[Kabar-indonesia] 2 of 6: Ambon's Haunted Ruins [by Goenawan Mohamad (4 reports)]

[JoyoNews at aol.com]

4 Tempo Magazine Independence Day Reports (2 of 6): 

- From Ambon and Scorched Ruins 
  [by Goenawan Mohamad]

- A Return to Living in Harmony 
  [Ambon is once again congenial. 
  Signs of conflict are fading away]

- Rediscovering the Lost Poso 

- Sambas Dreaming [Victims of 
  inter-ethnic rioting in Sambas were 
  scattered everywhere. Some remain  
  in refugee camps.]

Tempo Magazine
No. 50/VI
August 15-21, 2006 

Cover Story 

>From Ambon and Scorched Ruins 

by Goenawan Mohamad 

AMBON is still haunted by scorched ruins. On both sides of the streets: 
dismal rubble. People in this Moluccan town still talk in great detail about the 
long period 
of savagery that started early in 1999 and continued almost to 2005: their 
houses burned to the ground, churches, mosques and universities razed, bombs 
assembled and detonated, speedboats attacked, thugs and paramilitary from outside 
Ambon stirring up hatred, the military and police inciting people, some 
leaving probably 
never to return, hundreds of friends and family slaughtered. At the end of 
this 
conflict between Moluccan Muslims and Christians, around 13,000 were dead; 
how can people forget this? 

Miraculous, though, is the fact that in July 2006 the city and its 
inhabitants appear back to their friendly, courteous and genial ways, for which Ambon is 
renowned. Life is on the mend and it seems now there is greeting where before 
there was silence: the airport looks brand new, better than the one in Solo, 
and cleaner than the one in Surabaya. In the lobby of "Amans" hotel, where 
guests can connect to the world via wireless Internet, people were welcoming some 
young Moluccan women participating in a beauty contest. And the roads are 
crowded and the market humming. 

I was only briefly passing through, of course; I was just a guest. I could 
not possibly really know if there was trauma, revenge and ongoing suspicion 
lurking there in the alleyways. Yet something seems convincing when popular 
Moluccan songs blare out from roadside CD stalls, when women both with and without 
headscarves sit chatting in the seafront rujak stalls run by Christians, and on 
the day the ship Lambelu berthed, the harbor front thronged with people from 
all walks of life. Among the street-carts across from the offices of Firma 
Abudullah Alie (the Alie family are one of the Chinese Muslim families who have 
lived in the Moluccas since the 19th century) is a newspaper vendor; the latest 
issue of Playboy magazine is clearly on display. A little further off, the 
Mardika market is full of color: rows of bright red tomatoes, vivid green limes, 
yellow sago in plastic bags, cinnamon-brown smoked fish. 

Driving along the bay I heard a driver say: "We here are stupid people, 
wanting a thriller made of us." He was speaking of that dreadful civil war, of 
course. 

He seemed to realize, as the world realized, that here God was invoked by 
both sides, with blood-smeared beliefs, for unclear causes; perhaps part of the 
jockeying for position by people in upper echelons, perhaps some thugs fighting 
over their zones of extortion. I wasn't sure whether that driver was speaking 
with sadness or ridicule. But the awareness was there, or perhaps just 
fatigue, with no energy left to turn into anger. People here are returning to life 
from congregating on the pavements: in small trade, in small conversation, in 
practical actions, and in friendships that can still be salvaged. They patch 
and darn life, they build houses from ruins, rub balm into their wounds. 

I fell in love with this town. And not just because of its adornment of green 
trees, its nestling by the bay, and all rounded off nicely with the hills. 

                                                    l l l

…no one exists alone;Hunger allows no choiceTo the citizen or the police;We 
must love one another or die. 

-W.H. Auden

Something finally speaks from within that tragedy, "We must love one another 
or die." 

"Love" is maybe too inflated a word. But what is the option besides death? 

Auden's poem, September 1, 1939, was written on a corner of 42nd Street in 
New York as the world was haunted by a great war. But let us imagine that the 
poet was not in New York, but in Ambon-or in some corner of Indonesia-with the 
Republic on the brink of being torn apart by local civil war, like the tragedy 
in the Moluccas. Auden probably would also have felt "…the clever hopes 
expire", and "a low dishonest decade" when waves of anger and fear whirl, and when 
"the unmentionable odor of death offends the…night". 

