012:263, 281-289). Under this “functional approach”, indigenous peoples are
regarded as equal partners in international governance with special participatory rights.
32 Maria Victoria Cabrera Ormaza
Some indigenous representatives have already subscribed to this new legal discourse in
order to advance their claims for their own legal status and self-determination both at
the national and international level. Against this backdrop, this paper analyses the
implications of both the human rights-based and the “functional approach” on the
understanding of indigenous peoples by international law. In doing so, this paper
argues that the use of a “functional approach” implies the recognition of indigenous
peoples as emerging subjects of international law with special participatory rights.
Furthermore, this approach calls for a re-examination of the − for a long time
paternalistic – relationship between indigenous peoples and states.1
This paper has been divided into three parts. The first part explains the traditional
human rights-based approach to indigenous peoples under international law and some
of its limitations. The second part elaborates on the “functional approach” to
indigenous peoples. It analyses the different ways in which indigenous peoples are
expected to contribute to the achievement of certain aims. The third part examines the
manner in which the “functional approach” is reflected in the work of international
organisations concerning indigenous issues and the legal implications involved.
Human Rights-Based Approach

From a human rights point of view, indigenous peoples are represented as a
historically disenfranchised and vulnerable group, which is in need of special
protection (Cabrera 2012:266). This portrayal was incorporated into the first
international convention concerning indigenous peoples, namely ILO Convention No.
107. This document situates indigenous peoples in a “less advanced stage” of
development and promotes their integration into non-indigenous society (Preamble,
Para. 2; Art. 1, Para. 1 (a), Art. 2, Para. 1).2 This perspective was criticised by some
indigenous peoples’ advocates to be “assimilationist” as it threatens the preservation of
the indigenous identity (Barsh 1987:756; Anaya 2004a:55). This emphasis on
indigenous peoples’ integration and development was abandoned in the late-1980s.
1 In May 2012, the UN Deputy Secretary General opened the 11th session of the Permanent Forum
on Indigenous Issues inspiring indigenous delegates converged at the meeting to move towards the
day when indigenous peoples are heard, listened to and empowered (UN News Service 2012). Similar
wording was used some years ago by the Executive Director of the International Fund on
Agricultural Development, who pointed out that that the empowerment of indigenous peoples
mattered deeply to the organisation she represented (IFAD 2008).
2 This understanding has its roots in the Berlin Conference of 1885 (also called the Kongokonferenz).
This conference established the duty of some European countries exercising, at that time, colonial
domination or other forms of political control in Africa to “civilise” and protect the Aborigines.
Article 6 of the General Act of the Berlin Conference reads, “All the Powers exercising sovereign
rights or influence in the aforesaid territories bind themselves to watch over the preservation of the
native tribes, and to care for the improvement of the conditions of their moral and material well-
being, and to help in suppressing slavery, and especially the slave trade. They shall, without
distinction of creed or nation, protect and favour all religious, scientific or charitable institutions and
undertakings created and organized for the above ends, or which aim at instructing the natives and
bringing home to them the blessings of civilization.”
From Protection to Participation? 33
Instead, respect for indigenous peoples’ own way of living became the central focus of
the second international convention on indigenous peoples’ rights (ILO Convention
No. 169, Preamble, Para. 4 and Art. 5 (b)) and other non-binding human rights
instruments addressing indigenous peoples’ rights (e.g. Human Rights Committee,
General Comment No. 23 1994; Committee on the Elimination of Racial
Discrimination, General Recommendation No. 23 1997). The need to repair the
vulnerable situation of indigenous peoples still remains in the current human rights
discourse, but the means of achieving this aim shall be respectful of indigenous
peoples’ cultural integrity. This implies an understanding of the human right to culture
as a right with a collective dimension.
This human rights-based understanding is also reflected in the classical definitions
of indigenous peoples in international law, as the one elaborated by UN Special
Rapporteur José Martínez Cobo in 1982. The definition reads:
Indigenous communities, peoples and nations are those which, having a

historical continuity with pre-invasion societies that developed on territories,
consider themselves distinct from other sectors of the societies now prevailing
on those territories, or parts of them. They form at the present non-dominant
sectors of the society and are determined to preserve, develop and transmit to
future generations their ancestral territories, and their ethnic identity, as the
basis of their continued existence as peoples, in accordance with their own
cultural patterns, social institutions and legal systems.
(Martínez Cobo 1983:Paras. 379, 380)
Some of the criteria laid down in this definition have human rights implications. The
criterion of historical precedence, for example, advocates the acknowledgment of
indigenous peoples as first nations entitled with self-determination (Engle 2010:96).
The non-dominant situation of indigenous peoples speaks for an obligation of the
international community to protect indigenous peoples against racial or legal
discrimination (Committee on the Elimination of Racial Discrimination, General
Recommendation No. 23, Para. 4 (b)). The criterion of cultural distinctiveness is
associated with the obligation to respect indigenous peoples’ traditional lifestyles
(Human Rights Committee, General Comment No. 23, Para. 7).
The human rights-based approach to indigenous peoples has some limitations.
One of these limitations lies in the use of historical arguments to justify the recognition
of indigenous peoples’ right to self-determination.3 Originally, the term “indigenous”
was shaped within the context of colonialism in America and Australasia. It was used
to define those who inhabited the country before colonialism (de Vitoria 1917:116).
Today, there is an increasing number of ethnic groups from Asia, Africa and even
from Europe who do not fit within this classical understanding of “indigenous”, but
3 This has been the position of North American indigenous groups to claim both internal and
external forms of self-determination (Engle 2010:77).
seem to face similar cultural or racial discrimination within their countries.4

Accordingly, the scope of application of this seemingly human rights-based definition
of indigenous peoples is temporally and geographically limited.
A second limitation of the human rights-based approach is its foundation on an
absolute understanding of indigenous peoples as a non-dominant sector of the society.
There are, however, several situations in which indigenous peoples, in fact, represent
the majority of the population and have greater access to power than other non-
indigenous groups (see the chapter by Hauser-Schäublin).5 Within the indigenous
sector itself, politically powerful indigenous organisations appear to be privileged over
minority indigenous associations (see the chapter by Müller).6 For this reason, it is
essential to critique the label “indigenous” and, thus, its connotation of “repression”.
Despite its aforementioned limitations, the human rights-based approach to
indigenous peoples is reflected in some provisions of the UN Declaration on the
Rights of Indigenous Peoples. The preamble of the Declaration recalls the “historical
injustices”, “colonization” and the on-going situation of dispossession suffered by
indigenous peoples (Paras. 5, 6 and 9).
Functional Approach
While indigenous peoples are subjects of special protection in the human rights
discourse, in other fields of international law (international environmental law,
international law of culture, law of development cooperation, etc.) indigenous peoples
play a more active role. This approach, which is understood as a “functional
approach”, centres upon the potential contribution of indigenous peoples to the
attainment of certain international goals. These include, among others, environmental
protection, food security, human health, economic development cooperation, and
promotion of cultural diversity. The following paragraphs provide an examination of
these different contributions of indigenous peoples through a “functional” perspective.
Indigenous Peoples and Environmental Protection

The first contribution of indigenous peoples relates to environmental protection.
Indigenous peoples have often been regarded as good role models of environmentally
sustainable living, particularly due to their close attachment to the land (Richardson
2009:338, 340; Tenant 1994:20). The Rio Declaration on Environment and
4 Critical perspectives on the use of historical arguments as the justification for indigenous peoples’
rights can be found in Aukerman (2000:1011); see also Cabrera (2012:273-278). Self-identified
African indigenous communities have argued that they have felt “invisible” to the United Nations
(Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues 2006).
5 This is, for example, the case of some indigenous peoples in Fiji (Minority Rights Groups
International 2012:169).
6 A political and sociological analysis on the division within the indigenous sector in Bolivia, as well as
on the differential treatment given by the government of Evo Morales (who is well-known as the first
indigenous president in Bolivia) to different indigenous organisations can be found in Schilling-
Vacaflor (2010).
Development (principle 22) proclaims indigenous peoples as vital actors in the

achievement of sustainable development (see chapters by Sanmukri and Steinebach).
Similarly, the Convention on Biological Diversity underscores the important role of
indigenous peoples in the use and conservation of biological and genetic resources
(Art. 8(j)). This understanding is also reflected in the “Report of the World
Commission on Environment and Development: Our Common Future” (World
Commission on Environment and Development 1987). It states that indigenous and
tribal peoples are,
repositories of vast accumulation of traditional knowledge and experience that

links humanity with its ancient origin. Their disappearance is a loss for their
larger society, which could learn a great deal from their traditional skills in
sustainably managing very complex ecological systems.
(World Commission on Environment and Development 1987:114, 115)
Some scholars criticise the way indigenous peoples have been included in the
ecological discourse. Arturo Escobar, for example, notes:
ethnic and peasant communities living in tropical rain-forest areas of the world
are finally being recognized as owners of their territories (…), but only to the
extent they accept to treat it – and themselves – as reservoirs of capital.
(Escobar 2012:203)
In fact, in many instances, it is indigenous peoples themselves who use this

environmental discourse as a means to bolster their classical claims for self-
determination, participation and autonomy (Morgan 2004:481-491). The UN
Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues7 now supports the engagement of indigenous
peoples in the achievement of environmental objectives of the United Nations (UN
Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues 2008, Para. 4). Furthermore, it has called
upon the United Nations (UN) to create mechanisms for indigenous peoples’
participation in relevant negotiations concerning climate change (UN Permanent
Forum on Indigenous Issues 2008, Para.30).
7 The UN Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues was created in 2000 by the UN Economic and
Social Council as one of its advisory bodies on indigenous issues. It is composed of indigenous
representatives of different regions of the world. For more information on the role and competences
of the UN Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues, see ECOSOC Res. 2000/22.
Indigenous Peoples and Traditional Knowledge

The second contribution of indigenous peoples lies in the use of their traditional
knowledge. From a legal perspective, traditional knowledge encompasses all individual
or collective innovations and practices for the conservation of biodiversity, traditional
medicine and expressions of folklore, among others, developed by indigenous peoples
and carrying a socio-economic value.8 It has been internationally recognised that the
traditional knowledge of indigenous peoples is of enormous significance in the
conservation, use and evolution of biodiversity, as well as in the management of
climate change (Convention on Biological Diversity, Preamble, Para. 12; The Nagoya
Protocol, Preamble, Para. 20; Andean Community of Nations, Decision 391, Preamble,
Para. 5; Ottawa Declaration, Preamble, Para. 6) (see Groth 2007). The Arctic Council,9
for instance, has underscored the importance of the use of Arctic indigenous peoples’
traditional knowledge in the planning and implementation of climate change
adaptation measures (Nuuk Declaration 2011:6).
The use of traditional knowledge is also considered as fundamental in meeting the
demands of food security and human health. The International Treaty on Plant
Genetic Resources for Food and Agriculture underlines the major role of indigenous
farmer communities in assuring food and agriculture production through their use of
traditional practices (Art. 9, Para. 1). Similarly, the World Health Organisation stresses
the importance of facilitating access to traditional medicines of indigenous and local
communities on behalf of the global population (2002). This explains the scientific
community’s push towards the creation of an international legal regime for access to
genetic resources and traditional knowledge involving indigenous communities (Chege
Kamau et al. 2010:246, 254).
In light of this, indigenous peoples’ traditional knowledge has become a cross-
cutting issue. This has motivated the international community, in general, and
international organisations, in particular, to invest time and resources towards the
establishment of partnerships with indigenous communities, both at the local and
international level (see Sanmukri in this volume).10 In fact, as will later be explained,
traditional knowledge has been, in many cases, the springboard used by indigenous
peoples to gain access to international forums (UN Permanent Forum on Indigenous
Issues 2008, Para. 30).
Indigenous Peoples and Cultural Diversity

Another functionality of indigenous peoples is the promotion of cultural diversity. The
international community affirmed in the Convention on the Protection and Promotion
8 Further elaboration on the concept of traditional knowledge can be found in WIPO (2002).
9 The Arctic Council is an intergovernmental forum composed of eight countries located in the
northern hemisphere. It has the aim of protecting the Arctic environment (Ottawa Declaration,
Preamble, Paras. 1 and 4).
10 Evidence of this is the framing of the so-called “UN-REDD” (UN Collaborative Initiative on
Reducing Emissions from Deforestation and Forest Degradation), which attempts to create
collaborative partnerships between states and indigenous communities to reduce CO 2 emissions.
More information on this programme can be found in: UN REDD Programme Strategy (2011-2015).
of the Diversity of Cultural Expressions that “the protection and promotion of the
diversity of cultural expressions presuppose the recognition of equal dignity of and
respect of all cultures, including the culture of persons belonging to minorities and
indigenous peoples” (Art. 2, Para. 3). This has also been reflected in the UN
Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (Preamble, Para. 3), the Vienna
Declaration and Programme of Action (Preamble, Para. 13; see also General Assembly
Resolution 1993, Para. 6), the UNESCO Declaration on Cultural Diversity (Art. 4),
among many others.
Indigenous peoples have been very often portrayed as groups existing outside
modernity (Allen 2006:315, 318). They have been depicted either as “pre-modern
societies” in need of civilisation (Rajapogal 2003:29) (as was in the case in ILO
Convention No. 107) or as the “victims of progress” (Tenant 1994:1, 17) (as occurred
in ILO Convention No. 169). Whether from one perspective or the other, recognition
of “indigenous peoples” as subjects of special rights appears to depend on the
maintenance of a particular distinct culture or orientation towards the world and nature
(Borrows 2009:408). Such an understanding would play against those indigenous
individuals or communities which have progressively started to integrate into
mainstream society. On the other hand, representation of indigenous peoples as
“backward societies” could also lead one to the problematic conclusion that certain
indigenous groups or individuals might still be regarded as “incapable” of representing
themselves before states and the international community, but could do so only
through NGOs.11 At this point, one should take into consideration that even long-
standing indigenous groups are undergoing a voluntary or probably inevitable process
of integration with the so-called “modern world”.12 This raises the question, what will
the future of this culturally-based construction of “indigenous peoples” be?
Indigenous Peoples and Economic Development Cooperation

Finally, the last contribution of indigenous peoples refers to the fundamental role they
play in ensuring successful economic development cooperation. A number of
international financial institutions, including regional development banks, have
designed operational policies on indigenous peoples to assure their participation in the
preparation and implementation of development programmes and projects. This is, for
example, the case with the World Bank (2005), the Inter-American Development Bank
(2006), the Asian Development Bank (1998), and the European Bank for
Reconstruction and Development (2008). Although one could, at first sight, argue that
these policies are to a large extent based on a human rights-based approach, there is,
nevertheless, an implication of a new function of indigenous peoples, that is, their
11 One of Survival International’s general aims is to “support legal work to ensure that tribes are
expertly represented” (http://www.survivalinternational.org/info).

12 An example of the integration of certain indigenous groups with the “modern world” is the case of
the Native American groups in Nevada (Ahmad 2006).

collaboration in the successful implementation of economic development projects

within their territories.13
In the case of the World Bank, indigenous peoples seem to be regarded as
potential backers of World Bank-financed projects (Cabrera 2012:289). The World
Bank’s latest operational policy on indigenous peoples attempts to
make the development process more inclusive of indigenous peoples by

incorporating their perspectives in the design of development programmes and
poverty reduction strategies, and providing them with opportunities to benefit
more fully from development programs.
(World Bank 2005:Para. 22(b))
Furthermore, one of the objectives of this policy is to enhance the capacity of the said
communities in implementing, monitoring and evaluating development programmes
(World Bank 2005, Para. 22(f)). This may have a historical explanation behind it.
During the 1980s, the World Bank was harshly criticised for the negative consequences
of its development projects in territories occupied by indigenous peoples (Kingsbury
1999:323, 324). It, thus, became clear that these projects would only be successful if
supported by such affected populations (Cabrera 2012:288).14
Functional Approach Entwined with Participation

The functional approach to indigenous peoples has been captured by the preamble of
the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (Preamble, Paras. 3 and 11).
Based on this approach, the Declaration (Preamble, Para. 15) and other UN
documents have made use of words such as “cooperation” or “partnership” to
describe how the relationship between states and indigenous peoples should be. Even
before the adoption of the Declaration, the UN and other intergovernmental bodies
started to create special mechanisms to enhance the participation of indigenous
peoples in international negotiations concerning the environment, culture and
development. The UN Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues is a good example in
this regard.15 Furthermore, voluntary funding mechanisms have been established to
13 For further analysis on the functional approach to indigenous peoples in the context of
international development cooperation, see Cabrera (2012:281-289).
14 The apparently human rights-based approach of the World Bank policy on indigenous peoples is
obscured by the long-standing refusal of the Bank to recognise the right of indigenous peoples to
free, prior and informed consent in relation to the implementation of economic development
projects (Mackay 2010:316).
15 The Permanent Forum aims to enhance cooperation among states, the UN and indigenous
organisations in issues of mutual interest (ECOSOC Res. 2000/22).

facilitate participation of indigenous and local communities in international debates

concerning indigenous issues.16
Indigenous peoples have been granted special participatory rights particularly in
international environmental forums. The Agenda 2117 requires states to include
indigenous peoples in the decision-making, planning and implementation of
sustainable development strategies (Section III, Para. 26). Based on this, indigenous
peoples are, today, one of the nine major groups participating in negotiations within
the UN Sustainable Development Division (UN Sustainable Development Platform
Knowledge). In a similar manner, the Arctic Council has conferred the status of
permanent participants upon indigenous arctic organisations (Declaration on the
Establishment of the Arctic Council, Para. 2).
Indigenous peoples are also taking part in international negotiations concerning
traditional knowledge. Indigenous delegates participate in the meetings of the
“Intergovernmental Committee on Intellectual Property and Genetic Resources,
Traditional Knowledge and Folklore” in the World Intellectual Property Organisation
(Secretariat of WIPO 2011). In addition, the Conference of the Parties to the
Convention on Biological Diversity has involved indigenous organisations in
negotiations related to traditional knowledge (COP Decision VII/16, section G, Para.
10).
The remainder of this section identifies some complexities and challenges ahead in
the recognition of indigenous peoples’ legal status and participation in the international
realm.
Emergence of new “Indigenous Peoples”

Since the idea of partnership between international organisations and indigenous
peoples sounds compelling, more and more indigenous organisations are coming into
existence in order to catch the attention of international organisations. For many
years, the international indigenous peoples’ movement comprised basically
organisations from North-America, Latin-America and Australasia which resorted to
the “first-people argument” to assert their claims for self-determination (Engle
2010:46-66). However, as early as when the United Nations decided to include
indigenous organisations in the drafting process of the Declaration on the Rights of
Indigenous Peoples (ECOSOC Res. 1982/34), emerging Asian and African indigenous
groups began to appear on the international scene. To justify their “indigeneity”, these
organisations have resorted to both human rights and functional arguments (Erueti
2011:93, 115). This is, for example, the case of the Indonesian indigenous alliance
Aliansi Masyarakat Adat Nusantara (AMAN), which highlights the “capacity of
Indigenous Peoples to maintain and expand their traditional wisdom in protecting the
earth, water, and all natural wealth contained within nature” (see the chapters by
Arizona/Cahyadi, Müller, Steinebach, Grumblies, Klenke, and Hauser-Schäublin in
16 One of these mechanisms is the UN Voluntary Fund for Indigenous Peoples (GA Res. 40/131,
December 13, 1985).
17 Agenda 21 is a voluntarily implemented action plan with regard to sustainable development which
resulted from the UN Conference on Environment and Development of 1992.

this volume).18 Since there is no universal definition of indigenous peoples under

international law, one could argue that none of these groups should be denied the right
to label themselves as “indigenous”. Thus, today, new indigenous organisations have
emerged, such as the Asia Indigenous Peoples’ Pact, comprising indigenous groups
from India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Thailand, and Indonesia, among others (AIPP 2012).
Yet, at the national level, some of these self-identified indigenous communities from
Asia and Africa are regarded by their national governments merely as minorities or
tribal populations (Cabrera 2012:276).
Some other culturally distinct groups such as Afro-descendant communities – not
considered as “indigenous” in the classical sense − are searching for recognition of
their own collective rights (Cabrera 2012:280). In doing so, they have already initiated a
campaign for the recognition of their own identity and own collective rights as
independent from the indigenous identity (Marchesi 2011). Others have rather
preferred to construct their own indigenous identity (Cabrera 2012:280). This second
option has prevailed in some Latin-American countries where indigenous peoples have
achieved political recognition and have been assured access to governmental structures
(Cabrera 2012:278-281).
Problems concerning Participation

It is important to reflect more on the ways and means through which indigenous
organisations are meant to exercise participation in international forums. Some
indigenous organisations contend that their participation in international negotiations
is ineffective and limited (Joint Statement of the Grand Council of the Crees (Eeyou
Istchee) et al. 2011, Para. 7; Grand Council of the Crees (Eeyou Istchee) 2011, Para.
74). Moreover, they claim that participation of indigenous peoples in global
governmental structures should be full and effective based on their recognition as self-
determined groups under international law in accordance with the UN Declaration on
the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (Joint Statement of the Grand Council of the Crees
(Eeyou Istchee) et al. 2011, Para. 9).
In fact, in many cases, indigenous groups which are afforded the opportunity to
participate in international law and decision-making processes only hold “observer
status” (Conference of the Parties to the CBD, Decision IV/9, Para. 2; Secretariat of
WIPO 2011:2). Moreover, indigenous organisations are often assimilated into non-
governmental organisations (NGOs) (Human Rights Council 2012, Para. 10-12).
However, this paper submits that more participation necessarily depends on the
answer to the following long-standing controversial question: Who has the right to
represent the interests of indigenous peoples at the international level? Due to the
18 See statement of the Aliansi Masyarakat Adat Nusantara (AMAN) on the official website of the
Asia Indigenous Peoples’ Pact (AIPP),
http://ccmin.aippnet.org/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=5&Itemid=8.
However, the creation of new targeted categories for the identification of certain vulnerable groups in
the international realm has been regarded by some as unsustainable (Kymlicka 2007:8).
complexity of this issue, possible answers to this question have to be left for further
research.
Conclusions
International Law has looked at indigenous peoples through two different lenses: a
“human rights-based approach” and a “functional approach”. The first approach
emphasises “protection”, whereas the other centres upon “participation”. A human
rights-based approach falls short of capturing the current dynamics of some
indigenous groups. On the contrary, from a purely “functional perspective”, it would
not make any difference whether a group is indigenous in its classical sense or not.
What matters in this case is how a particular community can contribute to the
achievement of environmental protection, sustainable land-use and cultural diversity,
among others.
It has been demonstrated throughout this paper that the functional approach is
intrinsically entwined with the recognition of indigenous peoples’ participatory rights
in international law and policy-making. This has been specially boosted by international
organisations. In this context, participation of indigenous peoples in international
negotiations emerges as a practical necessity, rather than as a legal duty.
The number of policies and mechanisms enhancing participation of indigenous
peoples at the international level has increased significantly within the last two decades.
This seems to be parallel to the emergence of new indigenous peoples in the
international arena seeking international legal recognition. Nevertheless, the
participation recognised to indigenous peoples in international forums seems to be
limited.
This paper argued that the use of a functional approach has benefited indigenous
peoples in the sense that they have started to be regarded as actors of international
governance, rather than mere recipients of norms and policies affecting them. At the
same time, the paper recognised the danger of absolutism in the use of a functional
approach. There is a possibility, within this approach, of ignoring the indigenous
groups which do not subscribe to the roles that international law has defined for them.
The Revival of Indigenous Peoples:
Contestations over a Special Legislation on
Masyarakat Adat
Yance Arizona and Erasmus Cahyadi
Introduction
“If the state does not recognise us, we will not recognise the state.” This statement is
the outcome of the First Congress of the Indigenous Peoples of the Archipelago that
was held in 1999. This motto challenges the contemporary state of Indonesia. It also
repositions the relationship between the indigenous peoples and the state. The
Indigenous Peoples’ Alliance of the Archipelago (Aliansi Masyarakat Adat Nusantara,
AMAN) was formed in 1999 as a result of numerous meetings that helped to
crystallize the ideas of the movement, eventually leading to the emergence of the
indigenous peoples’ movement. AMAN is the biggest organisation that represents
masyarakat adat in today’s Indonesia.
The first seeds of the indigenous peoples’ movement were sown in the 1980s.
Early discussions were initiated by the environmental activists from the Indonesian
Forum for Environment – Friends of the Earth Indonesia (Wahana Lingkungan
Hidup Indonesia, WALHI) and by the legal aid activists from the Legal Aid
Foundation of Indonesia (Yayasan Lembaga Bantuan Hukum Indonesia, YLBHI). At
the time, these organisations had already started working on the protection of the
indigenous peoples whose ancestral lands were being expropriated by the government
44 Yance Arizona and Erasmus Cahyadi
and turned into mining and forestry concessions under the developmentalist policies of
the New Order regime.
In 1993, a number of organisations working on the protection of the indigenous
peoples’ rights organised a meeting that led to the formation of the Indigenous
Peoples Rights’ Advocacy Network (Jaringan Pembelaan Hak-Hak Masyarakat Adat,
JAPHAMA). Subsequently, a number of similar networks have been established in
various regions, such as Jaringan Penggerak Masyarakat Adat Nusa Tenggara Tengah
(Jagat NTT) and Aliansi Masyarakat Adat Kalimantan Barat (AMA Kalbar). The
youths in Mentawai created Yayasan Citra Mandiri, while the youths in West
Kalimantan formed an organisation called Lembaga Bela Banua Talino (LBBT)
(Moniaga 2010:311). Furthermore, JAPHAMA, in collaboration with other
organisations, gathered hundreds of indigenous peoples’ representatives from around
the Indonesian archipelago on March 17, 1999, for the First Congress of the
Indigenous Peoples of the Archipelago (KMAN I). This Congress resulted in the
creation of an organisation called the Indigenous Peoples’ Alliance of the Archipelago
(Aliansi Masyarakat Adat Nusantara, AMAN). Since then, March 17 is remembered by
all the indigenous peoples in Indonesia as the day of the emergence of the indigenous
peoples’ movement.
One needs to recognise that the emergence of the indigenous peoples’ movement
in Indonesia was influenced by the international indigenous peoples’ movement. The
United Nations, for example, announced in 1993 that this was to be the Year of the
Indigenous Peoples. The period from 1995 to 2004 was announced as the First
Indigenous Peoples’ Decade, followed by the Second Indigenous Peoples’ Decade
from 2005 to 2014. This UN initiative brought about the United Nations Declaration
on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP) in 2007. The intense exchanges
between the local Indonesian indigenous peoples’ activists and the advocates at the
international level were facilitated by attendance at the international meetings, as well
as through hosting international activists in Indonesia. Due to these exchanges, the
two movements are closely connected.
Despite the fact that the indigenous peoples’ movement is becoming stronger, the
communities still have to struggle for their rights. In 2011 alone, AMAN registered
around forty-eight conflicts that involved the indigenous peoples, consisting of a total
of 947 families. These conflicts cover an area of 690,558 hectares1 and are caused by
the lack of tenurial rights over the contested customary territories. Criminalisation of
indigenous peoples is still recurrent. According to AMAN’s data, 224 members of
indigenous communities were arrested and detained between October 2012 and March
2013; five of them were found guilty in court and two of them filed cassation appeals.
The existing legal regulations do not favour indigenous peoples. This is a reason
for the frequent repression and criminalisation. Law enforcement is not a legitimate
mechanism for achieving justice in these cases. On the contrary, it is seen as a system
that sustains injustices towards indigenous peoples. Forestry Law is one of the
1 Compare with the data from the Consortium for Agrarian Reform (KPA) from 2012, that registered
at least 198 conflicts; the majority of conflicts (45%) occurred in the plantation sector; the smallest
number of conflicts (2%) occurred in the coastal areas (Konsorsium 2012).
The Revival of Indigenous Peoples 45
examples of an unjust law that is imposed upon indigenous peoples. At the present,
the most recent data suggests that 16.62% of 129 million hectares, 67% of the land
mass of Indonesia, had been determined as “forest area” (kawasan hutan) (Dirjen
Planologi Kehutanan 2012). The government has already granted a lot of concessions
to companies for the exploitation of forest resources. This, in turn, causes conflicts
between the indigenous peoples and the companies operating in the forest areas that,
in fact, have only an ambiguous legal status.2
Some examples of such conflicts over forest use may illustrate these conflicts (see
also AMAN 2013). In mid-2012, the local government of the Sumbawa Regency
(kabupaten), West Nusa Tenggara, set at least fifty housing units of the indigenous
community of Pekasa on fire to evict the community from their customary land. These
houses represented the old village the community had rebuilt in the area that was
designated by the government as the protected forest area. However, the local
government had issued a license to a forestry company and a mining company to
operate in the customary lands of the Pekasa community. The Datuk (traditional chief)
of Pekasa, Edi Kuswanto, was arrested by the police and taken to court but no
evidence could be adduced that the disputed land was part of the forest area.
Nevertheless, the Sumbawa District Court Judge sentenced the Datuk Pekasa to 18
months imprisonment with a fine of 100 million rupiah. At the appeal, the Supreme
Court of West Nusa Tenggara upheld the verdict of the Sumbawa District Court. In
June 2013, this case was filed for another appeal to the Supreme Court.
A similar type of conflict occurred over the customary territory of the indigenous
community of Pandumaan Sipituhuta in North Sumatra. In 2012, the police arrested
and intimidated the indigenous peoples of Pandumaan Sipituhuta because they
stopped the operation of PT Toba Pulp Lestari (PT. TPL) on their territory of 6,000
hectares. The expropriation of the adat land had started in 2009 when the local
government of the Humbang Hasundutan Regency issued a license to a pulp and paper
company, PT. TPL. As part of its operation, the company had been felling the
traditional benzoin forest that belongs to this community and started planting trees
used for the production of pulp and paper. On September 18, 2012 a clash occurred
between the community and the company’s security staff which was assisted by police
officers from the Mobile Brigade (Brimob). Outnumbered, the security staff and police
officers fled the area. In the aftermath, however, the Humbang Hasundutan police
(polres) sent summons several times to some of the community members who were
considered to be the clash coordinators. This case demonstrates that repression and
criminalisation of masyarakat adat who defend their customary lands still occur and the
2 Several regents from the province of Central Kalimantan submitted a Judicial Review of the
Forestry Law to the Supreme Court of the Republic of Indonesia in 2011. The decision of the
Supreme Court corrected the legality of the state forest area. In brief, the decision of the Supreme
Court suggested that a forest area can be said to be a legal forest area (not in conflict with the 1945
Constitution) if the area has been already determined as a forest area, meaning that the area had
already gone through the process of designation, defining borders, mapping and gazettement. This
means that a forest area that is not supported by all these processes and is only pointed at by the
Ministry of Forestry cannot be legally seen as a forest area.
legal regulations do not yet fully acknowledge the existence and the rights of masyarakat
adat.
The Forestry Law that does not favour the interests of the indigenous peoples
means, in fact, that the rule of law in the field of forestry supports the expropriation of
the customary land of the indigenous peoples. It also means agreeing with the acts of
violence against the indigenous peoples. Therefore, a law reform and creation of new
laws are needed to respond to the plight of masyarakat adat and to defend their rights
against the expropriation of their customary land.
The Colonial Adat Studies and their Implications

The key concepts in the study of adat and adat law were developed by several Dutch
legal scholars, such as Cornelis van Vollenhoven, Barend ter Haar Bzn and their
colleagues. Vollenhoven analysed the data he gathered from the reports about the
lifestyles of the Netherlands East Indies’ residents compiled both by the researchers
and the colonial officials. He systematised the data about the customary laws in
volumes called Adatrechtbundels (Adat Law Tomes).3
Vollenhoven and his colleagues were sympathetic and highly interested in unveiling
the lives of the indigenous peoples. They discovered communities with distinct legal
systems that are different from those found in Europe. They tried to discover and
understand the rule of law that the communities applied. Vollenhoven’s findings were
published in a book entitled “The Discovery of Adat Law” (De ondekking van het
adatrecht, 1928).
The Dutch colonial government had started to implement the so-called “ethical
policy”, which was centred on the issues of education, emigration and irrigation.4 The
legal scholars, influenced by liberalist ideas, struggled to advocate on behalf of
masyarakat adat. They wanted them to benefit from the “ethical policy” of the Dutch
colonial government. The recognition of the existence of the adat law communities
also became a means to administer the colonies by indirect rule, that is, through the
local elites and in the absence of the colonial authorities.
Several key concepts that are still being used today within the customary law
research are adat law (hukum adat or adat recht), adat law circles (lingkaran hukum adat or
adat rechtskringen), communal rights over land or “right to avail” (hak ulayat or
beschikkingsrecht), and the adat law communities (masyarakat hukum adat or adat
rechtsgemenschaapen). Adat law (adatrecht) is a term that was systematically used for the
first time by Christiaan Snouck Hurgronje and, subsequently, by Vollenhoven (Snouck
Hurgronje 1893:16; Vollenhoven 1933:3; Benda-Beckmann F. and K. v. 2011:170-171).
They realised that the term adat was used in many places to describe an entity united by
3 Cornelis van Vollenhoven wrote several series of Adatrechtbundels to describe the situation of laws
and native customs in Indonesia in the early-20th century.

4 The three major programmes are called Trias Van Deventer, because they were being promoted by
the Dutch liberal named Conrad Theodor van Deventer. The three programmes are: (1) irrigation,
build and improve irrigation and dam systems for farming needs; (2) emigration, i.e. encourage
transmigration; and (3) education, i.e. promotion of education.
morality, customs, traditions, and legal institutions, even though the concept was not
found on all the islands of Indonesia (Benda-Beckmann, F. and K. v. 2011:170-171).5
Furthermore, the concept of adat law circles (adat rechtskringen) was, in fact, created by
these legal researchers in order to identify the common features and the culture-
specific forms of intrinsic logic of these communities in Indonesia. Their observations
were systematised into 19 adat law circles (compiled between 1906 and 1918) reflecting
the state of knowledge at a time when knowledge and resources were limited (Benda-
Beckmann F. and K..v., 2011:174).
The term beschikkingsrecht refers to the concept of hak ulayat and describes a land
management system of adat communities that regulates and allocates land among the
community members holding cultivation rights. Vollenhoven names six characteristics
of beschikkingsrecht6 in his book Miskenningen van het Adatrecht (1909).
It is important to note that what is referred to as adat law communities or
masyarakat hukum adat is a literal translation of adat rechtsgemenschaap. Adat law
communities are local communities and live according to adat. Barend ter Haar Bzn
suggests that a common origin (genealogy) and a shared territory are the key aspects
that unite and characterize an adat community. Ter Haar Bzn maps 13 types of
masyarakat hukum communities, such as nagari, marga, negeri, ohoi, huta, kuria, binua,
gampong, and others. These types vary according to the way they combine the
genealogical and territorial aspects mentioned above (ter Haar Bzn 1962:65-81).
Independence, the New Order Regime and the Expropriation of the

Indigenous Lands
The founding fathers of Indonesia intended to keep the existing governing structures
of traditional village units within the new government system in the formation of the
new independent state. Soepomo and Muhammad Yamin were the two influential
lawyers who developed the first Constitution of Indonesia. In their design, they
envisioned a hierarchical, tiered system that consisted of several governance structures.
The lowest tier of the governance system is a territory-based adat law which
communities organised in traditional villages and which is seen as a basic foundation
for nation-building. In the middle, there is a regional government that consists of the
provincial and regional (regency/city, kabupaten/kota besar) government. The national
government represents the top of the governance pyramid.
5 Vollenhoven stated that adat law is “all the regulations that become behavioral guidelines for the
native communities and foreign orientals (timur asing) which, on the one hand, consist of control
sanctions (this is why it is called law) and, on the other, is not codified (this is why it is adat)”
(Vollenhoven 1933:3; Holleman 1981:23; Benda-Beckmann, F. v. and K., 2011:170-1).
6 The six characteristics of beschikkingsrecht are: 1) a community’s authority over uncultivated land; 2)
the use of land by outsiders can only exist through the agreement of the community; 3) payment for
the land use as a form of recognition; 4) there is still a community authority over the land that is
being cultivated; 5) collective responsibility over the territory; and 6) eternal land rights, which means
the community possesses the unconditional right to relinquish (Vollenhoven 1909, 1919). Burns,
however, contends that there is nowhere in Indonesia which fulfils all the six characteristics outlined
by Vollenhoven (Burns 1989).
This governmental system can still be seen in the Law on Local Governance (UU No.
22/1948) that states that “Regions of the Republic of Indonesia are divided into three
tiers, that is: province, regency (big city) and village (small town), negeri, marga, and
others, which carry a right to regulate and manage their own households.” Thus, adat
law communities, entitled differently in each area and often referred to as village (desa)
or some other name, are the foundation of the state governance system. However, the
existence of the adat law communities gradually disintegrated later, and its existence as
a lower-tier governance structure was no longer recognised within the subsequent legal
regulations.
Furthermore, the Basic Agrarian Law (BAL, No. 5/1960) also contributed to the
marginalisation of the adat law communities by imposing a number of restrictions. This
law recognises the land rights of adat communities under the term hak ulayat with the
following conditions: (1) as long as such communities still exist, (2) it may not conflict
with the national interest and the State’s interest, and (3) shall not contradict the laws
and regulations of higher levels. This type of conditional recognition with strictly set
requirements eventually led to the disappearance of the indigenous peoples’ land
rights. What happened is, in fact, the state-isation (negaraisasi) of the indigenous
territories (Rachman 2012).7
This subjection of the adat land to the central state continued the colonial model of
Domein Verklaring (Domain Declarations) despite the fact that the enactment of the
Basic Agrarian Law (BAL) initially intended to eliminate this practice (Simarmata 2006;
Termorshuizen-Arts 2010). The early nationalists had tried to surpass both adat law
and the colonial governance system (Fitzpatrick 2008). However, the regulatory
practice framework that was enacted during the formation of the new republic
extinguished the traditional governance system and expropriated the indigenous
peoples’ customary territories.
During Suharto’s repressive New Order regime (1966-1998), the indigenous
peoples were expropriated of their land, often without proper compensation, in the
name of development of infrastructure, for mining and timber concessions. The
communities that refused were put under extreme pressure, experienced violence and
were labelled as the followers of the Communist Party of Indonesia (PKI), conceived
as the deadly enemy of the state.8 This, in turn, legitimised the silencing of the
indigenous peoples. The case that is most often mentioned is that of the Amungme
and the Komoro peoples in Papua Province, whose customary lands were handed over
to PT. Freeport, a giant gold-mining company (Bachriadi 1998).
7 Operational regulations about hak ulayat (communal land rights, right to avail) in the BAL were
developed by the government in 1999 through the Agrarian Ministerial Regulation No 5, 1999 about
the Guidelines for Communal Land Dispute Settlement, that is, 39 years after the ratification of the
BAL.
8 This party was accused of masterminding the G30S incident, the coup, in 1965. The parties that
were close to farmers at the time were considered to be the members of this banned party. Many
party leaders and cadres were imprisoned and killed by the military and the paramilitary. Farmers’
movements that demanded land rights were often associated with members of PKI, thus, justifying
their extermination.
Customary land grabbing in the name of development resulted in protests from the
indigenous peoples and their supporters, who were environmental and legal aid
activists. In 1988, for example, hundreds of Batak Toba people of North Sumatra
resisted the pulp and paper industry of PT. Inti Indorayon Utama (now called PT.
Toba Pulp Lestari; Moniaga 2010:309). Men and women of this indigenous community
protested because their signatures had been forged and the land taken over by the
company. Similar types of protests against the developmentalist policies that
overreached local communities also occurred in Kalimantan and various other places.
Not only were their lands stolen, but the indigenous peoples also experienced
discrimination. They were referred to by the government as “forest encroachers”,
“uncivilised” and “isolated peoples”, and were treated as a “social illness”. On the basis
of these assumptions, the Department of Social Affairs (now the Ministry of Social
Affairs) developed a programme that aimed to empower the “isolated peoples”
(masyarakat terasing). Under this programme, the indigenous communities experienced
forced relocation. One example is the case of the upland Orang Tompi of Central
Sulawesi, whose connection to their ancestral lands was cut off due to forced
relocation, and they were forced to adapt to a new lifestyle and a new farming system
that often failed (Li 2012:147; see also the chapter by Grumblies in this volume).
Various land expropriation cases and the discrimination that these communities
faced led to the emergence of various organisations that aimed to defend the rights of
the indigenous peoples. These initiatives led to the establishment of AMAN, that has
until now acted as the indigenous peoples’ organisation (see above). Therefore, one
can say that the indigenous peoples’ movement emerged as a victims’ movement of
Suharto’s developmentalist policies.
Arena of Legislative Contestations

The Reformation Period (reformasi) started in 1998 and led to the change of regime.
This moment in Indonesian history presented an opportunity for rearranging the
relationships between the state and the indigenous communities. If the indigenous
peoples (masyarakat adat) and their supporters previously preferred informal protests,
now was the time to try to push forward the agenda of the indigenous peoples at the
formal, policy level.
During the First Congress of the Indigenous Peoples of the Archipelago (KMAN
I) in Jakarta in 1999, the Minister of Agrarian Affairs/Head of the National Land
Agency who attended the congress was pushed to recognise the land rights of the
indigenous peoples. The participants, taking advantage of the opportunity, filed several
complaints concerning cases of land expropriations that they had experienced. The
Minister of Agrarian Affairs responded with a Ministerial Regulation on The
Guidelines for Communal Land Dispute Settlement (No. 5, 1999).
This ministerial regulation, furthermore, pushed forward the numerous initiatives
that led to a number of regional regulations (Perda) on the recognition of the existence
of indigenous peoples and their rights, including both land and local governance rights
(such as in West Sumatra, Lebak, Jambi, Malinau, Morowali, Papua, Aceh, and many
other places). At the same time, the initiatives of the regulatory legislations, such as the
Law on Local Governance, Law on the System of National Education, Law on Water
Resources, Law on Forestry, Law on Plantations, and Law on the Management of
Coastal Areas and Small Islands indicate that there is a legislative trend towards
acknowledging the existence and the rights of indigenous peoples (Arizona 2010a).
Despite the fact that many laws were initiated, these laws do not solve the existing
problems. On the contrary, they make the situation even more complex, and are often
not implemented. There are at least four major criticisms of these laws. Firstly, the
conditional recognition of the indigenous peoples and hak ulayat, as formulated in the
BAL No. 5/1960 (see above), is still in place. Noer Fauzi Rachman argues, “On the
one hand, the state is willing to recognise; on the other hand, the state suspects the
indigenous rights will interfere with what is referred to as ‘the national interest’, which,
in turn, often implies the opening of large-scale commercial timber and other
plantations” (2000; translation by the authors). Even worse, this model of recognition
is the one that was also introduced in the Article 18B Paragraph (2) of the 1945
Constitution, thus, making these requirements crucial in defining the existence and the
rights of the indigenous peoples.9 This, in fact, happened during the process of the
faulty formulation of the Constitutional amendment (Arizona 2012).
Secondly, there is an erroneous understanding about the indigenous peoples and
their rights to their lands and the natural resources. The lawmakers still consider the
land rights of the indigenous peoples to be the rights granted by the state. However,
the indigenous peoples themselves consider that their claim is older than the
Indonesian state itself, which was only formed in 1945, since their ancestors have been
living on their territories for many centuries. The indigenous peoples argue strongly
that they are the original right-holders over land and natural resources. In addition, this
claim also reflects the shock that the indigenous peoples experienced as a result of the
expropriation of their ancestral territories through legal regulations. Due to this, this
argument is an important one for the indigenous peoples. It demonstrates to the
general public that the indigenous peoples matter.
Thirdly, the laws still promote a standardised, identical governance system, as
introduced by the New Order, in order to control the communities and the natural
resources for economic development and political stability. The New Order
government had issued the Village Law (or Desa) Governance (No 5/1979) which
introduced a standardised desa (village) model throughout Indonesia; it replaced and
destroyed the different traditional village organisations that managed the indigenous
communities’ lives across Indonesia. Thus, the villages were made identical in relation
to structure, decision-making process and political authority. This also caused a huge
number of internal conflicts. Later, the post-Suharto government acknowledged that
the Village Law was a failure because it was not in accordance with the 1945
Constitution. Therefore, this Village Law of 1979 was replaced with the Village
Governance Law (No. 22/1999). Today, there is an effort to revive a more
9 Article 18B, paragraph (2) of the Constitution reads: the State recognises and respects the unity of
masyarakat hukum adat as well as their traditional rights as long as they are still alive and are in
accordance with societal development and the principles of the unitary state of Indonesia regulated
by laws.
autonomous governance system based on adat. However, the lawmakers do not yet
fully support this idea.
Fourthly, there is a sectoralism of legislations concerning the indigenous peoples.
In reality, the Indonesian legislations are still based on sectoral interests. The forestry
problems, for example, are managed by the Ministry of Forestry that applies the
Forestry Law without attending to any of the other existing interests. The same goes
for the problems related to mining that are solely managed by the Ministry of Energy
and Mineral Resources that also only applies the Law on Minerals and Coal rather
parochially. Inter-institutional conflicts within the government also have an impact on
the protection of the rights of the indigenous peoples. At one point, the territory of
the indigenous peoples would be appointed as a protected area, but at another point,
one of the Ministries would put it under a mining licence. Meanwhile, there is no
organisation that coordinates all the programmes of all the ministries and state
institutions in relation to the indigenous peoples. Therefore, the laws that are being
enacted for the recognition and protection of the indigenous peoples are becoming
more and more problematic because they are being developed within an ambiguous
legal development paradigm.
The Bill on the Recognition and the Protection of the Rights of

Indigenous Peoples (RUU PPHMHA)
Efforts to renegotiate the status of the indigenous peoples in relation to the nation-
state are clearly reflected in the motto (rendered in the first sentence of this chapter)
that was issued when AMAN was established in 1999. It was only at the Second
Congress, KMAN II (2003), in Lombok that the demands for a special law on the
indigenous peoples were made for the first time. Two important decisions from this
congress in relation to the legislative process were: Firstly, to push both the
government and parliament to implement the People’s Consultative Assembly Decree
TAP MPR IX/2001 on Agrarian Reform and Natural Resource Management to
examine and revoke all the sectoral laws, among them are Forestry Law No. 41/1999
and Mining Law No. 11/1967, that do not recognise and even harass the rights of the
indigenous peoples and to replace these laws with a new, comprehensive, cross-
sectoral Natural Resource Management Law that also protects the indigenous peoples’
rights. Secondly, demand that the government and parliament of Indonesia make a
special law that recognises and protects the rights of the indigenous peoples, as already
stated in Article 18B Paragraph 2 in the second amendment of the 1945 Constitution.
A meeting was organised at Wisma Margaguna, Jakarta in 2005 to map out ways to
identify the indigenous peoples, drawing from local and international experiences. On
the International Day of the Indigenous Peoples, August 9, 2006, the President of
Indonesia, Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, gave a speech at Taman Mini Indonesia Indah
in Jakarta. In his speech, he expressed respect and support for the recognition of the
indigenous peoples and their rights, and acknowledged the importance of the nation’s
diversity. The President said:
Recognition and respect, it seems, also need to be assessed according to the

development of our society, the principles of the unitary state of the Republic
of Indonesia and our laws, so that things become clearer. It is the laws that can
regulate the traditional rights of the adat law communities. As far as we
understand, up to today, there is no law that regulates this. I hope that we can
prepare a draft law in the near future.10
(President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, April 9, 2006;

translation by the authors)
The Third Congress, KMAN III (2007), was held in Pontianak, West Kalimantan. This
congress also suggested that the indigenous peoples should be able to influence the
drafting of the Village Law that was being initiated by several actors, including the
Ministry of Internal Affairs and several national NGOs. The congress also
recommended that a Commission on the Indigenous Peoples be formed that would
aim to coordinate cross-sectorally and become a mediator in the resolution of conflicts
between the indigenous peoples and other parties. These suggestions were
strengthened at the AMAN Working Group meeting in Sinar Resmi, West Java, in
2009. This working group meeting stated that one of the reasons behind the
oppression of the indigenous peoples is the absence of the comprehensive umbrella
law that gives recognition, protection and respect to the indigenous peoples and their
rights. That same year, a workshop was organised at Wisma YTKI in Jakarta. The
workshop involved a number of NGOs that work on the issues of indigenous peoples.
They expressed their commitment to the recognition and protection of the indigenous
peoples by promoting a special law on indigenous peoples. A meeting at the Learning
Centre of HuMa11 (now called the Epistema Institute) resulted in the formation of a
team that would work on the advocacy of the Draft Law on the Recognition and the
Protection of the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (RUU PPHMHA). The team consisted
of a campaign team, a fundraising team, a lobbying team, and a research team to
prepare a research paper and the draft law.
Research consultations with AMAN members took place in seven regions in 2010.
Public consultations were held in co-operation with the institutions of higher
education, including those in Jember (East Java), Medan (North Sumatra),
Palangkaraya (Central Kalimantan), Ambon (Maluku), Makassar (South Sulawesi),
Papua, and Bali. In addition, a national public consultation was held in co-operation
with the Indonesian Academy of Sciences (Lembaga Ilmu Pengetahuan Indonesia,
LIPI) in Jakarta. On the basis of these meetings, the internal AMAN team worked on
http://www.kemsos.go.id/modules.php?name=News&file=article&sid=241 <July 08, 2013>.

