Briefing / Asia 3 minutes

印度尼西亚:井里汶的民间执法在走向恐怖主义

I. 概述

在印度尼西亚,针对非穆斯林少数民族的扫黄突袭和行动正在演变成一条通向更加暴力的圣战之路。2011年,西爪哇井里汶的一个警察清真寺和中爪哇梭罗的一个福音教堂遭到自杀式炸弹袭击。以宣扬道德和遏制“越轨”为名,这些袭击者早期使用棍棒和石块制造袭击,后来转为使用枪支和炸弹。这些自杀式炸弹袭击表明在激进的社区中,对某些战术的使用不再只属于特定的意识形态群体。这意味着那些假设“恐怖分子”是可以明确定义的,并明显区别于强硬派活动分子和宗教民间执法者的反恐项目注定要失败。这也意味着政府必须制定与民主价值观一致的战略来对付一些神职人员。这些人员本身并不使用武力,但却鼓吹针对异教徒(kafir)或压迫者(thaghut)的流血冲突是被允许的。这里的异教徒和压迫者指的是政府官员,尤其是警察。

这些袭击者代表着新一代的圣战分子。他们的前辈要么是在海外接受的训练,要么是从后苏哈托时代的两次主要社群冲突中获得的首次战斗经验。这两次冲突10年前发生在马鲁古的安汶和西苏拉威的波索。相比那些阿富汗和棉兰老岛的前辈,这些新一代的圣战分子技能较低,缺乏经验,受教育程度也较低。他们中的大多数出身贫寒,靠做小生意为生。 在组建自己的组织之前,他们中的大多数曾是阿布·巴卡尔·巴希尔(Abu Bakar Ba’asyir)领导的印尼圣战理事会(Majelis Mujahidin Indonesia, MMI)井里汶支会和唯一真主游击队(Jamaah Ansharut Tauhid,JAT)的成员。巴希尔是是印尼最臭名昭著的激进教士,现在囚于狱中。

这并不意味着来自其他组织的威胁已经消失。唯一真主游击队有成员活跃在波索和其它地方。2011年7月在雅加达郊外针对在棉兰老岛接受过培训的一个回教之家分裂集团的领导人阿布·奥马尔(Abu Umar)的逮捕行动,暴露了在印尼、马来西亚、和菲律宾依然存在着庞大的圣战组织。另外还有其它的潜在问题根源,包括:一些不再使用暴力的组织(如回教祈祷团(Jemaah Islamiyah,JI))的心怀不满或者被孤立的成员;躲过早期反恐行动追捕的逃犯;非常危险的前囚犯或者从监狱里招募的圣战成员;那些被杀或者被捕的恐怖嫌疑人的弟弟妹妹;以及接受了伊斯兰宗教军事训练(tadrib)并想测试他们的技能的人,这些人包括唯一真主游击队的成员。不过井里汶人代表着迈向圣战之路有可能成为一种常见模式。

井里汶组织的成员听从激进的神职人员巴希尔的训导,还吸收了更激进的认为袭击印尼政府是合法的牧师哈拉唯·马克姆(Halawi Makmun)的思想。同激进组织一样,他们也对2010年2月亚齐训练营解体后对恐怖分子嫌疑人的逮捕和杀害感到愤怒。因为许多人都和训练营有关系,这些行动对他们带来了极大的影响,或者激起他们对复仇的强烈欲望 。无论是在苏门答腊,爪哇,或者东边的城市,印尼几乎每个激进团体要么是和参加训练营的学员之间有联系,要么是参与了帮助逃犯,或者是帮助被捕或被杀的学员的家属筹钱。亚齐事件使得他们对警察的愤怒达到了新的高度,而2010年8月巴希尔被捕则将这种愤怒推到了更高点。在梭罗,一个名为赫斯巴哈小组(Tim Hisbah)的组织从采取民间执法发展到进行圣战,就体现了对警方在后亚齐时代的行动的愤怒。