However, as in Ambon, life can redeem itself: an alternative can always be 
constructed when "clever hopes expire". At the end of his poem, Auden asks 
whether he, who is also made of "Eros and dust", and "beleaguered by the same 
negation and despair, can show an affirming flame." The question seems tentative or 
modest. But hope is not something impossible. The poem mentions the "ironic 
points of light" flashing in the dark, when the night offers no protection. 

The word "ironic" is important here. It is supposed to come from the Greek 
eirôneia, meaning "feigned ignorance". It comprises distance, even a step back 
or turning away from sure "I-know"ing. 

Auden wrote this poem at a time when: 

…blind skyscrapers useTheir full height to proclaimThe strength of Collective 
Man,
This was the time when various forms of totalitarianism were in full parade. 
This was the time when each language spewed out twisted slogans of pride and 
one-upmanship. Just like our times: when "collective man" is incited by blaring 
loudspeakers on minarets, when religions that should foster humility actually 
become pretexts for the "I-the-knowing-and-right-and-pure" attitude, when 
faith gradually changes into social identity, and the "ummah"-one form of that 
collective man-becomes so important, even more important than truth. 

Irony reveals that actually there is something jarring in such positions. In 
taking distance, we find that no social identity can ever be entirely 
formulated. The Muslim or Christian "ummah" can mean many things, for each one 
comprises unacknowledged differences. And actually, within any forming of social 
identity even when we speak of the "ummah", there is repression. 

The seeds of violence are sown with that repression: over time, those not in 
line with the collective "us" will be eliminated. In Ambon on April 27, 2001, 
the local radio station Suara Perjuangan Muslim Maluku (The Voice of the 
Moluccan Muslim Struggle) was quoted broadcasting this warning: "If among the 
Muslims there are those who still talk of reconciliation, kill them!" In the area 
of Kudamati, fighting broke out between two Christian groups who attacked each 
other and burned down each other's houses. 

Maybe this is why within every social identity there are wounds, and thus 
fractures. And attempts are made to shape that identity precisely because of 
those fractures. At the same time, that identity formulates itself or is 
formulated, it names itself or is named, by a language-language, what is more, not 
created uniquely by that identity. It enters a convention. It links into a system; 
really, it is just a sign. There is nothing there fully and permanently as 
something that it signifies (what, actually, does "ummah" refer to?). Its 
meaning appears only when it is aligned with different social identities and is then 
delineated by those other identities. It differs, of course, from the-other, 
but because it exists in a system of meaning-making, it is not entirely 
closed; it is not radically different from the-other. How could it possibly deny 
the-other? 

"We must love one another, or die", Auden wrote. 

Probably "love" is not an inflated word. "To love" means to be enchanted by 
the-different, to touch what is limited within oneself at the moment of meeting 
the-other, and to be aware that language cannot capture what exists in 
oneself or that other. As Auden said, "Each language pours its vain, competitive 
excuse." 

"Loving" is a simple thing to do. 

                                                      l l l

In 1969 I crossed the sea from Buru Island to Ambon on a small boat called a 
"Landing Craft Material". For nearly 11 hours the waves washed over the narrow 
deck that stank of eucalyptus oil. In late July 2006 I repeated this journey, 
but this time by speedboat that got me there in around three hours. 

The other shore is almost never beyond reach. To be in the Moluccas is to be 
aware of this, and the meaning of "abroad": a place far from one's home, yet 
not completely foreign. In Malay, another country is referred to as "across the 
water". 

So the sea has two sides that are in opposition, and yet fused: the sea both 
divides and connects, it is a thing between but a locus unto itself. It is 
full of suspense, it fascinates. 

Chairil Anwar, in one of his most famous poems, Cerita Buat Dien Tamaela, 
presents the voice of a mythological figure from the Moluccas-it is not clear 
where exactly-calling himself "Beta Pattirajawane". He has a voice of thunder; 
when he is born he proudly proclaims that people should bring him "boat and 
oars". And he calls: 

Mari menari! Come, let's dance 
Mari beria! Come, be merry! 
Mari berlupa! Come, forget!

In other words, the sea signifies exciting adventure, the freedom to forget, 
travel away from home. Sometimes the sea is the zone between home and abroad, 
a transit. Sometimes it is abroad. The sea is never empty: it is the source of 
life and connects trade, war, migration, and civilizations. 

And in this way it becomes a new home, a home that is not the closed place of 
origin, but rather one that grows because of the meeting between 
the-different and the-unpredicted. I am reminded of Heidegger's words (speaking of the 
flow of the Danube in Hölderlin's poem der Ister): "Homecoming is...a transit 
through otherness". 