10
HuMa is the Association for Community and Ecologically Based Law Reform. HuMa is an NGO
11
working to promote peoples’ law and natural resources law reform (http:www.huma.or.id).
preparing the draft of the RUU PPHMHA and lobbied its inclusion into the National
Legislative Programme (Prolegnas) in 2012.12
A positive response from the National Parliament (DPR RI) could be seen at
KMAN IV (2012), organised in Tobelo. At this congress, AMAN symbolically handed
over the RUU PPHMHA to the chair of DPR RI. The chair responded that he would
support the passing of the law and promote the draft law and that it would be
approved at the plenary session of the same year, in 2012. However, up to the end of
2012, the draft law had not been approved. The congress also recommended that a
state ministry be formed that specifically works on indigenous peoples’ issues.
Sometime later, the Epistema Institute, in co-operation with HuMa, organised a
Symposium on Indigenous Peoples at Gallery 678 in Kemang, Jakarta that discussed
the foundations of the indigenous peoples as the subject of a law that is going to be
regulated under the RUU PPHMHA. In addition, the potential clash between the RUU
PPHMHA and the RUU Desa (Draft Village Law) was mentioned. The meeting
recommended that further research needs to be conducted to synchronise the two
initiatives that are being discussed simultaneously in parliament.
At the same time, AMAN once again organised a number of public consultations
with their members in twenty different regions. The outcome of these public
consultations was a proposal to incorporate several changes into the RUU PPHMHA.
At the time, it was already scheduled at the Legislative Body for the beginning of
September, 2012. At each meeting, the members of AMAN in the areas where public
consultations were held put on pressure to speed up the ratification of the RUU
PPHMHA. This is why the AMAN working meeting held in Palangkaraya in March,
2013, agreed to accelerate the process of the RUU PPHMHA enactment. AMAN
issued a statement that they would boycott the political parties that impeded or
obstructed the discussion and legalisation of the RUU PPHMHA.
On May 16, 2013, the Constitutional Court of the Republic of Indonesia accepted
the petition from AMAN and two communities from Kenegerian Kuntu (Riau
Province) and Kasepuhan Cisitu (Banten Province). The decision of the Constitutional
Court revised a provision regarding the customary forest in Forestry Law. In this
decision, the Constitutional Court emphasised that a special law is needed to follow up
the provision of Article 18B section 2 of the Indonesian Constitution regarding
protection and promotion the rights of indigenous peoples (Constitutional Court
Decision No. 35/PUU-X 2012:184).
Scope and Criticism of the RUU PPHMHA

Responding to the growing strength of the indigenous peoples’ movement in
Indonesia, the government passed a number of legal regulations both at the local and
national levels (see Arizona 2010b).13 The RUU PPHMHA was agreed at the
12 Prolegnas is a step in the preparation of legislation in parliament, where a variety of the proposed
draft legislations are considered and which is going to be discussed in a given year is decided upon.
13 For more information regarding the trend of policy regulations on indigenous peoples in post-
Reformation Indonesia, see Yance Arizona 2010a.

parliamentary plenary session on April 11, 2013. The term that was used to define the
indigenous peoples was masyarakat hukum adat, not masyarakat adat.14 Even though the
difference between the two terms lies only in one additional word, hukum (law), the
observers of the indigenous peoples have been debating the two terms for a long time.
Some of them argue that the two terms refer to two different subjects of law, while
others believe that both terms allude to the same subject of law.
The term masyarakat hukum adat or adat law communities is often used by the
policymakers, because this term appears recurrently in the legal regulations. The
academics also use the same term, because it is a literal translation from Adat
Rechtsgemenschaapen (see above). The masyarakat hukum adat are defined in the RUU
PPHMHA as
a group of people who have been living in a certain geographical area for
generations in the territory of the Republic of Indonesia because of the
ancestral connection and a special relationship with the land, territory and
natural resources, who own a customary governance system and a adat law
order on their territory.15
At the same time, the term masyarakat adat is used by the NGOs and the indigenous
peoples’ activists. This term was coined only at the beginning of 1993 to refer to the
rural people who became the victims of the New Order developmentalist policies. This
term is used in a smaller number of legal regulations that are still in force, such as the
Law on the Management of Coastal Areas and Small Islands (No. 27/2007). The deep
fear of the indigenous peoples towards the use of the term masyarakat hukum adat is
because the term risks suggesting that the indigenous peoples are only those who own
a systematised, measurable law practice.16 This may overlook other realities of
indigenous peoples, such as their belief systems, cultures, political systems, and other
elements that define the identity of masyarakat adat.
14 Meanwhile, Article 18B, Paragraph (2), of the 1945 Constitution uses the term Kesatuan Masyarakat
Hukum Adat (unity of customary law communities).

15 This definition was agreed upon at the JAPHAMA meeting in 1993 at Tana Toraja, South Sulawesi.
This definition became the working definition of AMAN. On the basis of this definition, the RUU
PPHMHA proposed the six characteristics of the indigenous peoples mentioned.
16 Soetandyo Wignjosoebroto, an expert on the legal history of Indonesia, states that there are two
ways of understanding masyarakat hukum adat – the first one is as masyarakat-hukum adat and the
second is as masyarakat hukum-adat. The first reading implies that this entity is a subject of law called
masyarakat hukum. The second reading suggests that adat law is the main element of this legal entity. In
his opinion, the term adat rechtsgemenschaapen that was translated as masyarakat hukum adat should be
interpreted according to the first reading (Wignjosoebroto 2012).
Comparison between Masyarakat Hukum Adat and Masyarakat Adat

Elements Masyarakat hukum adat/ Masyarakat adat/
Customary law communities Indigenous peoples
Usage Used by the colonial Refers to a movement of the

government to refer to a rural peoples who still hold
subject of law formed by the onto their traditions and were
“native” (pribumi) peoples. the victims of the
developmentalist policy of the
New Order regime.
When did it Developed as a result of the Developed as a result of the

emerge? colonial experiences at the New Order developmentalist
end of the 19th and the policy in the period 1980-1990.
beginning of the 20th century.
Initial objective Indirect rule by the colonial Movement for land restitution.
government. Demonstrates Expresses resistance to
the uniqueness of the discrimination.
“native” peoples.
Creators and Formulated by the Dutch Formulated by the social

supporters legal experts and developed movements and scholarly
through research, teaching activists and developed by the
and state policy. resistance movement.
Dominant Formed by anthropological Inspired by the international

forming factor research during the colonial indigenous peoples’ movement.
times
The usage of the term masyarakat hukum adat is a compromise that allows the legislative
process to continue. A similar situation happened with the Law on Environmental
Protection and Management (No. 32/2009). This law uses the term masyarakat hukum
adat, but gives the same definition that was applied for masyarakat adat, that is: “a group
of people who have been living in a certain geographical area for generations because
of the ancestral connection, strong relationships with the environment, and with a
value system that defines the economic, political, social, and legal norms”.
The usage of the term masyarakat hukum adat in the RUU PPHMHA also indicates
that the policy-makers are still co-opted by the concepts that were inherited from the
colonial era and taken over by many legislations after independence, including the
constitution, without deep and holistic analysis of the present realities.
Stages of Legal Recognition

One of the difficult questions is how to recognise indigenous peoples. What are the
stages of recognition and decision-making that need to be formulated within a legal
document? This question was discussed by the indigenous peoples’ movement at a
workshop in Wisma Margaguna, Jakarta in 2005. The greatest challenge here is to find
the most appropriate way to regulate the insertion of the practice of self-determination
into the RUU PPHMHA.
The RUU PPHMHA suggests three stages in the recognition process of the masyarakat
adat: identification, verification and ratification. The identification is carried out by the
indigenous peoples, the local government, or both together. The five indicators are: (a)
history of the adat law communities; (b) adat territory; (c) adat law; (d) adat property
relations, inheritance and adat artefacts; and (e) customary governance system. The
results of the identification are handed over to the Committee on the Indigenous
Peoples at the regency, provincial or state levels. These indicators of masyarakat adat are
different, with six elements of beschikkingrecht that were promoted by Cornelis van
Vollenhoven.17 Five indicators are used by the RUU PPHMHA to identify the
subjectivity of masyarakat adat, and the sixth indicator was promoted by van
Vollenhoven to show customary land management by native peoples.
Verification, the second stage of the recognition, comprises checking back on the
identification process. Results of the verification are handed over to the regent,
governor or the president so that an approval can be issued. At the third stage, the
decision is ratified. If the existence of the indigenous peoples is to be decided within
one regency (kabupaten), the regent has the authority of ratification; if several regencies
17 See footnote 7 in this chapter.

are involved, it is the governor; if several provinces are concerned, it is the president
who ratifies the final decision. The communities have a right to challenge the decision.
This model of recognition is complex (multiple parties) and problematic, since the
principle of self-determination of the indigenous peoples is ultimately determined by
the political decision-making of a regent, a governor or the president. In reality, it is
not easy to translate self-determination into a policy framework. This is why the model
elaborated in the RUU PPHMHA needs to be debated so that a fair, accessible
mechanism can be developed.
Administration and Conflict Resolution

The RUU PPHMHA regulates the rights and the responsibilities of the masyarakat adat.
The types of rights that are regulated within the draft law are the following: (1) rights
to land, ancestral territory and natural resources; (2) rights to self-determined
development, which includes the rights of the indigenous peoples to accept or refuse
development agendas planned by other parties on the ancestral territories, and the
rights of the indigenous peoples to determine their own development; (3) rights to
spirituality and culture that include rights to profess and practice their own systems of
traditional beliefs, rights to preserve and develop their own traditions and cultures, and
rights to receive protection and promotion of their intellectual properties; (4) rights to
their environment; and (5) rights to practice customary law and customary judicature.
The regulation of various types of rights within the draft law adopts the
stipulations from other laws and also translates the rights of the indigenous peoples
that were outlined in UNDRIP. However, the rights to self-governance were not
included in this draft law. The Legislative Body of the Parliament that prepared the
RUU PPHMHA and the Parliamentary Commission II that discussed the RUU Desa
reached the agreement that the rights of the indigenous peoples to self-governance
would be included within the RUU Desa. Here, the right to self-governance is, in
reality, the realisation of the indigenous peoples’ right to self-determination, which, in
fact, is the condition for the indigenous peoples’ realisation of all the other rights.
The RUU PPHMHA does not regulate the administration of the masyarakat adat
rights in any concrete way and may hamper the fulfilment of their rights in the future.
Even more so, in a situation where the majority of the administration of the masyarakat
adat is connected to other governmental structures, such as the Ministry of Forestry in
relation to adat forest or the National Land Agency in relation to the land rights, and so
on.
The RUU PPHMHA authorises the local adat organisations to resolve conflicts
that arise among members within their own group. However, this authority is restricted
to conflicts that are classified as civil offences and minor criminal offences. Major
criminal offences and special criminal offences are resolved by the state judicature. A
major criminal act within the draft law is referred to as a crime that is regulated via
Book II of the Criminal Code. A “special criminal act” is defined as a criminal act that
is outside the Criminal Code and is regulated through special legal regulations, such as
acts concerning corruption, terrorism, drugs, and others.
At the same time, concerning conflicts that arise between two different indigenous
communities, the RUU PPHMHA regulates that these conflicts need to be resolved via
a consensus-oriented process of musyawarah (deliberation) between the local adat
institutions. If this process does not succeed, the disputing members need to go
through the adat judicature. If the parties disagree with the decision of the adat
judicature, then the case goes to the state judicature, i.e. it is submitted to the Supreme
Court.
The draft of the RUU PPHMHA does not fully acknowledge the adat justice
system. Firstly, the indigenous peoples do not strictly differentiate between a civil and a
criminal offence, as these are recognised within the state law. Therefore, the difference
as stipulated by the RUU PPHMHA is not accurate. Secondly, adat judicature is not an
adat court. Adat judicature works as a local institution and is one of the functions of
the adat council.18 However, it is not hierarchically organised in a similar way to the
contemporary state administration. Thirdly, the draft law does not talk about ways to
regulate conflicts that arise between the indigenous communities and external parties,
such as companies that are operating on the customary territories. The RUU
PPHMHA authorised the adat judicature. However, if there is a party that does not
recognise the decision of adat judicature, the conflict goes to the Supreme Court.
Institutional Limitations
As briefly mentioned, there is no state ministry or committee that specifically promotes
the rights of the indigenous peoples. Even the RUU PPHMHA has not yet pushed for
the birth of such an institution. The draft law mentions a special committee for
masyarakat adat that is organised hierarchically at the regency, provincial and national
levels. This is a temporary committee because its objective is only related to the
verification stage of the recognition of the indigenous peoples. After the process of
verification, the committee is supposed to be dissolved.
18Article 44, paragraph (4), in the RUU PPHMHA states: Adat Judicature is formed by an adat
organisation starting from a regency/city level and going to the provincial level.
The RUU PPHMHA regulates a number of tasks and competences of the government
to promote the rights of the indigenous peoples. The following table explains the tasks
and competences within the RUU PPHMHA:
Government tasks Government authority

a. To develop and a. To ratify the existence of the customary
implement a programme law communities;
for the empowerment of b. To approve policy on the empowerment
adat law communities by programme of adat law communities by
reconsidering the local reconsidering the local
wisdom/knowledge; wisdom/knowledge;
b. To provide the necessary c. To approve policies of the necessary tools
means and infrastructure and infrastructure;
needed by adat law d. To approve policy for the protection of
communities; artefacts, culture and language of adat law
c. To socialise and inform the communities;
development programmes e. To approve policy of socialisation and
planned to adat law information dissemination informing adat
communities; law communities about the development
d. To supervise or give programmes;
guidance to the adat law f. To approve a policy about the supervision
communities or guidance of the customary law
communities.
Even though the draft law regulates the tasks and authorities of the government, it
does not specifically mention the institutions that are responsible for executing these
tasks. Several suggestions were made by KMAN IV in Tobelo in 2012. This congress
gave a mandate for forming a State Ministry on the Indigenous Peoples and the public
consultations suggested an independent Commission on Indigenous Peoples as an
independent governmental institution. Nevertheless, these ideas were not
accommodated within the RUU PPHMHA that is currently (May 2013) being prepared
by the parliament.
Challenges of the RUU PPHMHA and the Threat of Traditional

Elites
It was agreed that the RUU PPHMHA would be a parliamentary initiative. This means
that this draft law will be discussed between the parliament and the government. Every
law has to pass through two stages: firstly, the parliamentary commissions and,
secondly, the parliamentary plenary session.19 Each reading is carried out together with
the government to achieve an agreement.
In the first stage, the decision is taken as to which commission is going to consider
the RUU PPHMHA. If it is in the Commission 2 that is also discussing the RUU Desa,
then the opportunity for synchronisation between the RUU PPHMHA and the RUU
Desa is greater. However, the risk here is that the RUU PPHMHA might lose its zeal
to recognise the rights of the indigenous peoples on the basis of their ancestral
traditions, because the RUU Desa focuses on structural government perspective.
The government representatives, especially the ministries that also deal with the
indigenous peoples such as the Ministry of Social Affairs, Ministry of Education and
Culture, Ministry of Internal Affairs, Ministry of Marine and Fishing Affairs, Ministry
of Environmental Affairs, and others, will be involved in the discussion of the RUU
PPHMHA and will, therefore, be able to determine the content of the draft law. The
challenge here, therefore, is overcoming the persisting sectoralism and promoting the
understanding of the indigenous peoples’ concerns.
The emergence of the indigenous peoples’ movement in Indonesia has also been
followed by the rise of the group of noble elites that represent kingdoms and
sultanates, which existed before the establishment of Indonesia. Gerry van Klinken
(2007) and, more recently, Fadjar Thufail (this volume) analyse the re-emergence of the
groups of kings and sultans and their impact. There are at least three associations with
different leaders, such as the Association of Kingdoms and Sultanates of Indonesia
(Asosiasi Kerajaan dan Kesultanan Indonesia; AKKI), led by Raja Samu-Samu from
Moluccas; the Friendship Forum of the Sultanates of the Archipelago (Forum
Silaturahmi Kesultanan Nusantara; FSKN) led by Sultan Banten; and the Forum of
Information and Communication of the Sultanates of the Archipelago (Forum
Informasi dan Komunikasi Kesultanan Nusantara; FKIKN) led by Puro
Mangkunegoro.
These groups constitute the traditional elites that are economically capable and
have better political relations with the formal institutions. However, it seems that these
groups are not well organised due to internal competition. As Klinken (2007) has
shown, several of the individuals are district heads or/and parliamentarians at the
national or regional levels. They can lobby and communicate with the chairs of the
national and regional parliaments responding to this law initiative that can potentially
be used to strengthen their traditional status. They do not oppose the indigenous
peoples’ movement and they even voice the interests of the indigenous peoples. They
aim to reclaim the lands of the kingdoms and sultanates that also applied the adat
system, even though what they mean by adat is different from the adat of the local
village people. The size of the difference between the adat of the kings and the adat of
the common villagers shows that the claim on the basis of adat and tradition stretches
over a wide scope and can be used for various interests (see the chapter by Thufail in
this volume). The Sultan of the Melayu Sulatanate of Jambi, Raden Abdurrahman
Thaha Syaifudin, for example, reported a case of indigenous land expropriation by a
19 Article 20, Paragraph (2), of the 1945 Constitution says that all draft laws must be discussed by the
Parliament and the President to achieve a common agreement.

company with a timber licence from the Ministry of Forestry to the United Nations on
the basis of the claim that the customary territory had been expropriated.
This danger, the use of adat for different purposes, also became apparent in the
public consultations with kings and sultans in several regions that were conducted by
the parliament in May, 2012. If left unguarded, there is a possibility that this draft law
could be usurped by these feudal groups.
Potential Frictions and Legacies

The decentralisation process in the post-New Order era strengthened the neo-
traditionalism, the adat institution and the village organisation that previously
constituted the political units of adat law communities. In West Sumatra, the local
government played a role in issuing a regulation to return the original village
governance system that is called nagari. The same applies to several other places, such
as Aceh, South Sumatra, Maluku, and others (see Benda-Beckmann F. and K. v. 2010).
The consequence is that the role of adat leaders becomes stronger in controlling
the national resources by negotiating with the companies in their customary territories.
This may also cause conflicts between the adat leaders and the administrative village
leaders that can often explode in the power struggles over a village’s natural resources
(see the chapter by Steinebach in this volume). This happened in West Sumatra
between the wali nagari and the ninik mamak, and also in Bali between the desa dinas and
desa adat (see the chapter by Hauser-Schäublin in this volume). This constitutes one of
the conflictual points between the indigenous peoples and the village (desa). In several
places, such as West Sumatra and Aceh, the whole village governance unit, called nagari
in West Sumatra and gampong/mukim in Aceh, is referred to as masyarakat adat. In the
local regulation of West Sumatra Province on the Nagari Governance (No. 2/2007),
nagari is defined as the unity of masyarakat hukum adat that owns a certain territory,
performs self-governance and acts in the interests of the local communities based on
the customary philosophy of the Minangkabau that custom law based on sharia law, as
well as sharia based on the holy Qur’an (adat basandi syarak, syarak basandi kitabullah)
and/or on the basis of the origins and local customs of the Province of West Sumatra.
Thus, the definition of nagari in West Sumatra is the same as the one of desa and of the
masyarakat adat. At this moment (May 2013), the discussion of the RUU Desa is on-
going in the parliament. Harmonisation of the RUU Desa and the RUU PPHMHA is
needed in order to avoid a negative impact and a clash that the communities might
experience in the future because of the application of both laws.
Another challenge within the discussion of the RUU PPHMHA is the colonial
legacy that is hampering the renewal of the political concepts related to adat and is
obstructing the fulfilment of the demands of the indigenous peoples. We can see this,
for example, in the decision to use the term masyarakat hukum adat rather than
masyarakat adat within the draft law of the RUU PPHMHA. There are also differences
between the concepts of the colonial studies of adat and adat law communities and the
contemporary discourses of adat, as well as between beschikkingsrecht and adat land (tanah
adat) or adat territory (wilayah adat), or between an adat law as adat that possesses
sanctions and an adat as a general guiding principle of life that emerged and developed
among the people. Therefore, it would be necessary to break out from conceptual
imprisonment of the past and to take a chance to make laws that advance the rights of
the indigenous peoples.
The concepts developed by the Leiden Adat Law School need to be straightened
out not only because of numerous translation mistakes from Dutch into Indonesian,
but also because there was a misinterpretation of the findings of the Leiden Adat Law
School researchers (Soesangobeng 2012a).20 Soesangobeng proposes that Pancasila as
the national ideology of Indonesia might serve as a guideline for correcting those
concepts; unfortunately, he does not propose to conduct empirical studies that test the
relevance of the concepts and terms that are used in the contemporary adat studies.
20For a critical evaluation of the uses and (mis-)interpretations of adat see “Myths and stereotypes
about adat law: a reassessment of Vollenhoven in the light of current struggles over adat law in
Indonesia,” by Franz and Keebet von Benda-Beckmann (2011).
“Today we Occupy the Plantation –
Tomorrow Jakarta”:
Indigeneity, Land and
Oil Palm Plantations in Jambi
Stefanie Steinebach
Introduction
Indigeneity has become a category of agency and empowerment. This became evident
in the adoption of the UN Declaration of the Rights of Indigenous Peoples
(UNDRIP) in 2007 – not only transforming indigenous peoples from marginalised
“victims” to “actors”, but also reframing the debate over indigeneity as one of “rights”
rather than “claims” (Gilbert 2006; Merlan 2009).
The debate over “indigenous rights” in Indonesia is nearly always one over access
to natural resources and especially rights over land. Conflicts over land between
communities and other stakeholders have become virulent in Indonesia1 as agricultural
land becomes less and less accessible for the rural local population due to various
economic and political developments. At the same time, competing rights over
resources and land between “indigenous” groups and other stakeholders always refer
1 In 2010, 46 conflicts in the plantation sector, 31 conflicts between communities and companies, and
30 forest conflicts were reported by official institutions in Jambi, the province in Sumatra with which
this article mainly deals (Zazali 2012).
64 Stefanie Steinebach
to adat (customs, traditions and traditional regulations) and, therefore, to questions of

plural legal orders. The founding of Aliansi Masyarakat Adat Nusantara (AMAN; The
Alliance of Indigenous Peoples of the Archipelago) in 1999 was a new development
which mobilised and raised adat interests to the national level in many regions of
Indonesia. This movement attempts to draw its legitimacy mainly from an analogy with
the notion of indigenous peoples identified by the International Labour Organization
(ILO) convention 169 from 1989 (Benda-Beckmann 2011:185). It links the local
concepts of traditional communities to the global discourse of indigeneity and
indigenous rights. In identifying who is and who is not “indigenous” and, therefore,
rightfully entitled to articulate adat-based rights over land, a group’s self-identification
is acknowledged as a crucial criteria in the global context of UNDRIP and Human
Rights declarations.
I introduce a case-study from Jambi province (Sumatra) where violent conflicts
over land have occurred between different local communities and a palm oil company.
My focus is on the “SAD 113 – tiga dusun” (“Suku Anak Dalam 113 – three villages”,
a heterogeneous group of activists and their strategic positioning (Li 2000) as
“indigenous” at the intersection between the new agrarian movement and the
indigenous rights movement.2
I will investigate how global categories and discourses of indigeneity related to
rights and territory are adopted at the local level to realign the ways how marginalised
minorities and agrarian movement activists connect to the nation, the government and
the “non-indigenous” population. I will not go into detail of these movements, their
histories, connections and differences, contradictions and inconsistencies, but explore
how the fight for access to farmland and to ethnic homeland (Hall et al. 2011) is
combined. In doing so, I picture the way indigeneity is strategically performed, also
contradicting global discourses and resulting in a unique local indigenous identity at the
new frontier of land control where authorities, sovereignties and hegemonies of the
recent past have been or are currently being challenged by new enclosures,
territorialisations and property regimes (Peluso and Lund 2011:668).
2 The SAD 113 group was also supported by different NGOs, but in 2012, their activities were
marginal compared to the agrarian movement’s activities. In this article, I will not further discuss the
NGOs arguments and discourses in relation to indigenous struggles for land.
“Today we Occupy the Plantation – Tomorrow Jakarta” 65
The Conflict between Suku Anak Dalam and an Oil Palm

Plantation
“Today we occupy the plantation – Tomorrow Jakarta!” This pugnacious statement
was made by a group of land-rights activists calling themselves “SAD 113 – tiga
dusun” (Suku Anak Dalam – three villages – SAD 113) in the summer of 2012. The
group was occupying land developed and managed as an oil palm plantation by the
company PT Asiatic Persada (PT AP), but claimed as tanah adat ulayat (customary land)
by the activists.3
The land under discussion is located in the southern part of Jambi, close to the
borders of the neighbouring province Palembang. The region falls administratively
within the jurisdiction of two regencies, Muara Jambi and Batanghari. The natural
region is structured by the Bahar River and its tributaries, which are closely tied to the
history of the local “indigenous” population, Batin Sembilan, mostly referred to as
“Suku Anak Dalam” (SAD; “Tribe of the Children of the Interior”). Therefore, I will
refer to this area as Bahar region. The Bahar region used to be scarcely populated and
densely forested until the 1980s. Since then, intensive logging, the establishment of
acacia and large-scale oil palm plantations created by state and private corporations, as
well as the implementation of transmigration projects, have changed the natural and
social structure in the region dramatically. The area under concession for agricultural
use (including forest conservation areas) by several companies now covers a range of
more than 200,000 ha.
Additionally more than 45,000 people, mainly from Java, were moved into the
Bahar area under the transmigration programme, which seeks to reduce over-
population and poverty on the Inner Islands. Each family was given roughly 2.5 ha of
land for subsistence needs which was accompanied by a land certificate as proof of
ownership. Most of the autochthonous local Batin Sembilan groups, who hold no
official land title from the Indonesian government, were alienated from their ancestral
territories and either retreated into still forested areas where concession holders had
not yet started planting agricultural crops or were resettled in housing estates provided
by the social department. In 2012, several hundred Batin Sembilan people, some of
whom still practiced a semi-nomadic life and shifting cultivation, lived on land already
given to a forest conservation concession. The majority of the Batin Sembilan failed to
adapt to the rapidly changing social, political and economic conditions. Others
succeeded in catching up with these rapid changes, mostly by marrying non-Batin
Sembilan partners who were already familiar with the system of a market economy.
I will now focus on the case of PT AP to illustrate the development of the
agribusiness in Jambi.
In 1986, the company PT Bangun Desa Utama (PT BDU), with questionable legality,
was given a 20,000 ha licence by the Minister of the Interior to develop a cocoa and oil
palm plantation in the Decree No. SK 46/HGU/DA/86, the Ministry stated that the
area was still occupied by residents who settled prior to the issuance of the utilisation
3The Indonesian term tanah adat, customary land, is usually applied as a synonym to ulayat (see v.
Benda-Beckmann and v. Benda-Beckmann 2011. Here, the SAD have combined the two expressions.
permit; PT BDU was obliged to deal with this issue. A forest department inventory in
1987 showed, however, that more than 2,000 Batin Sembilan families were living and
practiced shifting cultivation on 4,000 ha within the concession area (Colchester et al.
2011:11). As some of these families refused to leave their territory, they were evicted
by military force under the repressive New Order regime; they finally withdrew from
the concession area. The company was renamed PT Asiatic Persada (PT AP) in 1992.
Subsequently, ownership changed several times until it was bought by the Singapore-
based international agribusiness group Wilmar in 2006 (Colchester et al. 2011; Setara
2012; TÜV Rheinland 2011).
Guarded official entrance of the PT AP concession area. Photo: B. Hauser-Schäublin 2012
The Wilmar group received funding from the World Bank Group’s development
institution International Finance Corporation (IFC) and is, therefore, committed to the
eight IFC Performance Standards on Social and Environmental Sustainability. It is also
obliged to fulfil the criteria of the Round Table on Sustainable Palm Oil (RSPO),4
which pay special attention to international human rights laws and the UNDRIP. The
latter recognises indigenous peoples’ right to own, use, develop, and control the lands,
territories and resources they have traditionally occupied or used. It suggests that
states, by legally recognising these lands, territories and resources owned by indigenous
4 Criterion 2.2. The right to use the land can be demonstrated, and is not legitimately contested by
local communities with demonstrable rights.

Criterion 2.3. Use of the land for oil palm does not diminish the legal rights, or customary rights, of
other users, without their free, prior and informed consent.
peoples, should take into account their customs, traditions and land tenure systems.
Moreover, article 28 of UNDRIP affirms that indigenous peoples have the right to
redress for the traditional lands, territories and resources which have been confiscated,
taken, occupied, used, or damaged without their free, prior and informed consent.
The conflict between Batin Sembilan and the company has been smouldering since
2000, and several locations inside the concession area are partly occupied and managed
by a heterogeneous community of Batin Sembilan, political activists and farmers from
all over Indonesia. PT AP accused the people living inside the concession area of
illegally harvesting PT AP’s oil palm fruit and of selling them to processing industries
outside the plantation area. The company, fearing a substantial loss of their fruit, called
in the mobile auxiliary police brigade (Brimob) in July 2011. The conflict between PT
AP and the local population peaked in August 2011 when the lorry of an entrepreneur
living in one of the occupiers’ settlements inside the concession area was confiscated
by a Brimob patrol. During the dispute between Brimob and the lorry owner, police
weapons were stolen. This incident led to Brimob brigades raiding the entrepreneur’s
village and destroying at least 80 houses and leaving several people injured by gunfire
(Colchester et al. 2011; Setara 2012). The escalation was followed by a spiral of more
or less violent actions where houses, guard posts and equipment were burnt down and
people were forcefully evicted from the plantation area.
An investigation of the conflict was carried out by TÜV Rheinland5 on behalf of
Wilmar, and additionally, by an independent team in 2011 to encourage a resolution of
the conflicts in the PT AP concession in line with the principles and criteria of the
RSPO, the Performance Standards of the IFC, national law, and international human
rights standards.6 In the evaluation of the situation, TÜV Rheinland (2011:9) states that
“the RSPO Certification of PT Asiatic Persada will not be approved until the dispute is
resolved”. The report of the independent commission states that:
It is clear that the way that PT AP has acquired lands in Batanghari is in
violation of the rights of indigenous peoples as set out in international treaties
ratified by Indonesia and summarised in the UN Declaration on the Rights of
Indigenous Peoples, which Indonesia has endorsed. Most evidently, PT AP has
violated the right of the Batin Sembilan communities in the concession area to
the ownership and control of the lands and natural resources they have
traditionally owned, occupied or otherwise used. The company has failed to
respect the people’s right to give or withhold their Free, Prior and Informed
Consent. In depriving the people of their lands, the company has violated their
other rights including their rights to subsistence and a decent livelihood.
(Colchester et al. 2011:54)
5 PT TÜV Rheinland is a RSPO-accredited assessor which evaluates the implementation of RSPO
criteria.
6 For a detailed report on the conflicts between PT AP and local communities, see Colchester et al.
(2011), Setara (2012), and TÜV Rheinland (2011).

By 2012, nearly 70% or 17,937 ha from the 20,000 ha managed by PT AP was claimed
to be tanah adat ulayat (Setara 2012:13) by Batin Sembilan and their allies who organised
themselves into seven different groups pursuing varying or overlapping goals and
strategies.
Inside the PT AP concession area: Orange banner stating “Welcome to the tanah adat of
Suku Anak Dalam” installed by SAD 113. In the foreground is a green sign of the PT AP
stating: “Area of PT Asiatic Persada due to land use permit for agricultural commercial lease
(HGU) from 1986. Any kind of activity is forbidden in the HGU area.” A number of relevant
decrees and paragraphs are displayed as well. Photo: B. Hauser-Schäublin 2012
As in many similar cases all over Indonesia, the conflict is based on ambiguities and
competition between codified state laws and customary laws (hukum adat) creating a
situation of plural legal orders which have existed since the Dutch colonisation. The
origin of the land conflict can be traced to back to the period of Suharto’s New Order
regime (1965-1998) with its repudiation of local land rights and resource claims. The
exploitation of forests and other natural resources on Indonesia’s Outer Islands were
part of the government’s agenda of economic development and nation-building. All
land, especially if communally owned, and all natural resources of economic interest
were formally conceptualized as the property of the Indonesian state (see chapter by
Arizona and Cahyadi in this volume). 7
7Access to land in Indonesia is still regulated mainly by the 1960 Basic Agrarian Law (BAL) which is
based on the Dutch Agrarian Law from 1870, the 1967 Forestry Law and the latter’s replacement law
of 1999. Next to the National Land Agency, control over areas that are classified as forest lies with
Similar to the PT AP case, most conflicts over land and other resources between local
communities and private or state-owned companies erupted after the downfall of
Suharto in 1998 and with the beginning of political decentralisation, regionalisation and
democratization. These processes also created a more NGO-friendly climate when
freedom of speech allowed the questioning of political decisions and the articulation of
local (indigenous) identities and rights. It was the official line of Suharto’s regime that
Indonesia is a nation which has no indigenous peoples, since all Indonesians are
equally indigenous. Therefore, the internationally recognised category “indigenous and
tribal peoples” (as defined by the ILO Convention) has, so far, no direct equivalent in
Indonesia’s legal system (Li 2000:149; but see the chapter by Arizona and Cahyadi in
this volume). The convention takes a practical approach and only provides criteria for
describing the peoples it aims to protect. Self-identification is considered as a
fundamental criterion for the identification of indigenous and tribal peoples, along
with the criteria outlined below in article 1(1) (see also chapters by Göcke and Cabrera
in this volume):
a) Tribal peoples in independent countries whose social, cultural and economic
conditions distinguish them from other sections of the national community, and
whose status is regulated wholly or partially by their own customs or traditions
or by special laws or regulations;
b) peoples in independent countries who are regarded as indigenous on account
of their descent from the populations which inhabited the country, or a
geographical region to which the country belongs, at the time of conquest or
colonisation or the establishment of present state boundaries and who,
irrespective of their legal status, retain some or all of their own social,
economic, cultural and political institutions.
(ILO 1989)
These definitions entail the relation between “indigenous” and the “others” (conceived
as mainstream society), as well as universal criteria or conditions which should facilitate
the identification of indigenous peoples.
The Batin Sembilan in a Historical Perspective

The Batin Sembilan as indigenous people experienced different relationships with the
pre-colonial, colonial and postcolonial states, during which they were categorised as
“Kubu”, “Isolated Tribe” or “Children of the Interior” by governmental discourses
and the sedentary population. In the following section, I will outline how being
indigenous in Jambi has changed from a negative derogatory category towards a
category of empowerment that is strategically employed by various actors.
the Department of Forestry. The revised 1999 Forestry Law decrees that all forest, and the natural
richness within it, is under the control of the state (article four), and instructs the central government
to regulate its management and exploitation (Bakker and Moniaga 2010).
The Batin Sembilan (sembilan = nine) themselves trace their origin back to nine
brothers who ruled along nine rivers in the border region between Jambi and
Palembang. The nine brothers are said to be the offspring of Raden Ontar, a local ruler
who is believed to be a descendant of Maruhum Sungsang Romo. According to the
Batin Sembilan, he was one of the former rulers of Jambi before it became an Islamic
sultanate in the 15th century. This sultanate is known as Jambi Melayu II. The Melayu
inhabitants of the sultanate were linguistically and culturally heterogeneous, organised
through the concept of lineage groups (suku) and associated with a particular territory
which formed small chiefdoms ruled by local elites (Andaya 1993:16). The political
structure of the sultanate was rather one of concentric circles of power than
hierarchically vertically structured. Guillaud (1994) describes the representation and
governing of space in the sultanate of Jambi as appanages or fiefs, a spatial projection
of both the royal genealogy and the organisation of the court. Accordingly, all land was
owned by the sultan, who also held rights over mineral and forest produce. The rights
of usage were granted or withdrawn by the sultan and a proportion of the yield from
all cultivated lands held in usufruct had to be delivered to him (Kathirithamby-Wells
1993). Land was also granted to the suku as communities, but not as individual
property. Land could be distributed and inherited within these communities, according
to their adat. Land could neither be sold nor bought.
Reconstructing the Batin Sembilan’s history that is rooted in those days is rather
difficult as written sources only start in 1615 when the Dutch and English East India
Companies arrived in southeast Sumatra (Andaya 1993). These sources present the
European perspective on local history, whereas local oral traditions were not recorded
in writing until recently; they certainly shifted over time. Therefore, much of the Batin
Sembilan’s origin, as well as their status and relation to other ethnic groups and ruling
elites, are difficult to disentangle. However, the oldest settled communities in Jambi are
commonly termed as “batin” groups, batin being a title associated with the leaders of
non-Muslim jungle and sea peoples. The character of these batin groups was
considerably modified by the penetration of Minangkabau influence (Andaya 1993:14).
Batin Sembilan as Kubu Bahar

By the 17th century, territorial lineages still formed the basis of the social organisation
of the moving clans (suku pindah) scattered over a wide area on the Jambi-Palembang
border. The names attached to such lineages vary: An 18th century inscription refers to
them as marga, the term commonly employed in much of the Palembang-Jambi region
(Andaya 1993:17). This region was registered by the Dutch as Marga Kubustrecken
(“Koeboestreken”) or Kubu-margas (“Koeboe-marga’s”), which was originally
inhabited by suku Kubu (van Dongen 1910). “Kubu” was a collective name used by
the sedentary population to refer to non-Muslim hunter-gatherer bands or shifting
cultivators who led a more or less nomadic life in the vast forests. The name “Kubu”,
derived from the Malay word (kubu, mengkuburkan diri) for “hiding” or “retreat”,
referred to the groups dependent on the forest. Claims by suku to specific stretches of
territory were often traced back to ancestors in distant times, also by the Kubu:
By reliving the peregrinations of their ancestors a kinship group reiterated its

rights to fish in certain rivers, to hunt the animals and collect forest products in
a particular area, and to clear the jungle for swidden agriculture. It was in these
terms in the early twentieth century that the orang kubu, the jungle dwellers of
the Jambi-Palembang border, traced the origins of their possession of large
tracts of land in the Lalang district. Kubu in adjoining domains could then see
themselves as linked through the kinship of their ancestors, who had also laid
down the territorial boundaries within each group could freely move.
(Andaya 1993:9)
Forbes (1885) states that nomadic Kubu were roaming in the forests at the borders of
the Jambi sultanate and Palembang regency, as well as along the banks and tributaries
of the great rivers Musi and Batang Hari. Kubu groups were named according to the
main rivers which delineated their territories: Kubu Bulian, Kubu Bahar, Kubu Lalang,
and Ridan Kubu (Hagen 1908). The Kubu marked their boundaries by planting fruit
trees (durian, rambutan, etc.). Land was not considered as property, but certain trees,
especially fruit trees or those used for honey extraction, were (Forbes 1885).
The sedentary population treated the Kubu, with their nomadic and non-Muslim
lifestyle, only with contempt. Forbes in the 1880s described the first attempts by the
Dutch to settle the Kubu in villages and introduce to them a sedentary lifestyle and
agricultural practice (1885:121, 123). As long as they were not settled, they were
regarded to be in their “wild” stage (Forbes 1885:121; Hagen 1908:11), and were
characterised as “overgrown children of the woods” by Forbes (1885:123).8
The Malay consider the Kubus far their inferiors, a position which the latter
seem to accept with very marked submissiveness. ‘You Kubu!’ is a term of
opprobrium which I have often heard applied by one native to another with
whom he had quarrelled. The village people consider them littler other than
beasts.
(Forbes 1885:124)
From the historical sources and the Batin Sembilan’s orally transmitted history, we can
assume that the Batin Sembilan is one of those groups formerly referred to as Kubu
Bahar and Kubu Lalang. Today’s plantation occupiers themselves trace back their
origins to the Kubu Bahar and Kubu Lalang groups. They connect their territorial
claims to the activities of some heroic ancestor.
8 Colonial administrators and anthropologists were already debating in the late-19th and early-20th
centuries whether the Kubu were original polytheist proto-Malay people or a degenerated group of
people who had fled into the forest during wars between different rulers of Jambi and adjacent
kingdoms.
Dutch Rule
Jambi was finally subjugated by the Dutch in 1906 after several years of guerrilla
warfare. After the sultan’s death, the colonial administration replaced the former
political structure of the sultanate. Local adat defining rights and access to land were
acknowledged only as long the land and other resources were not destined for colonial
exploitation. Otherwise, such land was categorised as “woeste grond”, that is, not
productively used land or waste ground, and declared as the property and domain of
the state (Benda-Beckmann 2005:7). This procedure elided the former adat-based land
rights and people’s classification of the forests according to the way they were used.
Instead, “woeste grond” created a no-man’s land, an undifferentiated wilderness that
should be cultivated and civilised by industrialised plantation agriculture with cash
crops, such as cacao, coffee, tobacco, and especially rubber. Thus, local concepts of an
encompassing Lebenswelt were ignored and the western concept of ownership and
property imposed, which allowed the exploitation of what became categorised as
“natural resources”.
In line with the conceptual division of wilderness and civilised cultivation, the
colonial government continued their efforts to tame and govern the margins and the
marginalised by settling the “wild Kubu” and tying them to a place in order to govern
them. In 1905, the village of Muara Bahar at the mouth of the Bahar River was the first
Kubu settlement in the region, which was established with military force to safeguard
the borders to Palembang. According to Dutch records, settling of the Kubu
proceeded as described by Loeb:
The Kubu live in the partly swampy stretch between the Musi, the Rawas, the
Tembesi and the Batang Hari. At this date [1935] practically all the Kubu,
willingly or unwillingly, are united and registered in villages (dusun’s). In 1907
there were 7,590 Kubu distributed in five sibs (marga’s). […]. While most of
them have been converted to Islam, this conversion has been in name only.
They have not been willing to give up their former food habits.
(Loeb 1935:281)
The Dutch rule has served the Kubu ethos, so that voluntarily or by force, they
settled down in villages. How this kind of life is contrary to the Kubu, I heard
from several people. Moreover, the Kubu have found a clever escape, satisfying
both the officials and the Kubu individually. Under pressure of officials the
Kubu built pretty villages, neat huts, in which they live, as was the custom of
their ancestors, and here they cultivate the crops in their fields. They went to
the villages as necessity dictated or when a festival was celebrated.
(Schebesta 1926:3)9
9 Translated by Kummerow and Baer 2005.

Civilizing the Kubu was apparently not always successful, and land use continued as
before. In respect of the land tenure of the Bahar Kubu, Keereweer (1940:368) states
the “beschikkingsrecht (right to avail – hak ulayat) belongs to the Kubu community.
They needed a large area, borders were known and safeguarded”.10 In summing up, we
can state that under Dutch rule, the Batin Sembilan were also marginalised and were
not acknowledged as owning land as this was appropriated by the colonial state.
After Independence and New Order

After Indonesia reached independence in 1945, a new category for communities like
the Kubu was created by the Indonesian government. The Batin Sembilan, still called
Kubu, were, like other communities all over Indonesia, defined as suku terasing
(“isolated tribes”), then as masyarakat terasing (“isolated communities”) and, finally, as
komunitas adat terpencil (KAT; “traditional remote community”; Depsos 2003). Forest
dwellers such as the Batin Sembilan were judged as being highly dependent on natural
resources and isolated from development and progress. Thus, their way of life was
associated with backwardness and ignorance (Saudagar 2002:i). The Social Department
stated that a big gap and a lot of difference exist between the value system of the local
culture and those of the people (i.e. “mainstream” Indonesian) outside of the
traditional remote community (Depsos 2003:10). State policies tried to minimise these
differences by forcing remote communities into modernising and development
programmes, where attempts were made to teach moral and religious values, as well as
a sedentary lifestyle and agricultural practices. Starting in 1973, more than 6,000 Batin
Sembilan in the Bahar region were officially settled by the Social Department.
Nevertheless, as already experienced under Dutch rule, most of the Batin Sembilan
returned to their former ways of life inside the still forested areas as long as this was
tolerated.
Batin Sembilan and Landless Peasants becoming “Indigenous”

As already briefly outlined, the Batin Sembilan have been a marginalised community
for centuries who were never acknowledged by sovereigns to possess land as their own
property. Their land tenure was either connived or ignored and violated. Who is the
SAD 113 community that now claims land to be tanah adat of the Batin Sembilan?
The SAD 113 group derives its name from being “Suku Anak Dalam”. They trace
their origin back to three ancestral Batin Sembilan villages (dusun) that had been located
inside the plantation area. SAD 113 was founded in 2003 and, at that time, claimed
113 ha of customary land: The spokesman of SAD 113 is Pak Bebas (pseudonym),
who traces his genealogy back to ancestors who originally inhabited the Bahar region
(see above). The group consisted of about 530 families in 2012, but the majority of
these families could not prove autochthonic origin. They are mostly of Javanese origin
and have either married a spouse from a local Batin Sembilan family or claim to be
10Whether beschikkingsrecht can be translated as “hak ulayat” is discussed by legal scholars, see e.g.
Soesangobeng (2012b).
members of an extended family and friends of the autochthonous Batin population.

The descent system of the Batin Sembilan is bilateral and a member (whether male or
female) of another ethnic group who marries a Batin Sembilan is acknowledged as
Batin Sembilan. Land tenure is inherited by sons and daughters equally. This system
allows, for example, a Javanese migrant who married a Batin person to call him/herself
Batin Sembilan and claim access to customary land as regulated by Batin Sembilan adat.
Accordingly, many strategic marriages take place.
The SAD 113 who not only claim but also occupy the land of the PT AP are
supported by various institutions, including political parties as well as NGOs; they
form a heterogeneous alliance of activists who associate themselves mainly with the
“new agrarian movement” (Peluso et al. 2008). Each of these outside partner groups
bring in their own visions and goals which are merged with the original claims of the
Batin Sembilan producing a new dynamic. In 2012, the SAD 113 requested about
3,800 ha of land inside the concession; this land should be given the status of an
“enclave” and then be controlled by the occupiers. Similar to the government’s policy
of allocating land to transmigrants, the occupiers intend to grant each family 2 ha. 11
Since the occupied land is already planted with harvestable oil palms and the activists
do not plan to change the crops, the families would become owners of individual oil
palm plots, thus participating as smallholders in the agribusiness.
The occupiers are supported by the People’s Democratic Party (Partai Rakyat
Demokrat – PRD),12 an Indonesian left-wing political party. By using anti-neoliberal
rhetoric, this party demands that all natural resources shall be used for the welfare of
the Indonesian people. The National Peasant Union (Serikat Tani Nasional –STN) is
affiliated with the PRD, supports farmers in land struggles and is one of the leaders of
the agrarian movement.13 STN is actively coordinating the organisation of the SAD
113 in Jambi. With the support of STN, the SAD 113 set up an infrastructure and a
central camp inside the plantation area with a meeting place also functioning as office.
Everybody who wants to enter the camp from the main road has to pass a security
post which is painted in the PRD’s party colours and is decorated with the PRD’s and
STN’s flags and symbols.
The unifying moment between the indigenous Batin Sembilan and the agrarian
movement is the claim for land, either as ancestral territory linked to a local ethnic
identity or for the landless people, such as Javanese who spontaneously immigrated to
the area, who as an economic and social class strive for social justice and economic
participation. In response to the demands of SAD 113 and also based on the criteria of
RSPO and articles 16-32 of UNDRIP, PT AP argues that SAD 113 community
members are mostly not SAD, that is, indigenous people in a narrower sense. They,
therefore, tried to identify the genealogies of the occupiers in order to check whether
11 The remaining land will probably be managed by the supporting activists together with the SAD
113.
12 The PRD had previously existed as the People’s Democratic Union, which was established in 1994.
13 A few years before the fall of Suharto demonstrations, strikes and other forms of action against the
regime in Indonesia increased. These demonstrations and strikes were led by several organisations,
which started their activities around 1993-1995. Some of these organisations were the STN.
they can prove a long-standing relationship with the area and, thus, are legitimised to
make claims on behalf of RSPO criteria.
The SAD 113, not least through the activities of the STN, strategically use criterial
and relational aspects in defining their indigeneity to facilitate the inclusion of non-
indigenous activists as well. The activists’ self-identification not as Batin Sembilan, but
as Suku Anak Dalam (SAD) is of great significance.
SAD is a politically correct but, at the same time, more powerful synonym for
KAT or “Kubu” (Departement Pendidikan dan Kebudayaan 1985:26). Following the
pan-Indonesian indigenous organisation AMAN, the term KAT (komunitas adat terpencil,
or traditional remote community) was replaced by the name “masyarakat adat”
(traditional community). Masyarakat adat is translated as “indigenous people” and
allows them to ally with the international indigenous peoples’ movements. SAD,
therefore, explicitly refers to masyarakat adat and the distinctive international attention
indigenous communities receive; they are, as Tyson called it, different and “special”
(Tyson 2011) and, therefore, appeal to the category of “indigenous” as defined by the
ILO convention and used in UNDRIP.
Batin Sembilan graveyard inside PT AP oil palm plantation. Photo: Stefanie Steinebach 2012
In contrast, the name Batin Sembilan implies not first and foremost indigeneity, but
rather defines the community’s place in history and the changing socio-cultural
landscapes and ruling dynasties over centuries. The term rather links the Batin
Sembilan in a positive way to the sedentary general populace, than differentiates and
distinguishes them from the latter.
The strategic self-identification as SAD in the context of land disputes with PT AP is a

political positioning that relates local claims to global discourses. At the same time, the
self-identification as SAD combined with the Batin Sembilan’s inclusive systems of
kinship, makes being SAD a homogenising and inclusive category. The cultural
differences, once highlighted by the Depsos 2003, were de-emphasised in favour of a
unified political positioning vis-à-vis the nation state. This unification is provided with
its own particular history. Pak Bebas also insisted on the use of the term SAD, as it
reduces cultural differences and hierarchies between Batin Sembilan and “others”. He
states:
There are many groups of SAD, but we all can be traced back to the same
ancestors – in former times it was the time of the depati, Depati Sending
Ketanoh, Depati Jentikan [the Batin Sembilans political authorities are called
depati]. This was some time ago, well, we do not like to be called Kubu now,
but Suku Anak Dalam. Why SAD? Because we used to have a religion, we used
to have settlements, we lived an appropriate life. During the colonisation by the
Dutch and the Japanese [during the Second World War], we ran into the forest
because we did not want to be colonised. Colonised – we did not want to be, so
our ancestors gathered in the forest where we again established a village in this
forest – ha, that’s our history.
We own the absolute authority (sovereignty) here – I said we will fight for our
land but actually we are fighting for the self-confidence of the Suku Anak
Dalam because in 1986 we were expelled by the [oil palm] company. I know the
history; there existed villages, graveyards that were destroyed by the company.
Who cares if the name [of the company] was PT BDU or PT Asiatic a few years
ago if we can still see durian trees, graveyards…Before the Dutch colonisation,
we already had our villages here. Bahar was the oldest settlement of all.
(Pak Bebas August 2012)

