Jose Manuel Tesoro, Asiaweek journalist based in Jakarta
Under the Suharto regime in Indonesia, the newsweekly Tempo was banned for covering a politically sensitive topic.Its reappearance in October 1998, above, symbolized the beginning of a new era of press freedom.
During a press conference held in Jakarta in December 1998, International Monetary Fund Director Hubert Neiss greets Megawati Sukarnoputri, now vice president of Indonesia.
Blanketed by smoke and tear gas, journalists run for cover during a demonstration held in Jakarta on October 20, 1999 to protest against Megawati Sukarnoputri’s defeat in the presidential elections.
|
Website of the
month Each day, in different parts of the world, 24,000 people die of hunger—one every 3.6 seconds. Three out of four of them are children under five. This independent site allows you to make a donation of food via the UN World Food Programme to hungry people in 80 countries, especially children through school-feeding projects. A click on your button triggers the equivalent of a serving of food which is added to a daily total. The most appropriate staple food is then selected for any given country or situation. Donations are paid for by corporate sponsors in exchange for a small advertising space. More than a million servings of food have been distributed since the site opened in June 1999. |
|
Highlights of • frees the Indonesian media from the discretionary
control of the Ministry of Information |
Tight government control
over the Indonesian media has ended, but there is still no social consensus about
how far press freedom really goes
To see just how much Indonesia has changed since the fall of its longtime
president Suharto, simply step out onto the street. Do not even search for one of
the almost daily demonstrations that snarl traffic in Jakarta and other big cities.
Just head as far as the nearest newsstand. There, on display, are the dozens of loud
magazines, saucy tabloids and hard-hitting newspapers that have sprung up since riots
in the capital ended the former general’s 32-year rule in May 1998.
Granted, media penetration is still low in this country of 204 million, the world’s
fourth-largest in size. But in a short period of time, it has undergone nothing short
of a press explosion. In the 12 months following Suharto’s resignation, the government
granted 718 new media licences, a leap from the 289 issued in the 53 years since
the country’s independence. And more recently, in November 1999, the government abolished
the all-powerful Department of Information (known as Deppen). For decades, this fixture
of government exerted tight control over the media and forbade coverage of any subject
that stoked sentiments of ethnicity, religion, race or belief—a justifiable policy
in a nation made up of numerous ethnic and religious groups. But that rule was gradually
stretched to cover anything that annoyed the government.
In the mid-1990s, as Suharto’s authority was increasingly questioned, the press became
bolder and the government hardened its stance. When Tempo, a leading newsweekly,
covered a debate within government over the purchase of 39 warships from the former
East German navy, a deal arranged by the then-Minister of Research and Technology
B.J. Habibie, its licence was revoked. Tempo successfully challenged the de facto
ban in two lower courts before the Supreme Court upheld Deppen’s decision. The government
then went after journalists who had formed an independent journalists’ union. Many
lost their jobs while two members and an office assistant received jail terms in
1995 for distributing information considered offensive to the government.
King of Spades
A popular TV talk show was cancelled
after its host interviewed one of the judges who ruled in favour of Tempo.
But the journalists’ resolve did not wane, especially from late 1997, when the media
did its best to cover the increasing discontent and unrest throughout the archipelago,
especially the student-led anti-Suharto demonstrations. After Indonesia’s parliament
reelected Suharto to a seventh 5-year term, D&R magazine ran a cover portraying
the president as the King of Spades. The act drew a sharp rebuke from Deppen, which
initiated proceedings against the magazine. But before the case could be resolved,
riots erupted across Indonesia and Suharto resigned.
When his vice-president, Mr. Habibie, stepped up to succeed him as a transitional
figure, there were initial concerns about whether the small gains the press had made
covering the tumult surrounding Suharto’s fall would be rolled back. Those concerns
multiplied when Habibie appointed East Timor veteran Lieutenant General Yunus Yosfiah
as minister of information. Yet expanded press freedom has actually been one of the
much-maligned post-Suharto transitional government’s most significant accomplishments.
One of Yosfiah’s first acts was to take away Deppen’s right to revoke press licences.
He also streamlined the process of granting government approval to new media organizations.
He even asked applicants to report any Deppen official who sought favours—such as
stakes in media start-ups—in return for a licence. He cut the number of daily state-run
radio news broadcasts that stations were required to air from 14 to four. And he
allowed the formation of other journalists’ associations than the state-sanctioned
PWI. In a recent interview, Yosfiah explained the changes: “Now it’s different. We
consider journalists as colleagues. We have a new paradigm.” That new stance was
symbolized by the reopening of Tempo in October 1998.
At the same time, a group of publishers and broadcasters also began efforts to revise
Suharto-era press regulations. The result was Law no. 40, passed in September 1999,
and described as “the first law liberating the press from tyranny,” says S.L. Batubara,
chair of the Indonesian Newspaper Publishers Association. The new law (see box)
revises 25 articles in the previous press law that left the position of the press
largely up to the discretion of the information minister. It abolishes the system
of licensing the media, and transfers regulation of the press to the industry itself.
The Indonesian Press and Broadcasting Society is now encouraging its members to set
up internal ombudsmen, and is drafting a common code of conduct.
Although the law leaves many questions unresolved—especially with regard to broadcasting,
film and programme censorship and the apportioning of frequencies—the reform of Deppen’s
role and the laws under which it controlled the press do mark a step forward. Many
local journalists report a reduction—even the disappearance—of military or bureaucratic
interference in their work. But legal restrictions formed only part of the constraints
on Indonesia’s press under Suharto. The press is still vulnerable on other fronts.