Perhaps that is Indonesia, that is its fate: the place of our homecoming, but 
also a series of "abroads", a place to which one pays respect, yet also the 
home that is at once merry and complex in diversity. 
 
--------------------------------

Tempo Magazine
No. 50/VI
August 15-21, 2006 

Cover Story 

A Return to Living in Harmony 

Ambon is once again congenial. Signs of conflict are fading away 

THE tall, sturdy man was standing and looking on watchfully in the parking 
lot of Patimura Airport, Ambon, on Saturday two weeks ago. The hire-car driver 
was staring at passengers coming out of the arrival room one by one. As soon as 
he met the gazes of Tempo and a passenger tout named Memed, he smiled. 

As Memed approached, Jemy Lakotampesi, 35, the brawny guy, promptly produced 
Rp30,000. It's a tip for Memed as a fare getter. "Ah, it's not enough," 
protested Memed. "It's enough. I still have to pay rental fees," Jemy responded. 
Instead of quarrelling, they burst out laughing. 

Jemy is a native of Ambon, living in Tawili village, 3 kilometers from the 
airport. He had worked as a hire-car driver a long time before the outbreak of 
the bloody conflict in Ambon in 1999. It's over the same period that his 
friendship with Memed, the 29-year-old Javanese, had developed. But the communal 
fighting separated both. 

According to Jemy, Memed lives in Desa Batu Koneng village, Ambon 
municipality. They had never wanted the conflict between Christians and Muslims. But they 
couldn't help it: during the period of hostility, Jemy had to be close to 
Christians while Memed felt safer to work for Muslim drivers. "At that time Memed 
was not near to me," said Jemy, driving eastward to the city of Ambon, which 
was getting dark. 

Gradually, clashes abated. The two friends were reunited. Their business 
relations returned to normal. "Yes, we're now good friends again," added Jemy. 

Ambon did change. People were no longer afraid of traveling. Roads were 
packed with heavy traffic. The sounds of gunshots were replaced by those of car 
horns; cries of war became car drivers' yells at becak (tricycle) riders who 
lacked discipline on the streets. "Eh, move fast, don't you be sleepy as you 
ride." But nobody gets furious now. 

When Tempo's car entered the Aster alleyway, various notices decorated this 
Christian area: posters inviting people to join church services and those 
calling for ukhuwah Islamiyah (Islamic brotherhood). 

At the Paso market, Ambon-which used to be under Christians-vendors of both 
faiths mingled. They were squatting, forming lines, while offering various 
kinds of fish. Their tempting shouts frequently got a friendly laugh. 

The market of Mardika, Batu Merah, once controlled by Muslims, displayed a 
similar scene. There, lots of Christian sellers scraped a living. "I know 
nothing about a religious war. I'm happy to see all of us in harmony," said Lesy 
Tawainella, 52, a Christian woman. The chili vendor was back to the Mardika 
market last year. 

                                                l l l

"The situation is indeed improving," said Jhon Ruhulesin, 48, an Ambon 
Christian figure. Jhon was one of those who declared the Malino Accord II, which was 
signed on February 12, 2002. In concluding the agreement both belligerents 
met. "I hope this peace will be sustainable," added Jhon. 

The Ambon war was indeed destructive. The Commission for Missing Persons & 
Victims of Violence (Kontras) recorded that the conflict claimed 8,000 lives, 
with tens of thousands of houses destroyed and 330,000 people evacuated. 

A trivial matter triggered the anarchy: a fight between a driver and several 
youths. The driver was a villager of Batu Merah Atas, with a Christian 
majority. His opponents were youngsters from Batu Merah Bawah, largely populated by 
Muslims. The brawl took place on the Idul Fitri holiday, Sunday, January 19, 
1999, then it spread and soon all of Maluku was aflame. 

Clashes subsided several times, like the pause during the May 1999 general 
elections. However, the enmity again emerged and even worsened when security 
personnel were involved and militiamen entered from outside Maluku. 

It took five years to end the conflict. "We're tired of trying to kill each 
other," said Irwan Tahir, a state Islamic schoolteacher in Ambon. The situation 
is improving. The regional song Gandonge, which during the hostile period was 
tabooed, is now played regularly. It's a song about the beauty of living 
together amicably. "Gandonge sio gandonge, mari beta gendong, beta gendong ale 
jua…" 

But there is still a threat. According to Maluku regional councilor D.K. 
Tuhepaly, the problem of refugees could lead to another conflict. As he toured 
different regions, he found refugees already getting bored. "They want to go home 
soon," he pointed out. The other thing that might cause trouble was the 
minimal employment for youths in Ambon. 