In this statement, some of the frictions, fractions and contradictions in the
construction of a local indigenous identity according to global criteria are revealed: Pak
Bebas self-confidently dissociates himself from the “Kubu” they once were according
to historical sources. He emphasises the SAD similarity with the sedentary majority
population and the “appropriate” lives (in the government’s sense of the term) their
ancestors had led. Paradoxically, by doing so, he inadvertently erases the historical
characteristics of being “Kubu” from which today’s occupiers originally draw their
legitimation of claiming the once forested territory. This also means that the
differences between the SAD and the non-SAD are eradicated and, therefore, the
differences that would grant the SAD the privilege of the special others, the
“indigenous”, are negated.
For Pak Bebas, the social (re-)integration of the marginalised SAD in the national
mainstream society and the acknowledgement of political sovereignty over land are
another goal he wants to achieve. In this context, it does not matter whether the
group’s ancestral villages and settlements were established before, during or after
colonial rule. The SAD’s shared attitude towards the former colonisation when they
resisted by fleeing into the forest seems to be more important. This resistance against
colonisation also unites the SAD with the sedentary majority of the Jambinese
population who actively opposed the Dutch. This explanation given by Pak Bebas also
links the SAD to the nationalistic anti-colonisation rhetoric of the STN.
When I attended a community meeting in the central camp in August 2012, people
were busy installing posters of the young (socialist) president Sukarno (who was
forcibly succeeded by the rightist New Order regime in 1965). He was shown in
military uniform; a slogan against colonialism and for the freedom of the Indonesian
people was written across the picture; beneath was the text: “Let’s practice article 33 of
the 1945 Indonesian constitution”. This article on the national economy and social
welfare states in paragraph (3) that the land, the waters and the natural resources within
shall be under the powers of the state and shall be used to the greatest benefit of the
people. After the ceremonial opening of this meeting, the community was asked to
stand up and sing the “lagu darah juang” (a political battle song challenging the Suharto
regime) with raised left fists.
Anti-colonial rhetoric is an important element in claiming peasants’ rights. It is
beyond the scope of this article to discuss in detail the category of the “peasant” used
in this political context and to distinguish it from a “cultivator” (who, for example,
practices shifting cultivation) or from a (rather entrepreneurial) “farmer”. Nevertheless,
the nomadic Kubu once practiced shifting cultivation, a form of production that
differentiated them from the sedentary peasants who practised intensive wet rice
agriculture. This reclassification of the SAD’s economic activities, and the subsuming
of different livelihood systems under the name of a single mode of production
(“peasants”), facilitates the overcoming of (cultural) differences and the creation of a
single political category – the peasant class. Here again, contradictory and conflicting
versions of history are employed to create a unifying and powerful local identity.
The “peasant” is understood by the STN and in accord with the PRD as a pre-
industrial social and economic category that suffered from various impacts of colonial
oppression and capitalism. In the context of land occupation, being a peasant is
associated with being part of a class struggle against unjust economic conditions. Later
during the meeting, the head of the local STN branch commented on the importance
of supporting the indigenous claims for customary land:
We have to evoke feelings – a feeling of ownership! This is what Pak Bebas said
– this is tanah adat ualyat. In the moment we say this is our customary land, we
are fighting for our customary land which was stolen by PT BDU in 1986 which
then changed its name to PT Asiatic (Asiatic Persada). Today we continue to
come back to our home villages of origin of which we are the heirs. This means,
we say we are getting ready, we prepare ourselves, all we different groups or the
members of the SAD. Because this land is our property (milik kita); we do not
steal or rob it from Asiatic, but we will come back to our villages of origin. We
will set up shelters and huts, and, in the near future, maybe we will build a nice
meeting hall. We will invite all the peasants or SAD groups to set up guard
posts…
By taking up Pak Bebas’ statement, the STN’s speaker also explicitly establishes a
connection between the SAD and the non-indigenous population. The “different
groups” mentioned by the speaker should unite in their struggle for access to land that
was unrightfully taken from them. All the SAD are victims; victims of the Indonesian
state. Pak Dedi (pseudonym), the STN’s speaker, continued:
We do not only fight for our customary land but also for the self-confidence of
the SAD. Ninety-nine per cent of the SAD are illiterate, but the government
does not care, they do not care for the SAD. If the government does not care
about the SAD it is not our fault, but the fault of the government. The SAD
have always been peasants. They just did not have the right technology to
become successful.
(Pak Dedi, STN Jambi)
Conclusion
Land tenure conflicts, such as the SAD 113 versus PT AP case, are the outcome of
struggles over the acknowledgement and allocation of rights, local history, power, and
ideologies; they lead to changing patterns of inequality (Peluso 2012) in respect of land
access and economic welfare. The peculiarity of this case lies in the heterogeneous
composition of the activists whose ideologies, political experience and strategies and,
therefore, also their access to power originally differed. In the course of their fight for
land, which brought these different groups – autochthonous people, landless
immigrants, the STN (and also NGOs) – together, these groups merged, resulting in
what they named as the SAD 113. Their common goal, which eclipsed cultural
differences, is to get access to productive land and receive a tract of land, a plot of oil
palm plantation, as land to allocate and manage according to their own will. Through
the concept of indigeneity, as promoted by international conventions and subsequently
by NGOs, their claims have gained attention and recognition. The Batin Sembilan, not
least through their documented history in the contested area, as I have shown above,
certainly fit the global category of indigenous peoples; they fulfil the criteria as
described by the ILO convention 169 and others. It is the distinction of being
“indigenous” in an international sense that makes them something “special”. However,
the Batin Sembilan are only one part of the SAD 113 Additionally, their marriage
patterns (bilateral descent) which easily allow the integration of “foreigners” promote
anything but boundedness and exclusivity. They allow the alliance with members of
other communities, such as landless immigrants, and support from the STN.
Therefore, other members of the SAD 113 are landless cultivators who sail under the
flag of the peasant movement. These claimants argue on behalf of the national
Indonesian constitution which states in article 33 “that the land, the waters and the
natural resources within shall be under the powers of the state and shall be used to the
greatest benefit of the people”. They understand it as the national citizens’ and,
therefore, everybody’s right to gain access to land for their own use. In the struggle for
land, discourses of indigeneity argue with the distinctiveness of territorialised culture,
often opposing the nation state. The landless peasants’ discourse refers to their rights
as citizens as defined by the state. While applying these discourses of indigenous and
peasant, both seem contradictory at first glance, especially when claiming the same
piece of land, as in the Bahar region. However, these discourses or peasant and tribal
allegories (Tsing 2003) are not necessarily filled by the local activists. The Batin
Sembilan do not want to be indigenous tribal people different from others; they see
themselves, nowadays, as sedentary farmers like others who are not Batin Sembilan,
and as displaying an identical culture. They also expect to gain access to land which will
mostly be planted with the boom crop – oil palms.
Taking into account the international discourses on human rights and indigenous
peoples that acknowledge these minorities as subjects with rights that should be
protected against the laws of the nation state, legal pluralism becomes another
dimension in which customary law is defended against national law. By applying the
global category of indigenous people, the SAD 113 group makes use of it for their
economic empowerment and a strategic positioning. It legitimates not only the
occupation of the plantation, but also the creation and occupation of a third space, one
that is between discourses. The SAD 113 have developed a rhetoric of inclusion
uniting territorialised culture and landless class by explicitly referring to common
citizenship. This leaves room for manoeuvres that do not fit the categories of
indigeneity or of landless peasants, but is an expression of strategies of unification:
Peasants become indigenous and the indigenous are included in the peasant class. This
new identity as a “class of indigenous peasants” makes the Bahar region a new frontier
of land control where national notions and global discourses of land ownership and
property tied to local identities are challenged.
Being Wana, Becoming an “Indigenous People”.
Experimenting with Indigeneity in Central Sulawesi
Tracing the trajectories of indigeneity should be

about enablement and not endless deconstruction.
(Cadena and Starn 2007a:22)
Anna-Teresa Grumblies
Introduction
The often quoted revival of adat (custom or tradition) in Indonesia is closely related to
the international movement of indigenous peoples. The latter invoked the former. The
Wana of Central Sulawesi decided to become indigenous in 2011,1 but did they also
decide to become part of an international movement?
1 While some data here apply more generally to Wana of Central Sulawesi, in the following I am
concentrating on Wana living in and around Taronggo and Salisarao, Kecamatan Bungku Utara,
Morowali. I have carried out fieldwork in this area for a total of about fourteen months, spread over
a period of three years. I am deeply grateful to the members of the Wana communities in that area
for their hospitality and patience, as well as to the residents of Taronggo.
82 Anna-Teresa Grumblies
Wana only recently became involved in the politics of the so-called masyarakat adat
(adat communities) movement.2 The ongoing threat of land loss and forced
resettlement, historically a well-known state of distress for Wana, led to new network-
building with a local NGO from Palu, the province’s capital. This fresh-born relation
initiated a novel form of agency, so far unknown to Wana. The embracement of their
status as masyarakat adat brought with it a new vocabulary and attitude towards their
status as a marginalised people, leading, on the one hand, to what might be called
empowerment, but, on the other hand, causing several new forms of conflict. In this
contribution, I will focus precisely on the politics of becoming masyarakat adat, its
effects and complications, and how its outcome is deeply entangled with the religious
beliefs and experiences of marginalisation. Based on field work conducted before and
after the Wana redefined themselves as masyarakat adat, I will pay special attention to
the dynamics of this change and reveal several complexities of what “empowerment
through indigeneity” can mean.
At its beginning, the global movement of indigenous peoples was mainly formed
in those countries that are dominated today by people of European descent, so-called
settler societies. It was not until the 1990s that the global movement, with its roots in
America and Australia, spread to Asia and Africa. However, the revival of local custom
as a signifying marker of the indigenous people movement in Indonesia was also
inaugurated by specific national processes related to the downfall of the Suharto
regime in 1998 and the concurring democratisation and decentralisation. Furthermore,
historical circumstances forming and extending the meanings of adat added to the
specificity of Indonesia’s indigenous people movement. Last but not least, following
Henley and Davidson (2008), it was the poor conditions under which minority groups
had to face a marginalised standing under the politics of Suharto’s New Order regime.
Due to these reasons, it would be too easy to reduce Indonesia’s adat revival to part of
an indigenous movement that is primarily formed and directed through international
discourse – on the contrary: “the current interest in adat is not just a national offshoot
[…]. The revival also reflects a specifically Indonesian ideological tradition in which
land, community and custom […] provide the normative reference points for political
struggles“ (Henley and Davidson 2008:849). One of the main players in the current
adat movement is AMAN (Aliansi Masyarakat Adat Nusantara), founded in 1999 after
the first nationwide meeting of adat communities in Jakarta. These communities
initiated AMAN out of their experience of marginalisation, for example, in the form of
land loss or forced resettlement, during the Suharto era. With AMAN they formed a
new weapon to fight for their rights, especially land rights, which were neglected and
violated under the New Order regime. Engaging in the masyarakat adat movement and
associating with AMAN or other NGOs triggered new, often conflict-laden, processes,
socio-cultural change and shifting political constellations for these groups. Salisarao
2 I am aware of the fact that it is a critical and in some ways political decision to equate the term
masyarakat adat with “indigenous people”. However, as Acciaioli, for example, has made clear, it is
the term used by activists of the Indonesian movement and underlines its global connections.
Therefore, I will use it in the same way, keeping in mind the inconsistencies and, therefore,
problematics of using both terms as a synonym for each other (Acciaioli 2007:314).
Being Wana, Becoming an “Indigenous People” 83
Wana used the apparatus of the masyarakat adat initiative and entered the movement
for exactly the same reasons: To fight for their land.
Although there were numerous criticisms attacking overly romanticised pictures of
indigenous people tied closely to a pristine idea of the environment, in Central
Sulawesi, as Tania Li has pointed out (2007b), AMAN activists in 2003 were still
defenders of the popular picture of indigenous groups as the often quoted
“ecologically noble savages” (Raymond 2007; Redford 1991). Activists stated,
according to Li, “that there still exist communities in Indonesia living in harmony with
their environment, possessed of indigenous ecological knowledge” (2007b:343).
Furthermore, it was added that indigenous groups were sharing communal land tenure
systems and would rely on independent, democratic forms of traditional autonomy,
thereby portraying “an oasis in the middle of the desert” (Li ibid). In this sense, the
idea of indigenous groups in Indonesia as not only “ecologically noble savages”, but
also “self-organized people” reveals a national context in which the imagination of
indigeneity is closely connected to local or countrywide experiences. For Li, the
indigenous people movement or, better, the masyarakat adat idea
presented […] the direct inverse of everything that was problematic about New
Order development: individualism, greed, ecological destruction, an emphasis
on modernity understood as Westernisation, control by international financial
institutions, burdensome debt, and the loss of national economic, political, and
cultural autonomy glossed as globalisation.
(Li 2007b:343)
Of course, the problem behind these assumptions, in local as well as in international

debates, is complex. While Li speaks about the “difficulty of locating the perfect adat
subject” (Li 2007b), the same accounts for global discourse, where a general definition
of indigenous people is a highly political and tricky issue (see the chapters by Göcke
and Cabrera, this volume; see also Dove 2006; Hodgson 2002; Kuper 2003; Pelican
2009), leaving “anthropologists anxious about the concept” (Dove 2006:194) of
indigeneity itself. This anthropological “over-concern” concerning the definition of
indigeneity led Dove to the following question: “What do we make of the
extraordinary coincidence that anthropology (and the social sciences) began to critique
the concept of indigeneity at the very time that it was being legitimised by mainstream
global organizations like the United Nations and the International Labour
Organization?” (Dove 2007:147-148).
In this essay, I will try, therefore, to avoid a discussion of what the adat movement
means on a national or international scale or in terms of definition. Instead, I will focus
on the “art and politics of being Wana, becoming masyarakat adat”, a phrase I have
borrowed in part from Jane Atkinson, who worked among northern Wana and wrote
the ingenious monograph “The arts and politics of Wana shamanship” (1989), as well
as from Dorothy Hodgson with her recent book on Maasai indigeneity titled “Being
Maasai, becoming indigenous” (2011). In combining these two titles, the current theme
of recent Wana involvement in a movement becomes apparent and makes clear their
ongoing positioning (Hodgson 2011) between culture and discourse.
The debate on indigeneity and, to quote Li, “the discourse of adat is a political
force” (2007b:338). Adat can be an important source of power for historically
marginalised people, as the Wana of Central Sulawesi are. One first must get access to
this political force, however, and then must learn to handle it. It is a force Wana people
did not possess until recently. As swidden farmers living in the uplands of Central
Sulawesi, the Wana are often described as “primitive” people who “better fit the bill”
(Li 2000:162) of the “real indigenous”. They could probably easily be described as a
“perfect adat subject” (see above). However, they were not spotted by the brokers of
the indigenous people’s movement until recently.
The process of reframing their identity, which was based for so long on ethnicity
and religion, to embrace a new identity as indigenous people (Hodgson 2011:3) is
rather a current process whose effects are not fully assessable at this point.
Ethnographic Setting
The Wana ethnic group is located in Central Sulawesi, living in an area covering the
realms of three administrative districts (kabupaten): Morowali, Banggai and Poso. Most
people talking about the Wana ethnic group in Kabupaten Morowali generally refer to
those Wana living in the Cagar Alam Morowali (Nature Reserve) – the largest nature
reserve in Central Sulawesi, covering an area of 225,000 ha of the eastern peninsula.
The anthropologist Michael Alvard describes those Wana living in the upland area of
the Cagar Alam in an article from 2000 as “rather remote” compared to their coastal
neighbours: “They have maintained relative isolation from much of the outside world,
and most adults speak no or very little Indonesian, have little or no interaction with the
cash economy, and maintain a traditional religious belief system” (Alvard 2000b:429).
More than ten years after Alvard’s research, I was confronted with a different picture.
Isolation was still a matter for consideration, but mainly for geographic and
infrastructural reasons. Wana living inside the Cagar Alam frequently visit villages
outside its boundaries, mainly to sell resin or rattan. The resin trade has a long history
for Wana (Atkinson 1989:264) and plays an important part in their current economy,
effecting intense interaction with people outside the nature reserve.
Although the amount of research focusing on the Wana remains low,3 the attention
paid by outsiders towards Wana inside the reserve is noteworthy: A number of tourists,
3 Apart from Jane Atkinson, who did research in the Upper Bongka region, and Michael Alvard, who
conducted research on hunting practices and sustainability among Wana of Posangke (2000a; 2000b),
an M.A. thesis by Cynthia Riccardi (1999) deals with agriculture among the Wana of Kayupoli,
focusing mainly on the documentation of the swidden cycle. Additionally, there are two short articles
by the environmental activist and current governmental representative Jabar Lahadji dealing with
minority rights and the impact of reserve zones on the Wana (1999; 2008). The extensive work by the
Dutch missionary Albert Kruyt, published in 1930, offers highly valuable insights in historical
conditions among the Wana (Kruyt 1930). Regarding literature on my specific research area, there is
Taronggo is located within an ocean of oil palms. Photo: A.-T. Grumblies 2011
tourist guides, a local NGO, documentary filmmakers,4 and anthropologists have

occasionally been visiting Wana within the reserve. Nevertheless, visitors generally
almost never concentrate on Wana living outside the reserve’s borders. One such area
is Salisarao, located east of Kayupoli and south of Posangke (both Wana settlements
within the reserve) and north of the village of Taronggo. Salisarao Wana, although
conveniently located for tourist interest, i.e. only a couple of kilometres hiking upland
from road-accessed Taronggo, have never before been visited by non-Indonesians, nor
do Indonesians pay attention to the area. An informant from Kolonodale told me that
Salisarao Wana were “too modern” for tourist or NGO means and are believed to
“have moved away too far from their ancestors’ way of living”. This is a common
argument tied to the indigeneity discourse, where “the spurious calculus of authenticity
and cultural purity” denies an indigenous status to those who do not fit the
“stereotypical ‘feathers-and-beads’ expectations [and who] often find themselves
stigmatised as ‘half-breeds’, ‘assimilated’, or even ‘imposters’” (Cadena and Starn
2007a:9). My source referred to the opportunity for Wana living outside the reserve’s
borders to be able to engage in a different agricultural system, for example, growing
cash crops, coconut trees or, more recently, cocoa, since the nature reserve’s
only the work by Alvard on the Posangke area; no research has yet been conducted on Salisarao or
Taronggo.
4 The filmmakers Gerard Nougarol and Martine Journet have produced a number of outstanding
documentaries on Wana shamanship, for example, “Indo Pino” (2002) and “Gods and Satans”
(2004).
restrictions do not apply to them. Their involvement in cash crop cultivation and the
decreasing importance of the “traditional” swidden farming cycle has led outsiders,
such as the source in Kolonodale, to come to the conclusion that Salisarao Wana are
less “backward” than their semi-nomadic neighbours within the reserve. Planting cash
crops seems to have a significant impact on perceptions of indigeneity. As Li states for
the Lauje in the Western part of Central Sulawesi, growing cocoa has turned them
from “primitives” into “‘real farmers’ building up a long-term investment”
(2002b:421). Since cocoa has “the lure of modernity” (Li 2002b:421), Salisarao Wana
have become for some, i.e. tourists, their inner-reserve relatives, or, as the source
stated above, too modern.
Marginalisation
For others, however, such as their neighbours living in the lowlands or state officials,
Salisarao Wana still remain in the marginalised stance they experienced even before
colonial times (Atkinson 1979; Kruyt 1930). Explanations can be found in a
multiplicity of reasons, all related to each other and of relevance to the Indonesian adat
discourse. One reason is religious affiliation. According to state ideology, adherence to
one of the six officially recognised “world-religions” functions as a marker of modern
citizenship; religion is further “associated in nationalist culture with education,
cosmopolitan orientation, sophistication, and progress” (Atkinson 1979:688).
Moreover, “Wana failings to match the ideal of a progressive citizenry are summed up
for nationalist Indonesians in the fact that the Wana lack a religion” (Atkinson
1979:688). Most upland Wana have successfully managed to resist conversion attempts
with which they were confronted from the colonial side, lowland neighbour side or
contemporary missionaries. In addition, as Saputra insists: “[H]ome grown animism
has always been given a devil’s image” (Saputra 2012). In this regard, religious
conversion to either Christianity or Islam is an important matter for perceptions of
“civilizatory modernity”, since Taronggo, the geographically closest full administrative
village, is inhabited by an interreligious community, where non-converted Wana, Wana
who have converted to a “world religion”, and other Christians and Muslims live
together.5 In this interreligious context, Atkinson’s analysis of how Wana religion is
shaped alongside this outside pressure, although written long before the downfall of
Suharto’s regime, remains meaningful today: Wana
are acutely aware of and sensitive to the way they are regarded by others more
powerful than themselves. What they call agama [religion] Wana represents a
self-consciously constructed response to the judgments of the dominant society.
5In the following I will use the term Wana from a religious perspective. There are also Christian and
Muslim Wana living in Taronggo, but in this essay, I will apply the term only to those Wana who
have so far resisted religious conversion.
This response builds on the images of what constitutes a religion that the Wana
have received in their dealings with Muslims and Christians.
(Atkinson 1988:53)
Apart from Salisarao Wana’s reliance on their belief, an important aspect distinguishing
between “modern” and “backward” citizens remains the reliance of most Wana on
swidden agriculture, their non-centralised housing situation, their language and their
lack of proficiency of Bahasa Indonesia, the official state language, and their remote
location. Hence, Salisarao Wana can easily be described as an “indigenous group”.
By the time I entered the field in 2010, it seemed that Wana had not heard of the
opportunity of empowerment by claiming status as indigenous people. They presented
themselves to me, the anthropologist, as a marginalised people who had no chance of
overcoming their status. Of course, Wana had and have their own strategies of
resistance, their own “weapons of the weak” to speak with Scott’s words (1985). But
their resistance was a rather subtle notion of “tentative resistance” (Scott 1998:289); it
was an everyday form of boycotting or ignoring government or other institutions that
were disadvantageous to Wana.
Wana in the uplands, as well as Wana living in the interreligious community of
Taronggo, never seemed to openly challenge the government or other oppressors; they
showed no obvious motivation to directly and openly oppose the processes of
marginalisation. Avoidance of direct confrontation seemed to be a historically
congruent matter among Wana.
The Dutch missionary Albert Kruyt, who wrote an early account on the Wana
(1930), and Jane Atkinson came to the conclusion that the Wana were historically
generally rather “shy victims” than heroes:
Timidity [among the Wana] had its roots in the endemic regional warfare of the
nineteenth century. In the regional game of headhunting the Wana were often
the heads, the victims of neighboring peoples [...]. Although the imposition of
Dutch rule in the region at the beginning of this century put an end to raiding, it
inaugurated a new form of local terrorism.
(Atkinson 1989:263)
In this last sentence, Atkinson refers to Wana resettlements forced by the various
governments – a fact already mentioned by Kruyt:
The To Wana have been a much disturbed folk. […] Peace did not become
their share either, when the [Netherlands] government put its powerful hand on
them. In the beginning of the occupation the administrative government
supposed that these shy people would get to know order and law most easily if
they were forced to live near the coast. But the people did not wish that with
the result […] that many patrols of soldiers were sent repeatedly into this land
to draw the people down to the coast. […]
The misery of these people must have been great. Of those who had let
themselves be forced to settle near the coast, many died.
(Kruyt 1930:403-4, translated by A.G.)

Forced resettlements remain a government objective which Wana are all too much
aware of; I will return to this aspect later. Pressure experienced through the colonial
government still plays a major part in historical accounts shared by the Wana today.
Atkinson describes Wana “timidity” as rooted in early warfare activities. Historical
experiences of being disadvantaged during fighting regimes led to an open self-
victimisation: “Wana openly acknowledge their cowardice as a people” (1989:262).
“Timidity” has remained an important point of self-reference, embodied in a self-
marginalisation process deeply entangled with a millenarian cosmological perspective.
In the following section, I will elaborate further on cosmological narratives to
demonstrate why the Wana are reluctant to resist.
Cosmological Narratives
In Wana cosmological narratives, also called katuntu (Wana language, called Bahasa
Taa: BT), it becomes clear how important the current state of marginality is for their
prospective future.6 The Wana see their land as the navel of the world, pusen tana (BT).
Pusen tana is, furthermore, the source of baraka (BT, power), kasugi (BT, wealth) and
pagansani (BT, knowledge). In the past, it is told, there was a golden age, called tempo
baraka (BT) – a time of magical and powerful knowledge when the Wana region was
inhabited by the taw baraka (BT), powerful people. All Wana were able to access and
use these sources of power through, as Atkinson has shown, wali m panto’o (BT),
meaning “the becoming of the word” in Atkinson’s translation (1989:43). One would
just need to close his or her eyes, for example, speak the spell adi adi (BT) and the
wished-for object would appear (see also Atkinson 1989:43). However, in Atkinson’s
words, “the golden age was not to last”. One day, a special group of Wana, the taw
baraka, decided to leave the earth and go to another place at the end of the world.
Their departure ended the golden era. The taw baraka took with them the attributes of
the golden era: power, wealth and knowledge (and, depending on the story-teller,
clothes and/or a book).
Their departure demarcated the end of the Golden Age and opened up a new age
of poverty where “powerful knowledge is no longer a commonplace but limited to a
very few”, and ordinary Wana were left behind, “powerless, poor and limited in their
6 Atkinson (1989:44) calls these stories of a time when wishes would become true katuntu. During my
research, the meaning of katuntu appeared to be extended to all stories of a magical and powerful
past.
access to knowledge” (Atkinson 1989:44). Magical knowledge, wealth or power were

no longer accessible to the Wana people. Therefore, Wana often present themselves
today as a poor and pitiful people, caught in a marginal stance.
Nevertheless, there is hope. The Wana believe that one day, their powerful allies, the
taw baraka, will return to pusen tana and introduce a new Golden Era for them. In the
meantime, it is essential for Wana not to break out of their current state of misery.
Only those Wana who remain in the current powerless state of pity and have not
converted to another religion will be rewarded by the returning taw baraka (see also
Atkinson 1989:44).
In this cultural construction, marginality is cosmologically constituted as a
temporary condition. A breakout is, however, possible with the help of the taw baraka,
expected to come back one day. This explanation becomes crucial for the marginalised
status of the Wana when talking about resistance and empowerment, as I will show in
the following. Furthermore, this condition as pitiful people, continuously displaying
their own people with the words kita taw be’a, meaning something similar to “we are a
stupid people”, is another explanation for Wana “timidity”, or at least for their
reluctance concerning open resistance strategies.7
Organised or open resistance, in accounts told by my informants, was not a matter
of concern in Salisarao or Taronggo meetings. Instead, the refusal to meet with state
officials or missionaries, returning to, staying in or hiding in the upland regions were
the common strategies to deal with outside pressure. Pratt highlights the role of
physical isolation in this relation: “Remoteness, when activated as a force, almost
inevitably translates into difference and a perceived absence of assimilation. It can also
generate a narrative of refusal of a presumed invitation to assimilate” (2007:402).
Nevertheless, this pattern was soon to change. By the year 2011, during my
research stay, the Salisarao Wana were confronted with the danger of land loss and the
urgent pressure from the local government to resettle to a centralised village. These
risky developments inaugurated the process of becoming “indigenous”, or what can
also be called becoming masyarakat adat.
A Chronology of Becoming Indigenous

Similar to many other regions in Indonesia, Central Sulawesi is home to a growing
number of palm oil companies among many others. PT Kurnia Luwuk Sejati, a
national palm oil company from the Eastern part of Central Sulawesi (Luwuk,
Kabupaten Banggai), has continuously bought land in the area around Taronggo,
beginning in 1997/8. Nesting between the mountainous uplands to the north, the
Cagar Alam to the west and partly east, as well as a river and other settlements to the
east, Taronggo today is encapsulated in an oil palm plantation, reaching out from the
south. Seen from above, Taronggo appears like an island in an oil palm ocean.
7 Atkinson refers to the strategy of dealing with pressure from outside in the form of fleeing as more
complex than Kruyt suggested. She points to a more organised form of resistance, also encompassing
the practice of disappearing into the forest, but backed up by leaders who “were thought to have
special access to information about the fate of the Wana land” (1989:319).
Numerous Wana complain that they have been illegitimately disowned from the land
they were holding around Taronggo. False promises by company and local
governments left many Wana without any compensation. As a consequence, available
land had become extremely scarce in the Taronggo area in 2010, though PT Kurnia
had high intentions for expansion. The new target for plantation development was
found in the upland area north of Taronggo: the area of Salisarao.
The company’s and local government’s joint plan became more and more pressing.
More than 100 Wana households were currently located in the approach region of
Salisarao. A new project was formulated for those Wana living in Salisaro: All families
were to be resettled to a new village that was still to be built. The plans were presented
to me by government officials and company affiliates with great enthusiasm, offering
Wana the opportunity to live in a modern setting, a village with road access, a school
and a church. Government and company ignored the fact that Wana living in Salisarao
were not only practicing swidden agriculture on their land, but had also been
successfully planting cocoa for more than 15 years. A resettlement would have made
them landless peasants, left without the opportunity of independent cash crop
cultivation and/or a subsistence economy. Furthermore, road access was not desired
by the community, neither was the construction of a church.
Resettlement programmes in the name of development during the New Order
regime were a common picture in Indonesia, to quote Li’s account from 1999: “[t]he
target group is expected to move from isolation and backwardness to the status of
‘ordinary villagers’ culturally normalised and enmeshed in the regular system of village
administration and national development” (1999:302). Through the resettlement of
Salisarao Wana, government and company would have easily killed two birds with one
stone: Succeeding with the expansion of the plantation (thereby more profit for the
kabupaten) and letting Wana become part of the Indonesian mainstream, making them
“civilized people” with all the attending attributes.
As I mentioned earlier, the Wana have had several historical experiences with
resettlement programmes. Taronggo itself was built as such an action by the Dutch
government at the beginning of the 20th century. At the beginning without success:
Kruyt describes Taronggo as an uninhabited village, a proof of Wana strategies of
resisting resettlement initiatives by the colonial government: “This new village, and all
the other villages that I have visited later on, clearly shows that the To Wana have
remained faithful to their old habit of living scattered on their fields. […] I did not
even meet a dog or chicken in some villages on my journey through this land” (Kruyt
1930:406-7; translation A.G.). Up to today, Wana have more or less silently boycotted
resettlement strategies. A recent resettlement site close to Taronggo, now a part of the
village called Rio Tinto, was built after a landslide in 2007. However, except for a small
Christian group that has settled there and has opened up an orphanage for Wana
people, only two or three Wana families have settled there permanently. Most Wana
have returned to the uplands, leaving behind an abandoned settlement, a witness to
failed resettlement goals.
Nevertheless, this pattern or (successful) strategy of subtle resistance would not
have worked against the new resettlement plan in 2011. The fear of actual land loss
made the situation extremely threatening for Salisarao Wana. How could they defend
themselves against the (as it seemed) overwhelming power of government and

company?
The biggest problem, the Wana stated, was the lack of information about their
rights to their land. When local government and PT Kurnia officials spread the word
that the Wana had no legal ownership of their land or their crops, everyone believed it,
since, and here again I quote Li: “The legal standing of any of these ‘rules’ would
certainly be disputed by legal experts on customary land rights. But in the absence of
countervailing knowledge and support, a headman’s bullying is sufficient to unsettle
villagers who are isolated and unsure of their ground” (Li 2007b:342).
One might argue that the situation after 1998 should look different, with regional
autonomy laws actually strengthening local communities. However, authors such as
Erb et al. argue that decentralisation and regionalism has not always worked in favour
of masyarakat adat who “are still not being given the kind of autonomy that they desire,
to design and arrange their own culture and communities” (2005:150). One example is
the invention of the BPD (village representative body, Badan Perwakilan Desa),
mentioned in the regional autonomy law no. 22 of 1999. This group of people is
supposed to watch over the kepala desa (village head) and to make sure that local
custom and adat is respected and protected; “to make the rules of the desa; to make
sure that the needs and desires of the population are heard; and to make sure that the
local village government acts properly and does its job”.8 By this means, the BPD is an
attempt to put an end to KKN (abbreviation for corruption, collusion and nepotism)
and to guarantee local participation. However, Erb et al. give a warning concerning the
role of the BPD: As a counterpart to the kepala desa, the BPD will remain the target of
the former, who if “he still wants to be involved in corruption, etc., will do his best to
keep control of power in the village and obstruct the BPD” (2005:170). To come to
my point here: The head of the BPD (Ketua BPD) in Taronggo is also the kepala desa’s
father! So much for the end of KKN in Taronggo. What has changed after the end of
the New Order regime is the law, but without access to it (or knowledge about it), the
situation for Salisarao Wana after 1998 had not changed much.
What was needed was legal advice. The Wana searched for this among their, what
I call, “powerful friends”. Let me briefly explain why I chose this, I believe, rather
provocative term. Dorothy Hodgson describes her situation as an anthropologist
entangled in a Maasai indigenous movement with a position as an interlocutor. She
does so to refuse a position as a “collaborator”, as Les Field has argued, in an attempt
to bring together academic working and collaboration with peripheral communities
(Field 1999:195; see also Hodgson 2011:15). Hodgson, however, describes her
situation instead as a:
scholar who shares her ideas and work with Maasai activists and organizations
in ongoing, constructive, and perhaps, even occasionally contentious dialogues
and debates in an effort to inform and shape their policies and practices,
without directly aligning myself with one group or faction of the movement.
(Hodgson 2011:15)
8 Law no. 22, Passage 104. Translation taken from Erb et al. (2005:170).
With this intention, I fully agree with her positioning as an interlocutor, but during my
research it became very clear to me that I was not regarded by my informants as simply
that. The people I met, lived with, engaged in interviews, and so on perceived of me as
a person with significant power – something they lacked substantially while facing the
threat of land loss. It was very clear for them that I would serve as their “powerful
friend” in times of struggle. Aligning myself with one group or one side of the protest
was a decision that I had to make – but it was also already made for me by my Wana
interlocutors.
In the beginning, actual and less subtle resistance started with the idea to make a
signature list signed by all willing members of Salisarao and Taronggo Wana – an idea
for which I was responsible. Of course, I was worried about my own positioning as an
anthropologist, but eventually I was regarded as a person with resources, knowledge
and networks, hence I answered many questions and tried to help with information the
best I could. In the end, the signature list was somehow the beginning of “open” Wana
resistance. What followed were informal gatherings, long discussions with neighbours
about opportunities and chances. Then finally, the local government and PT Kurnia
organised a community meeting with Salisarao Wana, initially planned to happen in the
upland area; but instead, Salisarao Wana pressed for a meeting in lowland Taronggo,
where they hoped for support from their “more educated” village neighbours. Instead
of waiting for the officials to hike up to the mountains, Salisarao Wana hiked down to
meet them in the village community hall. It took a long time waiting for them. It was a
Sunday and the kepala desa, the elected village head, had spontaneously decided to
attend the church service with an unofficial gathering afterwards. The word spread that
he was not brave enough to face his upland citizens within the “realm of the law”.
People believed an upland meeting would have encouraged kepala desa and the
company towards further lies and manipulations. The upland as a realm of the
uncivilised, the primitive, where the state border seems to become blurry and fuzzy,
would have functioned as lawless, thus stateless, hinterland. In the end, the meeting
was helped by the severe delay, and had positive consequences: the plan for the
plantation’s expansion was terminated.
Nevertheless, although the success was celebrated, Salisarao Wana did not trust the
decision. As time passed, more and more people became intimidated by the official’s
“helping hands”. The local head of the company himself told me that the moment I
returned to Germany, the expansion and resettlement plans would immediately restart
again. Therefore, due to the ongoing threat of land loss, the Wana searched for more
“powerful friends”. They found them among the members of the NGO, Yayasan
Merah Putih.
During my research stay, I had once mentioned the NGO, Yayasan Merah Putih,
to my informants. This NGO is located in Palu, Central Sulawesi’s capital, and had
already been working with Wana from the Bulang area on the northern coast of
Central Sulawesi. Among other things, they had helped those Northern Wana to fight a
resettlement plan in that area. Furthermore, they had implemented a special form of
school to promote at least some education for Wana people in the area, the sikola lipu,
named after the local word for Wana settlements. This form of school system is self-
organised by NGO-trained Wana individuals and focuses on basic skills, such as

reading, writing and mathematics.9
I mentioned the NGO and its school only in passing, but the interest it raised
among Salisarao Wana was astonishing. Insufficient education is for Wana people,
another explanation for their marginalisation. Those Wana living in the mountains are
too far away from the village infrastructure to be part of the state school system.
Lowland Wana within the village of Taronggo go to school, but are not very
enthusiastic about it, since both teacher and the curriculum are very oriented towards
Christian values. Praying and singing are regarded as tools to press Wana children
towards religious conversion.
The idea of a Wana school “free from religion” was stuck in many heads and I
noticed my interlocutors often kept discussing this topic until sunrise. Finally, in March
2011, they wrote a short letter to the Yayasan Merah Putih explaining their situation
with the palm oil company and pleading for further help. Three months later, two
Wana were invited to meet with the NGO members in Palu. Meanwhile, in July 2011, I
left for Germany and kept out of the dynamics between the NGO and Wana.
Suddenly Masyarakat Adat

By the time I returned to the field in March 2012, something had changed. I was
welcomed, not by my usual welcome committee, but by “members of a masyarakat
adat”. I had left the field site with the Wana not knowing what the term masyarakat adat
actually meant or how it was connected to the indigenous people’s movement. Wana in
Taronggo and Salisarao had not much of an idea about their rights and how special
their situation was. Similar to other upland groups in Central Sulawesi, they had not
heard about a movement in Indonesia, neither had they heard, at least the vast majority
of them, of AMAN. As Li highlights: “Most Central Sulawesi villagers are not aware of
definitional debates among activists and scholars taking place in the provincial capital
Palu and in other urban centers” (2007b:345). To this point, Wana had not been part
of a political movement of indigenous people, but the new and ongoing interaction
with Yayasan Merah Putih had made them become part of the movement. Suddenly
they were masyarakat adat.
At the time of my return to the field, the enthusiasm of the Wana was great.
Hiking up through the Salisarao mountains, I was surprised to find magazines and
leaflets of various NGOs, information material concerning palm oil and indigenous
groups all over the world in almost every household. Additionally, DVDs on land loss,
environmental degradation and indigenous rights were watched repeatedly in the
village. Numerous Wana had participated in meetings with the NGO, and once, even
the bupati (administrative head of the kabupaten) had welcomed them. At that point, it
seemed that the plan for the plantation’s expansion in the area of Salisarao had been
finally terminated.
9 For a description of Bulang Wana (Kabupaten Tojo Una Una) and their entanglement with YMP,
see the work of Nasution Camang (2003).

Among other things, these new developments had in some ways changed some
people’s impressions of being marginalised. Similar to changes Li had discovered
during interviews she conducted in 2001 and 2003 with her informants claiming to
have “‘learned to talk bravely’ from his NGO allies” (Li 2007b:346), many of my
interlocutors also claimed an improved self-confidence when talking to government
officials or outsiders, using the Indonesian language, “being able to speak to power”
(Jackson and Warren 2005:557); although not always fluent, they did not feel as shy
(mea, BT) as before. Further developments were, for example, that informants stated
they were no longer afraid of the government, but had now experienced how to
behave berani (courageous). They had learned about their rights and stated now to
know how to engage in a discussion with officials. Of course, this was not the same for
all Wana. Those people who were in closer contact with NGO allies evidently profited
the most in terms of how to behave and react in discussions with officials, “belajar
berpolitik”, while others were still very hesitant and reluctant towards the new
processes.
Old and young learners at the sekolah lipu in Salisarao. Photo: A.-T. Grumblies 2012
The most central change came in the form of the so eagerly wished for school sikola
lipu. The NGO had given in to this urgent wish. On a visit to Taronggo, they had
trained six locals as teachers in a two-day workshop. Two of them were sent to Palu
for further training. After that, a group of very enthusiastic Wana had built a large
house in the Salisarao mountains to be used as a school building. Then finally, in April
2012, the first day of the new school started. More than 50 children and around 15
adults arrived, some of them hiking for more than two hours. Scheduled twice or three
times a week, the school functions as an important sign of self-determination for Wana
people. For them, it is part of becoming masyarakat adat. It is part of expressing agency.10
Problems
Nevertheless, the politics of representation were not without any problems. The
process of “being Wana, becoming indigenous” led, on the one hand, to some
empowerment; on the other hand, several new problems occurred. The concept of
masyarakat adat was or is not understood, imagined and used by Wana people in a
uniform way. New sources of knowledge and new “powerful friends” led to new
power constellations. There occurred, for example, a problem between the old leaders
and the new leaders. Wana who had developed closer ties to the NGO and/or now
took a position as a new kind of leader are regarded with a sense of distrust by some
individuals. Their motivations are sometimes unclear to the rest of the community. It
happened that Wana who had travelled to Palu adopted a new language filled with
NGO vocabulary that was incomprehensible for their upland families and produced a
sense of distance.
Furthermore, former leaders, although respected elders, were worried about their
status, as they were now often left out of discussions and informal meetings due to
allegations of corruption. These new developments prompted among some of them a
repositioning towards government officials, while simultaneously functioning as
administrative representatives of the suku (BI, ethnic group) Wana. Tyson notes the
same dynamic: “a return to adat has, in many places, been found to perpetuate
clientelism by creating ‘opportunities for powerful groups to advance their interests in
the name of a revival of distinct traditions’’’ (Tyson 2011:660).
Distrust became, furthermore, a matter of concern related to those teaching at the
sikola lipu. From the Wana side, the teachers, although most of them Wana themselves,
are assumed by some to receive money from the NGO, profiting a great deal from the
school’s institution. This source of jealousy makes the internal solidarity hard to
sustain. The non-Wana community of Taronggo perceives of Wana teachers as a
source of trouble. The common opinion in Taronggo is that the school itself is illegal,
since it has so far not been acknowledged by the state, nor does the curriculum include
religious teachings.
Pressure on teachers is very high, especially on converted Wana teachers, who are
distrusted by non-converted Wana and disapproved of through their Christian or
Muslim community. During the first four weeks of the school’s inauguration, four of
the teachers resigned and were replaced by other, non-trained Wana. Religion,
therefore, remained a matter of concern, although the school was celebrated as a
sekolah tanpa agama, a school without religion. A number of Wana were suspicious of
the school and assumed that there was a Christian or Muslim missionary background
10 In addition, YMP and other NGOs are currently working on a PERDA (Peraturan Daerah), a
regional regulation, for the Kabupaten Morowali, to monitor the protection and recognition of Wana
people and their rights (see also Li 2007b:346).
connected to the school. Wana have historically experienced strong religious pressure
from their neighbours and the government to convert to Christianity or Islam, as
mentioned above. Therefore, many Wana still do not fully trust the NGO – or the
anthropologist – to be free of religious intentions.
Connected to religious concerns, another worry becomes relevant: Some of my
informants were reluctant to become involved in the movement due to cosmological
reasons. Here, I come back to what I introduced at the beginning as the cosmological
grounds of marginalisation. According to Wana belief, breaking out of their current
pitiful condition could make the Wana no longer suitable for the expected Golden Age
predicted in Wana cosmological narratives. Wana who were to become rich and
powerful, even educated, due to their new empowerment, would no longer fit the bill
of the pitiful people who are to be rewarded with salvation by their spiritual friends,
the taw baraka. Some Wana fear they will no longer be proper candidates for the taw
baraka once they have left marginality behind. This consternation leads to further
mixed feelings among upland and lowland Wana towards the new political positioning
as masyarakat adat. Hirtz reminds us that it takes an idea of difference to enter the
indigeneity category, “it takes modern means to become traditional, to be indigenous”
(Hirtz 2003:889). It is this modernity that blocks the way towards salvation.
In this context, another paradox becomes apparent: On the one hand, the solution
to the current problem lies, according to the movement, in the recognition of being
masyarakat adat. This implies, however, recognition of the nation-state as such, but:
“Why should masyarakat adat demand recognition from a state whose claims to
sovereignty they wish to challenge?” (Li 2001:653). Based on this contradictory appeal,
the act of playing by the rule of the state, adopting its strategies, the legitimacy of the
state receives acknowledgment by those who initially had the aim of challenging it (Li
2001; Tyson 2011). The ambivalence of this potential expected to lie behind the idea of
recognition (Tyson 2011:670) is further traceable in the difficulty Wana see in
recognising the state (see above). In their millenarian and experience-based
perspective, recognition of the Indonesian nation-state has never been a goal of Wana
political positioning.
These are just some examples of consequences which occurred entering the
masyarakat adat movement. Becoming indigenous in Taronggo is a highly political
decision and its consequences are, up to this moment, not fully visible. The process of
becoming masyarakat adat saved the Wana from land loss, but led to several new
problematic constellations. The challenges of being recognised as indigenous are
manifold.
Discussion
The process of becoming indigenous not only produced and produces new power
constellations among the Wana, but also interethnically and interreligiously. The new
positioning the Wana have taken is, however, a state of articulation others have made,
or as Li formulates: “Those who demand that their rights to be acknowledged must fill
the places of recognition that others provide” (Li 2001:653). In this respect, their
repositioning closer towards NGO allies gave them the opportunity to resist the
resettlement project, which is a common reason in Indonesia to enter the movement.
It gave them a school to provide education according to their own wishes and needs.
However, it also meant they would become more visible on the political stage. It
further meant they could one day break out of their marginalised status. A status they
need to keep, at least in some sense, to enter their millenarian idea of a new Golden
Era. This has led to serious concern among Wana families living in the uplands.
Wana becoming indigenous is a development exemplary for other groups
becoming part of the indigenous people movement: “Individuals and communities that
have been attracted to the masyarakat adat movement have found there a language, a
sense of solidarity, and a set of allies that have helped them articulate and advance their
claims, especially claims against the state for control over ancestral lands” (Li
2007b:346). They have not, however, suddenly transformed, as Hodgson states for the
Maasai, “from peripheral minority groups with little political recognition or power vis-
à-vis their nation-states to transnational activists with formidable international lobbies
and leverage” (Hodgson 2011:2). Instead, the Wana used an expanding transnational
structure dedicated to strengthening the position of indigenous people and used it for
their own needs. They had not heard much about the adat discourse in the past, the
debate was mainly held in cities and far away from the people it affects. They had no
idea how it could be applied to them or whether they would count as “indigenous”.
Nevertheless, in the fight for their land, it became a tool of resistance and a marker of
a new identity that explained at least part of their marginalisation to them. However, as
I have outlined, the Wana becoming masyarakat adat led to processes of cultural
transformation and social change and its full extent has, to this moment in time, not
yet become assessable.
Cadena and Starn remind us of the global character that underlines indigeneity; for
them it “is a worldwide field of governance, subjectivities, and knowledge […].
Indigeneity itself materializes in an intricate dynamic among converging and competing
agendas, visions, and interests that transpire at local, national, and global levels”
(Cadena and Starn 2007a:12). Albeit indigeneity was and is celebrated by most scholars
and activists as an international movement, the example of the Wana becoming
indigenous reveals, in the first place, the importance of actual local aspirations and
circumstances. Wana had no interest in becoming part of the international or even
national movement or to become recognised as indigenous. Instead, they were in
search of allies, “powerful friends” to help them deal with their concrete situation as
uplander citizens of the Indonesian nation-state that continues to form the political,
economic and social conditions and preconditions in which Wana have to find,
rearrange and formulate their positioning.
The idea of indigeneity in Indonesia emerges through the lure of resisting unequal
power relations. Sangaji concludes from his insider perspective that, in the case of
Central Sulawesi, the masyarakat adat initiative “is in the first place a reaction to
restricted and unjust forms of economic development” (Sangaji 2007:333).
The Wana have become indigenous for the same reasons. Whether the
development initiated was something they had expected or even wished for is a critical
question, the problems stated above testify to the far reaching consequences their
decision had. Pratt reminds us: “The process of becoming indigenous […] does not
end when one acquires the label. It begins there” (Pratt 2007:399). The Wana are no
victims in this movement, however, they are creative agents of their culture who,
against the background of complex and hybrid dynamics and dimensions of
marginality, are constantly renegotiating and reformulating their position as an upland
group. Some use the discursive powers revealed by the politics of becoming masyarakat
adat and turn them to their own use, some will eventually turn away from the label and
return, some in a metaphorical, some in an actual sense, to the uplands, waiting for the
taw baraka, while others will keep on searching for new strategies.
Adat as a Means of Unification and
its Contestation.
The Case of North Halmahera
Serena Müller
Introduction
After the fall of Suharto in 1998, the politics of democratisation and decentralisation
triggered manifold developments with regard to adat and culture in Indonesia. In many
regions, it led to a “revival of adat” (Henley and Davidson 2008) and “new politics of
tradition” (Bubandt 2004). By this time, the Maluku region had experienced tensions
and violent conflicts. In many parts of the region, adat was seen as “the only viable
means for long-term reconciliation, social cohesion, and successful local government”
(Frost 2004:1). Therefore, many efforts were undertaken to strengthen adat and adat
institutions for reconciliation and peace. Bräuchler (2007) analyses two cases in Maluku
and describes the strategies and challenges applied. Although she mentions divergent
perceptions of the relationship between governmental politics and adat, she does not
examine the consequences of an overlap of political authority and endeavours to
strengthen adat. This is the point of entry of my paper. I will analyse the political
authority of the district head of North Halmahera and the way he and his supporters
engage in adat to promote unification and reconciliation among formerly conflicting
parties. The district head’s double role as a representative of the state or dinas and as
adat leader became prominent when he hosted the Fourth Congress (KMAN IV) of
100 Serena Müller
Aliansi Masyarakat Adat Nusantara, the Indigenous Peoples’ Alliance of the

