Page 63 - SCANDAL AND DEMOCRACY

48 Chapter 2

oppose the “desecration of human rights” represented by the bans. Others spoke
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of a desire to gain moral strength, regardless of the outcome. The hunger for this
strength, a photographer said, must overcome the fear of losing one’s livelihood.
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Editor Ivan Haris admitted that he was also “afraid of being beaten by soldiers, and
worse, then being arrested and tortured.” Yet, like others, he felt an obligation to
future generations, asking, “What will my children say if I stay quiet?”
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Over Harmoko’s strenuous objections, the PTUN launched eight months of delib-
erations. Until the final hour, the Tempo plaintiffs’ expectations were low. The day
before the decision, Mohamad learned from a court insider that the judges planned to
rule in the minister’s favor. But on May 3, 1995, the chief justice, Benjamin Mang-
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koedilaga, announced that Harmoko had acted in an unlawful and “authoritarian”
manner by revoking Tempo ’s license. The verdict, which nullified the revocation, was
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based on the finding that canceling the license did amount to banning the magazine,
something expressly forbidden in the Basic Press Law. The court ruled further that
Harmoko had not followed due process, escalating suddenly from a first to a final
warning.
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The plaintiffs were nearly as shocked by the victory as they had been by the
bans; their disbelief was redoubled by the stipulation that the minister must cover
their court costs. Skeptical of “the independence of Indonesia’s judicial institutions,”
Mohamad and the other plaintiffs were slow to grasp that the judges were ruling
in Tempo ’s favor. “For almost an hour we listened,” he said, and “only then [did we
understand]. . . . I shook hands and had my hand shaken, hugged and was hugged by
our lawyers, countless friends, including those who sobbed openly, or tried to hold
back tears.”
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The ruling prompted loud cheering and applause, with Mohamad praising Chief
Justice Mangkoedilaga and his colleagues, reminding supporters, “what has to be
celebrated is not the victory of [the plaintiffs], but rather the courage of the three
judges.” He also cautioned their ruling would become “an empty victory unless we
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can make use of it. . . . If the press shows a small portion of courage, it will take up
this issue. Now is the time to do it.”
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While none of the surviving media outlets answered Mohamad’s call to push for
abolishing the 1984 decree, most gave prominent coverage to the PTUN’s ruling.
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More cause for celebration came when the plaintiffs, facing an appeal by Harmoko,
won another surprising victory before the next-highest court, the Pengadilan Tinggi
Tata Usaha Negara Jakarta. But on June 13, 1996, the Supreme Court overturned both
lower court rulings, finding that the information minister’s cancelation of Tempo ’s
license did not conflict with the Basic Press Law. The high court not only nullified
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the PTUN’s landmark ruling, it also left news outlets in a weaker legal position than
before, leading Mohamad to declare: “Today is [the day] the Supreme Court legalized
repression of the press.”
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The ruling denied the plaintiffs the opportunity to appeal. Despite the historic
nature of the two-year battle, Tempo ’s license revocation was final. While the maga-
zine’s demise inspired emotional eulogies proclaiming its irreplaceability, in the end,

the country adjusted, and the new, crony-owned Gatra had little trouble filling its
predecessor’s slot at newsstands.
To eradicate the memory of Tempo ’s lower court victories, the regime pressured
the media to stop covering the subject, barring SCTV from airing an interview with
the PTUN’s now-famous chief justice. Other intimidation followed. Armed with
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Article 510 of the criminal code, stipulating that groups of more than five people