Jhon Ruhulesin also hoped that a dialog involving all parties would remain 
open. "It should include security authorities," he said. He was sure that with 
good will behind all efforts, peace in Maluku would be lasting. 

                                                  l l l

Night fell and our car reached Jalan Sultan Baabullah. Right before the 
Al-Fatah mosque, a middle-aged man was busily serving customers in his food stall. 
Ahmad, who sold ketupat (rice in coconut leaves), fried fish and eggplant 
sauce, adeptly prepared food as his buyers placed orders. A complete serving of 
his recipe cost Rp7,500. 

That's how he supports his family. During the chaotic period he chose to take 
refuge out of town, though he would in fact have been safe in the Al-Fatah 
mosque in Batu Merah, the most secure station for Muslims. "But I didn't want to 
take risks," said the man of Buton descent, Southeast Sulawesi. 

Back home from evacuation, he reopened his modest food stall, which was 
visited not only by Muslims but also a lot of Christians. Ahmad was not worried 
about being open until after midnight. While conflict was rife, almost nobody 
dared to go out after 8pm. 

By dawn, the car hired by Tempo arrived at the bridge of Batu Merah. It b
rought to mind the incident seven years ago. Here the blood feud started and the 
first page of Maluku's murky story was written. 

>From this hill, two houses were seen under restoration. They were among the 
first to be burned by the masses in the rioting. The rehabilitation of these 
two was almost complete. Their walls and roofs were already rebuilt, leaving 
only the paint to cover the structure. An amiable atmosphere prevailed in Ambon 
that afternoon... 
 
--------------------------------------------

Tempo Magazine
No. 50/VI
August 15-21, 2006 

Cover Story 

Rediscovering the Lost Poso 

Poso residents try to forget their past conflict. Muslims 
and Christians again live in peaceful coexistence. 

VAST tracts of cacao plants stretch across the village of Tokorondo, Poso 
Pesisir subdistrict, Poso regency, Central Sulawesi. The view is pleasant to the 
eye, green dense growth along both sides of the winding road to the foot of 
the Poso hill. 

At sunup, residents are seen busily drying their crops in their house yards 
and on the road. In the evening they would pick them up and store them back in 
the house. 

In these months the people are busier. Rice stalks in the fields are 
ripening. The fertile land and hard work seem indicative of their prosperous life. 
Signs of prosperity are seen from the ever-increasing number of people who go on 
haj pilgrimage. "Last year, seven Tokorondo residents went on pilgrimage," 
said Andi Baso, head of the Tokorondo Mosque Youths. 

Tempo, who stayed overnight at the village late last July, saw many residents 
with new vehicles. "I bought the angkot (public transportation van) with the 
proceeds from cacao crops," said Abdul Khalik, owner of 3 hectares of 
chocolate plantation. At sundown, there are a number of new motorcycles in the mosque 
yard. 

There is a satellite dish on Abdul Khalik's house. For him, a cell phone is 
not a luxury any more. "My son has got one too," he said. Abdul also has 
several cows that roam the foot of the Poso mountain for grazing. He also has a boat 
for fishing in the sea. 

Tokorondo is already tidying up. The fire of vengeance due to the conflict 
six years back seems to have vanished from the people's minds. Tokorondo was the 
Muslim defense stronghold along the Poso coast. This village was where the 
Muslim-Christian conflict first broke out in May 2000. While the riot was 
raging, the village was destroyed. Not even a single house was saved from the fires. 
The Christian groups used to "occupy" Tokorondo. 

>From here the conflict spread across the entire Poso region. The 
inter-religious conflict became increasingly fierce following the attack on the Santa 
Theresia Catholic Church (GKST) compound at Moengko Baru, Poso, on May 23, 2000. 
Five days later, it was the turn of the Wali Songo Islamic boarding school 
(pesantren) at the villages of Sintuwu Lembah and Kayamaya in Poso regency to be 
stormed. 

And to think, the conflict was not triggered by a religious issue. According 
to the research team of Yayasan Bina Warga (People's Development Foundation), 
Central Sulawesi, the crux of the matter was the fight over the regent's post, 
regional secretary's position and a balance in the government posts in Poso. 
Then the unsatisfied side became aggressive. As a result of the riots, about 
200 Poso residents died, hundreds of others were injured, and thousands of 
houses were totally destroyed. 