Archipelago (AMAN) in Tobelo in April 2012.
In focusing on the contested character of adat, I will, firstly, briefly portray the key
actors, their background and motivation. In a second step, I will describe and analyse
the currently dominant version of adat and how this version should contribute to
reconciliation and peace. I will, furthermore, show how this dominant version is
contested by another diverse set of actors consisting of adat leaders from different
locations and other public figures. I will argue that adat in North Halmahera indeed has
significant potential for reconciliation, especially the bridging of religious differences.
However, the promotion of a shared adat implies a homogenisation, and takes place at
the expense of the multiple local adat variations and of the migrants excluded from it –
especially those from Java and those belonging to the ethnic minority of the Makean
who are now living in the southern Kao region1.
The district of North Halmahera was established in 2003 as part of the
decentralisation and administrative restructuring of the province of North Maluku
(pemekaran). Its population was about 160,000 people in 2010. While the province is
numerically dominated by Muslims (75%), the majority of the district of North
Halmahera is Protestant (60%).2 The district is divided into four regions.3 My research4
focuses on three of these regions: Kao, located in the south, the territory of Tobelo
town and the region of Galela in the North. Discourses on adat often refer to this
geographic differentiation, as does the analysis of the violence that took place there
between 1999 and 2001: Kao was the region where the conflicts started; the other
regions only became involved later.
Different interpretations of the causes of the conflict were given by scholars in the
aftermath. Brown, Wilson and Hadi (2005:18-19) relate the conflict to the
establishment of the province of North Maluku in October 1999 and, therefore, see it
as a result of the decentralisation policy. The administrative restructuring, as Wilson
argues in another paper, led to violence that was indeed about “territory, natural
resources, and ethnic solidarity”, primarily between migrants from Makean and the
local residents of Pagu, one of the communities in Kao (Wilson 2005:89). A similar
interpretation is given by Braithwaite et al.: They see the ethnic competition between
migrants and the “indigenous population” of the region for “access to justice, access to
compensation and a failure to be heard by government” as the main reason for the
conflict (2010:224-225). Bubandt takes a different stand when he explains the conflict
as the consequence of “the rise of a new politics of tradition” (2004:13), as a
1 The island of Makean was hit by a volcanic eruption in 1975. Therefore, many people migrated to
Kao (Hondt and Sangaji 2011:4).
2 Census 2010 (BPS 2010).
3 “Region” refers to the four areas distinguished by North Halmahera’s government: Tobelo, Kao,
Galela, and Loloda (see also Dinas Pariwisata dan Kebudayaan Kabupaten Halmahera Utara).
4 The field research in North Halmahera between April and May 2012 was part of a research project
on indigeneity in Indonesia in the context of the project on “Cultural heritage between sovereignty of
indigenous groups, the state and international organisations in Indonesia” (directed by Brigitta
Hauser-Schäublin of the Interdisciplinary Research Unit, “The Constitution of Cultural Property”, at
the University of Göttingen, funded by the DFG).
Adat as a Means of Unification and its Contestation 101
competition between Ternate and Tidore, the two sultanates of North Maluku, over
political influence in the newly established province (see also Klinken 2001).
In spite of these diverse interpretations, most authors agree that the conflict had
taken on a religious character, a fight between Christians and Muslims, by the end,
especially in the regions of Tobelo and Galela. As Duncan points out in
“Reconciliation and Revitalization”, an analysis of the revitalisation of adat for
purposes of reconciliation in Tobelo, the community leaders of Tobelo concur. In
their point of view, the weakness of adat in Tobelo made the town vulnerable to
violence (Duncan 2009:1088). Therefore, they initiated a “resurgence of tradition” in
the aftermath of the conflict, because “by strengthening, and in some cases recreating,
adat institutions, they believe they can ensure future peace and stability” (ibid:1091).
The currently dominant version of adat as proposed by a group of powerful Tobelo
actors focuses on the establishment of unity of what is called Hibua Lamo. This means
“big house” in the Tobelo language. It is used as a term for a philosophy and a spatial
and social organisation based on a common adat structure. Thus, it stands for the unity
of ten “indigenous communities”5 in North Halmahera, living in the four regions of
the district. Hibua Lamo is thought to unite the inhabitants of North Halmahera
independent of their religions. People involved in processes of adat strengthening
declare that adat can “rebuild unity and prevent future conflict in the region”
(ibid:1084). It has to be added that the two factions, both the group which is reshaping
and promoting adat as a means of regional integration and unification, as well as its
opponents, are elite people whose discourses have only been adopted or supported by
people in everyday life to a limited extent.
Set of Actors
The “Tobelo Group”
Let me describe the two different sets of actors involved in the negotiations over adat
in North Halmahera.
The first, which I will call the “Tobelo group”, is consciously shaping and creating
a unifying version of adat for the whole of North Halmahera, which they call Hibua
Lamo adat. The central figure is the current district head.
5 The term “indigenous community” is here used as the translation of the Indonesian term masyarakat
adat (see the Introduction by Hauser-Schäublin and the chapter by Arizona and Cahyadi in this
volume). The crucial criterion for becoming “indigenous” is self-identification. Based on this self-
identification some community leaders applied for AMAN membership. As some respondents
emphasised, the ten communities discussed in this chapter were encouraged to take this step by what
I call the “Tobelo group”. The group’s endeavour to promote an encompassing regional adat by
uniting them under the umbrella of Hibua Lamo is strongly interconnected with their membership of
AMAN and engagement in the indigenous discourse.
102 Serena Müller
Jiko Makolano: The district head’s election campaign poster illustrates

the blurred boundaries between the adat and the administrative sphere.
It merges the spatial and social order of Hibua Lamo with the state’s
division of the province. Photo: Serena Müller 2012
He holds an engineering degree and started his political career as the sub-district head
of Tobelo in 2001. After the conflict, the governor of North Maluku had charged him
with re-establishing peaceful relationships between Christian and Muslim factions of
society. This endeavour proved quite difficult: He was faced with rejection and
resistance from both groups in the beginning (Bataona 2009:107-108; Dramastuti
2012:84; Braithwaite et al. 2010:223). Nevertheless, he finally succeeded in encouraging
Muslim refugees on the island of Morotai to return to Tobelo, and convinced the two
parties in the conflict to sign a peace declaration in April 2001. In 2005, two years after
North Halmahera became a district of its own, the sub-district head was elected as
district head. He is not only politically important, but also active and respected in the
local branch of the Evangelical Church, the Gereja Masehi Injili di Halmahera (GMIH).
Adat, for him, is the only collective resource powerful enough to overcome the
religious differences. This conviction is obvious in all his social and political
engagements: He gives speeches in the Tobelo language, wears traditional costumes
and integrates traditional dances and music in public appearances, and always strives to
act as a role model in implementing adat values. Because of his deep commitment to
adat, he was appointed as Jiko Makolano (“Ruler of the Bay”), as “guardian and
protector” of the region (Papilaya 2012:1) in 2005; as jiko makolano, he is regarded as
the highest adat leader of the regional unity of Hibua Lamo (see below). He is seen as an
integrative figure (pola anutan), source of inspiration (sumber inspirasi) and guardian
(pengayom) (Namotemo 2009:11). He “structured adat institutions” (kelembagaan adat)
and “made publicly known and actualised institutions” of Hibua Lamo culture (budaya)
(Papilaya 2012:89).6 He then documented further institutions of this encompassing
Hibua Lamo adat structure and began with their establishment. In 2012, after KMAN
IV was successfully held in Tobelo, the district head was elected head of the National
Council of AMAN.7
The district head closely consults and collaborates with a local adat activist in these
activities. He works as a “special advisor on Tobelo adat issues”, as Duncan has
expressed his tasks in English (2009:1093). The advisor’s parents were both craftsmen
producing local handicrafts and educated him with an awareness of adat and culture.
He, also an engineer, had founded dance and music groups since the 1980s in order to
promote cultural practices and to further pride in local adat. The advisor is interested in
local history and culture, continuously searches for North Halmahera’s adat roots,
forms and histories, and has published on these issues as well. He teaches social and
cultural anthropology, with special reference to local customs and tradition, at the
Padamara, a college established in Tobelo after the conflict in order to facilitate a
harmonious and peaceful North Halmahera. For this purpose, the college explicitly
focuses on the inclusion and transmission of local knowledge in its “development-
oriented education”.8 The adat advisor is engaged in the promotion and dissemination
of adat, both by dance and music performances, as well as ceremonies, which he
organises for the district head. He designed the monument for KMAN IV held in
Tobelo in 2012 and was in charge of the opening ceremony as well as the inauguration
of AMAN’s head and its national council.9 He also designed his own house in a style
6 These are only two out of eight important roles (peran) of the district head mentioned in “Kharisma
Hibua Lamo”, a book paying tribute to his charismatic leadership and appreciating his merits in the
establishment of Hibua Lamo as a uniting element in North Halmahera (Papilaya 2012:87).
7 This council is called Dewan AMAN Nasional (DAMANNAS). Together with the Secretary-General
(Sekjen), the highest representative of AMAN, the council functions as the highest decision-making
body for the alliance (see AMAN 2012c).
8 For further information on the college’s history and aims see the college’s website (Admin
poltekpadamara) (2012).
9 The monument “O libuku iata ma akere” (empat penjuru mata air, the four directions of the springs of
water) consists of an octagonal basin and four stairs leading up to a second circular shaped basin with
four pillars on top. The construction of the stairs alludes to the four cardinal directions fundamental
to North Halmahera’s philosophy. During the congress a “ritual of the archipelagic waters” (Ritual
Air Nusantara) took place. For this purpose, indigenous delegates had brought water from well-
springs located in their communities’ ancestral territory. These waters were merged in the monument.
This is meant to symbolise the unification of indigenous endeavours into a more promising nation-
wide struggle for indigenous rights and recognition.
104 Serena Müller
he classifies as traditional.10 As it is constructed around a big open space, it can be used

for meetings, such as workshops during KMAN IV. The position as an adat activist is
complemented by his membership of North Halmahera’s parliament.11
The monument Air Nusantara in Tobelo. Holy water from all over Indonesia was merged in
the monument during the opening ceremony of KMAN IV in April 2012. Tobelo activists
borrowed from Hibua Lamo philosophy in its construction, especially the importance of the
number eight and the cardinal points. Photo: Serena Müller 2012
Besides these two key actors, the Tobelo group comprises only a handful of other
people. Almost all of them are Christians. Further members are, for example, the
district head’s wife, pastors, adat leaders, an expert in the Tobelo language, the owner
of a local newspaper, and the head of the Department of Culture and Tourism.
Thus, they are affiliated with very different social institutions and fill important
positions in the administrative, religious and academic fields. They all share a common
interest in cultural issues and strive to make adat an important issue in the public and
private life of North Halmahera’s population. United by this shared motivation, their
endeavours are organised and coordinated: They promote the discourse on adat by
10 He used the octagonal form and equipped it with cultural emblems and symbols. He used red and
yellow/gold very lavishly to symbolise the struggle and fame of the kings and simultaneously
prosperity of the society. Furthermore, he decorated it with the salawaku, the traditional shield,
symbolising skilfulness, heroism and peace (Papilaya 2012:51).
11 He was member of North Halmahera’s parliament as a representative of the Golkar party until he,
the district head’s wife and another person active in adat strengthening in North Halmahera, were
accused of having violated party bylaws and replaced by Golkar in March 2013 prior to the election
of the governor (Marsaoly 2013). The district head (also Golkar) ran for Governor in this election as
an independent candidate, although Golkar had officially nominated another person (Sidik 2013).
conducting meetings and publishing books on adat-related issues. The Tobelo group
sees culture and adat as a modernising interpretation of the past; they also acknowledge
their personal involvement in the shaping of adat performances and in material objects.
However, these actors differ in their perspective on the relationship between political-
administrative and adat affairs: Whereas the district head underlines that it is impossible
to distinguish between these spheres as he performs both roles simultaneously, his adat
advisor is critical of this merging of roles and highlights the dangers of adat being spoilt
by politics. The latter’s call for a strict separation of these roles is supported by other
members of the Tobelo group.
“Hibua Lamo Critics”

The second set of people, whom I will call “Hibua Lamo critics”, has one important
role in common: They all function as contacts and representatives of their
communities with the Tobelo group. Therefore, they are invited to and attend
meetings organised by the Tobelo faction on issues of North Halmahera’s adat. Some
are invited because of their leading positions in adat structure, which is acknowledged
by their community. Others are civil servants, and thereby, the district head’s direct
subordinates, and are appointed by their superior as a “coordinator” of their particular
community. They are, therefore, neither representatives of, nor legitimised by, their
communities to speak or decide on adat issues. Consequently, they cannot make
decisions on behalf of their communities and do not feel comfortable in their position.
This is especially so as, in some cases, there are incongruities between the local
delineation and composition of the community and the boundaries as defined by the
Tobelo group. This applies particularly to Galela in the north. Hibua Lamo critics are
scattered in the regions of Kao and Galela. They are quite diverse in their perspectives,
motivations and aims and less organised than the Tobelo group.
The Hibua Lamo critics I met are sub-district heads, adat leaders as well as religious
authorities; accordingly, they are also situated at the intersection between dinas, adat and
agama (religion). Although they have been involved in the process by the Tobelo group,
they are critical of the developments in recent years. One major point especially
mentioned by representatives from Kao is that they reject the religious interpretation
of the conflict from 1999-2001 as promoted by the Tobelo district head and his
supporters. Instead, they emphasise ethnic causes and struggles over territory and
natural resources in the course of administrative restructuring. However, in contrast to
Kao, representatives from Galela follow the Tobelo group’s religious interpretation of
the conflict and share their perception of adat as a bridging force. Thus, they share
Tobelo’s perception of the importance of adat. However, they refuse their efforts to
homogenise local articulations of adat and demand respect for diversity and each
community’s particularities.
All critics from Galela and Kao criticise and refuse modernised forms of adat.
Many of them are adat leaders and are, therefore, interested in and knowledgeable
about what they regard as traditional adat ceremonies, manifestations and forms. They
consider themselves the “true experts” (in adat) and claim to hold knowledge on
“authentic” adat. Hibua Lamo critics stress rather the importance of the originality of
106 Serena Müller
adat forms, such as costumes, and underline diversity rather than uniformity of adat as
promoted by the Tobelo group. The critics also refuse modernisation and active (re-)
creation or “adjustment to present-day necessities”, such as the use of cement in the
construction of traditional houses or the accommodation of adat costumes to “office
needs”, as it is propagated by the Tobelo group. Some of them recognise change as an
inevitable process, but reject its deliberate creating and shaping.
Generally, Hibua Lamo critics agree with Tobelo activists that adat in Tobelo itself
has almost disappeared, whereas it is still quite lively and visible in the regions outside
town, especially in Kao. However, in their opinion, activists should draw on extant
forms when strengthening adat. In this context, each community regards its own adat
as the most original, most authentic one. Hibua Lamo critics admit that Tobelo activists
visited, for example, the region of Kao to learn about adat in the aftermath of the
conflict; but they feel that the adat implemented does not really draw on these visits
and find themselves misquoted in publications. Some of these critics even speak of
adat as “made up” (dibuat) and “invention” (rekayasa) by the Tobelo group and accuse
them of “lying” and creating “myths” that are not “real” history.
This modernised adat is often criticised for its “Tobelo centredness”. The Hibua
Lamo critics blame the Tobelo group for authoritarian behaviour, enforcing an
expansion of Tobelo adat by interfering in the internal affairs of other communities
and attempts to erase non-Tobelo communities’ histories and wipe out their identities.
This perception is strong, as Tobelo’s role as a focus of adat strengthening is fused
with its position as a political-administrative centre. Whereas the Tobelo group is
divided over the relation between governmental politics (dinas) and adat, Hibua Lamo
critics agree on the necessity of carefully separating these spheres. It is difficult for
them to see the synergies and positive effects of the double role of the district head.
Most of the Hibua Lamo critics hold adat in high esteem and fear, therefore, that adat
will be subordinated to governmental-political affairs or personal interests.
Adat to Overcome Religious Tensions

When talking about Hibua Lamo, Tobelo activists refer to the different meanings of the
word. The first is the literal translation of the Tobelo word as “big house”, and refers
to the traditional communal meeting house. The second one is a more metaphoric
understanding of Hibua Lamo as a local philosophy and system of values – something
that is inscribed in every Hibua Lamo member’s heart (Papilaya 2012:39-40). Related to
this, Hibua Lamo, in its third connotation, refers to a social and spatial organisation
based on this philosophy.12
The house, therefore, is essential to the understanding of adat as a uniting force in
North Halmahera. As Platenkamp analysed, in Tobelo, a house unites people of a
common origin on a particular territory, endowing the members with a shared identity
12According to scholars, Hibua Lamo or, in his former spelling, Saboea lamo (Campen 1883:309, cit. in
Platenkamp 1993:69) or Laboewah-lamo (Aantekeningen 1856:224, cit. ibid) is also rendered as the
name of one of the communities residing at Lake Lina (Platenkamp 1993:69, ibid 1988:129; Leirissa
1990:126). Today, this community is identified with the hoana Gura.
(1990:77). When Tobelo activists called for a strengthening of adat with its potential to
overcome religious differences and unite people of different origins after the conflict,
they advocated Hibua Lamo, seeing it metaphorically and physically as a house that
creates a shared identity and a unity. The district head comments that the suitable
approach to establish a feeling of solidarity
[…] is to re-establish mutual trust between local residents and establish a feeling
of brotherhood and peace, because greed and suffering will not outdo love and
the consciousness of brotherhood, of being of one blood and of one family in
Tobelo, in this territory.
(Papilaya 2012:21; transl. S.M.)
Therefore, for him, it is the call of an “upright consciousness” to resurrect Hibua Lamo
culture (budaya) that is “about to moulder if one does not make it blossom”. This
culture will create unity while also recognising and appreciating the existence of
differences (district head in Papilaya 2012:22; transl. S.M.).
Hibua Lamo as Philosophy

As briefly mentioned, Hibua Lamo literally means “big house”. The form and function
of the traditional communal house in North Halmahera constitute the framework of
the Hibua Lamo philosophy. There are two important features of a communal house in
North Halmahera: One is the large shared centre of the house which constitutes a
space for communication, interaction and conflict resolution for all families living in
the different wings attached to the house (Duncan 2009:1088-1089). The second
important feature is its octagonal form and the openness resulting from an absence of
walls, symbolising openness in all cardinal directions (Papilaya 2012:41).
This philosophy also has two facets: On the one hand, “Hibua Lamo is understood
to function as a glue, a means of development and a force to unite spirits and bodies
for communal prosperity” (ibid:42; transl. S.M.) and, therefore, create a unity of Hibua
Lamo people who share one common origin. On the other hand, Hibua Lamo is
described as being able to incorporate people from outside into the community. The
adat advisor stated that everybody is invited to the community like the wind that can
enter the house from every direction. Everybody coming to the house or community is
to be regarded as saudara, sibling, regardless of their religious, ethnic or cultural
background, and every guest is to be treated like royalty. Thus, a spirit of “solidarity,
familiarity, kinship, equality, and mutual respect” is created, both with people of the
same origin and with migrants living in the region (ibid:27). Hibua Lamo philosophy is a
bearer of “love, truth, wisdom, and benevolence. The ancestors of Hibua Lamo have
transmitted it to their descendants. It functions as a bearer of wisdom, as identity and
universal blessing” (ibid:28; transl. S.M.).
108 Serena Müller
Hibua Lamo philosophy, as it existed in the past and manifested itself as a cultural
practice, has been transmitted orally. Since, according to the Tobelo group, adat had
almost ceased to exist prior to the conflict, knowledge about values and their practical
implementation had also receded in importance. Therefore, the Tobelo group strives
for a reactivation of awareness of adat. They convey the philosophy of Hibua Lamo and
its inherent values to North Halmahera’s population in two ways: by publications and
by enactment. The district head favours the latter means of transmission. He
underlines the fluidity of the concept and the process necessary to come to an
encompassing understanding. He stated in an interview that he continues to become
aware of new values to be added to the core of the philosophy. Therefore, he resists
giving lectures or writing about it, but he tries himself to become a model and
inspiration for others through his public behaviour. He presents himself as an
embodiment of Hibua Lamo values and behaviour. He hopes that more and more
people will follow his example and act with patience, respect and humility. In his
function as the host and moderator of KMAN IV in Tobelo in April 2012, he
successfully soothed the participants’ emotions in many sessions by reminding people
of “adat behaviour”, by deploying his charisma and by just being calm himself.
Although he led the congress as district head and adat leader, he also served guests by
providing beverages, cleaning the floor of rubbish and equipping speakers with
microphones. By doing so, he enacted the basic “ideologies” of simplicity
(kesederhanaan) and honour (kehormatan) and gave an example of the fundamental values
of Hibua Lamo philosophy.
These values are further described in the Tobelo group’s publications as affection
(kasih saying), truth and justice (kebenaran and keadilan), sincerity and concern/
compassion (ketulusan and kepedulian), and mutual assistance (kepelayanan), and
partnership or unity (persekutuan). This kind of documentation constitutes the second
strategy that is employed to convey Hibua Lamo philosophy and values to community
members. In creating it, members of the Tobelo group break down the “universal”
philosophy of Hibua Lamo and carefully select specific values and guiding principles
which they consider crucial for adequate everyday behaviour. The results are published
in co-operation with the local government.13 This documentation focuses on the
intellectual understanding and direct dissemination of the philosophy. It both
complements the district head’s way of bringing adat into public view, and, in its
codifying character, also opposes his perception of Hibua Lamo philosophy as
something that one can only understand incrementally over a period of years.
The Hibua Lamo critics neither explicitly use the term Hibua Lamo philosophy, nor
do they analytically differentiate between values, ideology and principles, as the Tobelo
group does. They just speak of adat. Adat, in their opinion, is a guideline for everyday
life and social interactions and embodies values. Here, their views show similarities
with the district head’s perception of “behaving as adat people do”. When asked about
13 The most prominent examples are Banari’s paper on cultural values, Kuat’s publication on adat
values and their implication in North Halmahera (both published in Duan (2009), a book
documenting the close connection between the district head and Hibua Lamo) and Papilaya’s
explanations (2012:27-43).
guiding values, they refer to similar concepts as those highlighted by the Tobelo group.
All adat leaders underline the importance of mutual appreciation and respect, as well as
politeness and familiarity, as fundamental values in their respective communities; they
even invoke the same examples of the implementation of these values in everyday life.
In line with their criticism of Tobelo centredness and their perception of having the
most original and authentic culture, most Hibua Lamo critics refer only to their own
communities’ values. They rarely refer to similarities in philosophy which they might
share with other communities, and sometimes even describe their values as particularly
outstanding. With regard to the implementation of values in daily life, most critics
agree with Tobelo activists that awareness of adat has declined in times of
“modernisation”. Therefore, they state that families and schools should play a crucial
role in transmitting these values to the younger generation as they are necessary for
harmonious social interaction. Here, the Hibua Lamo critics advocate the more
intensive teaching of muatan lokal, a school subject in which the students are taught
“local contents” (such as local language and customs). In their opinion, this can
become a means to transmit each particular community’s values, history and language
to children and, thus, maintain them as an integral part of their identity.
Hibua Lamo as Regional Unity14

According to the Tobelo group, Hibua Lamo, as a regional and social entity, unites ten
indigenous communities or hoana in the “big house” of North Halmahera. The Tobelo
word hoana has a range of meanings: It can refer to descent, a community, an ethnic
group, or just to residents of a particular territory. Four of these ten hoana are located
in Tobelo town, two in the regions north of the town (Galela and Loloda) and four in
the southern region of Kao. Accordingly, the definition of a hoana, its internal
constitution and its boundaries vary. According to the Tobelo group’s understanding,
belonging to a hoana in Tobelo town is defined by origin and, thus, descent, whereas
for Galela and Kao, they define membership by residence in a particular territory.
The suggested unity of these ten hoana derives from a shared historical origin. Their
ancestors once settled together at Lake Lina, south of Tobelo town. In the course of
history, they moved away because of changing living conditions, natural disasters and
internal social conflicts, settling in different places in North Halmahera and creating
new communities. The Tobelo group seeks to trace and write down this history of
fissions and expansion by referring to academic sources and oral histories.15 Above all,
Hibua Lamo is meant to promote peaceful relations in North Halmahera. Today, Hibua
Lamo is more or less geographically congruent with the district of North Halmahera.
The unity of Hibua Lamo is reinforced by common adat institutions and an adat leader
representing all ten hoana at the top of the hierarchy: the jiko makolano (“Ruler of the
Bay”). Today, the district head holds this title. Historically the term refers to a chief of
a political domain or a “district” rather than an adat leader, since this title was given to
well-deserving officials by the sultan of Ternate in order to ensure the loyalty of the
14The Tobelo group often refers to the unity as “hoana ngimoi”, “ten hoana”.
15The common origin at Lake Lina and their dispersal up to the current partition into ten hoana is
documented in Papilaya 2012:53-59 and Yesaya B. et al. 2012.
110 Serena Müller
chief and his community (Fraassen 1980:90; Duncan 2009:1092). The title had been
obsolete for a long time but was brought back into use after an old woman had the
revelation that the jiko makolano would return in the person of the current district head.
In 2013, he established an adat court and its members were appointed.16 They were
tasked with formulating adat regulations and functioning as an organ of jurisdiction.17
Complementary to this encompassing Hibua Lamo structure, Tobelo activists pushed
forward the strengthening of internal adat institutions in each hoana. This re-
establishing and revitalisation of adat structures was especially urged upon the
communities prior to the KMAN IV in April 2012.
It is precisely this spatial and social unity of Hibua Lamo that is controversial for
Hibua Lamo critics. Although some of them acknowledge and respect endeavours to
apply adat as a bridging force, most of them deny an encompassing spatial and social
unity and refuse to acknowledge its importance for unification. The most contested
elements are the common origin from Lake Lina, as suggested by the Tobelo group,
the classification into hoana, the position of an encompassing adat leader, jiko makolano,
and, last but not least, the filling of this position by the district head.
Both Galela and Kao representatives deny their descent from Lake Lina. Most of them
argue on behalf of oral histories or with reference to the works of Adnan Amal (2010a;
2010b), a Galela-born lawyer who published on Maluku’s history, to counter the
Tobelo group’s version of history. The most sophisticated endeavour was undertaken
by activists from Galela, who initiated a meeting of respected adat leaders to discuss
the Galela people’s origin. With the support of a social scientist teaching in
Yogyakarta, the outcome of the discussion was combined with an interpretation of
academic writings (both local and international) in a paper explicitly challenging the
Tobelo activists’ publications (Anonymous ca. 2012).
Critics from Galela and Kao also contest the naming of the ten communities as
“hoana”. Prior to registration in AMAN, every group used its own particular
terminology both to conceptualise and to name the community. However, in order to
create unity, administratively and in other ways, the Tobelo group, as the initiating
force18 of AMAN membership, started to establish hoana as a common term for all
communities.
Hibua Lamo critics, by disclaiming common origin, also challenge the unity of the
ten hoana. They prefer to position themselves as partners (mitra) rather than members
of Hibua Lamo in the sense of the Tobelo group. An interviewee from Kao maintained
16See Dinas Pariwisata dan Kebudayaan Kabupaten Halmahera Utara 2013a.

17See Dinas Pariwisata dan Kebudayaan Kabupaten Halmahera Utara 2013b. Notably, this
establishment is legitimised by a district head’s decree (430/132/HU/2013) and, therefore,
undertaken in his function as part of state administration and not primarily as adat leader.
18 AMAN membership of indigenous communities located in North Halmahera was initiated
primarily by the district head’s adat advisor, who got in contact with Jaringan Baileo Maluku, a
Maluku-based network committed to the struggle for indigenous rights, the recognition of adat
institutions and community development. Presently, AMAN engagement is restricted to Tobelo
groups and the community of Pagu, which established close relationships with the provincial and
national offices of AMAN independently of Tobelo and is focusing on reclaiming its ancestral
territory that is used by a gold mine.
that the four communities in Kao indeed constitute a unity of their own. He argued
that they were once under the reign of the Sultan of Ternate who appointed one
official, a particular jiko makoano, for the region of Kao. Kao should, therefore, relate as
a partner to Tobelo and, similarly, both jiko mako(l)anos should be equal (setara) to each
other. Kao representatives also reject the term hoana, and some, furthermore, even the
names for their communities or the translation and historical explanation of these
names. Their self-identification contradicts the identification by Tobelo activists. This
leads to a perception that they are neither equal members in Hibua Lamo nor equal
partners with Tobelo groups. Instead, their histories and, thus, their identifications are
marginalised or neglected.
The Hibua Lamo critics from Galela argue differently, but with the same outcome.
For them, the difference in language is the most important indicator of the differing
origins of Galela and Tobelo people (Anonymous ca. 2012:44). Furthermore, they state
that their own concept of a communal house is bangsaha and not Hibua Lamo.
Nevertheless, they concede that they are living in North Halmahera and, therefore, in
the area that the Tobelo group defines as that of Hibua Lamo; but they insist that they
do not belong to Hibua Lamo. They say that Galela/Loloda does not consist of two
hoana but of two doku19 whose boundaries are not congruent with those defined by the
Tobelo group. This also explains why the Galela communities were often represented
in Hibua Lamo meetings of the ten hoana by sub-district heads who were appointed as
hoana coordinators and not by adat elders or leaders. Therefore – like Kao – they
consider themselves not as members of Hibua Lamo, but as autonomous partners.
Critics from both regions also reject the idea that they live in the realm of an
encompassing jiko makolano or are his subjects. They accept the district head’s
administrative authority, but refuse his claim of adat leadership that will “evolve a
hegemony of one group over another that is, due to historical circumstances, in a
politically weaker position” (Anonymous ca. 2012:45; transl. S.M.). Some do this by
challenging the historical evidence of such a title; others with reference to Tobelo
lacking a bay – an argument countered by Tobelo activists by hinting to North
Halmahera’s shape of a bay. Many critics fear Tobelo’s political supremacy and their
subordination to its definition of adat domains.
Hibua Lamo’s Material Expressions

The third element of Hibua Lamo adat I analyse is adat in its materialised form. Tobelo
activists regard these manifestations as essential for the promotion of Hibua Lamo adat.
In “Kharisma Hibua Lamo” they highlight the development of the cultural facilities
(pembangunan fasilitas budaya) pushed forward by the district head, such as the communal
house and their “Batik Hibua Lamo”, as one out of eight important steps in his
charismatic leadership to strengthen adat (Papilaya 2012:87).
The decision to build a communal house in Tobelo town was one of the Tobelo
activists’ first steps to promote adat. As mentioned above, the term for the traditional
communal house “Hibua Lamo” stands for many different things, including a
19 Others speak of soa. These different perceptions exemplify the contestation and space for
interpretation.
112 Serena Müller
communal house as well as a philosophy. Tobelo’s communal house, inaugurated in

2007, was meant to integrate these dimensions and become a place for meetings and
conflict mediation in order to promote peaceful coexistence. Today, the communal
house functions as a venue for carrying out “traditional ceremonies” (upacara adat) and
“meetings of leaders with their people”. It is a symbol of “unity and reconciliation”
(Dinas Pariwisata dan Kebudayaan Kabupaten Halmahera Utara.). In one of their
publications, the Tobelo group explains the house as a “symbol of kinship
(kekerabatan), a meeting centre and a place to honour Hibua Lamo values, the spiritual
values they inherited from their ancestors (leluhur)” (Tobelo Post 2009; transl. S.M.).
The house is constructed in a traditional way and draws on a few examples still
existing, such as the one on Kakara, a small island off the coast of Tobelo, which is
regarded as one of the adat strongholds of Hibua Lamo. It has an octagonal floor area
and, thus, adopts a fundamental architectural feature shared by different hoana in Hibua
Lamo (Namotemo 2009:19). The newly built communal house in Tobelo has been
adjusted to present-day circumstances, as it should function as the communal house of
all Hibua Lamo communities and enable meetings of North Halmahera’s inhabitants. In
contrast to its historical model, it has exterior walls. It has four entrances, in order to
be congruent with the value of openness as the elementary feature of Hibua Lamo
philosophy, one in each cardinal direction. Moreover, it has been furnished in a
modern style (Papilaya 2012:42).
Meanwhile, the “Hibua Lamo” in the centre of Tobelo town has also become a
tourist attraction with the tourist information centre next to it. Its importance is
further highlighted by the fact that the government of North Halmahera decided to
make it the emblem of the district.
For Tobelo activists, the communal house in Tobelo, constructed in the centre of
Hibua Lamo territory, should occupy a special emotional place in the heart of Hibua
Lamo people, too. However, Hibua Lamo critics rarely refer to the function of the
communal house spontaneously. As it is located in Tobelo town, they say, its
importance is restricted only to Tobelo. When asked about the architecture of the
building, the Hibua Lamo critics elaborate on regional differences in style and, most
notably, disapprove of its modifications for practical purposes.
Conclusions
The analysis above examines the shaping and deployment of adat by a charismatic
Tobelo leader and his supporters as a means to unite people of different religious
affiliations. In a period of only ten years, a broad knowledge and understanding of
Hibua Lamo both as a philosophy, a system of values and a form of spatial and social
organisation has been established among the inhabitants of North Halmahera. This
shared knowledge and understanding is based on a narrative of common origin and
shared traditions and rituals. The most important event is the annual celebration and
commemoration on April 19 of the Peace Declaration of 2001. This declaration
marked the onset of an intensified promotion of adat and, thus, is a constitutive
moment in Hibua Lamo’s recent history. Since 2007, this date is marked as HUT
Hibualamo, as the birthday of Hibua Lamo20, and celebrated with a parade through
town, cultural festivals and competitions.21 This yearly commemoration reminds North
Halmahera’s population of the violence that has recently shaken the region and
simultaneously highlights the importance of Hibua Lamo adat for living peacefully
together.
Rehearsal ritual: Revitalised rituals are an important element of Tobelo activists’ endeavours
to strengthen adat. These ceremonies are often arranged by the district head’s adat advisor.
The picture shows the traditional war dance called cakalele that is performed with a spear and
a salawaku, a shield. The rehearsal shown here is for a ritual that had not been performed for
decades; it took place in May 2012 with great media attendance. Photo: Serena Müller 2012
Endeavours to strengthen adat and promote a common identity and history of Hibua
Lamo require negotiation, selection and emphasis upon certain elements and variant
forms of adat over others. Different interpretations express particular actors’ interests
and motivations. The negotiation and especially the contested character of Hibua Lamo
unveil different perceptions of the connection between the political-administrative
domain (dinas) and adat and of the legitimate authority to talk about, define and enact
adat. Most representatives of the Tobelo group perceive adat as flexible and dynamic.
For them, adat is constantly transformed and can be or has to be actively adjusted to
20 The communal house in Tobelo was inaugurated on April 19, 2007. The birthday, thus, primarily
refers to the communal house, but by linguistic sameness also to the establishment of Hibua Lamo as
a regional unity.
21 In 2012, the date was chosen intentionally as the day for the opening of the KMAN IV. In 2011, a
parade showing Hibua Lamo’s diversity was organised and a Hibua Lamo cultural festival is held almost
every year (2008, 2010, 2011, and 2013).
114 Serena Müller
changing conditions. Critics of this perspective refer to another concept of adat.

According to them, adat is something static, “traditional” and has to be “authentic”.
Therefore, they demand historic evidence of adat symbols, institutions and common
history. In general, they reject active, goal-oriented intervention.
The economic, political, and symbolic resources available to actors in negotiations
are distributed unequally. Members of the Tobelo group are embedded in the state-
administrative as well as in the adat domains. Thus, they draw on governmental and
other public resources to carry out research on adat-related issues and history, hold
discussions and meetings, promote the results of these meetings as an “official”
version of adat and history, and disseminate it throughout North Halmahera. This
powerful position facilitates a quick dissemination of Hibua Lamo philosophy and
unity. Several Hibua Lamo critics are also civil servants, though subordinate to the
district head in rank, and, in general, because of their rural location. They are,
therefore, in a less powerful position in these negotiations and face difficulties in
making their voices heard; they feel disrespected. The powerful implementation and
greater visibility of the Tobelo group’s adat endeavours is perceived as an attempt to
create an adat hegemony in North Halmahera by critics (Anonymous ca. 2012:45) with
its centre in Tobelo town and a rural periphery.
Most critics do not challenge the district head’s authority as an elected
representative in the state administration, but they criticise the unclear distinction
between his two roles in adat and dinas. The establishment of hoana and an
encompassing adat organisation, as well as the effort to make the communities re-
establish their internal adat institutions, expands the political-administrative power of
the district head to the domain of adat and, therefore, interferes in particular
communities’ adat.
Up to now, the Hibua Lamo critics have not been organised as a group; they act
rather as individuals when they challenge the Tobelo group’s dealing with adat. Most
people are indifferent about adat strengthening. Furthermore, the shift, which Tobelo
hopes to effect, of people with a shared adat instead of with their particular religions
has not yet been accomplished (Duncan 2009:1081). Many people still think in
categories of religion. Danius’ (2012) study of local interpretations of election results,
party politics and the appointment of governmental employees shows that
interreligious envy and mistrust are still pervasive. It remains questionable, therefore,
whether Hibua Lamo can serve to bridge the differences among religious and social
factions in the long-term.
Mobilities of Indigeneity:
Intermediary NGOs and Indigenous Peoples
in Indonesia
Miriam Harjati Sanmukri
Introduction
“Together, we’re working towards one vision: A just and sustainable world.” With
these lines the foundation, Global Greengrants Fund, presents its mission. This US-
based charity provides funds to indigenous groups in Indonesia through co-operation
with a Southeast Asian non-governmental organisation (NGO). To make claims for
recognition in the name of masyarakat adat seems to require more than self-
determination. Fund-raising and coalition-building with international and national
NGOs have helped nurture indigenous activism in Indonesia and continue to provide
pivotal financial but also ideational resources until the present day. The largest actor in
this adat movement, the Indigenous Peoples’ Alliance of the Archipelago (AMAN), for
example, lists about two dozen collaborations with international donor organisations
and more than 30 national non-governmental allies.
But with so many parties involved – how can and do such coalitions work? What
motivates organisations from different political, institutional and regional fields to join
forces for indigenous issues? Why is it that indigenous peoples may contribute to a
“just and sustainable world”? Do these external actors take part in shaping the political
discourse on indigeneity in Indonesia?
116 Miriam Harjati Sanmukri
Many questions arise when focusing on the institutional functioning of the adat
movement, supporting actors and their use of the concept of indigeneity. An analysis
of external collaboration, which AMAN as part of this movement establishes,
consequently leads to the field of international development. One anthropological
entry-point for analysing the role of social movements in development is a critical,
constructivist perspective (Escobar 1992, 2012; Ferguson 1997). Proponents of this
perspective often highly criticise the arena of international development as a form of
western, neoliberal imperialism that maintains itself through the implementation of
normative policies. “As a solution” to technically focused practitioners, who impose
projects “from the top”, they assume social movements from the Global South.1
Those would fight for peoples’ interests “from the bottom” or “grass-roots” and
protest against or resist mechanisms of imperialism. Those NGOs, taking an
intermediary and officially often neutral position between both sides, are often accused
of being Trojan horses of western interests (Carroll 2009).
I argue that merely aligning to this perspective would lead to one-sided
assumptions in the Indonesian case. I do not intend to estimate whether NGOs are
“doing good” or not (Murdock 2003), nor does the critical constructive perspective
explain the fact that AMAN does not resist, but instead establishes ties within the field
of development.
Therefore, I will not only look at the discursive sphere of official texts and policies,
but also at an unofficial sphere of practices “beyond policies”. These are, first and
foremost, dynamics of interaction between individuals behind the formal structure of
international development. This interaction has consequences for the internalisation of
particular norms and modes of action for both practitioners and activists. They
endorse a conceptual mobility of policies by reinterpreting and reproducing those
norms. I adopt the conceptual frame of “order and disjuncture” (Lewis and Mosse
2006) to grasp both the official and unofficial sphere and its interrelation. In this
frame, order is meant to be the official sphere in which the organisations co-operate. It
is formed by policies and programmes. Disjuncture then occurs within or through the
informal sphere, as different goals, meanings and interpretations can be traced there.
Constructivists often regard the latter as potentials to break the official order. My
findings will show a more differentiated, less dichotomic picture instead. Interaction
enables actors to follow different interests, while upholding order at the same time.
Drawing from fieldwork in Jakarta and Bogor, I will explore various arenas of
interaction between AMAN and the Southeast Asian organisation, The Samdhana
Institute, and the Indonesian organisation, Partnership for Governance Reform.2 In an
1 The term refers to developing countries and is an alternative to existing terms, such as “Third
World”. It is considered as less judgmental and less subjective in academic literature than “Third
World”, which indirectly ascribes negatively connotated backwardness to nations and defines
development as an inevitability that has to be imitated by these nations.
2 My fieldwork was part of the project “Cultural Heritage Between Sovereignty of Indigenous
Groups, the State and International Organisations in Indonesia”, led by Brigitta Hauser-Schäublin,
and is part of the interdisciplinary research unit on “The Constitution of Cultural Property”, funded
by the German Research Council (DFG). I would like to thank Brigitta Hauser-Schäublin and
Mobilities of Indigeneity 117
intermediary position, these organisations constantly have to balance relations between

different parties from the bottom and the top.
The paper begins with a description of visions and programmes to illustrate the
official order into which the organisations embed their assistance. This is
complemented with insights from the rather unofficial sphere of dispositional meaning
that lies behind the statutes. What follows are examples of recent support for AMAN
along two common topics which demonstrate the reproduction or embeddedness of
policies. Together, normative programmes and reworked policies reflect certain
notions of indigeneity which will be subsequently outlined. The last part of the chapter
focuses on the lifestyles of practitioners and activists to trace the unofficial arena of
interaction and its establishment. Thereby, another crucial dimension of mobility will
be revealed: social mobility. I argue that these conceptual and social mobilities balance
the encounters of order and disjuncture and bridge the official and unofficial sphere of
international collaboration.
The Intermediaries: Visions and Programmes

The Samdhana Institute
The Samdhana Institute (hereafter Samdhana) is a transnational NGO focusing on
mainland and insular Southeast Asia. It has a representative office in the Philippines
and another one in Indonesia. Founded in 2003, the Samdhana Institute is an “Asian
Centre for Social and Environmental Renewal” made up of “a community of
practitioners” who work in different fields, such as conservation, international
development, law, education, and human rights activism (The Samdhana Institute
2013a). Beyond the official definition, respondents added a personal intention to
establish a “post-institutional” space where the expertise of its members can be
congregated and oriented towards agendas to which they are personally committed
rather than just for which they are employed. Another major motivation is to pass this
expertise on to the “following generation” by mentoring it; so, as the Sanskrit term
samdhana indicates: “a peaceful coming together, a giving back” exists (The Samdhana
Institute 2013a). Samdhana officially envisions
a region where natural, cultural and spiritual diversity are valued and
environmental conflicts are resolved peacefully, with justice and equity for all
parties. Achieving this requires that communities who directly manage their
local natural resources have clear rights, ready recourse to justice, strong and
skilled leadership, stable financial resources and access to appropriate technical
support.
(The Samdhana Institute 2013a)
Francesca Merlan from the Australian National University for helpful comments and criticism on
earlier versions of this paper.
Samdhana’s main issue is “Sustainable Natural Resource Management”. Although this

broadly addresses nature conservation, Samdhana’s members also emphasise people’s
rights and benefits in the context of social justice and human rights. As mentioned
above, this focus is not only reflected in official formulations, but it also constitutes
the personal commitment of many members, which is based on shared values. Apart
from these outward-oriented goals, Samdhana has another rather internal purpose
which, in the official sphere, is articulated as follows: “To offer [its members]
opportunities as well as support […] to remove themselves from their immediate
environment and reflect upon and communicate their experience and ideas” (The
Samdhana Institute 2013b). Therefore, Samdhana wants to promote its members by
offering them a shared, almost private space for contemplation and the exchange of
views. This idea is based on a rather spiritually interpreted work ethic and a personal
“bond” between the members, which is expressed and performed by occasionally
practicing yoga together. Therefore, team meetings are sometimes held in a yoga centre
in Bali. Many Samdhana members, who generally call themselves Samdhana Fellows,
informally identify the organisation as a form of “family” or “home” and underline
their feeling of togetherness. However, their engagement is predominantly part-time in
addition to their main employment in institutions such as international organisations,
Indonesian NGOs or research institutes. More than a third of all members are
Indonesian and also live in Indonesia, while others come from or are working in other
countries. The organisation comprised 59 Fellows at the time of the field research. As
Samdhana’s work is transnationally spread throughout Southeast Asia, an International
Board of Directors was installed as the highest governing body and policy-maker. The
office in Bogor is run by seven to nine Indonesian employees together with some
Fellows. Their tasks include grant and general finance management, human resources
and project coordination. The whole functioning of the organisation (administration
and projects) is based on funds granted by international donor organisations, such as
the Ford Foundation and the International Union for Conservation of Nature.
Samdhana has three official “priority themes” (The Samdhana Institute 2013c), namely
 Natural Resource Conflict Resolution,

 Leadership Development, and
 Community-Led Natural Resource Management.
To realise these themes, the organisation primarily provides financial support to “local
NGOs and community-based organisations (CBOs)” (The Samdhana Institute 2012).
Therefore, Samdhana established a so-called Small Grants Programme in 2005. Via this
programme, applicants can receive financial grants ranging from USD 100 up to
USD 20,000. The importance and benefit of such small-scale funding is warranted in
official statements as an approach that focuses on beneficiaries “where other support is
not available” (The Samdhana Institute 2013d) because donors find them “too small to
fund” (unpublished document). Thus, the Small Grants Programme attempts to bridge
the gap between donors and local initiatives through Samdhana’s ties to both parties.
Considering the informal sphere and internal ideology behind the small grants
approach, this focus on local initiatives seems to derive from the personal commitment
of Fellows with the “grass-roots”. This provides evidence of a rather unconventional,
activist orientation, which Samdhana aims to integrate into the official and
conventional frame of project mechanisms. This orientation can be further identified
within the ideology of Samdhana’s main funding organisation of the programme,
which has specialised in small grants to support rights-related and environmental
issues: the Global Greengrants Fund mentioned already. The charity states on its
website: “Our strategy is to support local leaders – primarily outside the United States
and Western Europe – in fighting [social] injustices. Through activist-led grantmaking,
we find these leaders and provide seed funding for grass-roots action on the front lines
of social change” (Global Greengrants Fund 2013).
Besides financial support, Fellows also provide direct assistance to local actors
around the three priority themes. In the context of Conflict Resolution, Samdhana’s
lawyers offer legal support and conflict mediation for communities in situations of
land seizure or detention. Beyond this reactive assistance, Samdhana’s work also
addresses conflict prevention for both multi-actor disputes and internal conflicts
within communities. Importance is given here to critical, political education as
assistance in policy analysis and development.
Local Leadership Development is another priority theme within Samdhana on
which members perceive it necessary to work because large-scale development and
conservation projects would neglect such direct assistance at the grass-roots.
Therefore, Samdhana, with its small-scale approach, intends to strengthen the long-
term functioning of local organisations in order to make them self-reliant, for example,
in fund-raising. This again unconventional approach seems to be strongly connected
with the personal identification of Fellows as “mentors”.
The third official priority theme, Community-Led Natural Resource Management,
usually called Community-Based Natural Resource Management (CBNRM) among
conservation experts, is regarded by Fellows as an appropriate approach for a
realisation both of social justice and biodiversity preservation. Therefore, Fellows
advocate for and support communities’ traditional ways of environmental use.
Partnership for Governance Reform

After the fall of the Suharto regime in 1998 and the elections in 1999, international
donor organisations together with Indonesian representatives from governmental and
non-governmental fields jointly took measures to foster the democratisation process in
the country. Based on an initiative by the World Bank and the United Nations
Development Programme (UNDP), the Partnership for Governance Reform
(hereafter Partnership; the Indonesian name is Kemitraan) was founded as a UNDP
programme in March 2000 (Mallarangeng and van Tuijl 2004: 924). Two years later, the
project-based programme was registered as an independent “non-profit civil law
association” managed by Indonesian-led bodies (Partnership 2012a). However, it
retained its status as a UNDP programme until 2009.
The Partnership’s vision is “to establish fair, democratic and sustainable
governance for the welfare of Indonesian citizens” (Partnership 2013). Looking at the
official sphere, a thematic proximity to concepts and ideas from the field of
international development seems to prevail. All activities, which the organisation
realises, shall lead to good governance. In general, the concept of good governance
emphasises political reform of governmental structures and practices and aims at
building a transparent and legally accountable state apparatus. The Partnership follows
this approach and contextualises it within the Indonesian setting.3 Its official mission is
described as, “disseminating, advancing and institutionalizing the principles of good
and clean governance among government, civil society and business, while considering
human rights, gender balance, the marginalized and environmental sustainability”
(Partnership 2013).
The organisation follows a so-called “multi-stakeholder approach” by appointing
its members from sectors of government, civil society and business (Partnership
2012a:4). The realisation of political reform is sought through a twofold strategy,
namely, to build internal capacities of state institutions and to enable actors from civil
society to monitor these institutions and engage with them at the same time. Hence,
the Partnership’s motto is “building capacity from within, and applying pressure from
without” (2012a:11). This transports the image of the strongly intermediary and neutral
position of the organisation. Formulations stress the Partnership’s role of involving all
relevant actors in the reform process, first and foremost, in the design and evaluation
of the Partnership’s programmes. Moreover, their strategies would need to be
synergised and harmonised within a strong network of “partners” (Partnership 2012a).4
Another indicator for the Partnership’s orientation towards international
development are the UN Millennium Development Goals, into which activities are
embedded. At the time of my research, the Partnership focused on four programmes
which serve as clusters for different projects and give evidence of the importance of
the concept of “good governance”.
These were:
 Democratic Governance,
 Public Service Governance,
 Security and Justice Governance, and
 Economic and Environmental Governance.
(Partnership 2012a)
These headings comprise projects such as “Corruption Eradication”,

“Dezentralisation”, “Poverty Eradication”, and “Human Rights Promotion”
(Partnership 2012a). The Partnership provides a huge portfolio of assistance for the
3 For a complete list of the good governance principles which the Partnership pursues, see
www.kemitraan.or.id/main/content3/21/22/24 <June 3, 2013>.
4 The usage of the term “partner” or “partnership” is highly debated among scholars within the
anthropology of development. Constructivist critics argue that these terms conceal unequal power
relations which, in fact, would determine donor-NGO relationships. For a critical discussion of The
Partnership of Governance Reform, see Crawford (2003) and Mallarangeng and Van Tuijl (2004).
implementation of such projects, including workshops, policy analysis, technical

supports, and grants (Mallarangeng and Van Tuijl 2004:921). Until the end of its status
as a UNDP programme, members in the Partnership’s main governing bodies were
also appointed from international donor organisations. These members had a
supervisory role (Crawford 2003:146-148; Mallarangeng and Van Tuijl 2004:921). Since
its establishment as an independent association, the Partnership has been governed by
two completely Indonesian-managed bodies. Its executive office is situated in Jakarta
and the organisation’s administration and activities are funded by foreign money. The
major funding organisations are national governments, such as the government of the
Netherlands and the United States of America, international organisations, including
the Asian Development Bank and the World Bank, and internationally operating
companies from the private sector, such as Siemens, a German technology enterprise.
In contrast to Samdhana, the Partnership’s official programme and statutes do not
indicate a critical positioning of the organisation in regard to conventional or rather
unconventional development work. However, these texts comprise only one domain to
analyse NGOs. In order to understand how universal concepts are, in fact, understood
by practitioners, I will analyse in the following chapter how these organisations
support indigenous peoples in practice.
Climate Mitigation and Mapping

Samdhana and the Partnership support AMAN in manifold ways. The Partnership and
Samdhana often operate on similar topics, which is, I suggest, the impact of
international policies concerning indigenous issues.
One important topic is REDD+, a policy instrument stemming from international
climate politics.5 It can be described as a market-based scheme of compensation
payments from industrialised countries to initiatives for forest conservation and
emission reduction in the countries of the Global South. Its introduction to Indonesia
began in 2007. At the time of my research, the Indonesian state was still in a
preparatory test phase, officially called the REDD Readiness phase. Thus, policies
were still in preparation and exemplary pilot projects were implemented. Although still
in an initial phase, the Indonesian government and national and international
companies displayed great interest in this form of management of natural resources,
which follows the definition of forests under REDD+.6 As pilot projects have shown,
REDD+ inevitably affects indigenous peoples, since many of them are living in and
around forested areas (Forest Peoples Programme 2011).
5 REDD stands for “Reducing Emissions from Deforestation and Forest Degradation” and generally
describes the idea of a payment mechanism for forest conservation. The term REDD+ indicates
concrete measures to practically introduce and finally realise this idea (Clements 2010).
6 REDD policies in the Indonesian context are based on a weak definition of forests, which is due to
the absence of a globally accepted definition. The current UN definition only puts emphasis on the
territorial size and tree cover of an area and does not refer to characteristics such as primary or
secondary forest (see FAO 2013; Hein 2013).
To turn this passive involvement into active involvement, Samdhana started the
“REDD Preparedness Project” within its Small Grants Programme. Seen as an answer
to top-down, government-led measures under the term REDD Readiness, this project
focuses on the “preparedness and engagement of indigenous peoples, local
communities, community based organisations and local NGOs” in REDD+ issues
(The Samdhana Institute 2012). It is interesting that 30% of small grants are constantly
flowing to AMAN communities. This assistance goes back to a Memorandum of
Understanding (MoU), which the organisations signed in 2009 (AMAN 2012b).
Samdhana funds local AMAN initiatives, which conduct “capacity building” for
communities on REDD. In other words, people are introduced through AMAN to
policies and overarching concepts such as climate change, “Free, Prior and Informed
Consent” or REDD.7 They are taught about their legal rights and opportunities
through workshops, traditional gatherings, etc. This is also in line with Samdhana’s
priority themes of Conflict Resolution and Leadership Development, which address
political education.
REDD+ is also a guiding topic for the Partnership’s collaboration with AMAN
members. The Partnership’s assistance is part of its so-called Forest Governance
Programme, in which sustainable ways for the management of forested area are
elaborated.8 In Central Kalimantan, which is a priority region for REDD+ pilot
projects, the Partnership, as intermediary, co-operated with the provincial
representative of AMAN. Together, the organisations identified exemplary adat groups
for the development of a pilot scheme within the ongoing Readiness Phase, the
“community REDD+”. This scheme demonstrates how REDD+ could be
successfully introduced to a community and indigenous issues could be integrated into
broader policy processes. Therefore, training sessions on Free, Prior and Informed
Consent were held for AMAN cadres. According to the Partnership, climate change
negotiations and REDD+ projects can offer opportunities for indigenous groups to
formulate claims in the public sphere. In part, this perspective seems to be based on a
rather informal consensus of the Partnership practitioners with AMAN concerning the
recognition of indigenous peoples. Respondents underlined that they endorse
indigenous claims for “rights on customary (adat) land” (Partnership 2012b) and
acknowledge AMAN’s critical position towards the Indonesian state. However,
because of AMAN’s critical position, staff of the Partnership often find it difficult to
mediate between the indigenous alliance and state representatives.
“Participatory mapping” is another topic or instrument which Samdhana and the
Partnership support. In contrast to REDD+, this topic partially originates from an
international arena of large-scale conservation, but was brought forward by activists
and has to be seen against the political background of the New Order regime that did
7 “Free, Prior and Informed Consent” (FPIC) is a guiding but not binding principle, institutionalised
within the UN framework. It is also part of the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of
Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP). In sum, it implies an unmanipulated consultation of indigenous
peoples before project implementation in order to reach the consent of all parties involved, which is
based on equal knowledge (see also Barelli 2012).
8 The Forest Governance Programme is part of the Partnership’s Economic and Environmental
Governance Cluster.
not recognise the land claims of indigenous peoples. As land conflicts with the state
and companies have been a major issue of the indigenous movement since its
beginning in the 1990s (see the chapter by Steinebach in this volume), participatory
mapping has become an important instrument for indigenous activism. Indigenous
peoples can identify and visualise their knowledge about the boundaries of their
customary territory by themselves with the help of modern technology, such as GIS
systems. Proponents of this instrument regard it as an important entry-point to
empower adat communities to fight for their land claims. According to Peluso (1995),
early forms of participatory mapping had already entered Indonesia in the 1980s via
international conventional projects for conservation. At that time, ideas that local
peoples and their knowledge could contribute to biodiversity conservation began to
enter international organisations, such as the World Wildlife Fund (WWF), based on
experience in the field (Alcorn 2005:52-53). In Kalimantan, for example, traditional
management systems were documented to improve the long-term management of a
nature reserve (Peluso 1995:395). Indonesian activists then took the opportunity to
adopt this kind of mapping and to spread it to local groups. As Peluso states, they
reinterpreted it as a sort of resistance and counter-movement to state mapping, which
did not consider people’s rights but instead was a basis for exploitive development
projects of the Suharto regime (1995:398-400). Thus, by “stealing the master’s tools”,
(Tsing et al. 2005) participatory mapping could “cut through the labyrinth of
Indonesia’s elite politics that never really touches upon the lives of ‘small people’”
(Natalia 2000:75).
In 1995, Indonesian activists established a national network for participatory
mapping activities, the Jaringan Kerja Pemetaan Partisipatif (JKPP; see also Royo
2000:82). In 2010, the Indonesian government took a step to unify its spatial data of
forest cover, the One Map policy. Until then, forest mapping had been produced by
several ministries leading to various legal regulations and, thus, a lack of indigenous
peoples’ legal protection, among other things (see the chapter by Arizona and Cahyadi
in this volume). AMAN took the opportunity of customary maps to become
recognised in this One Map. In co-operation with JKPP and Forest Watch Indonesia,
the indigenous alliance founded a national agency to feed customary maps into a
national database – the Ancestral Domain Registration Agency (Badan Registrasi
Wilayah Adat, BRWA).9 This agency functions as an official data and information
provider to its members and partner organisations and, most notably, to the
Indonesian state apparatus. AMAN signed a MoU with the National Land Agency
(Badan Pertanahan Nasional) in 2011 which officially stated that “indigenous” maps
would be integrated into governmental data. Samdhana, JKPP and AMAN joined
forces to foster the participatory mapping and the Ancestral Domain Registration
Body. Samdhana, thereby, provides assistance in two ways: It funds the mapping
activities of AMAN members through the REDD Preparedness Project, and Fellows
also give practical technical support in the field.
9 Further partners are the Indonesian non-governmental organisations Telapak, Sawit Watch and
Konsorsium Pendukung Sistem Hutan Kerakyatan (KpSHK).

