Page 59 - SCANDAL AND DEMOCRACY

44 Chapter 2

Mohamad, noted that past bans had led media outlets to lie low until the confrontation
passed, afraid of becoming the next target. Some survivors would even applaud the
government’s decision, happy to have fewer competitors. Then, “isolated and unde-
fended,” the banned publications would proceed to the Ministry of Information—the
same ministry that had shut them down—and beg for a new license, fear driving them
to pay large bribes to facilitate this process. Their licenses restored, the banned pub-
lications would start up again, “as if their feet were not bound and their mouths not
gagged.” Each time, Mohamad concluded, “amnesia follows, even forgives,” allowing
“the arbitrariness of what happened [to escape] the loathing that might prevent it
from occurring again.”
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This time, Mohamad said, the bans led to neither silence nor the usual “amnesia,
trembling, and indifference.” Instead, protests emerged across Indonesia, marked by a
new determination that made the government nervous. Observing continued defiance
in the face of violent crackdowns, Mohamad concluded that anger over the bans had
become “public property.” History, he said, “had begun to change.”
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“Democracy Is Dead”
Exploring the sources of this anger and determination illustrates the extent to
which history had begun to change. A key element was profound disappointment.
The 1994 media closures hit when expectations for the future were running high in
Indonesia amid economic growth, political stability, and foreign investment. Despite
its brevity, Suharto’s new policy of “openness” had made a tangible impact and gener-
ated widespread hope that this political trend would continue.
Dashed expectations in any situation can be a powerful impetus to action. In
Indonesia, belief that the country was developing into a first-world democracy, able
to compete in a global economy, was accompanied by tense anticipation that Suharto,
already in his early seventies, might allow a peaceful transition to a new administra-
tion in the next election.
Alarm over the regime’s backtracking gave the bans significance beyond concerns
over displaced workers and lost investments. Foreign observers expressed disbelief
and warned of diminished investor confidence and damage to Indonesia’s reputa-
tion abroad. The most anguished statements, however, came from Indonesians who
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flooded media offices with calls and letters expressing everything from bewilderment
to outrage. One fax read, “I am disturbed, sad and sick at heart. Opening and democ-
racy are already gone in this beloved Republic.” In an emotional speech before demon-
strators, writer Umar Kayam asked, “If we still have bans, where is democracy?” As if
answering this rhetorical question, a banner held by demonstrators read, “Democracy
is dead.”
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The bans also hit as a new middle class was emerging, anxious for opportunities
in a climate of economic growth and political openness. Poised precariously between
the wealthy, well-connected elite and the country’s vast underclass, the middle sectors
of society depended on the level playing field and legal protections provided by the
rule of law. Tempo itself had become symbolic of the middle class’s rising status
as the country developed into a modern nation. Historian Onghokham (Ong Hok
Ham) argued that the public’s reaction represented “an important test . . . which
validates the role, function and mere existence of the middle class in Indonesia,”
since this class “needs information, [and] will never develop in a totalitarian sys-
tem.” That class, reported Arief Budiman, included “intellectuals, students and
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