Following the conflict, Tokorondo is the first village to be rehabilitated. 
The soccer field is transformed into emergency houses. Today, the residents do 
not sleep in the emergency tents any more. In just two years, the people have 
rebuilt their houses.  

Now the Tokorondo residents try to forget the riots. "We're already tired of 
tensions," said Andi Baso. Nevertheless, each time there is a shooting, 
security officers would "turn the village inside out," which irritates the Tokorondo 
residents. "We're awfully disturbed," said Jamal. 

As a gesture of a conflict-free life, Andi often invites Reverend Reinaldy 
Damanik to his house. "I always bring sugili (a kind of large eel living in the 
Poso Lake) to the Tokorondo residents," said the Chairman of the Central 
Sulawesi Christian Church to Tempo. 

The way from Tokorondo toward the municipal areas of Poso will pass through 
Sepe Silanca, Lage regency. Though different from Tokorondo, the center of 
cacao plants, this village is equally beautiful. Along both sides of the road 
langsat and durian trees grow. The trees are loaded with the brownish fruits 
(langsat is a kind of tasty yellow-white colored fruit). 

Sepe Silanca was devastated in an attack by the Muslims in November 2000. At 
that time, the people did not care about their orchards. The langsat and 
durian fruits were left to rot. The people preferred to stop the passing vehicles 
to get their enemies. 

Today, the violence is gone. The Sepe residents resume their normal life. 
During the fruit season as now, the people display the langsat fruits by the road 
for sale en masse. Many Muslims from Ampana and Luwuk visit the place to buy 
langsat. "We realize it's no use to keep fighting," said Martha Pondose, a 
Sepe Silanca resident. 

Martha is not afraid to sell langsat in front of her garden which is flanked 
by bushes and cacao plantation owned by Muslim residents. "Big buses often 
come. The passengers are pleased to see loaded langsat trees," she said. 

Even though some people already live in peace, other Poso residents are still 
gripped with fear. "Poso is not peaceful yet," said a Poso town resident to 
Tempo. He referred to the Muslim residents of Tentena who to date do not dare 
open their shops at the Tentena marketplace. This is also the case with 
Christian residents in Tentena. They do not dare to go to the Poso urban areas which 
are predominantly inhabited by Muslims. 

It is such issues which now become the responsibility of Central Sulawesi 
Governor H.B. Paliudju. Paliudju is determined to reconcile the two groups that 
even now are still at loggerheads. For example, he already sets aside a fund of 
Rp30 billion to pay for the settlement of a number of unfinished problems 
following the riots. Despite this, in the eyes of Paliudju, generally conditions 
in Poso have improved. "Therefore, the local government has discontinued the 
activity of the Central Sulawesi Security Operations Command," he said. Now, 
said the Governor, the issue of security in Poso is returned to the local 
police, government and the community. 

Ulema Chairman of the Palu Al-Khaeraat Islamic School Board, KH Yashya 
Alamarie, and GKST Secretary Rev. Irianto Kongkoli expressed their support for all 
measures being taken by Paliudju to restore peace in Poso. They appeal to 
religious figures not to provoke conflicts. 

In order to create peace and security in Poso, Central Sulawesi Police Chief 
Brig. Gen. Oegroseno carries out Lanto Dago operations. Lanto Dago is a Poso 
expression meaning "rediscovery." "Yes, to rediscover the lost paradise," said 
Oegroseno. He promises to arrest anybody who triggers riots in Poso. "We'll 
take them to court," he said. 

The Central Sulawesi Police are now dealing with a number of people suspected 
of trying to trigger fresh riots in Poso. For example, the gang of people who 
are suspected of murdering three Poso senior high school Christian girls in 
November last year. It turned out that the murder failed to provoke the people. 
The five murder suspects turned out to be from different religions. 

However, there is criticism against the peace efforts being made by Governor 
Paliudju and regional Police Chief Brig. Gen. Oegroseno. The criticism comes 
from Tahmidy Lasahido, lecturer at Tadulako University, Palu. Tahmidy observes 
that so far the government has not involved the conflicting people in handling 
the Poso problem. 

According to Tahmidy, this is why the conflict has never been resolved 
comprehensively. "Just look at the 2001 Malino Declaration, in which the residents 
who took action in the field have not been invited for participation," he said. 
Therefore, he suggests that the elites invite for participation the two 
communities involved in the conflict. 
 