The Partnership supports the participatory mapping projects financially. Funds do not
go directly to AMAN but to its partner JKPP, which is implementing the mapping. It
is interesting that this endorsement of actors who originally countered development is
not contradictive for the Partnership. This could be due to the fact that mapping
activists changed their oppositional position to a more approachable one after the fall
of Suharto, which is in line with the Partnership’s concept of “applying pressure from
without”. Thus, one aim of the Partnership is to accelerate the process of registering
customary maps with the National Land Agency, because the MoU between AMAN
and the latter has apparently not yet led to a concrete outcome producing common
maps. Therefore, the organisation also provides special advisers who help AMAN,
JKPP and the Indonesian government to link their respective mapping activities.
These two examples, REDD+ and participatory mapping, demonstrate that an
official “discursive” dominance or order of certain topics within civil society
collaboration does not automatically lead to one-sided meanings or interests, which are
imposed by donors and implemented by intermediaries. Instead, all the organisations
rework these universals in their own way. Moreover, the Partnership’s assistance to
AMAN shows that the intermediary also makes room for the ideas and goals of
activists. This is due to a shifting positioning of Indonesian NGOs and, not least, of
the Indonesian government.
Notions of Indigeneity: Disjuncture within Order

Although Samdhana and the Partnership officially refer to indigenous peoples’ self-
determination, diverse notions of indigeneity can be identified when looking more
closely at both the official order of the institutional collaboration, with its policies and
programmes, and a more informal arena in which practitioners reinterpret official
policies according to personal values and specific political contexts.
The Community Focus

In addition to conservation, Samdhana focuses on “people”, namely “communities”.
Communities are not defined in the official texts of Samdhana, but project reports
indicate the image of an organised, small-scale group of people who reside in some
villages or a whole district. Different terms are applied to them, such as “local peoples’
organisations”, “local communities”, “local groups”, “local peoples”, or “community-
based organisations”. Hence, indigenous peoples constitute just one type of
community among Samdhana’s target groups; but all of them are conceived and
promoted as caretakers of the environment. Accordingly, the terms “indigenous
peoples” or masyarakat adat seldom appear in official policies, whereas the terms above
are used frequently. Samdhana supports what Alcorn (2005: 39) defines as “little
conservation”, i.e. small in scale, community-based and oriented towards the
communities’ benefit. Looking closer at the policies of Samdhana’s donors,
conceptional similarities become apparent. The Climate and Land Use Alliance (2013),
for example, strives towards “supporting locally-driven innovation”, such as
“community forest management”, because “[p]rotecting and enhancing the livelihoods

and rights of indigenous peoples and rural communities is an essential part of the
solution”.
Similar to Samdhana, the Partnership’s community focus in regard to indigenous
peoples is contextualised within natural resource management, namely “Community
Based Forest Management” (Partnership 2011a:iii). The organisation transports the
notion of indigenous peoples as a spatially fixed group as well. Both Samdhana and the
Partnership refer to the governmental land-use schemes, Hutan Kemasyarakatan
(Community Forest) and Hutan Desa (Village Forest), as legal instruments for ensuring
communities’ access to and use of natural resources (Partnership 2011a; Samdhana
2012).10
These governmental schemes are based on a definition of community in terms of
spatial administrative entities, i.e. villages (desa). In this context, the land-use schemes
officially contradict perceptions which AMAN represents in general. AMAN’s
understanding of masyarakat adat is based rather on an ancestral origin than on
administrative regulations. Furthermore, instead of land-use rights, AMAN focuses on
land ownership that is based on the recognition of customary or adat rights. However,
the NGOs promote the governmental schemes on the local level and respondents
stated that some AMAN members adopt these schemes.
Another frame shaping the community focus of the Partnership is the PNPM
Peduli project.11 The project officially aims at “inclusive development”, namely poverty
reduction and socioeconomic development of “community groups at the grass-roots
level”. “Poor indigenous peoples” are one of these target groups (PNPM Support
Facility 2011). AMAN members, however, do not yet participate in the project.
Forest Inhabitants
As seen above, Samdhana’s main support of AMAN is currently funded through a
REDD-related project addressing forest management. Consequently, indigenous
peoples living in and around forests are officially targeted by Samdhana and AMAN.
However, forests are not clearly defined within REDD policies, so that their definition
leaves NGOs room for interpretation and local groups options for the strategic use of
indigeneity.
The ecological classification “forest” also plays a major role in the Partnership’s
objective for supporting indigenous peoples. Indigenous issues entered the
Partnership’s agenda only after the establishment of its Forest Governance Programme
in 2007. Therefore, AMAN receives financial and other support mainly in the context
of improving the management of forested areas. Thus, assistance for indigenous
peoples living in coastal or urban areas is not provided in terms of indigeneity in the
official policies of the Partnership. It is interesting that interviewees stated that some
10 The schemes Hutan Kemasyarakatan and Hutan Desa were adopted in 2007 and 2008, respectively.
They guarantee local communities the management of and benefits from forested areas.
11 PNPM stands for Program Nasional Pemberdayaan Masyarakat (National Programme for Social
Empowerment). The term peduli literally means “care”. PNPM Peduli was established in 2011. It is
managed by the World Bank and funded by various international development agencies.
international funders actively took part in integrating forest and, at least, “indigenous”
issues into the Partnership’s programme. When looking more closely at the contexts
behind these policies, an interrelation between the Partnership’s focus on forests and
international political dynamics seems obvious. Environment-oriented projects started
in 2008, right after the 13th UN Climate Change Conference had been held in Bali in
December, 2007, where UN member nations decided on direct actions for climate
mitigation – including the implementation of REDD+.
Agents for Climate Change and Stakeholders of Democracy

The focus on REDD in the agenda of both the Partnership and Samdhana indicates
that an overarching topic officially determines international support for indigenous
peoples at the moment: climate change. Some of the names of Samdhana’s funding
organisations, for example, the Climate and Land Use Alliance or the Climate Works
Foundation, already point to the official dominance of this topic. Such donors endorse
the thematic symbiosis of combating climate change and people-oriented development
in policies. The Ford Foundation (2013), which funds the activities of both Samdhana
and AMAN, intends, for example, to “contribute to mitigating climate change, while
improving livelihoods of rural populations, particularly indigenous groups and ethnic
minorities”. Thus, in the case of Samdhana, Indonesian activists together with foreign
practitioners propagate indigenous knowledge as a contribution to climate change
mitigation.
Climate change is also a major issue within the Partnership’s programme.
Nevertheless, since the organisation is more focused on socioeconomic and political
development than on conservation, climate change is always contextualised within
political reform measures towards good governance and democracy. By following their
so-called “multi-stakeholder approach”, (good) “forest governance” has to be
accomplished first to achieve climate change mitigation. Based on democratic
principles such as participation, transparency and equality, the Partnership intends that
all “stakeholders”, i.e. all relevant parties, are recognised, their rights legally secured
and their voice given room in the public sphere. Therefore, AMAN, which is seen by
the Partnership and its donors as the only and legitimated representative of the
indigenous peoples in Indonesia, receives support as a “stakeholder” from this NGO
in the context of natural resource management. Whereas Samdhana is officially guided
by the assumption that indigenous peoples already possess methods to use the
environment in a sustainable way, the Partnership backs efforts to “make these actors
sustainable”. According to Samdhana, rural communities, including indigenous
peoples, exert stewardship over the environment through “traditional knowledge”.
Fellows even want to learn from these local communities and, thereby, aim at changing
conventional conservation; they follow the ideological notion of social change “from
the bottom up”.
When practitioners from the Partnership told me about assets in regard to
indigenous peoples, they mainly referred to people’s traditional skills in agriculture,
which indigenous groups once possessed but lost due to modernisation processes,
such as industrial agriculture. The Partnership wants to revive this knowledge and
these skills and combine it with market-oriented, economic thinking. Following this
line, traditionally cultivated products could form an economic niche, which people
could then use for sustainable economic development and poverty reduction.
Moreover, statements of the Partnership suggest that they understand knowledge and
skills, first and foremost, in terms of the quality of soil and its improvement, and less
in human agency in general; they understand customary territories as fertile ground for
sustainable agriculture.
Safeguarding
Benefits for and protection of indigenous peoples are nowadays often expressed as
“safeguarding” in international policy frameworks for development measures. So-
called “safeguard policies”, thus, form a major official frame through which indigenous
peoples become integrated into technically-oriented development theory and practice.
In these policies, the need for the protection of indigenous peoples, to which
development agencies should adhere, is based on their cultural distinctiveness. These
actors, therefore, are characterised as a “cultural group” equipped with a special
“cultural life” that needs to be preserved.
In the context of the PNPM Peduli Project, the Partnership developed an
“Indigenous Peoples Planning Framework”, which is stipulated by the World Bank.12
It defines indigenous peoples as a “social group which has a distinct socio-cultural
identity” and “socioeconomic benefits from projects have to be in line with the local
culture” (Partnership 2011b, translation by M.H.S.). Remarkably, the Partnership partly
integrated the governmental term komunitas adat terpencil (remote adat community) into
the Framework. AMAN and many Indonesian activists contest this term, as, for them,
it transports negative connotations of isolation and backwardness. In a disjunctive way,
AMAN is, nevertheless, interested in continuing its collaboration with the Partnership,
since the latter offers resources; the negative connotations of adat communities, which
the latter transports, has no direct effect on the indigenous alliance. Samdhana adopts
the concept of “safeguarding” as well. In its REDD Preparedness Project, the activities
of organisations such as AMAN receiving small grants are termed as support that goes
to groups which need to be safeguarded (The Samdhana Institute 2012).
These identical notions used in international policy papers as well as in Indonesian
NGOs’ working papers demonstrate the interrelation of official and unofficial
collaborative arenas in regard to policies and practices of the NGOs. Ideas travel from
the official, often internationally formed strategies of conservation and development
through Indonesian contexts and become adopted by practitioners. On the other hand,
ideas taken over from international or even Indonesian indigenous activism re-enter
official discourses. The diffusion of these concepts is, I think, a consequence of the
informal interactions and communications of actors working in different institutions
12The Indigenous Peoples Planning Framework (IPPF) is one of the World Banks’ Social Safeguard
Policies. These are guidelines for the Bank and borrowers concerning project planning and
implementation. Borrowers are obliged to formulate a project-related IPPF in order to guarantee
sustainability within projects by defining stakeholders and stating their participation and benefit
sharing (World Bank 2013a, 2013b).
and organisations. Thus, different ideologies or interpretations can prevail side-by-side

as governmental and rather critical activists’ concepts. They do not break the discursive
order of official policies in a disjunctive way, but instead coexist behind the texts
where different interests are negotiated. This is made possible as practitioners
strategically adopt dominant international topics to uphold this order so that they can
gain resources.
Mobile Lives and Organisational Cultures

Samdhana’s Fellows and the Partnership’s practitioners are professionals in the fields
of conservation, development practice and law. Professionalism implies technical
expertise and know-how of methods and theories based on long-term experience.
Professionalism in this domain, however, implies more than that, namely a mutual,
historical understanding of indigenous issues which arise in various political, economic
and social contexts in Indonesia. This understanding derives from long-lasting joint
work between Indonesian and foreign practitioners and nationally and locally engaged
activists, which had already started within the New Order era.
During that oppressive era, environmentalism was the only channel open to NGOs
to mobilise people on the local, national and international level to fight for
democratisation and social change (Gordon 1998; Hirsch and Warren 1998; Okamoto
2001; Moniaga 2004; Peluso et al. 2008). Thus, many now “professionalised” Fellows
became engaged with conservation and activism simultaneously, as they intended to
stop environmental and human exploitation, discrimination or harassment. Similarly,
leading activists of AMAN and other mass organisations started to commit themselves
to social change by supporting and establishing “indigenous”, “agrarian” or “peasant”
movements (Peluso et al. 2008). Significantly, Indonesian and even some of the foreign
Samdhana Fellows took part in the birth of these movements at the beginning of the
1990s. They were students, young scientists or members of NGOs at that time. An
intense exchange between activists from local communities and outsiders who studied
and lobbied for the grass-roots took place. This resulted in nationwide networks and
shared visions on how to improve local communities’ living conditions (Afiff and
Lowe 2007).
Moreover, studies about traditional land use and conservation in rural areas
conducted by Indonesian and foreign scholars contributed to the argumentative
ground of activism. It fuelled or even formed issues as Community-Based Natural
Resource Management, participatory mapping and indigeneity, which, nowadays, are
part of the official, political discourse. This discursive order was complemented with
elements from the international indigenous movement through networking and
coalition-building by Indonesian activists (Afiff and Lowe 2007; Peluso et al. 2008; see
also the chapter by Steinebach in this volume). Up to the present day, shared lines of
argumentation, which I have partly outlined above, are jointly advocated by what
Peluso et al. in reference to Hajer call “discourse coalitions” (2008:379). Hence, a
discursive professionalism has developed among practitioners, activists from mass
organisations, such as AMAN, and within affiliated communities (see the chapter by
Grumblies in this volume). It connects the actors both personally and institutionally in
the official as well as unofficial arenas of co-operation.
From an analytical stance, mobility constitutes itself as a crucial element for these
interrelational processes; however, it does so, I argue, in more than one dimension.
Following Urry’s (2007) concept of mobilities, my findings reveal that the social
mobility of individuals also becomes a crucial element for coalitions and providing
indigenous actors with financial and political resources from national and international
organisations.
Most of the practitioners and activists literally “passed through” many institutions
in the course of their personal career. They worked for national NGOs, international
donors and/or research institutes, often on a project basis. Consequently, some people
had been working simultaneously for AMAN and the Partnership, or Samdhana and
the Partnership. In this way, the actors developed professional ties on an institutional
level, which are essential for the intermediaries and especially for AMAN as a mass
organisation until the present day. In addition to their changing employment,
Indonesian activists and foreign professionals also developed personal relationships
that developed into complete interpersonal networks. Driven by common interests and
goals, friendships evolved with “the categories of friend and workmate cross[ing] from
one to another” (Elliott and Urry 2010:57).
At the same time, the various engagements of experts in different localities led to a
geographical mobility which contributed to a multi-sited understanding of local
situations. Indonesian activists, who had become more and more professionalised over
time, could thereby uphold connections to local, rather unprofessional activism.
Foreign practitioners, on the other hand, became sensitised to local needs, and thus, in
a way, “activists” within their professional, technically oriented environment. These
processes, I argue, nurtured the ideological ground of social justice, which, nowadays,
binds Samdhana internally and also externally with AMAN. Moreover, these shared
arenas of interaction bridge actors with different approaches, such as the Partnership
and AMAN. The professionalisation through mobility and personal ties is, in turn,
crucial for the functioning of AMAN, since activists need such know-how to
manoeuvre in the international development scene, which requires project
management or fund-raising.
With the establishment of Samdhana, some of these personal and professional ties
were gathered together and combined. Moreover, common visions are framed through
the organisation. This can be traced within Samdhana’s organisational culture. In this
regard, the Fellows’ similar mobile ways of life characterise organisational procedures:
As their engagement for Samdhana as “advisers” or “mentors” is voluntarily
conducted in addition to their main occupation, many of the practitioners are working
in different places to realise Samdhana’s and other projects in, for example,
conservation, community development or mapping. They literally hop from one place
to the other, while their families and homes are often based in Jakarta, Bogor or even
in another country. Those who work full-time for Samdhana, similarly travel within
Indonesia or abroad, meet or skype with Fellows, partner organisations or donors in
other countries to run the organisation.
Friendship as a result of social mobility is, therefore, part of Samdhana’s organisational

culture. Besides the bonding effect on a personal level, actors also use these ties
strategically in the institution in which they work, but rather in an informal way. While
“friends” from donor organisations hold fellowship, befriended AMAN activists
become advisers for projects within the Small Grants Programme. Even Fellows
employed at state institutions are Samdhana members. Hence, plans for collaboration
are often discussed in an informal way, based on mutual trust. In this way, the interests
of funders and AMAN can be negotiated, while AMAN is given space for interests and
ideas, which leads to a mutual adjustment of official programmes and policies.
Concluding Remarks
It becomes clear that the coalition-building of NGOs for indigenous peoples in
Indonesia is determined by an interplay of processes between official and unofficial
arenas of interaction. The examples of Samdhana and the Partnership illustrate
different forms of “intermediaries” and contest the image that they are more or less
just implementing their donors’ goals, as some critical constructivists within the
Anthropology of Development assume (e.g. Petras 1999; Crawford 2003). The
Partnership seems to be dominated by international, normative ideas at first sight.
However, by looking more closely at both its policies and activities, it becomes evident
that the organisation, in fact, supports concepts and issues derived from the
indigenous and other social movements. Samdhana already demonstrates its rather
“unconventional, activist approach” in the official arena of policies. Samdhana,
nevertheless, adopts overarching issues such as climate change and REDD in a similar
way to the Partnership. This shows that Samdhana is also part of the discursive order
or “knowledge regime” into which NGOs are embedded. However, the presence of
this order does not lead to a levelling or homogenisation of meaning and action.
Instead, individuals make room for manoeuvring through interaction in an informal
way under the surface of policies. Therefore, different interests of actors ranging from
socioeconomic development over nature conservation to land rights are simultaneously
advocated and negotiated between donors, NGOs and the indigenous peoples’
movement.
Supporters of indigenous peoples and some of their representatives have
established a space which constitutes a distinct social milieu of professionalism,
knowledge and personal commitment between official and unofficial domains. This
space encompasses international “professional” arenas, the indigenous peoples’
movement and even governmental institutions. In fact, it produces disjuncture;
however, not so much in regard to the order of international development, but rather
in terms of the dichotomic image of international development imperialism and
oppositional social movements, as some constructivists such as Escobar (1992, 2012)
or Veltmeyer (2005) assume. AMAN undertakes strategic endeavours by engaging with
international development to acquire resources, which is a “disjunctive” behaviour as,
officially, it may not always be in line with AMAN’s own ideology.
The interaction between individuals from development work and activism leads to a
mobility of concepts within the official arena of co-operation and produces different
notions of indigeneity. Thus, the notions do not simply resemble international
concepts, but rather contain meanings which derive from distinct social contexts of
these individuals. Such reworked ideas travel informally along personal ties of
friendship or “fellowship” and shared experience. They are, therefore, very dynamic in
meaning, but can also become normative through strategic advocacy of “discourse
professionals”, entering dominant discourses.
Thus, the space of non-governmental support for indigenous peoples in Indonesia
emerges as an unrestrained melting pot of interests, strategies, arenas, and interaction,
coated by universalism but shaped by mobilities.
How Indigenous are the Balinese?
From National Marginalisation to Provincial
Domination
Introduction
Bali is an untypical case of indigeneity and the indigenous movement in Indonesia. The
“autochthonous” (asli) Balinese, who understand themselves as Hindu Balinese, are not
a minority but a dominant majority within their province. This dominant majority has
decisively shaped the inter-cultural and -religious co-habitation of the inhabitants –
among them an increasing number of non-Hindu – on the island. Only a handful of
villages are members of the Alliance of Indigenous Peoples of the Archipelago or
AMAN, and many of the communities seem to be only half-hearted members.
Membership obviously depends more on single, highly motivated actors, most of them
well-educated and interested in economic and partly social modernisation according to
their own visions; none of them belongs to a title-holding stratum of society. Actually,
the majority of the Hindu Balinese do not feel “indigenous” in the internationalist
sense of the word, but strongly support Balinese adat (“customs and traditions”) and,
in this respect, understand themselves as masyarakat adat (literally “people whose life is
governed by traditions”). In Bali, adat is intrinsically linked to agama (religion), an issue
AMAN carefully circumnavigates. It is, therefore, the aim of this chapter to explore
why Bali, as a stronghold of adat, does not apparently need AMAN to attain self-
determination and national as well as international recognition, as most other member
communities outside of Bali hope to gain through the support of this organisation.
After the fall of the Suharto regime in 1998, the politics of decentralisation and
regionalisation – the latter conferred power especially to the district level (kabupaten)
(and less to the provinces) – constituted a turning point in the significance of adat and
masyarakat adat within society and the nation as a whole (Henley and Davidson 2007).
While one of the main goals of decentralisation and regionalisation was the promotion
of democratisation by delegating responsibility and power to institutions and bodies in
the provinces, the social, political and economic conditions of many masyarakat adat
started to change considerably (Schulte Nordholt and Klinken 2007; Holtzappel 2009).
This chapter, therefore, examines the special case of Bali, the significance of
Balinese adat in the political social and context of the province and its relation to dinas,
the administrative governmental organisation of village life. I will investigate why some
communities have at least formally joined AMAN and with what expectations. I will
start by briefly outlining the provincial regulation Peraturan Daerah Provinsi Bali
nomor 2001 (Perda 03/2001) and the way in which regional autonomy was
implemented by taking Hindu Balinese adat as a basis of its constitution (see
Janamijaya et al. 2003). I will then show how people view the relationship between
“being Balinese” and “being Indonesian” and try to establish a kind of division of
labour and with what consequences between their own adat organisation and AMAN,
each of them with its particular goals.
Adat as the Regulatory Principle

The post-Suharto Balinese Provincial Regulation, Perda 03/2001, contains a couple of
crucial elements that reflect the Hindu Balinese’s attempt to establish a province
regulation that takes their particular adat as a starting point (Ramstedt 2009).
As the Perda introduction shows, the desa adat was renamed desa pakraman. Thus, a
Sanskrit word (kraman), which had already been used in old-Balinese inscriptions,
replaced the more recent expression of Arabic origin, adat (Ramstedt 2009:350-351;
Picard 2011:120-121). The desa pakraman is described as the unity of masyarakat hukum
adat, that is, a customary legal community. According to Perda 03/2001, the desa
pakraman has developed over centuries and possesses an original autonomy (otonomi
asli) that has provided the basis for the living and the prosperity of its inhabitants. By
calling the Balinese villagers “umat Hindu” (congregation of agama Hindu or the Hindu
people), the desa pakraman – the only type of village mentioned in the regulation – is
defined as a community sharing the same religion. The characteristics of the Balinese
village are: the Three Village Temple system (kahyangan tiga or kahyangan desa) and a
village territory (palemahan). The villagers (warga desa pakraman) are also seen as those
who have an inner and outer attachment to the temples and the ceremonies carried out
How Indigenous are the Balinese? 135
there. Furthermore, awig-awig or village regulations,1 are based on the Hindu Balinese
concept of Tri Hita Karana (“Three Causes of Wellbeing”)2 and are part of the village
properties. The village assembly, paruman desa, is a further constituent. This is the
legislative body that takes decisions based on discussion and consultations; it is
orchestrated by the pengurus or (a number of) prajuru, village officials with different
tasks. The latter are elected or appointed by the village community according to its
awig-awig. Such a village assembly is complemented – in a bottom-up way – by the
paruman alit on the sub-district level (kecamatan), by the paruman madya on the district
level and, finally, by the paruman agung on the provincial level. The paruman agung or the
Majelis Utama Desa Pakraman consists of the council of village prajuru and is the
highest adat body of the province.3
Furthermore, Perda 03/2001 officially acknowledges the function of a village adat
police or security force (pecalang) that had formerly performed only in the context of
temple festivals and ceremonies. Pecalang, as the Balinese adat police, complements (or
sometimes even challenges) the dinas police or the official state police. The 2001
regulation also spells out that the desa pakraman is seen as the fundamental actor for the
protection (pengayoman), empowerment (pemberdayaan) and preservation (pelestarian) of
Balinese adat and culture (budaya) and the values associated with them, especially for
the sake of Bali’s identity (jati diri).
I would like to briefly comment on the way in which adat has been used in this
regulation. Bali and Balinese culture had been the most important tourist destination of
Indonesia for decades and, therefore, a major source of income for the central
government. The Balinese struggled with the New Order government in order to
regain control over their island, their culture and their lives. Perda 03/2001 also
mirrors the fact that the Hindu Balinese had perceived themselves (and, in fact, had
been) a powerless religious and cultural minority within the centralised state.
Additionally, they had been exposed to almost unrestricted external cultural influence
through international tourism which also resulted in a touristification of society (Picard
1996; Schulte Nordholt 2007). Simultaneously, distinctiveness and cultural identity
(kebalian) became more and more important issues which finally resulted in the ajeg
1 Perda 03/2001 states that the awig-awig may not contradict religion (agama), the five national
principles as formulated in the Pancasila, the National Constitution, and the basic rights it grants
(Undang-Undang Dasar 1945), or human rights. It would need further discussion to discover whether
individual awig-awig contain discriminations in one form or another (for example, due to religion or
cultural origin).
2 Tri Hita Karana outlines the balance of three different relationships people should follow: the
relationship between the village and God (parhyangan), the relationship between the members of the
desa pakraman (pawongan) and the relationship of the villagers with their natural environment
(palemahan) (for more details, see Ramstedt 2009:344-350). This concept has become more influential
since the 1980s, not least in political matters, such as the Balinese’s protest against huge tourism
projects promoted by the central government and carried out without consulting the provincial
authorities in the 1990s (see Warren 2007).
3 The individual village assemblies are institutionalised and merged under the umbrella of majelis
(forum, council), majelis utama on the province level, majelis madya on the district level and majelis alit
on the sub-district level.
Bali, the political and cultural conservative movement which arose after the Bali
bombings in the 2000s (Schulte Nordholt 2007).
Compared with the situation during the New Order era, Perda 03/2001 steers in the
opposite direction: It apparently aims at creating a province based on one single form
of adat, the adat of the Hindu Balinese.4 Thus, the regulation creates a new form of
cultural citizenship – being Hindu Balinese, being guided by Hindu Balinese principles
and living under Hindu Balinese conditions – that seems to be more important than
national citizenship (see Hauser-Schäublin and Harnish in press).5 Cultural citizenship
– in Bali equalled with provincial citizenship by being a member first and foremost of a
particular village – privileges one segment of society (the Hindu Balinese). Perda
03/2001 turned a national minority (the Hindu Balinese) into the dominant majority of
the province and endowed it with special rights – at the expense of other minorities
(Christian, Buddhist, Chinese, and Muslim Balinese, as well as labour migrants, mostly
in the service of Bali’s tourist industry, from other parts of Indonesia). In contrast to
cultural citizenship, national citizenship postulates equality and equal rights for all its
citizens (whether equality and equal rights are really granted in practice is another
question). Therefore, Perda 03/2001 has created an inequality among Indonesian
citizens living in Bali province.
A closer look at the way in which “the Balinese village” is described in Perda
03/2001 reveals particularities that do not necessarily fit with what is historically
documented. The regulation mirrors a vision of “the Balinese village” that resonates
some of Dutch colonial fantasies, such as an egalitarian and democratic “village
republic” (Korn 1984). This image, in fact, neglects that – though in changing
combinations and in varying degrees – most of the villages had been at some time
bound in religious, economic and political networks culminating in principalities and
kingdoms. There were large areas of land owned by kings and also by royal temples
which had been worked by villagers in corvée. Although most of the disputes which
arose in a village were solved by the villagers themselves, many cases – especially in
conflicts over land and water between villages – were brought to the attention of
regional lords or even kings, who, as a rule, had the institution of a kerta, a tribunal, at
their palaces. In this jurisdiction, Brahmana priests played an important role.
Conversely, offenders of royal regulations were brought directly to this court and
sentenced. Apart from the integration of villages into such overarching polities,
Balinese society was a stratified society, ranking from the nobility down to slaves.
Furthermore, in many villages, even if they were not (or no longer) part of a
principality, the village organisation (krama desa) was (and still is) based on the principle
of seniority and open only to married men who were born in that village. In some
places, the most important offices were inherited within particular families who were in
a definitely more powerful position than others.
4 It has to be noted that the regulation, though in general emphasising the more or less unchanged
nature of adat, also suggests that Balinese culture should not close itself to “the influence of other
positive cultural values”.
5 Perda 03/2001 mentions in one paragraph that the national culture (kebudayaan nasional) should be
cultivated, preserved and developed as well.

With regard to their location, many villages were not fixed entities but quite a lot of
fluctuations took place in the course of centuries. Families or whole settlements moved
in and out due to changing political, social, economic, and ecological conditions.
Battles between principalities, invading newcomers (“pirates”) and conflicts between
and within villages contributed to in and out fluxes. Village boundaries often changed,
according to the (power) relationships within and between the villages and the
outcome of disputes.
The question of village boundaries is one of the most sensitive subjects in the
Provincial Regulation since it raises the distinction between desa dinas (the official
administrative village) and desa adat (the customary village), a differentiation the Dutch
had introduced as part of the restructuring of their colony. The goal was to keep the
domain of Balinese religion and customs, which they wanted to preserve in its original
condition, separate from the domain of politics and administration of the colonial
government. Thus, two types of villages were created, sometimes even with different
territorial boundaries. This division was taken over by the Indonesian state after
Independence (Warren 2007). Characteristically, Perda 03/2001 does not even
mention the administrative village. Today, disputes over boundaries are one of the
reasons why some villages want to abolish the distinction by giving priority to desa
adat/pakraman. In many other cases, the incongruence of the dinas and adat boundaries
lead to the splitting up of villages (pemekaran).6
This brief review of some results of historical research in comparison to desa
pakraman as described in Perda 03/2001 shows that the latter operates with an idealised
picture of “the Balinese village”, an image that emphasises continuity, immutability and
stability. Moreover, it also suggests that Balinese society was based on equality and was
a fundamentally democratic social organisation.
Adat between Self-Determination and National Loyalty

Apart from the cultural, social and political privileges the desa pakraman, but even more
the districts enjoy, there is also an economic advantage from which these units benefit:
They receive a substantial share of the redistribution of taxes (see Review Regulasi
n.d.). According to the Surat Keputusan Gubernur no. 65/2001, the percentage the
eight kabupaten and the province capital, Denpasar, receive together is higher (60%)
than the share of the province (40%; Review Regulasi n.d.). Moreover, every desa
pakraman receives an annual contribution from the provincial government. In sum:
The position of the adat villages within the province and the economic and political
empowerment they have reached since the end of the New Order regime has increased
remarkably. There is probably not much left on the agenda of promotion, participation
and autonomy the desa pakraman could wish to get. The postulates AMAN set up in its
first congress all seem to be fulfilled. So what kind of support does Bali – or rather the
6 In the interviews I had with AMAN representatives in Bali in 2012, the number of desa pakraman in
Bali was given as 1,458. In an official announcement issued in November 2012, the number was
given as 1,480. In 2003, 1,399 desa pakraman were listed (Janamijaya et al. 2003); thus, 81 new desa
pakraman came into being within ten years.
villages and representatives who are members of AMAN – expect from this well-
established nationwide organisation?
As the records of the first congress of AMAN illustrate – and many informants
also told me – one of the influential founding members was I Nyoman Sueta from
Catur (Bangli) (AMAN 1999).7 Under the New Order, the Balinese had already gained
experience in formulating and using adat as a means to position and defend themselves
against the national government (see Ramstedt 2012:10). One of the key contests of
power between the Balinese and the central government, which also gained worldwide
attention, was fought over the Bali Nirvana Resort project near the temple of Tanah
Lot in the 1990s (Warren 1998, 2007). The Balinese representative, therefore, was
probably an important actor in the constitution of AMAN in 1999.
The Hindu Balinese inhabitants of the province could be considered as a single
masyarakat adat in the way they are described in Perda 03/2001. The AMAN definition
is almost congruent with it: The Hindu Balinese share a genealogical origin, they live in
a defined geographical area, have a joint system of (Hindu) values and ideology, as well
as a similar economic, social and political organisation; in sum, a shared culture. Yet,
Bali, or rather the collective of the desa pakraman (the Majelis Utama Desa Pakraman as
an overarching body), is not a member of AMAN but individual settlements are. Seven
registered members from Bali were on the AMAN list in 2012 (AMAN 2012d). These
are: desa adat/pakraman Antap Dlod Sema (Tabanan); Catur (Bangli); Mayungan
Let/desa Antapan (Tabanan); dusun/banjar Pengubengan Kauh–Kerobokan, Kuta
(Badung); desa adat Les (Buleleng); banjar Bendesa, desa adat/pakraman Penarukan
(Buleleng); banjar adat Banjar Jawa, desa pakraman Kota Singaraja. The list reveals that
the Balinese communities are heterogeneous in several respects. First of all, these
member units are not all desa pakraman but some are only neighbourhoods, banjar. The
choice of the villages seems to be random, as well as the size of the settlements, their
location in the province, and the districts. Not all kabupaten are even represented:
Gianyar, Jembrana, Karangasem, and Klungkung are missing.
Almost without exception, these banjar and villages have become AMAN members
because of the individual actors who were already engaged in other social networks
and, therefore, took the initiative.8 All of these actors, local representatives of AMAN,
had an academic education. Several of them have been members of AMAN since its
inception and are experienced in the politics of “culture” or adat and in dealing with
NGOs. In almost all cases, these individuals – all male and most of them below 50 –
raised the issue of AMAN membership in the banjar or village assembly and convinced
their fellow villagers to agree to a corporate AMAN membership. Many of the
activities the local AMAN representatives have taken up reflect their personal ideas
and goals. There are no special forums in the villages where AMAN issues are
discussed and decisions made, thus, leaving quite a large range of action to the
7 Together with I Nyoman Resiyasa, (the late) I Nyoman Sueta became one of the first two
representatives of Bali in the National Council of AMAN.
8 For reasons of protection, I will keep the identity and the local origin of my interlocutors
anonymous in cases where their statements may create conflicts.

individual AMAN members. These activists are well interlinked and frequently
communicate with each other.
When AMAN came into being, there had been many more Balinese villages or
neighbourhoods, about 40, which became members of AMAN, as one of my
interlocutors pointed out. Since everyone had had their own ideas about what and how
things should be done, he said, it had been difficult to reach any agreement or
conclusion. As a consequence, many villages quit AMAN. With seven left, the
discussion of core issues is apparently easier than before.9
I Made Suarnata from banjar Pengubengan Kauh, Kerobokan (Kuta), referred to
the fact that Balinese villages are not uniform and, therefore, have different issues on
the agenda. The structure and the size of villages are in some cases so complex and
unwieldy that they can be considered neither as a single unit, nor are they able to act as
such. Desa adat Kerobokan, for example, consists of 50 banjar. How can the assemblies
of 50 neighbourhoods be convinced that they should join a voluntary association such
as AMAN? Their interests may be too divergent. Moreover, this desa pakraman is not
linked to a desa dinas with an elected village head. Since Kerobokan is part of Bali’s
most important tourist strip, Kuta, Kerobokan has the status of a kelurahan (a higher
administrative unit that is part of the district of Kuta). The lurah, the leader of a
kelurahan, is not elected by the people but is a civil servant, that is, an office holder
appointed by the administration. He, therefore, carries out national or provincial
policies and not, first and foremost, the wishes of the villagers.
Another example is Banjar Jawa in the city of Singaraja, the home of another of
AMAN’s representatives. Banjar Jawa is a banjar pakraman (that is, not an
administrative neighbourhood) that belongs to the kecamatan of Buleleng.10 The
kecamatan Buleleng consists of 30 desa dinas or kelurahan; from the perspective of adat, it
comprises 21 desa pakraman. Desa pakraman Buleleng is part of the town of Singaraja
(the administrative capital of Buleleng) and Banjar Jawa is one of the desa pakraman’s 14
banjar pakraman.11 However, at the same time Banjar Jawa is administratively a
kelurahan. Thus, the pattern or structure of the kecamatan, and even more the kabupaten,
is intricate with cross-cutting units and structures of desa dinas/kelurahan and desa
pakraman. Furthermore, some villages and banjar or dusun have either a Hindu Balinese
or Muslim majority, which creates a further element of heterogeneity. Viewed together
from the perspective of adat and dinas, a complicated picture emerges that turns Banjar
Jawa into a multilayered entity with corresponding structures and authorities. These
9 These seven AMAN officials are also networking with many actors in other villages. Therefore,
many other places are indirectly involved in AMAN discussions.
10 Together with eight further sub-districts, the kecamatan of Buleleng constitutes the district
(kabupaten) Buleleng.
11 The name of Banjar Jawa might suggest a settlement of Muslim from Java. In fact, there is a small
Muslim community living there which has its own cemetery. Yet, the majority are Hindu-Balinese.
According to oral histories, Banjar Jawa was founded when a king of Majapahit sent an elephant as a
present to the Balinese king. Those Javanese who had brought the elephant to Bali, remained there
and founded a settlement, Banjar Jawa. Many of the original inhabitants later moved to a Muslim
settlement, kampong Mumbul.
multiple classifications create cross-cutting units, each with particular boundaries.

Apart from adat communities, there are also those of religion, agama (see below).
It is evident that the divergence between adat and dinas, on the one hand, and the
different administrative level (desa dinas and kelurahan) with either elected or appointed
office holders, on the other hand, does not promote the consolidation and the sharing
of the goals of the Balinese of either agama. Several Balinese adat representatives
emphasised that this situation calls for two different types of loyalties, each directed to
different institutions and their centres, as well as their different goals. I Made Nurbawa
put it in a nutshell when he said: “I have two citizenships: I am a citizen of Indonesia
and a citizen of Bali” (“Saya statusnya dua kewarganegaranya: saya sebagai warga Negara Adat
Bali dan sebagai warga Negara Indonesia”). “But when should I (or can I) be”, he
continued, “a national citizen and when a Balinese adat citizen?”
The respondents expressed in several interviews that the gap between desa dinas and
desa adat (or pakraman) has grown wider since otonomi daerah (regional autonomy); at the
same time, the exigency to live up to both has become more difficult. The respondents
stressed that they did not challenge national citizenship, the national constitution, state
law, or national unity. They saw it as a framework within which they tried to
accommodate or find a niche where they could achieve their Balineseness and
autonomy.12 Most of my interlocutors pleaded for a reunification of both types of
villages or, rather, for a restoration of the pre-colonial conditions, though some
conceded that it would be difficult to say what consequences this would have for the
villagers concerning adat and dinas.
Division of Labour between Majelis Desa Pakraman and AMAN

This issue, whether desa dinas and desa adat should be merged, is, as all interlocutors
underlined, an exclusively inner-Balinese problem. They referred to otonomi daerah when
asked about such matters and the role of AMAN; they said that a division of labour
exists. The Majelis Desa Pakraman, the council or forum of all desa pakraman, is
responsible for inner-Balinese questions. Its tasks consist, as described in Perda
03/2001, of the promotion and protection of adat; this forum should also assist in the
organisation of religious ceremonies (upacara keagamaan) when needed.13 The inner-
Balinese disputes related to adat, which an individual village is unable to solve, are
reported to this forum as a counselling and decision-making body. The case is usually
firstly brought to the sub-district level. If no solution can be achieved, the case is
handed over to the next higher section until it reaches the highest level, the Majelis
Utama Desa Pakraman of the province. The Majelis Utama Desa Pakraman is the
official partner of the governor in adat matters. During meetings, the governor
12Some said that the desa pakraman should also receive judiciary rights according to adat law. Others
saw this as rather problematic, since such judgements based on adat law could contradict national law.
However, they agreed that a village should have a justice of the peace (hakim perdamaian).
13 Several of the respondents underlined that AMAN pushed the Balinese to create an adat
organisation that encompasses the individual villages. The institution of Majelis Desa Pakraman (as
outlined in Perda 03/2001) is also said to be the result of AMAN and other Balinese activists.
announces the latest political decisions concerning adat, especially the amount of
money (redistribution of taxes) destined for the adat communities.14 Majelis Utama
Desa Pakraman also receives annual financial aid from the provincial government: 1
billion Rp./year for Majelis Utama Desa Pakraman (province), 100 million Rp./year
for Majelis Madya Desa Pakraman (district) and 50 million Rp./year for the Majelis
Alit Desa Pakraman (sub-district) (Metrobali March 15, 2013).
The task of this institution to decide in matters of adat in such a way that the parties
concerned are ready to accept its decision is not an easy one. The intra-village conflicts
over pemekaran (splitting up) are sensitive issues which are difficult to solve. The forum
failed, for example, to achieve reconciliation or to restore peace in the case of banjar
adat Tamblingan which wanted to split from desa pakraman Munduk. The major
problem is that the council’s decision is understood by both parties as biased, either by
pleading for the status quo or for splitting.
Ironically, the attempts of smaller units to split off from a desa pakraman are one of
the consequences of otonomi daerah and the quest to receive a bigger share of the taxes.
As briefly mentioned, the Provincial Government redistributes a certain amount of the
taxes among the almost 1,500 desa pakraman. This money is then divided among the
banjar adat, the neighbourhoods. The temptation to get the full sum allocated to a
village with the official status of a desa pakraman seems to be a common motif of banjar
adat for pemekaran (Bali Post January 3, 2013).15 Such internal matters, though
intrinsically linked to the many ways in which adat has become a fundamental issue
even in everyday life, are kept within the province, although it clearly transgresses the
boundaries between adat and dinas; even parliamentarians get involved in such
problematic cases as well.16 Two Balinese AMAN representatives who live in the same
desa pakraman, Les, though in different banjar pakraman, know about the challenge
associated with this division since this single desa pakraman is divided into two desa
dinas. Should the desa pakraman also split into two and follow the path of the separate
desa dinas? Or should the two desa dinas merge? There are proponents of both solutions.
Nevertheless, the problem of which social unit should be eligible for AMAN
membership has not yet been solved. Should each Hindu Balinese banjar or desa
pakraman have the opportunity of becoming an individual member of AMAN? What
implications would it have on AMAN if more than 1,480 desa pakraman (not to
mention their sub-units, the banjar) became individual members?
14 For example, the Governor of Bali announced at a meeting with the Majelis Utama Desa Pakraman
at the governor’s office in November, 2012, that each of the 1,480 desa pakraman will receive 100
million Rupiah in 2013 (Berita dewata 2012).
15 In March, 2013 (the election of the Governor takes place in 2013), the Governor even promised
200 million Rupiah per adat village for 2013 (Metrobali March 15, 2013).
16 Another problem, though clearly linked to the adat/dinas division of villages, are territorial
boundaries (since the territory of a desa dinas may differ from the boundaries of a desa pakraman) and
the implementation of otonomi daerah. This may cause problems for some villages that rely on the
traditional use of resources (such as well) sometimes located on the territory of a neighbouring
village.
As I Made Rimbawa, a former judge and the AMAN representative of kabupaten

Buleleng, explained, the current contingency of membership should be replaced by
more evident and convincing criteria for membership. The villages and their
inhabitants, especially in north Bali, cannot be considered as displaying a homogenous
culture. Many villages are culturally mixed with Balinese of Chinese descent, Muslim
and Christians (Muslim and Christian Balinese, Arabs as well as migrant workers) living
there. The Chinese do not practice separatism by living only among themselves, as one
interlocutor emphasised. Probably due to their economic function – as traders,
shopkeepers, entrepreneurs, and other business men, but also truck drivers – they live
in a rather dispersed way. Therefore, they do not aim at setting up their own desa
pakraman.17 My interlocutor contrasted the ethnic Chinese, most of whom practice Tri
Dharma or Kong Hu Cu (Confucian) rituals, with Muslims who prefer living together
in separate units. There are Muslim settlements (all of them with the administrative
status of kelurahan) in the town of Singaraja18 (and beyond), such as Kampung Bugis,
Kampung Anyar, Kampung Baru, and Kelurahan Banjar Bali. Some villages in
Buleleng, especially in the kecamatan Sukasada and Gerokgak, have a Muslim majority. I
Made Rimbawa pointed out that Buleleng has always been a region of cultural plurality
and had to accommodate the fact that adat does not mean the same for all these
different communities.
Similar to the Hindu Balinese, some of the traditional Muslim villages also have
their own territory, their own customs and their own places of worship (seen as
equivalent to the Hindu Three Temple System) as well as their own burial place. Some
of the Muslim villages have also pleaded to the provincial government to become
recognised as desa pakraman (Rieger in press); to my knowledge, the decision is still
pending. In this multi-religious context, the question of adat and whether it can be
limited to Hindu Balinese adat as defined in Perda 03/2001 arises.
Three Categories of Balinese Adat and Culture

To acknowledge this cultural plurality, local AMAN leaders summoned a meeting
(musyawarah) with village adat representatives from the district of Buleleng. As a result
of these discussions, they proposed the creation of three categories of Balinese culture
as represented in the district. Each category should become a collective member of
AMAN. These three categories were: Bali Pesisir, Bali Mula and Bali Apanage
(Laporan Hasil MUSDA AMAN 2011). Bali Pesisir subsumes the Balinese who are
living along the north coast. All these villages have been interacting with the outside
world for centuries due to their location on the trading route to the Spice Islands.
Many of them have adapted elements from merchants, sailors, savants, and saints from
other Indonesian islands and far beyond (see Hauser-Schäublin and Ardika 2008).
17 As a respondent explicated, the Chinese do not have a particular adat organisation but have a
funeral organisation (organisasi kematian) called Bukit Suci (Pure Hill), which unites the Chinese
independent of their residence.
18 Singaraja is divided into 18 kelurahan and 1 desa dinas (Desa Baktiseraga),
http://ciptakarya.pu.go.id/profil/profil/timur/bali/singaraja.pdf. <June 24, 2013>.