以支持道德和正统的宗教民间执法和圣战的融合使得政府的反极端主义任务极为复杂化。恐怖主义遭到大多数人的谴责,而强硬的民间执法行动者通常得到来自政府官员或者如印尼穆斯林大会(Majelis Ulama Indonesia)这样的半政府机构的支持,这尤其体现在地方层面。如果井里汶人组织的极端化能被遏止,政府需要制定战略:在全国范围内建立关于什么是极端主义的共识;对“仇恨”言论直接予以回击;包括在扫黄行动当中,对由宗教信仰激发的不管多么微小的犯罪行为,都要执行零容忍政策。

雅加达/布鲁塞尔, 2012年1月26日

I. Overview

Anti-vice raids and actions against non-Muslim minorities are becoming a path to more violent jihadism in Indonesia. The 2011 suicide bombings of a police mosque in Cirebon, West Java and an evangelical church in Solo, Central Java were carried out by men who moved from using sticks and stones in the name of upholding morality and curbing “deviance” to using bombs and guns. They show how ideological and tactical lines within the radical community have blurred, meaning that counter-terrorism programs that operate on the assumption that “terrorists” are a clearly definable group distinguishable from hardline activists and religious vigilantes are bound to fail. They also mean that the government must develop a strategy, consistent with democratic values, for countering clerics who use no violence themselves but preach that it is permissible to shed the blood of infidels (kafir) or oppressors (thaghut), meaning government officials and particularly the police.

These men represent a generational shift from the jihadis trained abroad or who got their first combat experience a decade ago in the two major post-Soeharto communal conflicts in Ambon, Maluku and Poso, Central Sulawesi. They are less skilled, less experienced and less educated than the Afghan and Mindanao alumni, most of them coming from poor backgrounds and relying on petty trade for their livelihood. Most of them were members of the Cirebon branch of the Indonesian Mujahidin Council (Majelis Mujahidin Indonesia, MMI) and Jamaah Ansharut Tauhid (JAT), two organisations led by Abu Bakar Ba’asyir, Indonesia’s most prominent radical cleric, now imprisoned, before leaving to form their own group.

This does not mean that the threat from other groups has disappeared. JAT has active cells in Poso and elsewhere, and the arrest outside Jakarta in July 2011 of Abu Umar, the Mindanao-trained leader of a Darul Islam splinter group, exposed the existence of a large jihadi organisation with a presence in Indonesia, Malaysia and the Philippines. There are other potential problems from disaffected or isolated members of older groups like Jemaah Islamiyah (JI) that have moved away from violence; fugitives from earlier operations; former high-risk prisoners or men they recruited inside; younger siblings of slain or detained terrorism suspects; and individuals, including from JAT, who have taken part in Islamist military training (tadrib) and want to test their skills. But the Cirebon men represent a path to jihadism that may become the common pattern.

Its members not only absorbed the teachings of radical clerics like Ba’asyir and the even more radical Halawi Makmun, a preacher who argues that the Indonesian government is a legitimate target for attack. They also shared the widespread anger in the radical community over the arrests and deaths of suspected terrorists that arose in the aftermath of the breakup of the training camp in Aceh in February 2010. It is hard to overemphasise the impact these operations had or the desire for revenge they engendered. Because so many people were involved in the camp, from Sumatra, Java and points east, nearly every radical group in the country had a connection to someone who took part or was involved in trying to help fugitives or raise money for the families of those detained or killed. Anger at the police reached new heights, and Ba’asyir’s arrest in August 2010 pushed it further. In Solo, a group called the Hisbah Team (Tim Hisbah) evolved from vigilantism to jihadism as a direct result of anger over post-Aceh police operations.

The fusion of religious vigilantism in the name of upholding morality and orthodoxy with jihadism vastly complicates the government’s counter-radicalisation task. While most people are willing to condemn terrorism, hardline vigilantes often have support from officials in government and quasi-government institutions like the Majelis Ulama Indonesia, especially at a local level.

If the radicalisation of groups like the Cirebon men is to be halted, the government needs to develop a strategy that builds a national consensus on what constitutes extremism; directly confronts “hate speech”; and promotes zero tolerance of religiously-inspired crimes, however minor, including in the course of anti-vice campaigns.

Jakarta/Brussels, 26 January 2012

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