----------------------------------------

Tempo Magazine
No. 50/VI
August 15-21, 2006 

Cover Story 

Sambas Dreaming 

Victims of inter-ethnic rioting in Sambas were scattered 
everywhere. Some remain in refugee camps. 

THE type-21 house was more like a hut. Made of wood with its walls full of 
holes, the house no longer stood straight on the ground. However, Hasan had no 
choice but to keep occupying it. He had for over seven years remained in the 
Madura refugee relocation in Teluk Dalam village, Pontianak regency, West 
Kalimantan. 

The Madura-born 80-year-old now living with his wife Rifah, 70, and one of 
his grandchildren, Supandi, 14, left Sambas along with them after the 
inter-ethnic conflict broke out in January 1999. In Teluk Dalam there were around 100 
other families living like Hasan, dwelling in slums and doing any work in order 
to survive. 

In Sambas, Hasan was formerly a prosperous farmer. He had seven cows. "Any 
seedling planted would grow. Here the soil is bad. It's peat and hot," he said. 
In his yard were dozens of cassava roots and lots of corn seeds being dried in 
the sun. "We've rarely had rice in the last four years," he said. 

The government did support these refugees. They, for instance, were granted 
500 square meters of land for farming. But the problem was the same. The soil 
is peat soil which is difficult for growing crops. "No plants can grow well on 
this land," said Fauzan, a neighbor of Hasan. Fauzan was more fortunate than 
Hasan. His wife worked in a factory. "So I can eat rice though not every day," 
he added. 

It is not just the Madurese, people in Teluk Dalam still had to live such a 
miserable life following the bloody conflict seven years back. A number of 
Madura citizens "returning home" were accommodated in Ketapang district. Sampang, 
Madura also had the same fate. This, for instance, was experienced by Hasan, 
35, occupying a hut with bamboo roofing and decrepit back doors. In the 
slanting house, Hasan had lived with his wife Sarinti, two children and a nephew 
since his return to Madura in 1999. 

In the beginning, aid was flowing in. With thousands of other Madura 
evacuees, Hasan received 10 kilograms of rice, cooking oil, sugar and other food each 
month. In 2004 he got a refugee departure fund worth Rp500,000 and housing 
compensation worth Rp3 million from the government. But around a year ago the 
assistance was discontinued. He started doing casual work, as a motorcycle taxi 
driver or construction laborer. "Life is so hard, isn't it?" he said to Tempo. 

Nonetheless, not all stories of refugees from Madura are sad. Listen to the 
account of Haji Marhayat, now living on Jalan Kebangkitan Nasional, Pontianak, 
a modest but elegant house with a spacious yard. "I bought the house before 
the rioting in 1999," he said. 

When the turmoil in Sambas occurred, his wealth was all gone, only several 
cows remained. They served as capital for his return to Madura. But life in 
Madura turned out to be tough. "My capital was used up, so I decided to get back 
to Pontianak," related the 46-year-old. Then he started doing whatever he could 
in Pontianak. 

The people of Madura once living in Sambas were scattered everywhere. 
According to Chairman of the Madura Community in West Kalimantan, Sulaiman, besides 
those in refugee relocations in Pontianak like Tebang Kacang, Sungai Asam and 
Wajo Hulu, others also lived in Surabaya, Jakarta, or tried their luck in 
Malaysia. "Remaining in relocations does not offer proper living conditions," said 
Sulaiman. 

While depriving Madura citizens of their homes, the hostility in Sambas also 
caused the loss of parents of thousands of children who were killed in the 
fighting. The turbulence set in after a Madurese man was caught on January 18, 
1999 in the hamlet of Parit Setia, Jawai district, Sambas, suspected of theft. 
This was followed by clashes between Madura and Dayak ethnic groups. But a 
sociologist of Tanjungpura University, Syarif Ibrahim Al-Qadrie, said the chaos in 
Sambas constituted an accumulation of many things. "There are cultural 
differences between Madura, Dayak and Malay people," he indicated. 

A number of Madurese refugees in relocation settlements kept waiting for the 
right time to get back to Sambas. "If I have some money for my travel, I want 
to return there. It's a hard life here, the soil is infertile," said Hotijah, 
now still staying in Tebang Kacang. "I've heard that my land in Sambas remains 
there, watched over by neighbors," she added. 

-End 2 of 6- 

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Joyo Indonesia News Service
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