Among the Bali Pesisir, there are also mixed Hindu-Muslim as well as Muslim villages.
Some local AMAN representatives have so far already proposed four Muslim villages
(Kampung Singaraja, Pegayaman, Kampung Bugis, and Kampung Kajanan), all
belonging to the Bali Pesisir category, for membership of AMAN.
The category of Bali Mula (sometimes also called Bali Aga, though the
interpretation and assessment of both terms vary) contains a number of villages which
the Dutch had originally classified as pre-Hindu or even animistic (see Hauser-
Schäublin 2004). These are mainly villages in the mountain area that had not been
under the continuous influence (or dominance) of the Hindu courts (and their priests)
in the south. They, therefore, practiced rituals (such as burying a corpse instead of
cremating it) that differed from those in the southern plains. After a consultative
meeting in Singaraja in 2011, the AMAN representatives listed seven villages as Bali
Mula (Laporan Hasil MUSDA AMAN 2011).
The category of Bali Apanage consists of the “main-stream” Balinese culture. Many
noble immigrants from south Bali are living in such “Apanage villages” in Buleleng.
Many of these families are affiliated in one or the other way to royal courts and
Brahmana priests; today, many of them hold important positions in these villages.
The AMAN leaders from Buleleng have submitted a request for acknowledgement
of the three categories of Balinese culture and accepting them as members of the
organisation to the headquarters of AMAN. An answer has not yet arrived (in July
2012).
The tripartite categorisation of “the Hindu Balinese” reminds one of Geertz’s
classification of three socio-cultural or religious streams (aliran) in Java: He
distinguished the court-oriented, refined priyai from the syncretic abangan tradition of
the peasantry and the santri of the pious Muslim worldview (Geertz 1960, but see also
Latif 2008). Without discussing whether this classification is “correct” or not, we have
to note that this adaptation to Bali is understandable in the attempt to acknowledge
plurality with regard to possible AMAN membership and to overcome
homogenization and limitation to the Hindu Balinese. Nevertheless, it will be difficult
to anticipate the consequences of these new distinctions which, as such, emphasise
difference by eclipsing similarities and interconnectedness. In fact, the distinction
especially between “Bali Mula/Aga” and “Apanage” becomes increasingly blurred by
intra Hindu Balinese reformation resulting in standardisation – and by Perda 03/2001,
which defines “the Hindu Balinese village” (see above and Hauser-Schäublin and
Harnish in press).
Additionally, the progressing economic development (mainly tourism) and
urbanisation of Bali and its corresponding lifestyles also raise the question, to what
extent does adat still determine everyday life, especially of job holders and city dwellers.
All of my interlocutors were aware of the difficulty of defining adat without mixing
it with agama (see Hauser-Schäublin 2011). The latter, religion, is consequently avoided
by AMAN as an organisation. It focuses exclusively on adat and, in fact, has managed
to unite Muslim, Christian, Hindu, and any other followers of ritual practices and
beliefs throughout the archipelago by arguing on behalf of adat. In the case of Bali,
local adat, as described in Perda 03/2001, is intrinsically linked to agama Hindu (see also
Warren 2007). The amalgamation of adat and agama for the non-Hindu Balinese are
experienced even in their everyday life. It is, therefore, no surprise that Muslim village
representatives wrote “keagamaan” or “religi” into the AMAN list when asked about
their local particularities. By contrast, the Hindu Balinese filled in dance performances
and the like (Laporan Hasil MUSDA AMAN 2011). Thus, the question I asked my
interlocutors was, if the Balinese speak of their adat – as Bali Hindu or Hindu Bali – do
they not anticipate that it is inseparably interlinked with agama?
Most of my respondents denied that adat Bali also implies agama Hindu. One of
them added the term budaya (culture) to emphasise the neutrality when he spoke of
“budaya adat Bali-Hindu”. On further enquiry, he added that Balinese citizens of the
Muslim creed are already included in this term; he made a distinction between “budaya
Hindu” and “budaya adat Bali Hindu”. The former implied a Hindu culture, the latter a
“culture of Bali Hindu adat”. Concerning the name of their religion, he said, he would
have preferred “Agama Bali” as the official denomination, but since the national state
requires that each citizen follows a world religion, the government would not have
accepted this name (Picard 2004, 2011).19 Therefore, the affiliation with Hinduism as a
world religion was chosen and accepted as a name. Today, many Balinese ask
themselves whether “Agama Hindu” should not to be changed to “Agama Hindu Bali”
to emphasise the localised aspect of this religion (Picard 2011). The interlocutor
concluded that it is the spirit of Hinduism that enlivens Balinese adat: Perda 03/2001
already makes the interconnection between adat and agama (especially in the definition
of the tasks of Majelis Desa Pakraman) explicit. The same interlocutor added that
another forum (Forum Kerukunan Umat Beragama), in which he is also involved, is
taking care of harmonious relations between communities of different religions.
In sum, as has become evident, adat cannot be treated as an independent category
but is interlinked with agama – and also with politics. In the province of Bali, the Hindu
Balinese are the dominant majority, as acknowledged and reinforced by the Provincial
Regulation (Perda 03/2001). All other non-Hindu Balinese – clearly minorities – have
become second-class citizens in their own province. This seems to exceed by far the
expectations and goals the AMAN founders had in 1999.
However, one of my interlocutors still regretted that local AMAN’s efforts and
goals did not sufficiently acknowledge the expectations and claims of Balinese activists,
particularly to get a bigger share of taxes from the central government for the benefit
of Bali and its culture. He expects the elaboration of more explicit policies from
AMAN and, therefore, welcomed the founding (in 2012) of Forum Perjuangan Hak
Bali (Forum for the Fight for Balinese Rights, FPHB; see Joewono 2012). One of the
main actors is the secretary of Majelis Madya Desa Pakraman in Denpasar. 20
What are the Balinese AMAN activists’ further expectations concerning AMAN as
a nationwide organisation?
19Balinese Hinduism was recognised as one of the national religions by the government in 1958.
20This forum seems to be founded as a reaction to the Permendagri No. 32/2011 (Peraturan Menteri
Dalam Negeri Nomor 32, 2011 Tentang Pedoman Pemberian Hibah Dan Bantuan Sosial Yang
Bersumber Dari Anggaran Pendapatan Dan Belanja Daerah). This regulation of the Ministry of the
Interior outlines (and redefines) the relationship between the central government and the provinces
concerning the redistribution of taxes destined as support and social assistance in the provinces.
One respondent pointed out that a formalized link between Majelis Desa Pakraman
(which, ultimately, is an institution set up by the province) and AMAN does not yet
exist. A closer cooperation could create more synergy. Since Bali is a province with a
high percentage of foreigners living there (work migrants, tourists, investors, business
people, etc.), one respondent expressed the hope that the Hindu Balinese will get
support from AMAN as a national organisation. AMAN could or should assist the
Hindu Balinese in their own endeavour to facilitate the adaptation of foreigners to
Balinese culture: The foreigners should learn more about Balinese culture and behave
in an appropriate way. This field is seen as a possible interface between AMAN and
Majelis Desa Pakraman.
Addressing the Future: “Bali Goes Global”

An overview of the activities and goals of the Balinese AMAN representatives shows
that they predominantly understand AMAN as a national organisation with excellent
international networks and donor organisations. They appreciate the direct contact and
the exchange of ideas with other AMAN members from different provinces during
national meetings. For them, AMAN is seen as a two-way bridge from the local to the
national and the global perspective. One of the representatives, who is also member of
the UNESCO Board supervising the Balinese UNESCO World Heritage (listed in
2012), emphasised that Balinese culture is now propagated worldwide. The Balinese
World Heritage bears the title: “Cultural Landscape of Bali Province: the Subak System
as a Manifestation of the Tri Hita Karana Philosophy” (Cultural Landscape 2012). In
the nomination text, the Balinese subak or wet rice irrigation system is featured as a
social and material expression of the Hindu Balinese “philosophical concept” of Tri
Hita Karana, which brings together the realms of the spirit, the human world and
nature” (ibidem). Described as (an unchanging) spiritual-ecological irrigation model
and practice, this important aspect of Balinese culture is understood as an exemplar for
the world community: “Balinese culture goes global”, as another respondent called it.
My Balinese interlocutors, almost without an exception, saw the strength of
AMAN in shaping the future of their villages and Bali as a province. They realised that
the preservation of adat is not enough for a viable future. Several of the representatives
are running social, economic and ecological development projects or NGOs, some of
them with considerable success: I Made Suarnata, the AMAN representative from
Pengubenang (Kerobokan), is very active in the environmental NGO Yayasan Wisnu.
He and the AMAN representatives from Les and Catur are involved in a number of
different projects, all of them with a strong environmental component, such as
ecowisata (ecotourism), agrowisata (agrotourism), aquawisata (the rehabilitation of
coral reefs for snorkelers) or the production of certified bio coffee. The idea of
sustainable economic and social development is prevalent in their expectations for the
future. They all aim at empowering the villagers and assisting them in gaining new
sources of income by cultivating, at the same time, the “spirit of adat” in the sense of
Tri Hita Karana.
The Yayasan Wisnu also has special programmes for “capacity building” in the villages
on its agenda; capacity building should create the prerequisite for the implementation
of sustainable projects on the local level. Some of the programmes, which are also
promoted by AMAN, are ideologically supported (transfer of knowledge) and even
subsidised by international NGOs with whom AMAN has been successfully
cooperating for many years (see chapter by Sanmukri). All of my interlocutors were
hoping to get more involved in international networks and organisations through
AMAN for the sake of their projects. They were all aware of the fact that the label
“indigenous people” AMAN used in the English translation of masyarakat adat is an
advantage in getting interlinked with international organisations and supporters of
“indigenous peoples”. If the translation of masyarakat adat were “peoples of traditions”
(or similar), this would be much more difficult. I Dewa Nyoman Suardana from
Penuktukan (Buleleng) reminded that the change of name from desa adat in desa
pakraman is, from an international perspective, a disadvantage. While adat has become
an established concept which has been translated with “indigenous”, pakraman does
not fill the same slot. “There are hukum adat, indigenous rights, but no hukum pakraman,
pakraman rights; there are indigenous land rights but no pakraman land rights; this
makes no sense”, he concluded. He has already written and talked about this issue in
different media and pleaded for a reintroduction of the term desa adat.
The electronic media – email, internet platforms and mobile phones – play a crucial
role among the activists in their communication within Bali and beyond. The social
media, such as Facebook, are used for the exchange of information and opinion-
making. Some of the representatives frequently comment on matters of adat and
politics in these media. I Made Nurbawa from Belatung (Tabanan), who is working in
the regional Broadcasting Commission of Indonesia and is especially experienced in
communication matters, highlighted the importance of fast communication in today’s
networks . He pointed to the way in which traditional adat leaders – those who are in
office due to particular adat regulations within individual villages – communicate with
each other: It focuses on personal face-to-face interactions, mainly during official
village meetings, rather than electronic media. In most desa pakraman, a man enters the
village association – the krama desa – only when he is married. The krama desa is based
on the principle of seniority21 and a man gradually steps up in the krama desa hierarchy
the older he gets until he reaches one of the most important positions – unless he is a
widower or all his sons are married.22 In fact, the adat leaders in most of the villages –
at least those who are not elected but are in office through the gradual promotion in
the krama desa – are elderly men and, therefore, still belong to the generation who is
not familiar with the use of electronic communications media. Communication with
adat leaders in the villages throughout the province is, therefore, difficult. Furthermore,
senior members of the krama desa are not necessarily those who are well informed
about encompassing issues discussed in provincial, national or international networks.
21 As has already been mentioned, the most important adat offices in some villages are tied to
particular families and are passed on patrilineally.

22 In this respect, some local variations exist; but in general, a man has to step down from the krama
desa when his sons are married and have children.

Modern technology plays an important role in today’s organisation of AMAN Bali, as well as
of adat temple ceremonies (here, doing the accounts in the temple Bale Agung in Catur
village after its sumptuous renovation and elaborate rituals).
Photo: Brigitta Hauser-Schäublin 2012
By contrast, a local AMAN representative is independent from the otherwise binding

rules of adat of his village if he wants to start some special activities and cooperation
with NGOs. One of my interlocutors praised AMAN membership and the freedom it
provides when he said: “I attended AMAN meetings when I was still a very young man
and I can continue far beyond my 60s; I can stay and be active as long as I want.”
Another respondent praised the democratic principle of AMAN because everyone can
be elected as a representative: “There [in contrast to the national parliament] I really
see people on the council who are like me, ordinary people.”
Nevertheless, some of the representatives who were very much in favour of
AMAN’s democratic principles got caught up in contradictions. One of them lamented
that some NGOs at an AMAN congress in Pontianak (Kalimantan), KMAN III 2007
pleaded for an equal participation of women in AMAN matters. My interlocutor
argued that adat, politics and decision-making is the domain of men according to
Balinese adat. Yet, adat and its values should be protected; gender equality and
women’s rights, therefore, run contrary to Balinese adat. In spite of his (and others’)
opposition, the AMAN congress decided to give women the same rights as men;
AMAN’s provincial representatives have to consist of one man and one woman.23
This interlocutor apparently did not think that the democratisation he had
welcomed in matters of krama desa membership and adat leadership also contradicted
village adat. Adat rights and human rights – indigenous groups have received
international support thanks to the UN Human Rights Convention and subsequent
declarations – are, at least in some points, incongruent (see also Bourchier 2007:125;
Warren 2007:198). However, as several respondents remarked, democratisation and
development imply “social transformation”. One interlocutor emphasised that social
transformation will be necessary for Balinese villages so that they may confidently look
ahead and not only back to the past and its traditions. Some also mentioned
“multicultural” coexistence and tolerance when asked about what they understood by
social transformation. One representative added that it is only recently that people
have started to categorise themselves and others according to agama, thus highlighting
differences and eclipsing commonalities. Here, social transformation means to bring
people out of their shell – without losing one’s own roots in adat.
23 In Bali, the female AMAN representative of Bali province is the wife of a male AMAN
representative of a kabupaten.
Whose Adat is it?
Adat, Indigeneity and Social Stratification in Toraja
Karin Klenke
Introduction
During my fieldwork in Toraja in 2009/20101, the adat elders of noble descent with
whom I discussed the ongoing nomination process of Toraja as World Heritage
surprised me with their enthusiastic engagement with the politics of indigeneity: Most
of them were active in the local branch of the Aliansi Masyarakat Adat Nusantara
(AMAN, Indigenous Peoples Alliance of the Archipelago).2 Indigeneity is generally
understood – whether it be in the field of politics and international law or in
anthropological research – as being at least partly opposed to a state, as a socially,
economically and politically marginal or marginalised position in the context of a
1 I conducted a total of ten months of fieldwork in Indonesia (from October to November 2008,
from September 2009 to April 2010 and again in May 2011) as a researcher with the Brigitta Hauser-
Schäublin led project “Transcultural authorship, copyright and film. The case of funeral rituals among
the Toraja in Sulawesi, Indonesia”. The project was part of the German Research Council (DFG)
funded Interdisciplinary Research Unit “The Constitution of Cultural Property” at Göttingen
University. I would like to thank Brigitta Hauser-Schäublin, Stefanie Steinebach and Jovan Maud for
their comments and criticism of earlier versions of this paper.
2 By equating indigeneity with masyarakat adat in the Toraja case-study, I follow my interview partners
who used the terms interchangeably.

150 Karin Klenke
nation state.3 However, my interview partners were not marginal. They represented the
government in Toraja: the acting Regent, a former Vice-Regent, the Regional Secretary,
a retired high officer from the State Ministry of National Development Planning in
Jakarta, heads of local government offices, and so on. They all came from the ruling
families of the 32 adat districts which make up the Toraja highlands and many of them
held high church positions. Why were mostly very well educated, influential and
affluent noble Torajans, firmly integrated in powerful institutions, so eager to claim an
indigenous identity? Their explanations – adat lay at the core of indigeneity and they, as
members of the ruling local elite, had the greatest command over adat – stirred up my
interest in exploring the deployment of adat in claims of indigeneity in a stratified
society. Indigeneity may be the only empowering subject position, the only place of
recognition possible to inhabit, for groups like the Batin Sembilan (see the chapter by
Steinebach in this volume), the Orang Rimba (Steinebach 2012) or the Wana (see the
chapter by Grumblies in this volume). Toraja noble elders, however, have greater
agency in their engagements with the national government, an agency which they
happily employed in the past and still do. Why would people who are part of the local
or regional – or in some cases even of the national – elite want to claim an identity that
seems to make them marginal by definition?
Indigeneity as a Relational Identity

As several writers have pointed out, the meaning of indigeneity is not based on
essential qualities or inherent properties, but emerges in a process of differentiation,
that is, in relation to what is understood as not indigenous in distinct historical social
formations (see Cadena and Starn 2007b:4; Li 2000:151; Niezen 2004:70; Merlan
2009:304-5).4 Even the vague attempts at criterial definitions in the sphere of
international law by Martínez Cobo (1983) or Daes (1996) rely partly on a relational
understanding as the processes of settlement and of marginalisation encompass “the
indigenous” and its “other”.
While I share the constructionist approach, I also endorse Li’s warning against
interpretations that “seem to suggest that maximizing, goal-oriented actors switch or
cross boundaries in pursuit of their ends, approaching questions of identity in
consumer terms, as a matter of optimal selection” (2000:150). Instead, she argues that
a group’s self-identification is rather “a positioning which draws upon historically
sedimented practices, landscapes, and repertoires of meanings, and emerges through
particular patterns of engagement and struggle” (2000:151). While the patterns and
formations that enable the emergence of a certain articulation of indigeneity are ever
3 Definitions in international law and in the UNESCO Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous
People have deliberately been vague and non-binding, giving priority to self-identification (see the
chapters by Göcke and Cabrera in this volume). They all stress, however, that indigenous people are
not hegemonic (Martínez Cobo 1983:379).
4 This statement cuts short a long and controversial discussion about the “nature” of indigeneity. See
Kenrick and Lewis (2004) and Mackey (2005) for an (at least strategically) essentialist understanding.
Kuper (2003; 2005:204-218) staunchly rejects even the idea of indigeneity.
Whose Adat is it? 151
changing, indigeneity generally describes the relationship between a marginalised,

culturally distinctive group and a somehow culturally unmarked hegemonic other.
Emerging Indigeneity in Indonesia

The Indonesian term for indigenous community is masyarakat adat, which means
literally adat-based community. This term is confusing, since in public understanding, it
is taken for granted that every Indonesian “has” adat, which is seen as the basis for
one’s ethnic identification. As Indonesians are not faced with a hegemonic settler
population and each ethnic identification – be it marginalised or hegemonic – is based
on adat, adat cannot be immediately equated with marginality or indigeneity. As Tsing
summarised: “Indigeneity is not a self-evident category in Indonesia. Almost everyone
is ‘indigenous’ in the sense of deriving from original stocks; Indonesia is not a white
settler state” (2007:34). No claims to rights, resources and political participation can be
based on adat alone.
The conceptual equation of masyarakat adat with indigeneity emerged from specific
social formations: the experience of economic, political, social, and religious
marginalisation which many groups – mostly ones living in sparsely populated,
resource rich areas like rainforests – have suffered during the developmentalist New
Order regime (see chapter by Arizona and Cahyadi in this volume). As so-called suku
terasing (isolated tribes) and later as komunitas adat terpencil (remote adat communities),
they were the target of heavy social engineering programmes aimed at “modernising”
them and turning them into proper citizens: “By working to assimilate these people
into normative Indonesian standards and grouping them into discipline-oriented
villages, the program provided a striking and inexpensive model of how development
was to operate at a national scale” (Tsing 1999:171; see also Duncan 2004). Forests
inhabited by nomadic groups were opened up for resource exploitation, thus robbing
these groups of their livelihoods. Such resource conflicts led to the foundation of local
NGOs which, in turn, attracted the attention of international NGOs with an ecological
agenda. Although ecological issues were very often not at the core of the conflicts,
ecology was one of the few public spaces in Suharto’s repressive New Order regime
where social protest was possible (Tsing 2007:37). Adat emerged as the most promising
common political term in the ongoing discussions and struggles. It was neutral enough
by its common usage in Indonesia not to stir suspicion; it bore the possibility of
positioning local juridical norms and rights against the national laws, and it could easily
be brought into dialogue with transnational activism, such as the indigeneity
movement. During the first clandestine nationwide meeting of representatives of these
groups and NGOs engaged in their struggle in Rantepao in 1993, the umbrella term
masyarakat adat was chosen (Moniaga 2004), a term most groups had used for
themselves instead of the derogatory komunitas adat terpencil.5
5 See Acciaioli (2007) and Moniaga (2004, 2007) for an analysis of the emergence of masyarakat adat as
a political category in Indonesia.
152 Karin Klenke
While the term adat has not acquired political or juridical implications during the New
Order, the term masyarakat adat implies the experience of marginalisation by the nation
state and is associated with political and juridical claims. The political implications of
the terminology are made clear by the comment the representative of Indonesia made
in the UN General Assembly immediately after the adoption of UNDRIP: “Given the
fact that Indonesia’s entire population at the time of colonization remained unchanged,
the rights in the Declaration accorded exclusively to indigenous people and did not
apply in the context of Indonesia. Indonesia would continue to promote the collective
rights of indigenous peoples” (sic!) (UN 2007). While he – just like Tsing – concedes
that all Indonesians are “deriving from original stocks”, there is a fine difference: For
the Indonesian state, it is only marginalisation by white settlers that transforms
minorities of “original stocks” into indigenous people.
As numerous studies have shown, adat can take on various meanings and be
deployed for different purposes (Davidson and Henley 2007; for central Sulawesi, see
Li 2007b). In the context of indigeneity, adat also opens up various possibilities from
claiming land rights (Steinebach in this volume) to the pacification of a region after
violent conflicts (Müller in this volume). The deep involvement of Torajan activists of
indigeneity with the structures of the nation state, with indigeneity’s “other”, thus gives
rise to promising questions about the uses of indigeneity in a stratified society.
In my reading of the noble Torajans’ activism, indigeneity is an emergent form of
negotiating relationships with others – with institutions and actors beyond the state
level, with the national government (never as monolithic as implied by the singular
noun), with the imagined community of Indonesia as a multi-ethnic society, with
regional neighbours like the Bugis and the Makassar, and also – and maybe most
importantly – with Torajans of non-noble descent. What kind of agency vis-à-vis these
institutions and actors is engendered by the employment of adat as indigeneity which
an agency based on shared citizenship, religious or political affiliation or democratic
representation does not grant?
Outline of Toraja
The region of Toraja is located in the highlands of South Sulawesi. The fragmentation
craze of decentralisation led to a split of the former district Kabupaten Tana Toraja
into the regencies Toraja Utara (North Toraja) and Tana Toraja in 2008.6 The
population numbers almost 430,000 people, overwhelmingly Torajans, but also Bugis,
Makassar and Javanese. Due to migration of mostly landless Toraja since the 1970s, an
even larger number of Torajans live outside Toraja.7 In 2005, 88.7% of the Toraja
6When I talk about “Toraja”, I refer to these two regencies.

7The homepage of the former regency of Tana Toraja mentioned more than 600,000 migrants in
2007 (Kabupaten Tanah Toraja 2007).
population were Christians (56.5% Protestants and 32.2% Catholics), 7.3% were
Muslims and 4.0% were Hindus (BPSKTT 2007:102).8
Toraja was a stratified society with a ruling nobility, free commoners and slaves in
pre-colonial times. The local articulations and the flexibility of this stratification varied
widely between adat districts.9 Within the nobility, status was primarily dependent on a
person’s descent from the clan’s tongkonan, the ancestral house. The older the tongkonan
was, the higher the status of the noble clan (see Waterson 2003; 2009:123-200). The
lavish funeral ceremonies, of which the length, elaborateness and grandeur depended
on one’s rank, were the central social arena for claiming, reproducing, enhancing, and
contesting status. The claim to high status was open to contestation and a source for
intense competition among the nobility. Gender is a largely unmarked category in
Toraja. While there is a gendered division of labour, it does not result in fixed
hierarchies (Waterson 2009:242). The main axis of social inequality in Toraja runs
along the lines of stratification, not gender.
In contrast to the centralised Islamic kingdoms of the Bugis and Makassar in the
lowlands, the highlands were never politically united in pre-colonial times (Waterson
2009:25).10 The relationship between lowlanders and highlanders was based on
warfare, trade and marriage. Noble highland leaders sold a large number of people of
lower descent as slaves to Bugis traders. It is estimated that up to 10-15% of the
population were sold (Waterson 2009:82). Noble marriages and trade notwithstanding,
the relationship between Torajans and Bugis was uneven: Torajans, who refused to
take on Islam but held on to aluk to dolo, were seen as inferior unbelievers, their
political structures lacking in complexity and sophistication. Bugis frequently raided the
highlands and took Torajans of all ranks as slaves.
The highlands came under Dutch colonial rule in 1906. For administrative reasons,
the Dutch divided the region into 32 adat districts, each headed by a noble leader. The
internal fragmentation as such and the differences in adat between these 32 districts are
central to the Torajans’ understanding of themselves as an ethnic group. The Calvinist
Dutch Reformed Mission set up the first mission post in 1913 in order to create a
buffer against the lowland Islamic neighbours by Christianizing the upland “heathens”.
The Christian mission was unsuccessful during colonial times, but conversions sped up
rapidly after independence.11 The idea of the people living in the highlands as indeed
being “a people” slowly developed under the influence of the converging forces of
strategic political considerations of the ruling noble leaders, linguistic research by the
missionaries, a self-conscious religious differentiation from the Islamic lowlanders, and
colonial administrative measures (Roth 2004). The inhabitants of the highlands finally
fully identified (themselves) as Torajans in the 1930s (Bigalke 2005:149-179).
8 The 4 % Hindu are probably mostly followers of the local religion aluk to dolo, which gradually lost
its appeal after independence. It was successfully registered as a variant of Hinduism at the
Indonesian Department of Religion in 1969 (Waterson 2009:356).
9 For an excellent discussion of the intricacies of Toraja stratification see Nooy-Palm (1979:43-57).
10 The name “Toraja” stems linguistically from the Bugis expression to riaja – “the people living
upstream”, and does not refer to shared cultural features but to a geographical location.
11 A detailed analysis of the historical context of conversions and the consequences of the mission for
the local religion aluk to dolo is provided by Waterson (2009:297-430).

154 Karin Klenke
Today, the council of the noble leaders of the 32 adat districts, the kobongan kalua, is the
highest political adat institution in Toraja, while the two regional parliaments (DPR-D)
are the highest political institutions in terms of the nation state. The political landscape
of Toraja is thus characterised by legal pluralism and by intense centrifugal and
centripetal forces that are constantly in flux.
The highland economy is predominantly based on wet rice cultivation, cash crops,
such as spices or the famous Toraja coffee, and tourism. Ownership of land is
extremely uneven. This dates back to the times of the slave trade when some members
of the nobility
had amassed huge acreages of rice lands seized from rivals or those too weak to
resist. The coming of the Dutch, while it halted these destructive processes, also
had the effect of confirming and consolidating patterns of ownership as they
were at the moment of takeover.
(Waterson 2009:82)
Landlessness, as has been said before, is one of the prime reasons for migration. The
coffee plantations and big hotels are, with only a few exceptions, owned exclusively by
Torajans or at least by holdings with prominent Toraja participation (Aditjondro
2010:66-76). Toraja has no history of resource conflicts with the state or state-
supported companies.
The region was included in Indonesia’s Second Tourism Development Plan from
1974-1978 and saw an amazing increase in the numbers of domestic and foreign
tourists from the late-1960s until the mid-1990s. Since 1994, visitor numbers have
dropped sharply from more than 261,000 to only about 32,000 in 2005 (BPSKTT
2007:212-213) and are hardly recovering at all, a fact of great concern for the regional
and local administration and the Torajans working in the tourist business.
The position of the Toraja nobility in colonial times was challenged by the formal
abolition of slavery and other rank-related rights through the Dutch administration,
although the Dutch still relied heavily on the nobility as their local counterparts (see
also the chapter by Thufail in this volume). Christian theology which posits that all
men are equal before the Lord (although with a Calvinist twist in Toraja) threatened
noble hegemony as well, as did the postcolonial state with its democratic constitution.
In the post-Suharto years, the nobility succeeded in expanding their adat-based political
hegemony into the sphere of representative democracy and state administration: High
positions, such as heads of government offices, have always been held by noble
Torajans, but the new policy of putra-daerah (“children of the region”), which gives
preference to local candidates, has further consolidated the access of noble Torajans to
high positions – often to the distress of Torajans of non-noble descent.
Stratification has been of high significance in many regions of Toraja up to the
present day, but the meritocratic orientation of the migrant population poses new
threats to the adat-based privileges of high-ranking Torajans. Toraja migrants of lower
descent are now able to amass riches outside the highlands. They wish to transform
this wealth into social capital via big houses and grand funeral ceremonies, or into
powerful political positions such as the regent. Contestations of rank and status,
therefore, do not only occur on a horizontal axis between competing noble families,
but also on a vertical axis. Stories abound concerning successful Torajans of slave or
commoner descent whose ambitions in the field of politics or ritual are stymied by the
firm grip the nobility still has on adat regulations and by the influence the noble leaders
command over the voting behaviour of the descendants of their former slaves. While I
cannot judge the empirical basis of these stories, their existence and the excitement
with which they are told point to the intense contestations under which the system of
rank finds itself.
Although adat is a given in research on Indonesia and a cornerstone of Toraja
identity today, Torajans have only “had” adat for about 100 years. In pre-colonial
times, aluk to dolo was an encompassing system regulating the relationships among
humans, between humans and their natural environment, and between humans and the
deities and ancestors (see Waterson 2009:297-351). In contrast to religion (agama), aluk
to dolo was unseparable from other aspects of life. One of the most important tasks of
the missionaries was, therefore, to carefully filter Toraja (ritual) life and belief in search
of incompatibilities with Christianity, since “heathen” magical beliefs lurked
everywhere. All rituals bordering too closely on or even trespassing over the line
between “just culture” and “magic” were not allowed for Christian Torajans. This
process gradually led to an almost complete loss of all “magical” rituals aimed at
enhancing fertility, while the funeral rites, of which only some aspects were forbidden
and some re-interpreted, were continued. The mission process, thus, not only brought
the concept of a separable sphere of agama as “religion” to the highlands, it also
instilled the idea of a complementary secular sphere of adat.
After this glimpse into basic features of Toraja life, I will scrutinize the historical
trajectory of adat in different fields: the mission process, the development of tourism in
the 1970s, the UNESCO World Heritage nomination and, finally, AMA Toraya.
Adat and Tourism

Communal ancestral houses and lavish rituals had been seen as proof of the
backwardness and irrational wastefulness of outer island inhabitants from the
perspective of modernisation and development in the 1950s and 1960s (Adams
2006:101). Against this backdrop, some ethnic groups ranked higher than others: With
Javanese court culture in the centre, cultural sophistication was seen as gradually
declining in concentric circles, positioning outer island inhabitants at the fringes of and
nomadic rainforest-dwellers beyond the limits of cultural worthiness. TV coverage of a
Toraja funeral ceremony in 1978 which had cost US$ 225,000 stirred debates about
whether these rituals were proof of the vitality of “traditional cultures” or rather a
symbol of the lack of economic reason of the highland population (Volkman
156 Karin Klenke
Pana, a hamlet which is not officially recognised as a “tourist object”, boasts of the global
tourist attention it nevertheless attracts. Photo: Karin Klenke 2008
1984b:191). It was the economic promise of tourism which brought new recognition
to these “backward” structures and practices.
Tourism loomed large in the modernisation scheme of the New Order regime, as it
was hoped that it would not only attract an international public and, thus, foreign
money, but also national visitors for the sake of postcolonial nation-building. Since
cultural tourism relied on what is called today “traditional cultural expressions”, an
understanding of adat in the form of seni (arts) and budaya (culture) was supported.
Kipp called the resulting effect of these efforts “showcase cultures” (1996:108), de-
contextualised and often reformulated or invented little gems of folklore which had to
be visually consumable, as most tourists do not speak Indonesian or local languages.
As one of the regions included in the Second Tourism Development Plan in the
1970s, Toraja was to be developed into a cultural destination. Many Torajans were
excited about the recognition their cultural expressions attracted and published
booklets, brochures and books which focus on Toraja culture in this folklorised sense.
One example is “Dances in Toraja” by Beatrice Bulo (1989), who served – among
other influential positions in the civil service – as the head of the local Department for
Tourism and Culture. The book starts with forewords written by several high-ranking
government officials at the regional and local level. The Governor, Mr. Amiruddin,
writes:
I have the pleasure in contributing this brief foreword to the publication of

“Dances in Toraja”, the product of a creative mind of a native writer in her
attempt to participate in developing preserving (sic!) the local culture which is a
source and foundation of national culture. This coincides with the Indonesian
government’s policy on intensifying the tourism sector. At the time when
national development, which includes the tourism sector, is being intensified
the role of textbooks on culture and tourism is becoming more important and
should be effectively utilized. As the Governor of the Province of South
Sulawesi it is my earnest hope that the publication of this book will encourage
and challenge other native writers to explore and expose the local culture of
South Sulawesi, a potential element of the National culture and National
development.
(Bulo 1989:vii)
As elsewhere in New Order Indonesia, everyday life in Toraja had to be carefully
reflected as to which of its aspects could be transformed into a “culture of spectacle”
(Acciaioli 1985). Death rituals were marketed as archaic and exotic remnants from the
past and are even today an indispensable part of every highland tour package.
Elaborately carved tongkonan of the nobility became an icon of Toraja-ness and
disseminated into Makassar architectural style and even onto the 5000 Rp banknote.12
Tourist attention was, however, not given to humble slave funerals or plain and
uncarved tongkonan of Torajans of lower descent. While adat, of course, encompasses
the life of all Torajans, it surfaced as purely noble budaya (culture) and seni (arts) in the
field of tourism. Toraja adat elders were quick to grasp the advantages of tourism for
their own endeavours. Old feuds and competitions could be fought anew in the field
of tourism.
When tourism development accelerated in the 1980s, the Northern nobility under the
leadership of the adat district Kete Ke’su’ succeeded in securing “tourist object” status
almost exclusively for Northern sites (Adams 2005). The sites certified attracted
government money, tourism development projects and visitors.13 Luxury hotels sprang
up, mostly built by noble Torajans from within or outside of Toraja.
The state’s interest in tourist revenues did not always coincide with the interest of
the nobility in promoting their status via tourism. The Regent of Toraja, a Bugis, issued
a statute in 1985 that for touristic purposes, all Torajans living on the main roads had
to decorate their houses with carvings. The call to carve houses irrespective of the rank
12 The importance of tourism in and for Toraja has been reflected in a number of anthropological
analyses. The early development of tourism is discussed by Volkman (1982; 1984a; 1984b; 1987). For
an intricate study of the mutually constitutive fields of tourism and “culture” in Toraja, and the
Indonesian state as an important actor in shaping the local understanding of Toraja culture, see
Adams (2006).
13 Money provided by the state and foreign NGOs went into the renovation of noble tongkonan, while
60% of the entrance fees to officially registered tourist objects go to the noble clan which is
responsible for the oldest tongkonan in the hamlet.
158 Karin Klenke
of the inhabitants transformed carvings from a marker of social status into a mere
decoration or a marker of an encompassing Toraja identity and was fiercely protested
against by noble Torajans (Adams 2006:107). Noble tourist culture was contested from
below as well: Tour guides of lower descent resented the teachings of noble adat elders
about the meaning of carving motives – mostly related to highland flora and fauna – as
an expression of rank and suggested instead that they were proof of the Torajans’ early
environmentally conscious attitude (Adams 2006:98-9).
Tourism development started at a time when the central government still had a
firm and defining grip on the outer islands. Entering the national public sphere via
budaya and seni, therefore, helped to counter the image of the backward mountain
dwellers living in communal houses and wasting money on useless rituals: Torajans had
something valuable to offer to the young nation, even if it were external actors – the
tourists – who attributed this value to Toraja culture. Tourism also helped to redefine
the hierarchical relationship vis-à-vis the historically hegemonic Bugis: When Joop
Ave, then Minister of Culture and Education in Jakarta, called Toraja the touristic
“prima donna” of South Sulawesi and declared that Makassar was the entry port to
Toraja, he summed up the symbolic impact of Toraja tourist hegemony in South
Sulawesi (Adams 1997:163).
While not intended by the state, budaya and seni relied on selected and isolated
elements of adat, which are a privilege of the nobility. It brought the greater share of
recognition, money and status to the upper stratum of Toraja society and opened new
realms of agency for noble Torajans. Their networks and entanglements connected
Jakarta, Makassar and Toraja and encompassed the spheres of adat, state
administration, private business, and early NGOs. Involvement in tourism
development, a long experience with the tourist gaze (and the acute awareness of and
pride in the constant and intense anthropological attention they attracted and still
attract) have deeply shaped noble Toraja reflections and understandings of themselves.
The idea that adat contains something like budaya (culture) or seni (arts) evolved from
these encounters with institutions and people that looked for “culture” in what was
once aluk to dolo and later adat to Torajans.
Adat and the World Heritage Nomination

The UNESCO World Heritage nomination, the early history of which is insightfully
told by Adams (2010), grew out of the historical rivalry between the adat districts of
Kete Ke’su’ in the North and Sangalla in the South, which dates back to mythological
times. The noble clan of Kete Ke’su’ started the initiative in the early-1990s in order to
secure their status. One family member, a skilled carver and heritage educator, worked
in the Department for Monument Preservation in Makassar; and a distant family
member was the right-hand man of Joop Ave, the Minister for Culture and Tourism –
a happy coincidence which made the project promising. In the mid-1990s, the
Indonesian government put Kete Ke’su’ on the tentative UNESCO World Heritage
list. In 2001, an ICOMOS delegation saw Kete Ke’su’ authentic and outstanding
enough to become a World Heritage Site (ICOMOS 2001:87-90). After some
backlashes, the nomination was reformulated as Cultural Landscape, encompassing

several sites including Kete Ke’su’. In 2005, the Department of Culture and Tourism
produced a nomination document, which has not yet been submitted to UNESCO.
The material structures which constitute the “Tana Toraja Traditional Settlement”
are the richly carved tongkonan with the accompanying rice barns (alang), ceremonial
grounds (rante) with menhirs (simbuang) commemorating noble burials, and hanging
graves (liang) or rock graves with wooden effigies (tau-tau). As in the field of tourism,
the structures nominated for consideration as UNESCO World Heritage are
exclusively a materialisation of Toraja noble rank.
According to UNESCO (2008), the outstanding value of a site is based on
authenticity and integrity, which, in turn, are guaranteed by customs, knowledge,
economic uses, and spiritual practices. The continued existence of a “traditional way of
life” is, therefore, a prerequisite for a successful nomination. The seemingly disparate
elements of the Toraja nomination are bound together by adat. Although not named
specifically – as UNESCO World Heritage does by definition exclude intangible
phenomena – adat is clearly the thread that weaves the material structures into a thick
fabric of culture which fulfils the UNESCO criteria of authenticity and integrity (see
also ICOMOS 2005). In contrast to the folklorised and de-contextualised adat as budaya
and seni in the realm of tourism, adat in the World Heritage context appears as a
holistic entity which guarantees the authenticity of the sites by its timeless character
and the integrity of the traditional lifestyle. The nomination document stresses
accordingly: “Tana Toraja Traditional Settlement is a living tradition. It is a heritage
that has been handed over from generation to generation for at least 700 years or even
longer back to prehistoric time” (Department of Culture and Tourism 2005:27).
The authenticity and integrity of adat was enthusiastically endorsed by the adat
elders from the nominated sites. They explained the rightful nomination of their own
site with their strict adherence to adat and never hesitated to cast serious doubt on the
authenticity of the neighbouring district’s material structures or lifestyle. Local adat, my
interview partners said, not only proved its strength and authenticity by the
preservation of tongkonan, but also by adherence to social stratification. In order to
contest the authenticity of Kete Ke’su’s, an adat elder from a rivalling district pointed
out to me that the nobility in Kete Ke’su’ had actually begun to eat together with their
slaves and thus their nomination could not be justified. Kete Ke’su’ elders, in turn,
tried to cast doubt on the integrity of another site by questioning the rank of its ruling
family:
In the South, it has become very difficult to determine if their esolon 114 is still
actually true. Like the person you have been talking about: His father definitely
was esolon 1, but is it true that he himself is still esolon 1? We don’t know …. That
is because there are some who say “My father was esolon 1 so I must be esolon 1
as well”. But you cannot take that for granted! It also depends on your deeds,
on your thinking, on your character and the like.
(Interview Bapak T., December 2nd 2009)
14 Esolon is the Indonesian term for the ranks of civil servants, with esolon 1 being the highest rank.
160 Karin Klenke
Kete Ke’su’s nomination and the exclusion of others were in turn defended by an adat
elder from a neighbouring district:
Further to the North, in Tondon-Maranthe and Sa’dan-Balusu, everything is
already modern, because commoners and slaves are now allowed to slaughter as
many buffaloes as they please during funerals. The people do not adhere to the
rulings of the nobility anymore. Kete Ke’su’ as the centre of Toraja, however,
still follows the adat. ^
(Interview Bapak Viktor, February 9th 2010)
In contrast to the field of tourism, adat in the context of World Heritage is not de-
contextualised and folklorised as “culture” and “arts”. While in everyday life, adat is
understood to be flexible and, hence, able to deal with and integrate transformations
and new challenges, in the context of the UNESCO nomination, it emerges as a
holistic, unchanging and timeless foundation of Toraja life.
With UNESCO, a powerful institutional player from beyond the confines of the
nation state had entered the field in which Torajans negotiate relationships. To secure
“outstanding universal value for humankind” – the definition of a World Heritage site
– for one’s own district would be an extremely powerful argument in any local status
competition. It would also symbolically reverse the ethnical hierarchies in South
Sulawesi. No one, my interview partners frequently mentioned gleefully, had ever
considered Bugis culture worthy of international recognition! The same held true for
the position of Toraja in the ethnic mosaic of Indonesia: Borobudur, the world-famous
monument with UNESCO World Heritage status, was definitely beautiful, Bapak
Viktor told me. However, it was also dead, because there was no thriving community
which would fill it with life. It was just like a dusty museum, not based on living adat.
While the adherence to adat, to ancestral houses and elaborate ceremonies had once
been a sign of backwardness in the development-oriented nation, it now propelled
Toraja to the forefront of international cultural politics. However, Torajans were still
painfully dependent on the state for submitting the UNESCO nomination.
UNESCO’s insistence on authenticity and integrity (2008:21) also offered a
powerful argumentative resource for social stratification. The material structures to be
nominated relied existentially on stratification and any substantial change would
endanger the authenticity and integrity of the sites. The idea of adat as a guarantee for
authenticity and integrity, therefore, emerged from a specific formation of state, local
actors and UNESCO as a transnational player. It consolidated the nobility’s hegemonic
position with new arguments of authenticity and integrity and, thereby, moved it from
the political field into the realm of culture and heritage. Somehow, stratification
became an authentic and interesting cultural feature in need of protection by
UNESCO.
Adat and AMAN

As mentioned at the beginning, many of the adat elders I knew from the World
Heritage nomination and as representatives of different government offices were active
in AMAN. Bapak Palimbong, the head of AMA Toraya (Aliansi Masyarakat Adat
Toraya)15, had already taken part in the legendary first meeting and demonstration of
masyarakat adat in Jakarta in 1999. At that time, he was in charge of the arts section at
the local Department of Culture and Tourism. The late Bapak Sombolinggi, a high
noble Toraja elder and head of the NGO Wahana Lingkungan Hidup Indonesia
(WALHI, Friends of the Earth Indonesia), which had facilitated the first meeting of
masyarakat adat in Rantepao in 1993, had invited him to join the meeting in Jakarta.
Bapak Palimbong found the motto of the demonstration – “If the state does not
acknowledge us, we will not acknowledge the state” – too extreme, but realised the
importance of the movement. Based on his initiative, AMA Toraya was founded in
2000, six months after the first AMAN congress in Jakarta. Bapak Palimbong became
Vice Regent of Toraja in 2000.16 Toraja noble elders quickly became involved in
AMAN on different levels (see Tyson 2010). Membership in AMAN, however, is a
contested issue in Toraja, as nobles from competing adat districts claim to be the only
officially recognised AMAN representative and try to prevent others from gaining
access to the structures and resources.17 While some Torajans of high noble descent
hold prominent positions in the AMAN headquarters and in indigenous peoples’
organisations on the national and international level,18 Bapak Palimbong and his group
are quite reserved when it comes to the sometimes radical stance of the national
headquarters of AMAN. However, they are regular participants in the seminars and
workshops that are offered on the international level funded by UNDP (United
Nations Development Programme) or AIPP (Asia Indigenous Peoples Pact) in
Thailand, Malaysia or Indonesia (see chapter by Sanmukri in this volume). They attend
seminars in ecological agriculture, take part in gender training workshops or send their
sons and daughters to seminars for future indigenous leaders (mengkader pemuda/pemudi
adat) in order to prepare them for a possible leadership role in their respective adat
district.
15 “Toraya” is the Torajan word for Toraja.

16 His term ended in 2005.
17 AMAN membership is not based on a representative system, which means that several groups
from one masyarakat adat or ethnic group can register with AMAN. See Acciaioli (2007:299-303) for
further explanations.
18 Ibu Den Upa Rombelayuk, the wife of the late Bapak Sombolinggi, who facilitated the first
meeting of masyarakat adat groups in Toraja in 1993, was one of the heads of the founding board of
AMAN and head of AMAN’s committee for indigenous women. Their two daughters both worked
for AMAN and are now transnational activists with the Asia Indigenous Peoples’ Pact (AIPP).
162 Karin Klenke
The late Bapak C.L. Palimbong, head of AMA-Toraya until his death in 2010
delivers the opening speech at the official ceremony for AMA-Toraya’s 11th
birthday Photo: Karin Klenke 2010
The intertwined structures and personnel of AMAN and the local administration
brought almost instant success to local AMAN endeavours:
 In 2001, the DPR-D officially recognised the kobongan kalua, the representative
body of the 32 adat districts as the most important self-governing body in Toraja.
 Also in 2001, the DPR-D passed the “back to lembang” regulation: the re-
organisation of territories at the village level into lembang, pre-colonial units based on
adat. The lembang regulation has detailed guidelines which – among other aspects – state
that only members of the highest social strata may be elected as heads of lembang
(kepala lembang). While this was (somehow paradoxically) seen as a step furthering
democracy on the grass-root level, the effects were not completely positive, as de Jong
describes: “The key positions in the lembang administration are filled only by members
from the highest class, and they make decisions which are largely in the interests of this
class. As the lembang representative body includes the same people as the adat
committee, it becomes difficult to function as a controlling committee that represents
the best interests of all layers of society. In fact, the interests of the executive and the
legislative are largely intermingled, paralysing the controlling function of the legislative
committee” (2009:279).
 In letter No. 222/II of 2005, the Regent formally recognised the 32 adat districts
and the legitimacy of their representation by the noble adat leaders in the kobongan
kalua. He further obliged himself to consult with the kobongan kalua before he granted
any concessions for the exploitation of natural resources and officially recognised the
masyarakat adat of Toraja as the most important partner for the state administration in
governing and developing the regency.
Some AMAN members pursue personal interests in the field of folklore: The late
Bapak Palimbong was an ardent collector of Toraja culture in a folklorised sense and
the founder of the Yayasan Torajalogi (Society for Torajalogy). He made an – as he
called it – inventory of Toraja arts (kesenian) and published four books: one on Toraja
carving motifs, one on the legend of Lakipadada, a third one on Toraja proverbs, and
the last one on the tongkonan as a political institution. His dream was to create a huge
outdoor living history museum, where visitors could watch people pursue an authentic
Toraja lifestyle without electricity and the amenities of modern life.
Bapak Palimbong’s numerous activities notwithstanding, the most important
AMAN activities within Toraja were the return to traditional political structures and
the (re)consolidation of noble hegemony. On March 20, 2010, I witnessed the Hari
Kebangkitan AMA Toraya ke11, the festivities for the 11th anniversary of the founding of
AMA Toraya. The perfectly choreographed event took place at the tongkonan of the
regional secretary of Kabupaten Toraja Utara, who was Bapak Palimbong’s deputy in
AMA Toraya. The event was exclusively for the heads of the adat districts with their
delegations and the sub-district head (camat) from the sub-districts (kecamatan). State
and adat leaders often came from the same noble family, but were sometimes even one
and the same person. Many candidates who ran for the position of regent in 2010 were
present as well. Bapak Dalipang, the acting-regent of Toraja Utara held a speech, as did
Ibu Den Upa Rombelayuk, who was introduced as a Toraja delegate from the AMAN
headquarters. In his speech, Bapak Palimbong stressed that the masyarakat adat in
Toraja is the nobility, because they know, guarantee and pass on the adat. The rest of
the Torajans are masyarakat kecil (“little people”), as he called them. This might be true,
as no “ordinary” Torajans I talked to had ever heard of AMA Toraya before and found
it to be a typical noble project.
In the context of indigeneity, adat does not surface as budaya or seni, such as in
tourism (except for Bapak Palimbong), or as a timeless and unchanging way of life,
such as in the World Heritage nomination. It is now the outspoken claim to local
political hegemony. How did indigeneity emerge as a promising political identity for
the Toraja elite? In my interpretation, decentralisation and democratisation have not
only loosened the grip of the central government on outer island politics. When local
politics became the hotspot of decision-making and economic potentials, being
associated with the state alone did not offer great advantages. Positioning oneself
additionally in a strategic opposition to the state opened possibilities to directly ally
with transnational institutions and tap the political, economic, legal, and educational
resources they offer. While Toraja elders depended on the state for a successful World
Heritage nomination, they are now free to interact with institutions like UNDP or
AIPP without interference from the central government. As the example has shown,
this does not imply a rejection of the state, as most of the local protagonists are
intimately engaged with state structures.
164 Karin Klenke
Conclusion
As the examples have shown, adat has been framed in very different ways in Toraja,
but the framing has tended to privilege the same stratum of Toraja society. Toraja
nobility has had the defining power over adat, from a de-contextualized and folklorised
adat as arts and culture, the timeless authenticity of adat in the World Heritage context
and now adat as traditional political structures in the local indigeneity movement.
Processes of exclusion and inclusion have been largely the same in all three fields of
inquiry. The social formations which once gave rise to the idea of adat as budaya in the
context of tourism in the early 1970s have almost been turned upside down in the
context of indigeneity: The firm grip of the central state has been loosened and power
and money have been transferred from the centre to the former periphery. In Toraja,
the changing political landscape on the national and international level has transformed
adat from a marker of localized backwardness and lack of sophistication into a signifier
of global connectedness and modernity.
While Toraja is an interesting example of a creative and selective local engagement
with a global discourse, it is also a frustrating example for actors who are committed to
democracy, participation and the strengthening of civil society. Sangaji (2007) reports
similar stories from Central Sulawesi, where the power vacuums created by rapid
decentralisation have been occupied by people who strategically position themselves as
The acting district head of North Toraja, Bapak Y.S. Dalipang, is ushered to his seat at the
official ceremony to celebrate the 11th anniversary of the founding of AMAN.
Photo: Karin Klenke 2010
indigenous. Torajans undoubtedly count as indigenous according to the AMAN’s

definition of masyarakat adat: “Komunitas masyarakat adat are groups that possess a
genealogy in a specific geographical area, as well as a distinct system of values and
norms, that have command over land and natural resources and that live their lives in
accordance with norms and institutions of their adat” (AMAN 2012e, translated by
K.K; see the chapter by Arizona and Cahyadi in this volume). Sangaji points to the
weaknesses of the vague AMAN – and indeed all – definitions of indigeneity, that
allow a usurpation of the idea and the movement by people with aims opposing the
AMAN endeavour:
By foregrounding distinctiveness (ketersendirian) and making no reference to

progressive values such as justice and democracy, it suggests that the movement
may not be concerned with social stratification within adat communities
themselves. This glossing allows for the resurrection of feudal elements, which
continue to find resonance with certain segments of Indonesian society.
(Sangaji 2007:321)
As the evolving historical trajectory of the uses of adat in Toraja has shown, the
nobility was able to bring to bear adat in the context of very different transnational
discourses because of its polyvalent character. By aligning their cause with the state –
be it in matters of tourism, World Heritage or indigeneity as a special articulation of
non-radical regionalism – noble Torajans were successful in securing state support for
causes that also stabilised their hegemony within stratified Toraja society. Adat has
proven to be a perfect mediator for the respective interests of state, nobility and
international discourses. Its new emergence as masyarakat adat or indigeneity is due to a
specific constellation of these three actors: a central state that has given away power to
the periphery, a ruling nobility in search of new legitimizing discourses and
transnational institutions that focus these peripheries as sites of promising democratic
political projects.
Indigeneity is generally credited with having the potential to re-define or ideally
even reverse the relationship between centre and periphery. The Toraja case, however,
points to a more complex situation. Toraja actors in the field of indigeneity skilfully
use the state as a resource to articulate their political claims vis-à-vis Torajans of lower
descent. Inequality is re-inscribed in a space in which it is not assumed to exist
according to a nostalgic concept of indigeneity: within Toraja society itself. Far from
enabling “the subaltern to speak”, indigeneity in the Toraja case serves as a means to
again silence those who find it difficult to make political claims. Several writers have
pointed out that the idea of indigeneity is also a sentimental reflection of – or relational
to – the uneasiness of the West with modernity (Niezen 2004:70). Anthropology
should not fall prey to this romanticised notion, but needs to keep on asking the same
old questions: Who is speaking? Who are the locals in “local”? And who is included in
and excluded by the “we” that claims culture – or adat?
Becoming Aristocrats:
Keraton in the Politics of Adat
Fadjar I. Thufail
Introduction
An incident in West Jakarta District involving a group of thugs unravels the fraught
relationship between the royal families of Javanese keratons and the public,1 exposing
contentious issues over cultural property, political connection and symbolic status. The
incident discloses an overlooked connection between the aristocracy and economy and
sheds light on the challenges the aristocrats confront to rethink how noble culture and
adat encounter the encroachment of capital and the state into the palace realm. In
other words, the incident with the thugs depicts the predicament that the keraton and
its noblemen must negotiate in order to sustain and assert the cultural sovereignty of
the palace despite the continuous pressures from the state and capital to curtail the
political role of the keraton.
Indonesians often talk about thugs and thuggery, or premanisme.2 Thugs are
extrajudicial actors, some recruited by the police to help monitor the criminal world,
and others employed by politicians and businessmen as bodyguards to protect them
from political rivals or business competitors. The security apparatus compensates the
1 In this essay, I use keraton (palace) as a generic category to refer to kesultanan (sultanate) and kerajaan
(kingdom).
2 Preman comes from vrijman (Dutch), literally meaning “free men”. Preman refers to people involved
in petty crimes or organised crime, including robbery, extortion, mugging, or debt-collecting.