For example, while Indonesia’s laws expressly forbid foreign ownership of media,
less is said about domestic conflicts of interest. Nothing protects journalists from
media owners.
Habits that die
hard
Although Habibie himself tolerated
daily criticism of his government and its policies, some of his allies and supporters
were less forgiving. Unrest erupted in Jakarta when Indonesia’s electoral college
convened in November 1998 to confirm Habibie and his policies. Soon afterwards, private
television station SCTV came under pressure. A state-owned bank called in the station’s
$34-million loan, which triggered the sale of a majority stake in the company. A
firm run by Habibie’s brother took the lead in negotiating for a share. In a statement,
SCTV news producers claimed that the government was punishing the station for its
reports on the tumult.
Another grey area is the criminal code, which retains many articles relating to the
press, including one that threatens as long as four years in prison for writing or
broadcasting enmity, hatred or insult to members of government. The criminal code
poses an obstacle to coverage of past and present government misdeeds—especially
since law in the past has regularly been used to browbeat and control whistle-blowers.
Yasmen Umar, editor of West Kalimantan’s daily Pontianak Pos, says the public does
not know how to deal with negative coverage. Aggrieved parties, he says “head straight
for the courts, not the right of reply.”
In addition, public officials’ reluctance to provide prompt and accurate information
makes it difficult to report on government activities, much less suspected corruption.
“It’s a constraint on our industry that our functionaries, our public figures, don’t
provide access to information,” complains Batubara. One recent case was a scandal
involving the siphoning of over $70 million in bank-restructuring funds by figures
connected to the government and the ruling party. For over three months, Habibie’s
government refused to release an independent audit detailing the money trail and
identifying beneficiaries. The reason cited was banking secrecy.
Journalists have to worry not only about those in positions of power. Post-Suharto
Indonesia, with its economic collapse, rising separatist, ethnic and religious sentiments
and politically charged atmosphere, is simply a much more dangerous place for journalists
to work. Not everyone accepts the need for, or even the principle of, a free press.
The resistance lies both in a lingering sense that the media is responsible for political
education and in perceptions by the public of bias among publications or journalists.
“The public for the first time has to put up with a free press, and views that may
be incompatible with one pressure group or another,” says A. Lin Neumann, Bangkok-based
adviser to the Southeast Asian Press Alliance.
One example is the coverage of conflict between Muslims and Christians in Ambon,
capital of multi-religious Maluku province. After riots broke out there in early
1999, the city was practically partitioned between the two warring groups. Christian
reporters felt safe only in Christian areas. The same went for Muslim journalists
in Muslim neighbourhoods. The inability to cover both sides complicated the already
sensitive and emotional issue of reporting religious-linked violence. Ambonese Christians
felt that the national press focused more on attacks on Muslims, and became hostile
to Indonesians working for local news organizations.
Meanwhile, in East Timor in the run-up to its U.N.-sponsored referendum on independence
in August 1999, the situation was reversed. Armed pro-Jakarta militias sought out
Indonesians and foreigners working for the foreign press, assuming that most outside
observers favoured the territory’s separation from Indonesia. In the aftermath of
the chaos that followed the vote, two journalists—one local and one foreign—lost
their lives.
With the sudden collapse of government restrictions, one oft-repeated complaint is
that local journalists are not aware of their responsibilities and duties, much less
their rights. “At every opportunity I always say the more the press are given freedom,
the greater are the responsibilities they must assume,” says Atmakusumah Astraatmadja,
executive director of the Dr. Soetomo Press Institute, which is one of Indonesia’s
few organizations providing formal training to journalists. Few universities have
journalism faculties.
Aside from a flurry of foreign-funded short seminars for local reporters, by and
large, Indonesian journalists learn from their seniors and on the job. As such, standards
are often confused with accepted practice, a situation exacerbated by low salaries.
One long-standing habit is so-called “envelope journalism” in which reporters who
attend press conferences receive envelopes of cash from the event organizer. The
press also still largely covers current events by quoting public figures’ views and
announcements, instead of setting its own agenda—a hangover from the Suharto era.
Anxious readers
question press freedom
The Indonesian media is now
unfettered. But it is also unprotected. Government restrictions and direction have
vanished. But what is left is disturbingly ill-defined. Indonesian journalists and
editors have to find out for themselves how far their communities will let them go;
in other words, how free their readers or viewers will let them be. No consensus
has been reached over how far the press can go in reporting the unprecedented change
shaking Indonesian society. A local media watch organization recently conducted a
survey in which three out of four respondents believed that media coverage itself
was contributing to “national disintegration.”
The experience of Rusdi Amral, bureau chief in South Sulawesi’s capital of Makassar
for the national daily Kompas, is indicative. After Habibie, who was born in the
province, lost his presidential reelection bid on October 20, 1999, students in Makassar
held a series of demonstrations, some demanding an independent Sulawesi. About six
truckloads of protesters arrived at Amral’s office, to demand that their movement
be covered prominently in the newspaper and to complain about Kompas’ perceived Java-centric
focus. “The press at the moment is now able to overcome threats from the bureaucracy,
civil or military,” says Amral. “What has become a worry for us is the threat from
the people.” Each time demonstrators approached his office, the police did not intervene.
He and his staff had to face their critics alone.