168 Fadjar I. Thufail
preman by allowing them to exert control over a specific territory and extort
“protection money” from local businesses, creating reciprocal relationships between
the thugs and the state apparatus and between the thugs and the local business owners.
Therefore, no-one is surprised if the police rarely crack down on the protection
businesses run by the thugs.
However, an incident in early 2013 unsettled the comfortable alliance of thugs and
state apparatus. The West Jakarta District Police arrested forty thugs from a
construction site in West Jakarta. Hired by the contractor to watch the construction
site, the thugs tried to force the company to raise their service fee, a request that the
company quickly turned down. The company complained that they had paid more
than 5 million rupiah (USD 550) to the thugs. The company reported the extortion to
the police who reacted swiftly to arrest the thugs after a small scuffle over police
presence at the construction site. The event would have passed unnoticed had the
media not disclosed that Hercules was among the forty thugs arrested by the police.
Hercules Rozario Marshal, nicknamed Hercules (about 50 years old), is one of the
most feared criminal “godfathers” in Jakarta. Before coming to West Jakarta, he
controlled Tanah Abang, a dangerous district in Central Jakarta densely populated by
drug-dealers, drug-users, gamblers, and prostitutes. From Tanah Abang, Hercules had
run many businesses to provide “security” guards, debt-collectors and even hit-men
for anyone who wanted to eliminate their enemies. In 1997, Muhammad Yusuf Muhi, a
competitor in the crime business, managed to push him out of Tanah Abang. Hercules
had moved and, since then, he has controlled West Jakarta District.
The Hercules affair attracted public attention not only because it was the first time
the police had put him behind bars, but also because people immediately learned that
Hercules held an honorary noble title (gelar bangsawan) from Kasunanan palace of
Surakarta. Hercules received the honorary title in 2012, conferred by KGPH
Tedjowulan in his claimed capacity as Sunan Pakubuwono XIII.3 As an honorary noble
title holder, Hercules was assigned the honorary name, KR Yudhopranoto.4 While the
arrest confirms Hercules’ involvement in many illicit businesses, at the same time, it
has exposed his connections to the military and Javanese aristocrats.
KGPH Tedjowulan, a colonel in the Armed Forces, knew Hercules, a native of
East Timor, when the prince was on military assignment in East Timor in the 1970s.
During the military operation in East Timor, the military entrusted Hercules with
guarding ammunition storage. Hercules was wounded in the war against the Fretilin
guerrillas and was brought to Jakarta to undergo amputation of his right hand. Since
3 KGPH stands for Kanjeng Gusti Pangeran Haryo, the highest title of Kasunanan noblemen after
the king. The title KGPH is reserved only for direct male descendants of the king. When Hercules
received his title, the Surakarta’s Kasunanan palace was divided into KGPH Tedjowulan and KGPH
Hangabehi factions, both claiming to be the legitimate Sunan Pakubuwono XIII. KGPH Hangabehi
occupied the palace in Surakarta, while KGPH Tedjowulan was ousted and had to “rule” from
outside the palace.
4 KR stands for Kanjeng Raden, this is the lowest rank of male honorary titles from Surakarta’s
Kasunanan palace.
Becoming Aristocrats 169
then, he has lived in Jakarta, and soon turned into an important figure in the criminal
world of Jakarta.
Hercules’ controversial honorary noble title is the story of an ambiguous and
contentious encounter between the Javanese palaces and the outside public. It is also
about the desire of the monarchs to hold on to their role as the custodians of culture,
tradition and adat in the modern era. Awarding and receiving an honorary noble title is,
therefore, a practical event, identical to what Sherry Ortner (1999) calls a “serious
game”. Ortner says that people
do not just enact either material necessity or cultural scripts but live life with
(often intense) purpose and intention; [...] social and cultural contexts [...] frame
not only the resources [people] start with but the intentions and purposes they
bring to the games of life; that social life is precisely social, a matter of
relationship – of cooperation and competition, of solidarity and exploitation, of
allying and betraying.
(Ortner 1999:23)
As a “serious game”, the event of giving and receiving an honorary noble title draws
attention to a transactional encounter that shapes the relationship between the palace,
the economy, and the definition of and access to cultural property in the politics of
adat. At the same time, it also relates the narrative of the desire and intention of the
aristocrats when they want to reclaim and fulfil their declining status as the custodians
of culture and adat.
The “serious game” of an honorary noble title award endows the efforts pursued
by the royal families with symbolic value to maintain and reinstate the cultural and
political sovereignty of the keraton, at a time when the keraton is threatened by state
politics and capital encroaching into the realm of the monarchy. There are three
settings that frame the “game”. Firstly, it demonstrates how the royal families of the
Javanese palaces reach out to people not genealogically related to the royal families.
Secondly, it differentiates noble titles into the titles that remain owned exclusively by
the royal family and the titles that can be accessed by the public, albeit in a limited
manner. The encroachment leads to a parcelling out of the adat into symbolic and
material elements, and into elements that can be distributed to the public and those
that should remain exclusively retained by the monarch as their traditional custodian.
Thirdly, it indicates an ambiguous desire and intention of the aristocrats in responding
to the encroachment of state politics and capital into the most private realm of the adat
norm of the palace.
The Palace and the Encounters

The relationships between the keraton and the state and between the keraton and the
public have often been contentious ones. Before the Dutch instituted the colonial
government in the Netherlands East Indies in the late-18th century, the rajas and the
sultans were able to maintain independent sovereignties and often waged war against
each other to secure important sea or land trade routes. The Vereenigde Oost Indische
Compagnie (VOC; Dutch East India Company), which arrived in the 17th century, was
soon involved in fierce competition against the rajas and the sultans over access to
cloves, nutmeg and spices. The decline of the VOC in the 18th century and its
transformation into the Dutch colonial government brought the Netherlands East
Indies under the direct control of the Dutch government. The Dutch soon created
new bureaucratic institutions to manage and secure colonial interests in the colony, and
the new institutions required numerous people to fulfil clerical work (Sutherland 1979).
The institutionalization of the colonial bureaucracy caught the aristocrats in an
ambiguous position. On the one hand, they were reluctant to join the colonial
bureaucracy, since it would mean that they conceded to colonial power and colonial
authority. At the same time, the aristocrats must find ways to sustain their symbolic
status and cultural sovereignty when the colonial government challenged the keraton’s
formerly independent control over cultural and economic resources. This ambiguous
situation continued until the late-1940s when the Dutch colonial government gradually
lost their political control over the Netherlands East Indies.
After Indonesia declared its independence in 1945, the sovereign status of the rajas
and the sultans remained a contentious issue in the postcolonial political structure. In
the early-20th century, the Dutch colonial government created a self-governance
domain (zelfbesturend gebiet or swapraja) to force the rajas and the sultans into a quasi-
contract transaction with the Dutch. However, after independence, the nationalist and
the socialist factions in the republican government opposed the swapraja domain,
arguing that maintaining the swapraja would mean acknowledging the independent
jurisdiction and regulation of the keratons over territories under their direct control. At
the same time, the volatile political situation sent a clear signal that the republican
government should avoid interfering with the swapraja domain since it would confront
the sovereignty of the rajas and the sultans. The existence of the swapraja domain had,
therefore, undermined the political authority of the republican government and
become a target of attack from officials who condemned the colonial inherited system
of having violated republican consensus.
International political pressure and the struggle for independence in the 1940s
hardly prevented the Dutch from launching a massive military campaign to regain its
control over the Netherlands East Indies and disrupted the process of consolidating
political power in the new state. Lack of a mutually recognised transfer of authority
created an uncertain period that lasted from 1945 until 1949. Amid the confusion, the
Dutch created the Federation of Kings (Dewan Raja-raja) in September 1946 to assure
that the rajas and the sultans hold on to the contracts they had signed with the colonial
government, and, in so doing, they acknowledged Dutch control. The Federation of
Kings, however, only lasted a few years; Law No. 44 enacted in 1950 by the republican
government abolished the Federation of Kings (Ardhana 2005:52-54).
The political and economic contracts between the monarchs and the Dutch
colonial government that culminated in the abolishment of the Federation of Kings
had accentuated the ambiguous stance of the noblemen toward the revolutionary
cause, especially with regard to the economic and political interests of the rajas and the
sultans. The leftist faction of the republicans particularly denounced the support that
the keratons received from the Dutch to nurture their elite cultures. Dutch patronage
produced an elite circle disconnected from the people who fought for independence in
the revolutionary war. The leftists pointed out that the aristocrats had enjoyed a special
social status that opposed the principle of social equality that the postcolonial
Indonesian state hoped to fulfil.
The postcolonial government failed to resolve the ambiguous status of the
monarchies. The nationalist and socialist factions in the government together with the
political parties (PKI, PNI, PSII, Murba, Sobsi, Perbesi, Partai Buruh, Pemuda
Muslimin Indonesia, Pemuda Banteng, Mahasiswa Demokrat, and Sarbupri) insisted
that the monarchy system should be abolished. These groups formed a coalition called
the Anti-Swapraja movement (De Locomotief 1954). They argued that the monarchy
system propagated a stratified status system that classified people according to their
hereditary rank, and it was contrary to the democratic system that they would like to
institute. The republicans’ argument regarding the incompatibility of the monarchy
with the democratic ideal of equal opportunity reflected a distrust the republicans had
(and still have) about the loyalty of the rajas and the sultans to the newly independent
state.
The heightened tension, starting in 1945, between the republican government and
the monarchies had affected the royal families in different ways. The period of 1945-
1950 was crucial to understanding the role of the palace and the royal families in
modern Indonesia. The Javanese palaces in Surakarta (Kasunanan and
Mangkunegaran) and Yogyakarta (Kasultanan and Pakualaman) reacted differently to
Sukarno’s proclamation of independence and to the Dutch attempt to restore their
colonial power. In Surakarta, the Kasunanan and the Mangkunegaran keratons struggled
hard to restore their symbolic status and political influence, but were immediately
confronted by socialists and republicans who disliked the idea of recuperating the
autonomous status of the keratons. Besides, the relationship between the anti-colonial,
revolutionary fighters and the Surakarta noblemen during the late colonial period had
always been contentious. During the revolutionary war, the revolutionary laskars
(freedom fighters) received little support from Surakarta’s Kasunanan aristocrats, who
were uncertain whether the Dutch would be able to restore their control over the
former Netherlands East Indies territory. On the contrary, the Kasultanan and the
Pakualaman keratons in Yogyakarta responded diligently to the proclamation by
affirming their loyalty to the new republican government and declaring that the
Kasultanan and the Pakualaman territories belonged to the Indonesian state. Sri Sultan
Hamengkubuwono IX of the Yogyakarta Sultanate along with KGPAA Pakualam VIII
of Pakualaman palace drafted a historic statement declaring their loyalty to the
republican government (de Rosari 2011:64-65). Prince GBPH Prabukusumo, the son
of Hamengkubowono IX, describes the Sultan’s decision as a very emotional gesture

since it means that the Sultan “has surrendered his dignity and his pride as a king and
became a subject of the nation-state”.5 On September 5, 1945, Sultan
Hamengkubowono and KGPAA Pakualam VIII enunciated a decree instructing
Yogyakarta people to obey the republican government and the Indonesian state.
Sukarno responded in favour of the statement, and the state announced Law No. 3 in
1950 to grant a legal recognition of Daerah Istimewa Yogyakarta (Yogyakarta Special
Autonomy Status). This special status later provoked an emotional controversy when
the post-1998 regime wanted to abolish it under the pretext that the automatic
appointment of the Sultan as a governor and the Pakualam as a vice-governor runs
against the democratic electoral system. The debate over the special status is also a
“serious game” because it shapes the normative construction of the legal existence of
the keratons and, at the same time, affects the dignity of the aristocrats.
The anti-swapraja movement in the late-1940s and early-1950s proved to be a
decisive moment that shaped the encounter between keraton, royal families and the
state with consequences up to the present. Small palaces faced far-reaching
consequences of the encounter. There were palaces that had to immediately relinquish
their territorial control to the local governments and, in so doing, also lost political
privilege. These small palaces have lost their lands and buildings, appropriated legally
by the state or illegally by squatters. In Buton Sultanate (South-eastern Sulawesi
Province), for example, what remains after the 1950s is no more than a few dilapidated
buildings and a small plot of land once part of a larger palace compound. The anti-
swapraja movement and its political and administrative consequences drove the
aristocrats to rethink and re-evaluate their political role and symbolic position as the
custodians of adat.
When the New Order military regime (1967-1998) managed to seize power in 1967
and secure its political consolidation of the postcolonial Indonesian state in the early-
1970s, rajas and sultans were soon confronted with a difficult option: They had to
negotiate with the new military regime over an appropriate way to keep the keraton
existing. Otherwise, they could have no other choice than terminating court rituals and
activities, discharging palace employees and closing down palace offices. However,
there was a limited number of keratons that had the power and resources to negotiate
with the military regime. Large keratons in Java (Surakarta, Yogyakarta, Cirebon) and
Bali are examples of such keratons, while Buton Sultanate represents the palaces that
failed to consolidate resources required to continue their symbolic functions and
cultural sovereignties. However, regardless of whether they were large or small keratons,
they had, firstly, to accept the political sovereignty of the new military regime and its
ideology of a negara kesatuan (united state).
The historical fact that the keratons were able to exercise sovereignty despite the
Dutch surveillance alerted the postcolonial regimes about the alleged capacity of the
monarchies to undermine the negara kesatuan. The anti-swapraja movement in the 1940s
until the 1960s was an effort by the Sukarno administration to pacify the political
5 Interview with Prince GBPH Prabukusumo, March 20, 2013.

influence of the keratons. In the New Order period, Suharto’s military regime followed
the attempt to mitigate the keratons’ political power by enacting Law No. 8 on Mass
Organisations (Organisasi Kemasyarakatan) in 1985. The law defines the keraton as a
cultural institution (organisasi kebudayaan), and the administration and activity of the
keraton is subject to regulation stipulated in the law. Law No. 8/1985 classifies the
keraton in the same category as the religious Islamic organisation of Nahdlatul Ulama,
the environmental organisation of Wahana Lingkungan Hidup (WALHI), or the other
social or non-governmental organisations. In classifying the keraton as a “cultural mass
organisation”, the New Order regime managed to draw a clear boundary between the
political role and the cultural sovereignty of the keraton. Law No. 8/1985 was a
normative strategy deployed by the New Order regime to reduce the political reach of
the keraton. Other strategies included the full support granted to cultural activities and
court rituals, and the adoption of Javanese court norms in the political discourse of the
state (Pemberton 1994).
Another important legal move introduced by the New Order regime was the
inclusion of the keraton into the discourse of cultural heritage, as stipulated in Law No.
5/1992 on the Protection of Cultural Monuments (Perlindungan Cagar Budaya). The law
limits public access to the keraton by designating some sites or buildings in the palace
compound as protected historical monuments. It prevents anyone, including the royal
families, from changing anything or using the buildings for purposes other than
activities endorsed by the Cultural Office (Dinas Kebudayaan) or the Office for
Preservation and Protection of Historical and Ancient Monuments (Balai Pelestarian and
Perlindungan Sejarah dan Purbakala). The enactment of Law No. 5/1992 directly
encroaches upon the sovereignty of the palace, since the raja or the sultan no longer has
unlimited access to their properties.
Laws No. 8/1985 and No. 5/1992 delineate the encounters of the keraton with the
New Order state and with the public. In other words, the “serious game” takes place
only within the normative space allowed by the laws, framing the palace as a cultural
instead of a political actor, especially through Law No. 5/1985, which discourages the
palace from exercising its political role. If the Dutch colonial government required the
assistance of the keraton to secure its political control, the postcolonial state was hardly
interested in acquiring political support from the keraton. On the other hand, however,
it was feared that the abolishment of the monarchy system would provoke strong
resistance and might incite radical separatist movements. Framing the role of the
keraton within the discourse of culture is the most critical option in the “serious game”.
It allows the monarchy to exist but, at the same time, restricts the political influence of
the keraton.
The appeasement of the keraton opened up different room for manoeuvre. Because
the New Order regime distrusted the aristocrats, the keraton had to rely on the
individual initiative of a king, a prince or a princess to deal with the bureaucratic
apparatus of the state. It, therefore, depended on the network, intention, experience,
and willingness of the individuals to reach and negotiate with the state bureaucracy.
The rajas or sultans with long experience dealing with the state bureaucracy faced less
difficulty in reaching the state than did those with little or no experience, or those with
a history of opposition against the political regime. The rajas or sultans drew on their
personal networks to co-operate with the state apparatus; some aristocrats joined
political parties, ran as local or national legislators, or occupied bureaucratic posts in
local or national state offices. The limitation imposed on the keraton to exercise
political authority holds the state to be responsible for helping advance cultural
activities. The support the keraton received from the state in the cultural sphere allowed
the aristocrats to focus more on or expand existing cultural activities. Palace rituals
flourished during the New Order period, and the Javanese and Balinese palaces
became the most important sites for cultural tourism. Awarding an honorary noble title
to people not genealogically related to the royal blood started to become more
common during this time.
Buton Sultanate and the Keraton Festival

When the swapraja domain in Buton was abolished in 1951, the Buton Sultanate also
ended. Sultan La Ode Muhamad Falihi, the 38th Sultan of Buton and the last sultan
(ruling 1937-1960), appointed no caretaker of the sultanate, so that the Buton Sultanate
slowly faded away. The adat council also ceased to function and members of the adat
council grew older without anyone to replace them. Sultan Falihi’s son, La Ode
Manarfa, the strongest candidate to replace his father should the sultanate continue,
never tried to revive the sultanate. Instead, he pursued a political career. He was
elected as a member of the Provisional People’s Consultative Assembly (MPRS) in
1967, and he was the spokesperson of the provincial parliament (DPRD-GR) in 1971.
He joined the People Representative Assembly (DPR) in 1972 and again from 1982
until 1987. Manarfa held many Certificates of Acknowledgement (Piagam Penghargaan)
that he obtained from the Golkar party, the Parliament, several ministries, and the
National Defence Institute. All these distinctions demonstrated his close connection to
the Golkar ruling party and the military. He passed away in 2009.
Butonese adat regulates that an adat council (siolimbona) elects a king and, therefore,
kingship is not inherited. Because the adat council had ceased to function since the
1960s, the sultan’s seat remained empty after Sultan Falihi’s death. Everything was
quiet until 2010, when the Forum Komunikasi dan Informasi Keraton se-Nusantara
(FKIKN), or the Forum for Communication and Information of Archipelago Keratons,
selected Buton keraton to host the 8th Festival Keraton Nusantara (FKN), or the
Festival of Archipelago Keratons, in 2012. The selection alerted government officials
in Buton City and South-eastern Sulawesi Province to find someone who could
represent Buton Sultanate, as the sultan’s seat was empty. Butonese aristocrats were
also anxious and embarrassed to acknowledge that the keraton lacked a sultan, and
choosing a new sultan would be a very difficult process because the adat council was
inactive and, therefore, could not perform its duty.
However, in 2011, people claiming to be Butonese adat leaders gathered to revive
the Buton Sultanate, and their first step was to reactivate the adat council (siolimbona). A
few months later, the new adat council gathered to hold a ritual for the election of a
sultan. They eventually appointed La Ode Muhammad Ja’far, La Ode Manarfa’s
nephew, as the new Sultan of Buton. The inauguration ritual of the new sultan took
place on May 19, 2012, at batu popaua, the most sacred spot in the palace compound.
The election and inauguration of La Ode Muhammad Ja’far as the new sultan of Buton
remained controversial. Some Butonese aristocrats refused to acknowledge the sultan,
claiming that since the adat council was illegitimate, its decision was, therefore, an
unlawful violation of adat. However, the majority of the aristocrats had chosen to
remain passive and made no effort to resist the newly appointed sultan.
Delegates from Banten Sultanate at the Nusantara Keraton Festival in Buton, 2012.
Photo: Fadjar I. Thufail
The biggest challenge came from the local government. When La Ode Muhammad
Ja’far was inaugurated at the batu popaua, there were no officials of the city government
attending the ceremony. The city government, in fact, went further to issue a certificate
acknowledging La Ode Ja’far Hibali, the cousin of La Ode Muhammad Ja’far, as the
Sultan of Buton. This government move irritated La Ode Muhammad Ja’far and other
aristocrats who alleged that the government had interfered too deeply in adat matters.
Even though La Ode Ja’far Hibali was related to La Ode Muhammad Ja’far, his
manoeuvre annoyed the Butonese royal family. Since then, the Butonese public has
talked about the quarrel as a conflict between the “adat sultan” (sultan adat) and the
“certificate sultan” (sultan piagam).
The conflict between the two sultans peaked at the 2012 FKN. The two sultans, La
Ode Muhammad Ja’far and La Ode Ja’far Hibali, attended the Festival Keraton
Nusantara activities and the presence of the two sultans at the event confused other
kings and embarrassed the Butonese royal family. The Sultan of Aceh wondered: “I do
not know which one is the Sultan of Buton.” The son of the former secretary of Buton
Sultanate also remarked: “This incident is a slap in our face (tamparan ke muka). Buton
Sultanate should be ashamed that this incident was taking place in front of kings from
all over the country.” La Ode Muhammad Ja’far’s faction reacted fervently to the
presence of La Ode Ja’far Hibali. At a ceremony before the street parade commenced,
the kapitalao (prime minister) of La Ode Muhammad Ja’far went berserk, drawing out
his sword and warning people that they should obey the decision of the adat council. In
Butonese adat, the kapitalao’s gesture of drawing his sword was a very strong statement
that no-one was allowed to question the sultan. In the past, if the kapitalao brandished
his sword before the public, he should behead someone to prove that the statement he
had made was a serious one.
The incident between the two Sultans of Buton at the FKN illustrated how
practice shapes the legitimacy of access to adat. A sultan should reiterate his access to
the legitimacy continuously through gestures, appearances and transactions, in short,
through “serious games”. If the legitimacy was questioned, the sultan must reclaim it
back through gestures, performances and transactions. At the Festival Keraton
Nusantara, the competition over legitimate access to adat between the government
official and Sultan La Ode Muhammad Ja’far also took place on the stage. During the
opening ceremony at the Baubau City Hall, the Governor of South-eastern Sulawesi
appeared on the stage dressed in traditional clothing specifically designed to honour
prominent guests. By comparison, the sultan wore a simple traditional costume for
receiving ordinary guests. Butonese aristocrats sensed this gesture was to reflect the
governor’s attempt to overpower the sultan and the sultanate. Dressed in a more
prestigious costume than the sultan’s, the governor was making the statement that he
was more important than the sultan and he was the real host of the event.
The state has been the source of legitimacy for past and present sultans of Buton
and, at the same time, the Butonese aristocrats have to compete with local politicians
for access to state resources. The Butonese aristocrats have encountered similar
experiences that the other sultans or rajas have also faced, especially the sultans and the
rajas who no longer have palaces and symbolic resources but want to revive the status
they used to hold.6 On the other hand, however, larger keratons, mostly in Java and
Bali, resort to cultural resources they possess to negotiate with the state.
Twin Suns Hanging over Kasunanan Palace

The phrase “twin suns” (matahari kembar) refers to the conflict between two kings
(sunan) of Surakarta’s Kasunanan palace, Central Java Province. The conflict broke out
when Sunan Pakubuwana XII died on June 11, 2004, without leaving behind or
appointing a successor. The keraton’s adat rules that the successor of a king is the son
of a queen (prameswari), preferably her oldest son. However, Sunan Pakubuwana XII
did not appoint any of his eight wives as the queen. No-one knew why the Sunan
6See Klinken (2007) for a list of keratons that have sought to revive their symbolic status and political
power.
Pakubuwana XII decided to have no queen,7 but this situation left a serious and
emotional consequence when Pakubuwana XII’s death revealed an enduring anxiety
over what political and cultural sovereignty would mean for the Kasunanan palace.
Internal conflicts often take place in Central Javanese keratons, despite the fact that
all Javanese kings of Kasunanan, Mangkunegaran, Kasultanan, and Pakualaman palaces
descend from Sultan Agung, the first Sultan of the Mataram kingdom. The current
keratons originated in the 1755 Giyanti Agreement when the Dutch VOC divided the
Mataram kingdom into the Surakarta and Yogyakarta palaces. Internal conflicts in each
palace further split the Surakarta palace into the Kasunanan and Mangkunegaran
keratons, and the Yogyakarta palace was divided into the Kasultanan and Pakualaman
keratons. While frictions and rivalries shape the relationship between the Surakarta’s
Kasunanan and the Mangkunegaran palaces, only minor tensions exist between the
Kasultanan and the Pakualaman palaces of Yogyakarta.
Sunan Pakubuwono XII

(1925-2004)
KRAy KRAy
Pradapaningrum Retnoningrum
KGPH GKR Koes KGPH

Hangabehi Moertiyah Tedjowulan
Illustration of the kinship relations at Surakarta’s Kasunanan Palace described below.
Succession has also often been the source of internal conflict in the keraton, even
though, in some cases, when a sultan did not appointed anyone to be the crown prince,
the situation did not escalate into a conflict. An example of this was when Sunan
Pakubuwono X, Sunan Pakubowono XII’s predecessor, did not select a queen; the
sultan’s death provoked no dispute over who had the legitimate rights to be crowned
as a new king (Moedjanto 2002). However, after Sunan Pakubuwana XII had passed
away, the situation turned ugly. KGPH Hangabehi claimed that he was the rightful
successor to the throne. He argued that since he was the oldest son of the late king’s
first wife, KRAy Pradapaningrum,8 the adat endowed him with the rights to replace the
Sunan. However, another son from one of the late Sunan’s wives asserted a similar
claim. KGPH Tedjowulan, the son of KRAy Retnadaningrum, stated that the majority
of royal families (sentana dalem) and the general public supported him ascending to the
7 When questioned by one of his sons, Sunan Pakubuwana XII never explained why he did not select
a queen nor appoint a son to be the crown prince. The prince could only guess that the king was not
convinced that any of his wives had a son that he could trust (Interview with an anonymous prince,
April 2013).
8 KRAy stands for Kanjeng Raden Ayu, a title for a Kasunanan noblewoman.
throne. On September 30, 2004, KGPH Tedjowulan declared himself as Sunan

Pakubuwono XIII, a move that soon triggered a reaction from KGPH Hangabehi,
who also declared himself as Sunan Pakubuwono XIII only ten days after
Tedjowulan’s declaration. Since then, the Kasunanan keraton has had two kings, each
claiming to be the legitimate successor of Sunan Pakubuwana XII.
Despite the continuing dispute over the legitimate Sunan, KGPH Tedjowulan
worked actively with other rajas and sultans, mostly from Java, Sumatra and
Kalimantan, to promote Forum Silaturahmi Kerajaan Nusantara (FSKN), the Alliance
Forum of Archipelago Palaces, and chaired the FSKN from 2009 to 2012. However,
King Tjokorda Jambe Pamecutan of Bali disputed Tedjowulan’s chairmanship,
claiming that he, King Tjokorda Jambe Pamecutan, has been the legitimate chairman
of the FSKN since 2007 when the FSKN was established. The Kasunanan keraton had
actually sent Prince Gunarso Kusumadiningrat to serve as the General Secretary of the
FSKN before he was fired in March, 2009, by King Pamecutan over an allegation of a
fraudulent use of the FSKN name.9
Despite its initial aim to provide an independent venue for rajas and sultans to co-
operate and work to promote royal culture and adat, the FSKN has relied on the state
for political support. The first and most important step was when the FSKN held a
courtesy visit to President Susilo B. Yudhoyono at the Presidential Palace in 2009.
During the meeting, the FSKN Chairman, Tjokorda Jambe Pamecutan, assured the
President and the government officials that the FSKN had no intention of creating
negara dalam negara (a state within the state) or of pursuing political interests, but simply
wanted to advance existing cultural activities. The President’s statement at the meeting
made it clear that the government supported the FSKN because the forum was a
cultural, not a political, forum. The FSKN Chairman’s and the President’s statements
hinted at a veiled distrust that had existed between the state and the keratons since
colonial times. The end of the authoritarian New Order regime had changed nothing
and the state remained anxious that the noblemen could have persisted with their
political objective. KGPH Tedjowulan’s active involvement in the FSKN shows how
the Kasunanan keraton of Surakarta tries to reach out to the state and to other keratons.
In addition to the FSKN, there are actually two other associations or networks created
by the noblemen: the Asosiasi Keraton dan Kerajaan Nusantara (AKKN) and the Forum
Komunikasi dan Informasi Keraton se-Nusantara (FKIKN). The Kasunanan keraton also
supports the activities of the FKIKN. Whereas KGPH Tedjowulan was a central
figure in the FSKN, KGPH Hangabehi’s faction, especially GKR Koes Moertiyah and
her husband KGPH Edy Wirabhumi, plays an indispensable role in the FKIKN. This
shows that the dualism of leadership inside the Kasunanan palace, the “twin suns”,
9 Gatra Magazine (24/03/2009) reported that a scandal broke out in 2009 allegedly involving King
Pamecutan and the FSKN. Several renowned artists and 258 royal family members from keratons all
over Indonesia gathered in Jakarta to prepare an excursion trip to Europe to meet European royal
families. When they had arrived in Jakarta, they realised that they had been cheated. The delegates
reported they had paid 3 million rupiah each to the king to participate in the trip. King Pamecutan
denied his involvement in the scandal and accused the Surakarta prince of having misused the FSKN
by sending the invitation letters to the rajas and the sultans on behalf of the FSKN.
extends to shape different affiliations of the keraton to existing palace organisations or

networks.
The author in front of a house of a prince in Kasunanan Palace in Surakarta.

Photo: Upik Sarjiati 2012
The FKIKN was founded during the first of the bi-annual Festival Keraton Nusantara
(FKN) in 1995. The Central Javanese keratons of Kasunanan, Kasultanan,
Mangkunegaran, and Pakualaman initiated the first festival, and were soon joined by
the Cirebon palaces (West Java Province). When the festival participants consisted of
fifteen palaces, they decided to establish the FKIKN, stating that the forum would
function mostly as a communication forum among its members. Since then, GKR
Koes Moertiyah and her husband have played a decisive role in the activities of this
association. They designate their private office at the Kasunanan keraton as the FKIKN
secretariat. Until the latest festival held in Buton in 2012, GKR Koes Moertiyah and
KGPH Edy Wirabhumi had pushed the FKIKN to set up a working agenda; for
example, during the 2012 festival in Buton, they urged the FKIKN to prepare a legal
drafting of the Law on Adat People (Draft Rancangan Undang-undang Masyarakat Adat)
and advise the People’s Representative Assembly (DPR) to include keraton in the
normative definition of masyarakat adat (adat community).10
10The follow-up of the FKIKN meeting still remained unclear at the time this essay was submitted
for publication. Even though the DPR has held hearings with several rajas and sultans, they came to
the hearings in their individual capacities, not representing the FKIKN. The academic draft of the
Building an alliance with the state and with other palaces through active participation
in the palace organisations or networks is a “serious game” (see Ortner 1999) that the
Surakarta’s Kasunanan palace and its noblemen play to craft a space for reclaiming
cultural sovereignty. The Kasunanan’s “game”, however, does little to attract the
Yogyakarta palaces (Kasultanan and Pakualaman keratons) to follow, apart from limited
participation of the Yogyakarta palaces in the cultural performances held during the
keraton festivals. A high-rank prince of the Kasultanan keraton said that the Kasultanan
was reluctant to participate actively in the palace organisations or networks, either the
FSKN or the FKIKN, because he felt that the organisations were more interested in
pursuing a political agenda than a cultural one.11 Despite the different interests they
have in the existence of palace organisations or networks, the Surakarta Kasunanan
and the Yogyakarta Kasultanan are both involved in the “game” to award honorary
noble titles (gelar bangsawan kehormatan) to outsiders. The keratons resort to the “game”
to craft room to reclaim and assert their cultural sovereignty as the legitimate
custodians of adat.
Becoming Aristocrats
Awarding honorary noble titles to people not genealogically related to a royal family is
a common practice in many palaces all over the world. As Sherry Ortner has
demonstrated (1999), the practical context and implication of a “serious game”
emerges from the intentions, desires and anxieties of those involved in the game, as
well as from the engagement of the actors with chances and dispositions opened up by
the political or economic structure. Therefore, the republican political system of the
post-New Order Indonesian state reveals the practical contexts that address the
aristocrats’ concern over the future existence of the palace, either physically or
symbolically.
The practice of bestowing an honorary noble title to people other than royal
descendants of the Mataram kings has existed for a long time. However, in earlier
times, the honorary titles were awarded only to abdi dalems, a group consisting of palace
clerks, soldiers and guards, lower ranking administrators such as lurahs and wedanas, and
court artists and performers. Only later, after 1945, did outsiders with no royal blood
connection begin to receive the honorary titles. The Surakarta and Yogyakarta keratons
apply similar criteria to bestow the honorary titles. The receiver of the title should
express his or her commitment to help to protect Javanese culture, or he or she has
demonstrated actual work to promote Javanese culture and tradition, such as staging
art performances or publishing rare, ancient Javanese texts.
The Hercules’ royal title affair demonstrates the ambiguity of the criteria that the
keraton applies to select a person to receive the title. Despite the normative criteria that
the person is supposed to express a good conscience, the Sunan or Sultan retains the
law, the one that GKR Koes Moertiyah asked the rajas and the sultans to prepare drawing on their
palaces’ concerns, has yet to materialise.
11 Interview with an anonymous prince of Yogyakarta’s Kasultanan palace.
final and absolute decision to grant the title. Each year, the court administration
(Pengageng Parentah Keraton) recommends names of people that meet the criteria to bear
an honorary title. When the proposed names have passed a careful examination by the
court administration, the Sunan or Sultan typically accepts the recommendation. Apart
from this list, the Sunan or Sultan often has his own candidates, and, in this case, the
court administration has to accept the king’s candidates. When KGPH Tedjowulan
suggested that Hercules should receive the honorary title, the prince referred to
Hercules’ merits in supporting the security apparatus during the military operation in
East Timor. Although Hercules has never demonstrated any public contribution to
promote Javanese culture, nor assisted the Kasunanan palace, the award of the
honorary noble title to Hercules was never disputed until the incident in West Jakarta
attracted public attention.
In addition to the Hercules affair, some honorary noble titles awarded by
Surakarta’s Kasunanan keraton have also created public controversies. The honorary
titles awarded by KGPH Hangabehi are no less controversial. His decision to grant an
honorary noble title to Julia Perez, a controversial artist, provoked furious reactions.
Julia Perez is also known for her involvement in sex scandals and her inappropriate
behaviour. This reputation runs against the image of Javanese culture as a sophisticated
and refined culture. Similar to Hercules, Julia Perez has never made any effort to
promote Javanese culture and tradition. Regardless of the negative public image,
KGPH Hangabehi bestowed a noble title on the artist in 2010 by giving her the name
Nyi Mas Ayu Yuli Rachmawati. The controversy over the title reached a peak when
Julia Perez was later found guilty of physical attack against Dewi Perssik, another
controversial artist, and she was sentenced to a few months in prison. Since the court
decision came out, the Kasunanan has decided to withdraw the noble title.12
The “game of becoming aristocrats” is a social practice to mediate the keraton’s
encounter with the outside realm. The practice foregrounds the transactional element
of the game and, in so doing, shows how the keratons choose arenas, resources and
strategies to reclaim their cultural sovereignty that the state has undermined. It
demonstrates how the aristocrats draw on the desire and intention (Ortner 1999) to
hold on to their symbolic role when the keraton encounters the state that has
encroached upon the palace realm.
The decision made by KGPH Tedjowulan to award the honorary noble title to
Hercules shows how the cultural practice of granting titles can also serve as a political
statement. Hercules’ assistance and his close connection to the Indonesian military
during the occupation of East Timor becomes a more important factor than his later
involvement in the criminal world. In other words, the game being enacted in the
Hercules affair sheds light on a potential role of the keraton to make a political
statement and, in so doing, situates the keraton on the same discursive level as the state
institutions. On the other hand, KGPH Hangabehi’s decision to bestow a title on the
12The Hercules and Julia Perez affairs are only two examples among other controversial honorary
noble title awards granted by the two Sunans. The others include noble titles awarded to the artists
Syahrini and Ahmad Dhani and to politicians and high-ranking government officials. The decision of
the Kasunanan to revoke Julia Perez’s title was related to me by a Kasunanan prince. (Interview with
an anonymous Kasunanan prince).
controversial artist Julia Perez draws upon the economic potential of the award. Before
she was imprisoned and despite her negative image, Julia Perez was a famous public
figure. Her stage performances and films attracted audiences throughout the country.
KGPH Hangabehi could have seen this economic potential that the artist could draw
and, by incorporating her into the inner circle of the cultural elite, the keraton expected
to enjoy the fame and accompanying economic benefits. This was a rational option to
resolve the financial problem that the Kasunanan keraton had been facing since the
internal conflict broke out. Since KGPH Tedjowulan and KGPH Hangabehi each
announced that they were Sunan Pakubuwono XIII, the Solo city government has
halted its regular assistance funds (dana bantuan) to the Kasunanan. As the regular
funds constituted the major part of the keraton’s annual budget, the city’s decision to
stop the disbursement of the funds affected the regular maintenance activities of the
keraton and the routine and compulsory cultural ceremonies arranged by the keraton,
such as the gerebeg maulud ritual and jumenengan ceremonies. This situation required the
keraton to find alternative sources to compensate the suspended funds.
Unlike Yogyakarta’s Kasultanan or the neighbouring Mangkunegaran palace that
still run their businesses or have the means to invest in private companies, many of
which they obtained during colonial times,13 the Kasunanan palace lost most of its
businesses in the aftermath of the anti-swapraja movement in the 1950s and 1960s.
Even though the Kasunanan palace owned a railway company, sugar plantations and
sugar factories in the early-20th century, the anti-swapraja faction in the government had
managed to take over the keraton’s ownership of the businesses. As a consequence, the
keraton’s source of income diminished significantly. This situation requires the keraton
to be creative in its search for alternative sources, and the awarding of noble titles is
seen as a viable solution without drastically compromising the adat. A Kasunanan
prince points out that the noble title award is, in a general sense, a transactional
practice.14 The Sunan grants the noble title drawing on contextual interests: Firstly, as a
gesture of honour to individuals proven to be valuable assets promoting Javanese
culture and, secondly as a response to fulfil people’s need to have a symbolic social
status. In the first gesture, the Sunan exercises his function as the custodian of
Javanese culture and adat. In the second gesture, he is in pursuit of viable alternatives
to secure the continuation of the keraton institution and administration, and the
maintenance of palace buildings. In other words, in the first gesture, the Sunan is a
Javanese king. In the second one, he is the manager of Keraton, Inc.
Epilogue: Toward Keraton, Inc.

John and Jean Comaroff (2009) write on how the struggle for ethnic recognition in the
late-20th century has entered a realm where identity, rights and history intermingle with
capital, state power and affects. The intertwining of identity, capital and power forms
an “identity economy”, an economy of producing feeling and attachment to a
13 For a rare account of businesses owned by Mangkunegaran palace, see Pringgodigdo (1950).
14 Interview with an anonymous Kasunanan prince in 2013.
particular construct of identity (2009:8-9). They emphasise that the identity economy in
the late-20th century relies less on an uncritical view of collective consciousness than
on the ability of ethnic discourse to be construed as an entrepreneurial activity. The
process of framing something as emotional as an ethnic identity and ethnic attachment
into entrepreneurial discourse lies at the heart of what John and Jean Comaroff have
termed Ethnicity, Inc. Ethnicity, Inc., the Comaroffs say, includes practices, materials
and dispositions toward recognising a different engagement with collective identity and
collective consciousness, in short, toward “giving affective voice to belonging”
(Comaroff and Comaroff 2009:142). The central element in the Ethnicity, Inc. practice
is the affective disposition to recognise the significance of belonging and the working
of the capital, in their case, the venture capital.
The “serious game” of the encounter of the keraton with the outside realm is also a
practice where a collective consciousness of becoming an aristocrat intermingles with
state power, individual disposition and capital. The collective consciousness of
becoming an aristocrat runs parallel with the interest of the aristocrat to enact a role as
the custodian of adat, a consciousness comparable to a political move to repossess the
custodian interest of the indigenous people. Part of the collective consciousness of the
noblemen emerges from the encounters of royal family members with the state, and
the other part of the collective consciousness transpires in the co-operation and
competition among the rajas and the sultans, as reflected in the politics of the FSKN
and the FKIKN. As Sherry Ortner aptly demonstrates in the “serious game” of high-
altitude mountaineering (1999), the dispositions create a structure of feeling and desire,
and, at the same time, accentuate the different experiences, interests and desires of the
individuals. The “serious game” of awarding honorary noble titles illustrates the
structure of feelings among the Kasunanan or Kasultanan aristocrats, and among the
factions within the Kasunanan keraton. Surakarta’s Kasunanan invests an improvised
meaning on the noble titles, locating the practice in the desire to recuperate the
symbolic role of the keraton as the primary custodian of Javanese adat. On the other
hand, the Yogyakarta’s Kasultanan dwells on the “serious game” with an interest in
affirming loyalty from its abdi dalems and to strengthen the patron-client relationship of
the royal families with their close relatives. In other words, the Kasunanan’s “serious
game” has drawn on a structure of feeling different from the one framing the
Kasultanan’s “game”.
The “serious game” to reclaim access to adat is taking place not only among the
keratons, but also among the groups of indigenous peoples. The keratons and the
indigenous groups both draw their claims on the discourse of custodians of culture,
but they differ in the materials incorporated to frame the notion of custodianship. The
keratons locate their claim in the arts and written culture, while the indigenous groups
frame their claim with international legal instruments. It is not surprising if the
indigenous rights movement is less interested in the expressive dimension in the
“serious game” of claiming access to adat.
The encounter between the keraton and the outside realm is a struggle for
recognition and over ownership of cultural properties. Since the colonial time, the
keraton has received recognition not only through the political power it exercises, but
also through the economic capacity of the keraton to shape and mould cultural identity.
The encounter of the keraton and the outside realm forges the “economic identity” of
the keraton by reworking adat and symbolic materials into entrepreneurial activities that
can be offered to politicians, to people seeking symbolic status, to the state apparatus,
and to tourists looking to experience authentic culture. This is what would constitute
“Keraton, Inc.”.
From a Comparative Perspective
Epilogue
Francesca Merlan
Given its aim of exploring the relations between legal and anthropological perspectives
on indigeneity in Indonesia, the proceedings of the workshop represent the work of
two participants with particular legal expertise (Göcke, Cabrera), and a majority of
participants with ethnographic and anthropological expertise and interests (Hauser-
Schäublin, Steinebach, Klenke, Grumblies, Müller, Sanmukri, Thufail). Among the
authors are also scholars who have been closely involved in the work of the principal
Indonesian indigenist organisation, AMAN (Aliansi Masyarakat Adat Nusantara,
founded in 1999): Arizona and Cahyadi – who also take what might be generally called
a legalist perspective, the view of indigenous matters from international and national
legal viewpoints.
I was asked to write an Epilogue to the volume, not as an Indonesianist – which I
am not – but as an anthropological colleague with long-standing interest in the
development of concepts and practice concerning “indigeneity” as at international,
national and other levels. My own main field of relevant research has been in Australia,
a settler colony where many of the issues concerning indigeneity are rather different
than they are in Indonesia, but perhaps not altogether as different as some may
imagine.
In what follows I first very briefly comment on the results of the Workshop as
represented in these proceedings. Then I discuss some of the issues concerning
indigeneity in Indonesia that the first summary reveals to be significant. Finally, I offer
186 Francesca Merlan
some comparative remarks situating Indonesia within a broader field of nation-states

working through the contemporary emergence of indigeneity; and finally, return to
summaries of the papers in this volume in terms of the themes raised in the first
sections of this Epilogue.
Brief Summary
In summary, the content of these papers seems to me as follows: those examining
international and Indonesian law concerning indigeneity (Göcke, Cabrera, Arizona and
Cahyadi) all fairly clearly presuppose the empirically determinable existence of
indigenous people/s whom legal frameworks are intended to support and whose
interests they are meant to advance and protect. Thus we may say they all take an
“essentialist” view of the category of indigeneity. It is probably significant that among
this group of contributors are those who have been closely involved with AMAN as
founder/s and supporters and who may therefore, without any prejudice intended, also
be considered indigenist advocates.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, those with anthropological bent (Steinebach, Grumblies,
Müller, Sanmukri, Hauser-Schäublin, Klenke, Thufail) all proceed from a more
constructionist view of indigeneity. The most influential position of this kind relating
to Indonesia has, in my opinion, been established principally though not exclusively in
the recent work of anthropologist Tania Li (2000, 2002a, 2007a, b, 2010). Works in this
vein explore the complex connections between contemporary processes of indigenous
identification with other intertwined categories and processes in Indonesia, including
adat (customary law, with its long history of existence as well as re-organisation and
systematisation under the Dutch), and various others relating to notions of culture,
ethnicity, social inequality and stratification, as well as the work of AMAN itself.
Thus it seems to me that the original concept of the Workshop – to bring together
legal viewpoints and anthropological ones on indigeneity in Indonesia – has not united
them as one, but confirmed fairly strong underlying differences in the ways these two
groups of practitioners position themselves with respect to the Indonesian situation.
Therefore this Epilogue may serve a useful function by attempting to epitomize the
elements that go into this difference of viewpoints. AMAN, in particular, continues to
struggle to gain legal recognition for communities as indigenous, and the question
becomes poignant: who is gaining such recognition, and who not, and on what bases?
This Epilogue also seeks to bring this Indonesianist volume into relation with
comparative commentaries on some of these issues as they are emerging in other parts
of the world; and finally, to summarise some of the themes from the papers.
From a Comparative Perspective: Epilogue 187
Indigeneity: Internationalist Phenomenon and Indonesian

Interpretations
Most sources, legal and anthropological, have little difficulty agreeing that
“indigeneity” in its current internationalist acceptation is a recent, post-war
phenomenon proceeded partly through the general development of multilateral
organisations in that period, and that has its strongest organisational and advocacy
framework within the UN system (see Muehlebach 2001, Niezen 2003, Merlan 2009
on these developments), especially within the broader organisational framework of
human rights issues. Especially the UN Working Group on Indigenous Populations
was for years a vital node in the developing “indigeno-scape” (Beckett 1996).
From there, however, it seems to me that there are differences, as there are within
this volume, between those who consider indigeneity to be discoverable in essentialist
terms, versus those who take some kind of constructionist view of it. The former view,
as with essentialism generally, depends on the notion that there is a set of attributes
necessary to the identity and function of people as indigenous, which makes them what
they are. This set of attributes may be a fixed or variable set, or people may be seen to
embody only some and not others, but the basic idea remains that people are
“indigenous” and that it remains for them to be appropriately identified as such, now
that the category has won some wide recognition.
The second, constructionist, view – like all views of its kind – rests on the notion
that the identification of people as indigenous is contingent on the way that the
variables in terms of which this notion is understood by social actors come together
with a range of other social variables, rather than being simply understandable as the
result of inherent qualities possessed by these people themselves.
A constructionist view of this kind on indigeneity in Indonesia has been most fully
articulated by Tania Li. She sees indigenous identity as neither “natural or inevitable”
nor “adopted or imposed” (2000:151), and especially recommends avoiding the pitfall
of an extreme instrumentalism or tactical focus, but rather thinking in terms of
“articulation” (as per Hall 1986): the notion of forging of particular connections where
there is a range of possible connections. Li’s caution concerning avoidance of an
instrumentalist extreme is important. For with social constructionism comes a concern
to define agency, and with the latter always the possibility of a move to understanding
action from an actor-perspective, often as tactical and instrumental, and based on the
actor’s considerations of how one maximizes advantage under given circumstances.
While some of the papers do show evidence of such maximisation (e.g., Grumblies
shows a rapid adoption of indigenist perspectives among Wana), Li (2000:153) notes
that while a tactical element “may become explicit at times of heightened politicisation
and mobilization”, particular connections (Hall’s “articulations”) are possible and
meaningful in that they derive from certain fields of power which cannot be reduced to
a given momentary possibility of advantage. In other words, extreme instrumentalist
thinking is usually reductionist, and in any case instrumentalism is only an aspect of
social process, and does not in itself comprise an adequate understanding of what
makes it possible and likely for things to go one way or another, and for actors to
choose some possible forms of action over others.
Li’s (2000) thinking about communities’ adoption of indigenist positions developed

through a comparison of two settings in Sulawesi, one in Lauje, the other in Lindu. In
both places the main occupation was swidden agriculture, and in both locations there
were social and economic dimensions of peasantry. Li wishes to explain these different
outcomes, not in terms of essential differences between them, but in terms of the
kinds of connections that could be made under particular historical circumstances. The
first place remained an ordinary-seeming, indeed somewhat fragmented, peasant
community in which people deal regularly with state functionaries; while in the second
effloresced an (internationally recognizable) indigenous identity.
Over time, the Indonesian government has developed (basically) two frames for
categorizing village communities: as isolated and exotic (terasing, see also further), and
everybody else. The existence of a system of customary law (adat) is not necessarily a
feature that clearly or necessarily distinguishes these, as any community (of either kind)
may be said to be an adat community if it evinces a system of customary law/culture
(frequently one which may have been documented as such in Dutch colonial times,
lending it an additional dimension of codification). But in the first mountainous
location, Lauje, whose people had periodically been participants in coastal labouring
schemes, and later the subject of (unsuccessful) resettlement, there were few thematic
foci and (outside) actors of the kind that promoted any focused unification and special
identification of the area and its people, such as came to feature in Lindu. In the latter
area, a hydroelectric dam was proposed on Lindu lake around which local and (outside)
environmentalist opinion and activism coalesced, and in which the locals became able
to present themselves and some of their cultural assets as unique, as grounded in the
local landscape, and linked to special, valuable forms of environmental knowledge.
Thus, against conceivable expectations, over a period of years of activism focused on
objection to the damming of the lake, the Lindu population – Christian, relatively well-
off in material terms – became able to identify itself, and be accepted as, indigenous.
Li (2000:169) considers this to be a study in the conditions for articulation,
including: focusing of events and efforts around competition for resources, which
served to define group boundaries; the existence of a customary political (adat)
structure able to represent the local population; the presentation of identity and
cultural knowledge in terms intelligible to outsiders; and focus upon a particular place
arising from a conflict in terms of which locals appeared pitted against state forces. All
of these, runs her argument, were broader conditions or issues with which locally-
adopted actions and positions could articulate. The need to understand possibilities for
connection, and conditions that may militate against it, in Li’s view should keep us
from adopting too instrumental or narrow a view of agency and local aspirations, as
well as too simplistic a view of the determinant force of wider conditions.
Li’s is a kind of position certain not to please everyone, and perhaps especially
those who take a more essentialist view of indigeneity: on the one hand her view
specifically declines a naturalist view of indigenous “being”. On the other hand, it also
may not please some constructionists, in that she counsels against simply strategic or
tactical understandings of “becoming” indigenous. More interestingly, the kind of
contrast she suggests, between those who can, and those who apparently do not,
conform to terms of indigenous identity broadly (i.e., internationally) understood, may
actually represent a contrast which applies to a very large number of people in the
world whom the UN system at least potentially classifies as indigenous, including many
in India, Africa, parts of South-East Asia, and so on. For another aspect of indigenous
classification that has to be kept in mind is that it is, like all identifications, relative –
and thus depends on an understanding that there are some people who are not
indigenous, as well as some who are.
It is partly because the clarity of classification as indigenous is not obvious in the
Indonesian situation that so many other elements and levels come to play a role in the
understanding of indigeneity. And this is a place at which it is useful to mention the
seeming clarity of difference between colonial settler states and others like Indonesia,
and to follow up with some comparative cases more similar to Indonesia in some
respects.
Indigeneity Compared
Many writers on indigeneity have charted its development from within particular
international institutional (especially human rights) contexts, and from within the
institutional and activist circles of particular nation-states. Muehlebach (2001) traces
the latter back to the Americas, and Merlan (2009) argues for a thrust forward in this
regard from particularly the Anglo-American settler states (with contributions from
Scandinavia), and the counter-movement that made it precisely those states that for a
time refused ratification of UNDRIP (Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous
Peoples).
In the settler colonies there appears or is often taken to be a fairly clear distinction
between settlers and those who were there before – the indigenous peoples – that
simply does not exist in this form in Indonesia, as well as in many parts of Africa,
India, and many other parts of Asia and South-East Asia.
However, in the settler colonies there are certainly complexities in how the
category “indigenous” may be applied, and especially how governments delimit its
reference with respects to benefits, programs and projects of the state. An important
issue has to do with a certain, expectable, lack of clarity about how to define the
“indigenous” population when the dimensions of time and intersection with in-coming
settler populations are taken into account. With time, as in every settler colony, there
has come to be a large number of people who are certainly biological descendants of
the pre-colonial population, but also of the colonial population. Typically there is
contention over state-led as well as vernacular practices and ideas concerning them. To
such populations, that have almost inevitably suffered from dispossession,
marginalization and discrimination, recent (especially post-war) liberalizations have
increasingly allowed for self-identification as part of a set of moves towards normative
recognition. This has had, as one result, identification of themselves as indigenous (or
whatever relevant term is nationally or regionally employed) by an increasing number
of people, some of whom might have earlier tended to minimize, insofar as possible,
their connections to the indigenous population. In Australia and elsewhere, there has
also been a distinct tendency for that self-identification to be total, involving a
rejection of the idea of “fractional” or “mixed” identities, that include both indigenous
and other, perhaps especially “settler”, components. Though gradually there is now an
emergent celebration of “mixed” ancestry, there has been some resistance to this.
Certainly, a certain line of reasoning or feeling runs: in the past we were discriminated
against as if we were “native”, and sometimes – even worse – were regarded as
combining the worst traits of native and settler populations. Now, when it is possible,
we wish declare ourselves entirely “native”. Since, however, identification is an
interactive process which may involve lack of acceptance and certainly almost always
involves power differentials; such a self-determined identification is often not accepted
by the mainstream or dominant community, who say: these are not native people as we
understand it. They are changed from an earlier condition which made them different
and, even if we attempted to suppress them in the past, remarkable.
Both positions, that of the person who wishes to be recognized as “native”, and
her “other” whose societal position does not lend support to extinguishing the earlier
population physically but to denying the authenticity of mixture, have something in
common: they usually do not adequately take account of the fact that none of these
processes of mutual identification are outside history and interaction. People do
change culturally, attitudinally, biologically, and in their capacities, through interaction,
and “miscegenation” is part of that. In short, both positions tend to adopt a static
view of what it means to be “native” that harkens back to some early period and
imagery, and thus is retrograde with respect to the question of what it might mean to
be “indigenous” today. Note that explicitly socio-biological thinking, reckoning purely
in terms of biological descent, is politically rather incorrect in the liberal-leaning
societies today – so that, on the face of it, biological mixed descent cannot overtly be
taken as any kind of conclusive argument against indigenous status. (One may, for
these reasons, want to consider the quantitative reckoning of descent fractions by tribal
councils on many American Indian reservations as other than ”liberal”). Any criteria
must also be social and these, inevitably, will be complex and fragmentary – not only
with reference to biological but also cultural factors.
In short, in the settler colonies (as well as in many other nation-states where large-
scale interaction of originary and later-introduced populations have been hugely
significant shaping processes) issues of identification in a critical sense must be grasped
historically and in their particularity. This is something that overarching classifications
such as “indigenous” (and even basic colour-based classifications such as “black” and
“white”) tend to simplify, if not rigidify. Social process historically understood is
apparently highly bounded by such terms as “indigenous”, but many of the underlying
societal issues evolve rather than go away.
But there is an even more problematic aspect of indigenous identification which
belies what might be assumed to be the certainty of this category in the settler states. It
also has to do with process. And that is the rather recent, foreign and “top-down”
nature of this particular form of classification itself, and the processes that gave rise to
it. Since it has been developed as a category in international organizational contexts,
and intended as inclusive and restorative, it is hardly surprising that the concept of
indigeneity as internationally understood, together with the word itself, has limited
circulation among most ordinary people to whom it might be thought to apply.
“Indigenous” people have been used to calling themselves by other terms, such as
“coloureds” (one thinks of the admixtures neatened up from the dominant-society’s
perspectives under this term in South Africa), or “Blacks”, or “Aborigines”, or
“Murris”, or “Métis”, or “Maori”, or by a whole variety of regionally and sometimes
nationally recognized terms that typically do not involve the spatially and socially
inclusive, and connective, dimensions of internationalist indigeneity. One might go
further and say that the dissemination of ideas concerning indigeneity has been largely
the preserve of governmental, professional, internationally-oriented persons and
organizations; and that at the social base intended to be represented by this ideal,
indigeneity still has relatively little traction (some of the papers in this volume have
shown NGOs and activists in Indonesia to be key vectors of notions of indigeneity).
Internationalist indigeneity evolved partly in the effort of representatives of pre-
settler populations to by-pass some of the rigidities of state management of their
situation, and reach for broader international assistance and mechanisms. And while
these processes have undoubtedly been influential, they have naturally had a couple of
consequences. First, as noted, the social base of such populations has typically
remained less than broadly participant in these developments (this may be interestingly
compared with the fact that over two thousand Indonesian communities have joined
AMAN). But second, some aspects of the processes have become part of the
governance functions of the relevant liberal democratic states (one might think here of
the evolution of such offices as that of the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Social
Justice Commissioner in Australia, a branch of the Australian Human Rights
Commission created in 1992 in direct response to a national enquiry). So in a sense,
such organizations, though critical of government in part, also belong to the range of
government structures. The liberal democratic governments of settler states, in short,
do not reject the internationalist concept of indigeneity. They accept it – though it
carries with it conceptual and practical limitations discussed above – as a category
which does some work within the nation-state towards an articulated goal of
improving the lot of the country’s most disadvantaged, though how this is to be done
is conceived in often radically different ways.
We may now compare that acceptance and integration of indigeneity into
government with the official position of Indonesia, and more broadly, a whole range
of nation-states who see the internationalist concept of indigeneity as inapplicable to
themselves. To a large extent, their rejection is on the basis of a first principle that
there is no clear distinction to be made between earlier and later populations. As
Klenke (in this volume) quotes Tsing:
Indigeneity is not a self-evident category in Indonesia. Almost everyone is

“indigenous” in the sense of deriving from original stocks; Indonesia is not a
white settler state.
(Tsing 2007:34)
As Klenke remarks, Tsing’s statement relates to the position of the Indonesian state
that it is “only marginalization by white settlers that transforms minorities of ‘original
stock’ into indigenous people”. While that is certainly the Indonesian state’s position,
we may also refer back to Li’s (2000) critical anthropological position that there is no
simple or essential distinction to be made between indigenous people and others
within the population. In another place Li (2002a:365) has commented that peoples in
Indonesia have co-mingled, displaced each other, and migrated over centuries. And we
can also draw in the preceding discussion, which has argued that governments in
settler states do not fundamentally reject the internationalist concept of indigeneity, but
that their understandings of it inherently tend to immobilize it rather than infuse it
with historicity.
The colonial population in Indonesia was never large and did not lead to a
continuing distinction of the settler-indigenous kind such as is found in Australia.
Colonists were a governing power but not a demographically significant category
internal to Indonesian societies or, eventually, to the internal post-independence state.
As these papers (and many others) also illuminate, the possible applicability of notions
of indigeneity have widened in the Indonesian reform era (post-1998) characterized by
policies of decentralization and calls for greater degrees of local autonomy and broader
public participation in socio-economic processes.
The colonial power exerted, of course, significant effects, including by making use
of kinds of socio-political and religious phenomena to categorize and organize the
populations they sought to govern. It is within this range of phenomena that much
debate about the relevance of “indigeneity” has gained traction in the reformasi period,
particularly with respect to all-important socio-environmental issues and tensions over
rights in land and land use. A key concept that plays a role in this governmentality is
adat, which thus naturally emerges as a principal issue in a number of the papers in this
volume (from an historical and legal perspective, Arizona and Cahyadi; Grumblies;
Müller; Sanmukri; Hauser-Schäublin; Klenke; Thufail).
The Arabic-derived word adat has broad reference to cultural norms, values,
customs and practices found among specific ethnic groups in Indonesia (as elsewhere
in parts of continental and insular south-east Asia), to an (originally) unwritten
traditional code regulating social, political, and economical as well as maritime laws.
Autonomous governance, protection from external encroachments, natural
resource management and land usage are among the most important features of
adat in Indonesia.
(Tyson 2011:653)
Tyson (2011:654) also observes that status is central to the adat world he writes of
(specifically, Sulawesi), introducing an element of social hierarchy and differentiation
that has clearly played a large role in contemporary revitalisation of adat in many parts
of Indonesia (papers by Klenke on Toraja, Thufail on the keraton, or palace). Li (2007b)
discusses a variety of deployments and interpretations of adat, including its use by

political elites as an ethno-political tool of mobilization. However, both hierarchy and
status differentiation are outside standard internationalist expectations of indigenous
peoples and societies, which tend to focus on equality and communalism. Indeed it is
often only in terms of an asserted communalism (if not tribalism, see Li 2000), that
local populations and villages can confront the powerful interests of resource
extraction (forests, minerals) and land use (timbering, plantations).
British and Dutch colonial powers, as (noted by Arizona and Cahyadi note, p.4),
studied and contributed to codifying adat in many regions, making these available in
many cases as Adatrechtbundels (Adat Law Tomes), and even published findings
declared to be a “discovery” of customary law. Among other things, the existence of
adat law communities became a means of indirect rule. The authors cite ter Haar (ibid)
as having seen common origin and shared territory as key dimensions of an adat
community, thus raising kinds of problems mentioned by (Li 2000) of the multi-ethnic
and historically layered nature of many forms of local organization, and explored also
in papers in this volume by Steinebach (this volume, regarding strategic marriage into
Batin Sembilan, and by Hauser-Schäublin for Bali, where, disregarding other
differences with other parts of Indonesia for the moment), it has been seen as
necessary to recognize the “mixed” character of pesisir villages on the northern coast.
Arizona and Cahyadi further explore the difference between two phrases,
masyarakat adat and masyarakat hukum adat, the second of which has a somewhat more
delimiting, officialised resonance and usage, while the first is used by NGOs and
activists. The phrase masyarakat adat was in fact devised by NGOs in 1993, as a
translation for the internationalist concept of Indigenous Peoples, and was assumed to
correspond to a category of people living according to ancestral ways and in fixed
territories – a correspondence which has proved to be difficult to find on the ground,
if not illusory (see Li 2007b:571ff). The conflict over usage of masyarakat adat and
masyarakat hukum adat revolves around the extent to which entities (or communities) as
subjects of law have been officialised, or not; and, as the authors put it, the extent to
which concepts have been taken over from colonial into current discourse (the
addition of Arabic-derived hukum, governance or government, evidently suggests
colonial regimentation). But at the bottom of such contests over designations and their
content is the question how communal entities are to be defined, most saliently, from
the point of view of the state. With the recent addition of questions of “indigeneity”,
the question arises how, and which, such entities may be entitled to seek rights or
provisions as ones applying to indigenous peoples – a notion which, as earlier noted,
the Indonesian state does not see as having application, while activists, NGOs and
others contend strongly for such recognition.
Similar kinds of conflicts about designation and concomitant affordances exist, as
Hauser-Schäublin illustrates, in the Balinese contrast between desa dinas and desa adat
(official administrative and customary villages respectively), here fully involving the
question, not only of their status as entities in relation to the state, but their territorial
boundaries. In any event, she notes that in Bali the desa adat has been renamed desa
pakraman, a designation connoting religion, territory, and regulations – overall a notion
of a customary legal community, but one that also invokes the notion of a shared
religion.
However, none of these alternative designations and complications get past the
fact that there is no clear, cross-cutting notion of temporal priority of one definable
category of people over others (such as emerges in settler state settings, even if
complicated by history in many ways), nor is there a clarity of socio-cultural difference
setting off such a putative category from others. The many complications result
precisely from the fact of long-term embeddedness of people and villages in
landscapes according to local forms of organization and governance. These existed
both in relation to pre-state formations, in relation to the colonial system, and were to
varying extent codified as part of the colonial project.
Probably the Indonesian state categorisations which approach most closely notions
of indigeneity as understood in international and in other national contexts are those
discussed most fully by Steinebach (this volume). These are successive terms by which
some populations were considered suku terasing (isolated tribes), masyarakat terasing
(isolated communities), and finally as komunitas adat terpencil (remote adat community).
Many of these groups were mobile, remote and/or forest-dwelling. They were seen by
the state as in need of development, hence periodically removed or re-settled and
otherwise subjected to management. Steinebach shows, however, how a spokesperson
for such a group explicitly identifies himself and others in many ways with majority
rather than marginalized populations: as having in fact been sedentary and having lived
lives comparable to others’, fleeing into the forest only to oppose and escape the
Dutch. The spokesman cited conjures up a local identity which has as many elements
of the peasantry as of any other category, marked by struggles over land with the state.
The population referred to, the reader has earlier learned, is also in fact characterized
by significant Javanese in-marriage, woven into the fabric of the local community.
Overall, such a depiction in relation to the question of the indigenous, or other,
identity of such a population seems most satisfactorily illuminated by Li’s notions of
the kinds of connections that can be made under complex historical circumstances, not
least contemporary ones of resource competition, state decentralization, and reshaping
of local political structures, rather than by any simple designation.
Kinds of complexity in relation to indigeneity have been treated in many other
situations in the world, with respect to a broad swathe of nation-states and even large
parts of continents. Lutz (2007) notes a general African position that all Africans are to
treated similarly, and not singled out for special treatment. Certain African countries
(e.g. Botswana) have specified in their constitutions that no such distinctions of race or
ethnicity will be made. A range of anthropologists (e.g. Geschiere 2005, Leonhardt
2006) have raised questions of the potentially disruptive effects of internationalist
identifications of indigenous peoples as having special status, especially in African
contexts in which equal treatment of people as citizens is only weakly established
practice, and there are many visible tendencies towards preferential treatment of some,
and disregard or worse of others, on the basis of race, ethnicity, tribalism, and/or
“autochthony” (see further).
More particularly, studies of some cases have shown how the application of
indigenous concepts yields ambiguous results. In many African contexts, there is a
continual negotiation of the relative status of those considered linked to the land over
the long term, “sons of the soil” or autochthones, versus those who arrive later from
other locations and are seen, sometimes over generations, as recent arrivals or
migrants. Kopytoff (1987) has argued that African societies tend to produce
themselves at internal frontiers so constituted. And indeed, this distinction was
inscribed colonially in Francophone Africa as one between autochthones and allogènes (see
Geschiere 2009).
Pelican (2009) illustrates through a case study of Mbororo of Cameroon how such
local discourses of autochthony and internationalist ones of indigeneity yield distinctly
different results. Mbororo, who belong to the ethnic category Fulbe, and are Muslim,
were originally mobile pastoralists. They have migrated southwards in considerable
numbers to reside among Grasslands-dwelling farmers by whom they are considered
temporally secondary, or allogènes. Though Mbororo have become sedentary, their
outsiders status as “northerners” has been perpetuated over time, so that symbolically
they are identified as migrant, and as a pastoral people. Partly, however, because of
their original pastoralism and its assumed connotations, the Mbororo were able to
achieve international recognition as indigenous. Their (original) pastoralism,
nevertheless, conflicts with a dimension of supposed temporal priority of indigenous
peoples, for they are, as noted, locally perceived as migrant and it is well understood
that they arrived in this area subsequent to those of the category of resident farmer
autochthones. The symbolic force of Mbororo as pastoral evidently here has trumped
what Malkki (1992) terms the “sedentary metaphysic”, the valuation of being
recognized as in place, implying priority and superior belonging. Their preferential
identification as indigenous has, as Pelican (2009) illustrates, exacerbated relations with
their sedentary neighbours at certain times. The Cameroonian state, though it has
introduced a notion of indigenous peoples into its constitution, has not implemented
any particular measures on their behalf, so that they have not materially benefited from
this identification.
The potential difficulties of identification of particular groups as indigenous in
African contexts was foreshadowed by an African Group’s (2007) aide memoire to the
UN Working Group on Indigenous Populations in the run-up to UN adoption of the
Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples. This memoire specified some
African members’ reservations about the legal and constitutional implications of
indigenous identification for issues concerning land and resources, distinct political and
economic institutions, national and territorial integrity, and sustainability of state
responsibility for the monitoring of land and resources (see Oldham and Frank 2008).
For another African context, Tanzania, Igoe (2006) has raised some questions
comparable to those raised relating to Mbororo. Shah (2010) for southern India has
critically analysed local appropriations of discourses of indigeneity as important to the
combined perpetuation and transformation, as well as intensification, of class
differences. Baviskar (2007) critically discusses the early uptake of indigenist discourses
in the context of the Indian Narmada dam controversy by those opposing it, but the
later transformation of indigenist into Hindutva (Hindu rightist) activism.
This brief consideration of concerns about indigenous identification and the
relation between international processes and those at other levels could be extended. It
serves here to signal a series of critical, practical and moral qualifications concerning
indigenous identification: anthropologists’ awareness of how locally pre-existing
discourses may be contradictory or incompatible with internationalist precepts; states’
concerns about its implications for some of their functions and relations to citizenries;
its possible implications for internal contention within groups seeking indigenist
identification, as well as between them and others.
Returning to Indonesia, Li (2002a) has written about the moral implications and
responsibilities incumbent upon anthropologists, activists and others in advancing
indigenous claims over those of others. She sketches how, three years after the fall of
the Suharto government, a large number of internal refugees had been created in
various parts of Indonesia – Papua, Timor, Maluku, Sulawesi, Kalimantan, Sumatra –
partly as a result of greater freedom on the part of some to unilaterally claim superior
rights of belonging in particular locales, and resulting victimization of those seen as
migrants. Focusing on the instance of Dayak murder and expulsion of Madurese, in
particular, in West Kalimantan, Li raises the question whether ethnic territorialisation
may be exacerbated by indigenous rights activism. What seems to provide security for
some, who indeed may have been oppressed over a long term, may create radical, life-
threatening insecurity for others. Though it may not be altogether fashionable to
compliment colonialists, Li regards it as a virtue of the colonial period that in making a
tri-partite distinction among Europeans, Foreign Orientals (Chinese, Indians and
Arabs), and Natives, it nevertheless did not make invidious distinctions among
“Natives” that would have given some priority over others, but instead developed this
as a category within which all were regarded as equally native, and which served as a
frame for an ideal of common citizenship upon independence. This resonates with the
official positions of some African states which recognize the perilous weakness of
mechanisms of common citizenship, and the dangers of politicizing distinctions based
on notions of priority or exclusive attachment in light of continuing deficits of social
justice and pluralist recognition.
Summary of the Papers

The introduction to this volume by Hauser-Schäublin briefly sketched the emergence
of indigenist mobilisation in Indonesia, the forms of imagination which shape
internationalist imaginings as against some of the issues of the multiple deployments of
adat and concepts of autochthony, as well as oppression and disadvantage, which
configure indigenism in Indonesia. This introduction, like much of the material it cites,
gives a sense of the complexities involved in the identification of an indigenous sphere,
and the multi-vocality of many of the concepts – such as adat – typically deployed in
the effort to do so.
The next several papers deal with indigenism in the framework of international law.
Göcke argues that indigenous peoples have been regarded as subjects of international
law and holders of sovereignty for centuries, and assumes that they have rights to self-
determination, while conceding the ambiguities inherent in the phrase. In my
(admittedly anthropology-centric) point of view, the paper stands in tension with the
constructivist perspective outlined in this Epilogue, and with some of the further
implications of such a perspective.
Cabrera argues that there have been two kinds of approaches to indigenist
identification under international law: a human rights approach (emphasizing needs for
protection of often-marginalized peoples) and a second, functional approach which
centres on indigenous peoples’ participation, and though it their contributions to
attaining international goals in areas of environmental protection, traditional
knowledge, cultural diversity, economic development and international governance
generally.
Arizona and Cahyadi’s is a paper which highlights some of the way-points in the
development of indigenous activism in Indonesia, the emergence of AMAN (Aliansi
Masyarakat Adat Nusantara), and most recently, and both the passage of new laws
protective of indigenous rights (RUU PPHMHA) and their shortcomings. Arizona and
Cahyadi see shortcomings as consisting in the constraints imposed by traditional elites,
as well as the “conceptual imprisonment” reflected in recent regulations. They
advocate the need to transcend this.
Turning to the more anthropological papers, Steinebach contributes to the
depiction of the historically changing, multi-faceted and complex position of people
she writes about, whom some might seek to classify as indigenous. Generally known as
Batin Sembilan (“nine tribes”, and exponents of a deep, regional and politically
relevant ‘tribal genealogy’), they were previously qualified as kubu (hiding, isolated),
later as kommunitas adat terpencil (traditional remote community). They generally evince
an anti-colonial positioning, characteristics of a landed peasantry, as well as being
integrated into market production and aspiration and hoping to gain further access to
land for oil palm development. As noted above, this case well illustrates the
complexities of which Li writes, discussed above.
Grumblies writes of Wana, a relatively isolated but nevertheless cash-cropping
population who retain cosmological understandings of the region as having been
inhabited by ancestral taw Baraka (powerful people). Over a relatively short period of
time these people were contacted by exponents of indigenous identification and
developed some enthusiasm for pursuit of the possibilities such identification would
enable. At the same time, these developments created some distrust between older and
newer leaders as these new constellations for mobilisation developed. Seeing Wana
enthusiasm for participation in indigenist mobilisation as grounded in long-term
injustice in economic and other terms, Grumblies also notes a reluctance on the part of
some who fear that new forms of relationship and empowerment will render them
ineligible for reward by the taw Baraka (powerful people) whose return some still
anticipate.
Müller discusses contestation over the desirability of strengthening of adat in
Tobelo, North Halmahera, a predominantly Protestant district. In view of a recent
history of violent conflict, some movement in favour of adat has emerged, as well as
some strength of opposition to doing so, and to the measures proposed. Questions
that preoccupy the contestants are: what form/s of adat, according to proponents, are
to be strengthened? And what would be the implications for others? One of the crucial
objects of contestation is the symbolic unity of adat as grounded in Hibua Lamo, a
notion of an ideal-material constellation of ten communities living in four regions of

the district. Activists, largely located near Tobelo town, are led by a district head who
is, at the same time, an advocate for the renewal and extension of unifying adat and a
member of North Halmahera parliament. Their advocacy for regional unity of adat, is
framed in terms of the maintenance, indeed renewal, of culture and traditional
performance; but not only this. Some also see in this unity a potential for overcoming
religious differences that contributed to earlier conflict (embodied in the metaphor of
Hibua Lamo as a common “big house”), and were motivated by this hope. This
version of adat has unifying aspirations which are variously cultural, political and
religious in character, even as both politics and religion are seen by some of them as
contentious and to be kept at arm’s length. It also implies a certain internal hierarchy,
with shadowy internal historical subdivisions, which are the subject of some criticism.
The opponents of the “Tobelo version” of adat emphasize and demand instead respect
for the particularity of communities. There is a certain town- or Tobelo-centrism to
the whole contention over the redevelopment of adat here. This is perhaps most
conspicuously epitomized by the Hibua Lamo “big house” being located in a
concentrated physical form, that is as a structure, in Tobelo town. Critics of the Tobelo
version of adat see the wearing of traditional costumes as more demotic and equalizing.
Overall, then, Müller’s paper exemplifies struggles in the renewal of adat and its
implications.
Moving to an organisational frame, Sanmukri explores how NGO activity supports
the emergence of a recognizable indigenous sphere. She examines the relations of an
NGO, Samdhana, to AMAN, as these emerge through Samdhana’s sectoral activities:
principally ones to do with environmentalism and natural resource management. She
argues that development organisations overtly operate in terms of very general and
widely, including internationally, promulgated discursive concepts of participation,
empowerment, etc., and measures to achieve these aims: official discourses and
practices. But beneath the surface are a multiplicity of other-than-official discursive
and practical tactics and aims, which have been characterized by strong orientations
towards support for an indigenous constituency in the post-Suharto period. Within an
organisation such as Samdhana are many national workers of activist formation and
connection who operationalize the overt official programs in a variety of ways,
introducing activist connections, dispositions, aims and modes of operation into their
activities. At the same time, however, they are exposed to official discourses and
practices, and may internalize some of these. Such organisations as Samdhana and
AMAN bring together development workers and activists with diverse backgrounds
and connections, some of whom are mobile between and among work venues; and
there is some transfer of ways of thinking and operating among them. The paper
mentions a persisting tension in the activities and relations between NGOs and
AMAN: the assumption that indigenous communities are characterized by sustainable
environmental practice, qualified however by a sense that there is a need to restore and
revive these very practices. The paper provides some insight into how an indigenous
sphere emerges in practice, despite the numerous complexities and ambiguities that
continue to surround its identification as such.
Bali, with its considerable self-consciousness of distinctive Hindu culture and practice
(and also, earlier political marginalisation within the centralized Indonesian state),
might seem like an obvious locale in which indigenous identity would be rapidly taken
up at scale. But Hauser-Schäublin shows that this is hardly the case. There have been
numerous recent modifications of notions of Balinese communal and provincial
regulation, the latter (PERDA, Peraturan Daerah Provinsi Bali nomor 2001) practically
underwriting a shared form of Hindu Balinese cultural citizenship, and creating the
possibility, as Hauser-Schäublin suggests, of large-scale masyarakat adat community/ies.
Yet few Balinese communities belong to AMAN, the major Indonesian indigenous
organization; and the number of participating communities has in fact declined over
recent years. Though Bali is largely Hindu, and Perda 03/2001 explicitly recognises
this, the question of agama (religion) in its relation to adat does not seem to be a central
issue in the apparent lack of Balinese uptake of AMAN and its activities. Though
AMAN leaders have recognized kinds of Balinese pluralism, making distinctions
among Bali Pesisir, Bali Mula and Bali Apanage communities (respectively, north coast
with its multi-ethnic populations, Bali Aga or “animist” communities, and
“mainstream” communities), AMAN simply does not appear to speak to some of the
main concerns of Balinese, including deriving greater benefit from the central
government, and furthering external connections and tourist potentials, among others.
Nevertheless, AMAN seems to have some uptake, due to its offering a kind of
positioning to some outside existing village socio-political structures. Insofar as it does,
some AMAN representatives become caught up in some of the discussions which play
out Indonesia-wide with respect to contemporary organizational representation and
participation: how compatible is representation by women with adat on the one hand,
and with democratization and social transformation on the other?
The last two papers by Klenke and Thufail have in common that they deal with
issues of social stratification in the context of indigenism. Klenke asks why Torajan
elites were eager to claim indigenous identity. She answers this by neatly showing how
possibilities of decentralization, tourism, and World Heritage nomination have all been
folded into the reconsolidation by Torajan elites of noble hegemony as their particular
version of revitalizing adat, and of assuming an indigenous identity, thus reinscribing
social stratification and inequality “in a space in which it is assumed not to exist”
(Klenke p.20), namely, among indigenous peoples.
Thufail, adopting from Ortner (1999) the figure of the “serious game” -- here of
becoming aristocrats -- shows how particular notions of adat are reworked to support
the material and symbolic position of the nobility and the keraton, the palace, with
illustrative examples from Java and other parts of Indonesia. While Indonesia’s nobility
had a somewhat ambiguous status under the Dutch, and had to treat with the New
Order to sustain the keraton, the recent period has opened up for them the possibility,
and the necessity, of reaching out to a wider public not genealogically related to royal
families, to shore up the position of the keraton materially and socially. Thufail
effectively illustrates this by discussing the extension of noble titles to palace outsiders,
including some of dubious reputation but a certain popular standing.
In short, the last two papers focus on stratification in Indonesian societies, a bit of
a renegade topic here in that “indigenous peoples” are generally understood as non-
hierarchical, but an important dimension of the uptake of indigenist possibilities in

Indonesia. The papers illustrate how adat is adapted to the purpose of sustaining
hierarchical institutions in the hands of controlling persons whose positions are
nonetheless unsettled and the nature of their political role considerably undermined by
the state. Both state, and wider populace, nevertheless evidently continue to have a
certain sense of investment in the cultural and social priorities of the nobility.
Together, the papers illustrate a range of articulations in the present period. These
involve the emergence and negotiation of indigenous identification, claims concerning
adat, and often the issue of relation between these, in contestations over land,
resources, environment, and socio-political position.
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Abbreviations
AIPP Asia Indigenous Peoples’ Pact (umbrella organisation uniting

46 indigenous (sub-) national organisations in Asia)
AKKI Asosiasi Kerajaan dan Kesultanan Indonesia (Association of
Kingdoms and Sultanates of Indonesia)
AKKN Asosiasi Keraton dan Kerajaan Nusantara (Association of
Palaces and Kingdoms of the Archipelago)
AMA Kalbar Aliansi Masyarakat Adat Kalimantan Barat (The Indigenous
Peoples’ Alliance of West Kalimantan)
AMA Toraya Aliansi Masyarakat Adat Toraya (The Indigenous Peoples’
Alliance of Toraya)
AMAN Aliansi Masyarakat Adat Nusantara (The Indigenous Peoples’
Alliance of the Archipelago)
BAL Basic Agrarian Law, passed in 1960
BFL Basic Forestry Law, passed in 1967
BI Bahasa Indonesia (Indonesian language)
BPD Badan Perwakilan Desa (Village Representative Body,
mentioned in the Regional Autonomy Law no. 22 of 1999)
Brimob Brigade Mobil (Mobile [police] Brigade)
BRWA Badan Registrasi Wilayah Adat (Ancestral Domain
Registration Agency, a co-operation between AMAN, JKPP
and FWI for the registration of the maps developed in the
process of community mapping)
232 Abbreviations
BT Bahasa Taa (Wana language)

CBNRM Community-Based Natural Resource Management
CBO Community-Based Organisation
DAMANNAS Dewan AMAN Nasional (AMAN’s National Council, the
Alliance’s highest decision-making body)
DPR, DPR RI Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat Republik Indonesia (National
Parliament)
DPR-D Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat Daerah (People’s Representative
Assembly at a local level [province, district or city])
DPRD-GR Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat Daerah Gotong Royong (Gotong-
Royong Regional People’s Representative Assembly)
FKIKN Forum Komunikasi dan Informasi Keraton se-Nusantara
(Forum for Communication and Information of Archipelago
Palaces)
FKN Festival Keraton Nusantara (Festival of Archipelago Palaces,
organised by FKIKN)
FPHB Forum Perjuangan Hak Bali (Forum for the Fight for Balinese
Rights, formed in 2012)
FPIC Free, Prior and Informed Consent (A principle ensuring
communities’ participation in decision-making processes,
enshrined in the ILO 169 Convention and in the UNDRIP)
FSKN Forum Silaturahmi Keraton Nusantara (Friendship Forum of
the Palaces of the Archipelago)
G30S Gerakan 30 September (the Movement of September 30,
1965, which led to President Sukarno’s downfall)
GBPH Gusti Bendara Pangeran Haryo (royal title in Yogyakarta’s
Sultanate)
GKR Gusti Kanjeng Ratu (royal title in the Kasunanan keraton of
Surakarta)
GMIH Gereja Masehi Injili di Halmahera (local branch of the
Evangelical Church in Halmahera)
Golkar Partai Golongan Karya (The Party of the Functional Groups)
HuMa Perkumpulan untuk Pembaharuan Hukum berbasis
Masyarakat dan Ekologis (Association for Community and
Ecologically-Based Law Reform)
Abbreviations 233
ICRAF International Council for Research in Agroforestry founded in

1978
IFAD The International Fund for Agricultural Development
IFC World Bank Group’s development institution “International
Finance Corporation”
ILO International Labour Organisation
IPPF Indigenous Peoples’ Planning Framework
Jagat NTT Jaringan Penggerak Masyarakat Adat Nusa Tenggara Tengah
(Network of the Indigenous Activists of East Nusa Tenggara)
JAPHAMA Jaringan Pembelaan Hak-Hak Masyarakat Adat (Indigenous
Peoples Rights’ Advocacy Network)
JKPP Jaringan Kerja Pemetaan Partisipatif (Participatory Mapping
Network)
KAT Komunitas Adat Terpencil (Remote Adat Community)
KGPAA Kanjeng Gusti Pangeran Adipati Ario (royal title in the
Pakualaman keraton of Yogyakarta)
KGPH Kanjeng Gusti Pangeran Haryo (the highest title of Surakarta
Kasunanan noblemen after the king. The title KGPH is
reserved only for direct male descendants of the king)
KKN Korupsi, Kolusi, Nepotisme (Corruption, Collusion and
Nepotism)
KMAN II Kongres Masyarakat Adat Nusantara ke-dua (Second
Indigenous Congress organised by AMAN 2003 in Lombok,
West Nusa Tenggara)
KMAN III Kongres Masyarakat Adat Nusantara ke-tiga (Third
Indigenous Congress organised by AMAN 2007 in Pontianak,
West Kalimantan)
KMAN IV Kongres Masyarakat Adat Nusantara ke-empat (Fourth
Indigenous Congress organised by AMAN 2012 in Tobelo,
North Maluku)
KPA Konsorsium Pembaruan Agraria (Consortium for Agrarian
Reform)
KpSHK Konsorsium Pendukung Sistem Hutan Kerakyatan
(Consortium for Supporting Community-Based Forest System
Management)
234 Abbreviations
KR Kanjeng Raden (the lowest rank of honorary male titles in

Surakarta’s Kasunanan palace)
KRAy Kanjeng Raden Ayu (title for a Surakarta Kasunanan
noblewoman)
LBBT Lembaga Bela Banua Talino (Institute for Community Legal
Resources Empowerment)
LIPI Lembaga Ilmu Pengetahuan Indonesia (Indonesian Institute
of Sciences)
MoU Memorandum of Understanding
MPRS Majelis Permusyawaratan Rakyat Sementara (Provisional
People’s Consultative Assembly)
Murba Musyawarah Rakyat Banyak (Great People’s Consultative
Party)
NGO Non-Governmental Organisation
Perda Peraturan Daerah (Regional [provincial] Regulation)
PKI Partai Komunis Indonesia (Indonesian Communist Party)
PNI Partai Nasional Indonesia (Indonesian National Party)
PNPM Program Nasional Pemberdayaan Masyarakat (National
Programme for Community Empowerment, managed by the
World Bank and funded by Governments of Australia,
Denmark, the Netherlands, United Kingdom, United States,
and the European Union)
Polres Polisi Resor (Resort Police, police command at district level)
PRD Partai Rakyat Demokrat (People’s Democratic Party)
Prolegnas Program Legislasi Nasional (National Legislation Programme)
PSII Partai Syarikat Islam Indonesia (Indonesian United Islamic
Party)
PT. AP PT. Asiatic Persada
PT. BDU PT. Bangun Desa Utama
PT. TPL PT. Toba Pulp Lestari
PT. TÜV Rheinland RSPO-accredited German assessor which evaluates the
implementation of the RSPO criteria
Abbreviations 235
REDD UN Initiative on Reducing Emissions from Deforestation and

Forest Degradation
RSPO Round Table on Sustainable Palm Oil
RUU Rancang Undang-Undang (Draft Law)
RUU PPHMHA Rancang Undang-Undang tentang Perlindungan dan
Pengakuan Hak Masyarakat Hukum Adat (The Draft Law on
the Recognition and the Protection of the Rights of
Indigenous Peoples)
SAD Suku Anak Dalam, self-determined name of a Batin Sembilan
activist community
Sarbupri Sarekat Buruh Perkebunan Republik Indonesia (Estate
Workers Union of the Republic of Indonesia)
Sobsi Sentral Organisasi Buruh Seluruh Indonesia (All Indonesia
Centre of Labour Organisations)
STN Serikat Tani Nasional (National Peasant Union)
TAP MPR Ketetapan Majelis Permusyawaratan Rakyat (decree of the
People’s Consultative Assembly of the Republic of Indonesia)
UN United Nations
UNDP United Nations Development Programme
UNDRIP United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous
Peoples
UNESCO United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural
Organisation
UNGA United Nations General Assembly
VOC Vereenigde Oost Indische Compagnie (Dutch East India
Company)
WALHI Wahana Lingkungan Hidup Indonesia (Friends of the Earth
Indonesia)
WIPO World Intellectual Property Organisation
WWF World Wildlife Fund
YLBHI Yayasan Lembaga Bantuan Hukum Indonesia (Legal Aid
Foundation of Indonesia)
YMP Yayasan Merah Putih (Red-White Foundation, NGO located
in Palu, the capital of Central Sulawesi Province)
Contributors
Yance Arizona is a programme manager for the law and society programme at
Epistema Institute in Jakarta. In addition, he is a lecturer of Constitutional and
Administrative Law at the Law Department, President University, Jakarta. He is a
graduate of the law programme at Andalas University (2007) and received his Master
of Law at the University of Indonesia (2012). In 2011, Yance took part in the tailor-
made course on Agrarian Transition for Rural Development at the Institute of Social
Studies (ISS), Erasmus University, the Hague, Netherlands. He also participated in the
Beahrs Environmental Leadership Program at the College of Natural Resources,
University of California, Berkeley, in 2013. He has written several books relating to
agrarian law reform and the indigenous peoples’ land rights. Currently, Yance is
preparing a book based on his Master’s thesis entitled The Agrarian Constitutionalism.
Maria Victoria Cabrera Ormaza is a Ph.D. candidate at the Institute for Public
International Law and European Law at the University of Göttingen. Her main
research focus is on the status and role of indigenous peoples in the law- and decision-
making activities of international organisations. She holds a LL.M. from the University
of Heidelberg and the University of Chile. She has been admitted to legal practice in
Ecuador and Chile. She finished her law studies at the Universidad de Especialidades
Espiritu Santo in Ecuador.
Erasmus Cahyadi is the director of the Law and Human Rights Programme at the
the Indigenous Peoples’ Alliance of the Archipelago (AMAN). He is a regular
contributor to the bi-monthly bulletin Gaung AMAN and other AMAN publications,
such as: Activists’ Manual on the Application of the Principle of Free, Prior and Informed Consent
(FPIC), Climate Change Adaptation and Mitigation and The Indigenous Peoples’ Perceptions
238 Contributors
about Poverty. He also writes in several other bulletins, including The Institute for Policy
Research and Advocacy’s (ELSAM) Asasi and the Peace Brigades International (PBI)
bulletins. In addition, he is a trainer and a facilitator at community training sessions
and workshops on FPIC. He was a reviewer and a resource person for several research
projects and workshops (Masyarakat Adat di Perbatasan Negara and Efektivitas Peradilan
Adat dalam Penyelesaian Konflik) organised by the Agency for the Development of
National Law (BPHN) and several other workshops, some of them organised by the
Indonesian government.
Katja Göcke studied law at the Bucerius Law School (Hamburg) and the University of
Sydney. Following her First Legal State Examination in 2005, she did an LL.M. at the
University of Sydney, and between 2006 and 2008 completed her Rechtsreferendariat
(legal clerkship) at the Higher Regional Court, Hamburg. From 2008 until 2012, she
worked as a senior research fellow at the Max Planck Institute for Comparative Public
Law and International Law (Heidelberg) with a research focus on indigenous peoples’
rights. Her doctoral thesis is on Indigenous Peoples’ Land Rights. She currently works
at the Institute for International Law and European Law, Göttingen University.
Anna-Teresa Grumblies studied cultural and social anthropology, gender studies,

history, and philosophy at the University of Göttingen and at the University of
California in Santa Barbara. She graduated in 2010 with an M.A. thesis concerning the
scholarly debate on indigenous knowledge. Since 2010, she has been a doctoral student
at the University of Cologne under the supervision of Prof. Martin Rössler, funded
through a Ph.D. scholarship by the a.r.t.e.s. Research School. She conducted around 14
months of fieldwork among the Wana of Central Sulawesi between 2010 and 2012
where she researched marginalisation processes among upland groups in Indonesia.
She is an editorial assistant for the journal Historical Social Research.
Brigitta Hauser-Schäublin has been Professor of Anthropology at Göttingen

University since 1992. She has conducted a number of research projects in Papua New
Guinea (1972-1985), Indonesia (from 1988) and Cambodia (from 2008). Her main
research topics are political and religious organisation of space, propertisation of
culture, as well as gender and body. She is currently the project director of several
projects (on the nomination and listing of UNESCO World Heritages, indigeneity in
Indonesia, diverging claims in debates about return and restitution of cultural property,
and culture-specific human interaction with tropical lowland rainforests in
transformation in Jambi, Sumatra); these projects are part of the Interdisciplinary
Research Unit on the Constitution of Cultural Property and the Interdisciplinary
Collaborative Research Centre CRC 990 on Ecological and Socioeconomic Functions
of Tropical Lowland Rainforest Transformation Systems (Sumatra, Indonesia).
Contributors 239
Karin Klenke studied cultural and social anthropology and sociology at the
universities of Göttingen, Germany, and Copenhagen, Denmark. In her Ph.D.
dissertation (published in 2011) on body, beauty and gender in Tanah Karo (Sumatra,
Indonesia), she analysed the growing importance of beauty practices as a way of
modernising the gendered self in patrilinear Karo society. As a post-doc researcher in
the interdisciplinary research group on cultural property at Göttingen University, she
studied the pending World Heritage nomination of Toraja (Sulawesi, Indonesia) on
both the local and the international level. Karin Klenke is currently the academic
coordinator of the research network “Dynamics of Religion in Southeast Asia” in
Göttingen.
Francesca Merlan is Professor of Anthropology at Australian National University.

She has pursued research on social transformation in indigenous social orders and their
relations to Australian state and society (Caging the Rainbow: Places, Politics and
Aborigines in a North Australian Town, 1998), on social change, welfare and
segmentary politics in New Guinea (Ku Waru: Language and Segmentary Politics in
the Western Nebilyer Valley, Papua New Guinea, co-authored with Alan Rumsey,
1991), change in landed livelihoods (Tracking Rural Change: Community, Policy and
Technology in Australia, New Zealand and Europe, co-edited with David Raftery,
2009), on anthropology's engagement with economy (Economic Anthropology:
Transforming Economies, Changing States, 2009), and has a particular comparative
interest in the emergence and circulation of concepts of indigeneity (Indigeneity
Global and Local, Current Anthropology 50:303-333, 2009).
Serena Müller graduated in anthropology from Münster University, Germany, in 2010

(M.A.). She is currently a Ph.D. candidate at the Institute for Cultural and Social
Anthropology in Göttingen and a research associate in the anthropological project on
indigeneity in Indonesia, which is part of the Interdisciplinary Research Unit on “The
Constitution of Cultural Property” at the University of Göttingen. She has carried out
fieldwork on this issue between 2011 and 2013. She specialises in ‘culture’ as a resource
for indigenous communities in Indonesia.
Miriam Harjati Samukri is a Ph.D. candidate at the Institute of Cultural and Social
Anthropology at Göttingen University and research associate in the Interdisciplinary
Research Unit on “The Constitution of Cultural Property”. Graduated from Bonn
University in Southeast Asian Studies in 2012, she currently works on the role of non-
governmental organisations in the Indigenous Peoples Movement in Indonesia. Her
research interests focus on development studies and the relationship between social
movements and international aid.
240 Contributors
Stefanie Steinebach currently holds a post-doc position in the DFG Collaborative

Research Centre 990, “Ecological and Socioeconomic Functions of Tropical Lowland
Rainforest Transformation Systems (Sumatra, Indonesia)”, based at Göttingen
University. She is a research associate at the Institute for Cultural and Social
Anthropology and works in the project on culture-specific human interaction with
tropical lowland rainforests in transformation in Jambi, Sumatra. She holds a diploma
in forestry and a Ph.D. in anthropology. Her anthropological dissertation Der Regenwald
ist unser Haus. Die Orang Rimba auf Sumatra zwischen Autonomie und Fremdbestimmung
(published 2012) is the result of a 15 months’ research (2003-2009) among the semi-
nomadic forest-dwelling Orang Rimba in Jambi Province. Her research interests focus
on human-environmental relationships with a special interest in cultural and ethnic
identity, power relations, land rights, critical history, and postcolonial theories.
Fadjar Ibnu Thufail is a researcher at the Research Centre for Regional Resources of
the Indonesian Institute of Sciences and a research fellow of the Cultural Property
Research Group at the University of Göttingen. He received his Ph.D. in anthropology
from the University of Wisconsin-Madison. He was a research Fellow at the Max
Planck Institute for Social Anthropology in Halle/Saale, Germany, from 2007 to 2010.
Together with Martin Ramstedt, he edited a book entitled Kegalauan Identitas (Grasindo,
2011) and a special edition of the journal of Asian Ethnicity in 2012. Currently, he is
working on a DFG sponsored project of the Göttingen research unit on adat, the state
and aristocrat subjectivity in Indonesia, and preparing a book manuscript on the May
1998 riots in Indonesia.
A number of UN conventions and declarations (on the Rights of Indigenous
Peoples, the Protection and Promotion of the Diversity of Cultural Expressi-
ons and the World Heritage Conventions) can be understood as instruments of
7
international governance to promote democracy and social justice worldwide.
In Indonesia (as in many other countries), these international agreements have
encouraged the self-assertion of communities that had been oppressed and de- Adat and Indigeneity in Indonesia
prived of their land, especially during the New Order regime (1966-1998). More
than 2,000 communities in Indonesia who define themselves as masyarakat adat Culture and Entitlements between
or “indigenous peoples” had already joined the Indigenous Peoples’ Alliance of Heteronomy and Self-Ascription
the Archipelago” (AMAN) by 2013. In their efforts to gain recognition and self-
determination, these communities are supported by international donors and Brigitta Hauser-Schäublin (ed.)
international as well as national NGOs by means of development programmes.
In the definition of masyarakat adat, “culture” or adat plays an important role

in the communities’ self-definition. Based on particular characteristics of their
adat, the asset of their culture, they try to distinguish themselves from others in
order to substantiate their claims for the restitution of their traditional rights and

property (namely land and other natural resources) from the state. The authors
of this volume investigate how differently structured communities - socially, po-
litically and religiously - and associations reposition themselves vis-à-vis others,
especially the state, not only by drawing on adat for achieving particular goals,
but also dignity and a better future.
ISBN: 978-3-86395-132-0
ISSN: 2190-8672
Universitätsverlag Göttingen Universitätsverlag Göttingen

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A number of UN conventions and declarations (on the Rights of Indigenous

Peoples, the Protection and Promotion of the Diversity of Cultural Expressi-

In the definition of masyarakat adat, “culture” or adat plays an important role

Adat and Indigeneity in Indonesia

Brigitta Hauser-Schäublin (ed.)

This work is licensed under the

Adat and Indigeneity

Culture and Entitlements between

Printed with funding from the DFG

Address of the Editor

This work is protected by German Intellectual Property Right Law.

© 2013 Universitätsverlag Göttingen

Miriam Harjati Sanmukri

A workshop entitled “Adat between state governance and self-determined indigeneity

The present volume mirrors this anthropological-international law co-operation and

Francesca Merlan, the renowned anthropologist from the National University in

Brigitta Hauser-Schäublin, July 2013

Interaction with the International Moves

In the aftermath of the World War II and in wake of decolonization, a few

From Adat to “Indigenous”

PPHMHA); see the chapter by Arizona and Cahyadi in this volume.

Indigenous Peoples and their Missions

7 The motto of Indonesia is “Unity in diversity” (Bhinneka Tunggal Ika).

“Indigenous Peoples” and Earlier Systems of Domination

(Martínez Cobo 1986:para. 379)

of Discrimination and Protection of Minorities in 1971 to prepare a study on the discrimination of

no universally accepted definition of ‘Indigenous Peoples’.”

5 UNGA Res. 61/295 (September 13, 2007).

Historic Overview and Current Legal Status

History of the Indigenous Peoples’ Rights Movement

Australians, Hocking/Hocking 1999:210-213.

Americas: Proposals Made by the Indigenous Participants, printed in Cobo 1981:Annex 4.

abstentions (Anaya 2004a:64).

Therefore, indigenous peoples pressed for the elaboration of another international

States’ Attitude towards Indigenous Peoples’ Sovereignty and Self-

The respective article in the English version reads:

(Art. 1 Treaty of Waitangi, 1840)

Prendergast refers to the Treaty of Waitangi as “a simple nullity” (78).

Recognition of Indigenous Peoples’ Right to Self-Determination under the

Indigenous peoples have the right to self-determination. By virtue of that right

31 See e.g. Concluding Observations on Canada (1999) UN Doc. CCPR/C/79/Add.105:para. 8;

Nothing in this Declaration may be interpreted as implying for any State,

1948, entered into force January 12, 1951) 78 UNTS 277.

42Regarding the illegality of the disenfranchisement of indigenous peoples under international

Maria Victoria Cabrera Ormaza

Human Rights-Based Approach

Indigenous communities, peoples and nations are those which, having a

(Martínez Cobo 1983:Paras. 379, 380)

seem to face similar cultural or racial discrimination within their countries.4

Indigenous Peoples and Environmental Protection

Development (principle 22) proclaims indigenous peoples as vital actors in the

repositories of vast accumulation of traditional knowledge and experience that

(World Commission on Environment and Development 1987:114, 115)

In fact, in many instances, it is indigenous peoples themselves who use this

Indigenous Peoples and Traditional Knowledge

Indigenous Peoples and Cultural Diversity

Indigenous Peoples and Economic Development Cooperation

expertly represented” (http://www.survivalinternational.org/info).

the Native American groups in Nevada (Ahmad 2006).