Can Indonesia Combat Radicalism By Having Terrorists Meet Their Victims?

Gatot Indro Suranto walks with a limp—one of the visible scars of the 2002 Bali bombings that left more than 200 dead and another 209 people injured, many of them Indonesians. But he also carries deeper, emotional wounds that still haven't healed.

“I was riding my motorbike when the bomb exploded,” Gatot told me. “All this time I have been trying to make peace with the incident, but, sometimes, I still feel traumatized.”

I met Gatot at a meeting arranged by Indonesia's national anti-terrorism agency (BNPT) between the victims of terrorism and the former terrorists convicted of perpetrating the attacks. The BNPT told me that the meeting was meant to be a space where both parties could talk to the government about their rights and access to state aid.

But it was also a way to help both sides move forward with their lives—offering them a chance to see each other face-to-face and come to terms with some long buried traumas.

“This is the first time we're having a meeting between formerly convicted terrorists and victims of terrorist attacks in Indonesia,” Com. Gen. Suhardi Alius, the head of the BNPT, said as the event opened. “This is, perhaps, even the first meeting of its kind in the world.”

Still, Gatot looked nervous as he took his seat near the entrance of the meeting room at Central Jakarta's Borobudur Hotel. I asked him if he held a grudge against any of the 124 convicted terrorists sitting in the same room. After all, more than a few of them were members of the same terrorist organization behind the attack that nearly killed Gatot.

Gatot told me that he chose peace instead. Today he volunteers at Yayasan Isana Dewata, a foundation that focuses on helping the victims of terrorist attacks and prompting peace.

“I came here to fight for the victims’ rights,” Gatot told me. “Since the incident, the government have yet to pay attention to us.”

There were 50 other victims sitting in the meeting hall. Many of them were struggling to find the help they need to move on from the attacks. Gatot was passing by Paddy's Pub and the Sari Club when a van packed with explosives detonated on the street.

His body was sprayed with shards of glass. It took the hospital six weeks to remove all the glass from body and his lungs. The other survivors in the hospital took to calling him "Gatot Kaca," a joke that is both the name of a mythical Javanese character and reference to the glass embedded in his skin (" kaca" means glass). Today, he still has a deep scar on his left arm.

Chusnul Chotimah was injured in the same attack. She suffered burns on her body, burns that she still needs treatment for today. But she has been unable to get help from the Ministry of Health to cover the costs. She still pays out of pocket, despite promises by the government to help float the costs.

"I was given a Kartu Indonesia Sehat (KIS) by [President] Jokowi,” Chusnul told me, referring to a government healthcare card. “But the hospitals rejected the card because they said my treatment isn’t covered by the insurance.”

Vivi Normasari survived a terrorist attack one year later, in 2003, at Jakarta's JW Marriott Hotel. Vivi's treatment was supposed to be covered by the Witness and Victim Protection Agency (LPSK), but the agency has fallen well short of its goal. There are more than 1,000 victims of terrorist attacks in Indonesia today, but the LPSK has only provided help for 49 people. The rest haven't been able to access the promised protections, including medical help, psychological and psychosocial rehabilitation, and compensation, from the government.

“We're still begging LPSK to implement the existing laws,” Vivi said.

There were at least 124 ex-terrorists seated in the room as well. I noticed former members of Jemaah Ansharut Tauhid (JAT) from Solo, Central Java, combatants from conflicts in Ambon and Poso, and members of the regional terrorist network Jemaah Islamiyah (JI)—the group behind the 2002 Bali bombings and linked to other attacks like the JW Marriott bombing.

Zumirin, who was arrested for his role in the heist of a CIMB Niaga in Medan meant to fund JI activities. He complained that the government never offered him any assistance after his release. Today, he works as a fisherman and lives in a small city called Tanjung Balai, almost 200 kilometers south of Medan. He lost everything he owned while he was behind bars.

“All my assets and money disappeared when I was in prison,” Zumirin told me. He was shaking as we spoke. “The motorbike, the water pump, and even the TV antenna. Now that I’m free, I’m left with nothing. I have to start from zero.”

Zumirin told me that the central government had the best intentions when it came to helping rehabilitate former terrorists. But out in the regions, where many of them live, the local governments just don't care.

“The central government should educate the regional governments,” Zumirin, a father of three, told me. “We still face discrimination. The regional government seems like they don’t believe that we’ve changed. Now some of my friends still don't have ID cards because the regional government still think we’re all a threat.”

Nanang Zuhud, a former terrorist involved in the sectarian conflicts of Poso and Ambon, told me that ex militants like himself were victims as well. He said that he fell victim to the joint pressures of poverty and indoctrination by radicalized preachers.

"I was a cleaner at the mosque before this," Nanang told the room. "As a Muslim, I felt sad when I heard that my fellow Muslims were being oppressed in Ambon and Poso. So, when some ustad preached about it, I was moved to take up arms."

Nanang told me that he served his time, five-and-a-half years in prison. Now all he wants to do is get on with his life, but the designation "former combatant," continues to follow him around like a dark cloud over his head. He refused to talk to me because most news media acts like he is still a terrorist. Perhaps this is why some terrorist convicts return to their old life upon their release.

The event was supposed to be a monumental step forward in Indonesia's anti-terrorism efforts, but, by the end of the meeting, the victims in attendance told me they felt slighted. There were a lot of complaints from the former terrorists, but no apologies. And there was no attempt by the government to foster a sense of reconciliation.

That's because a lot of Indonesia anti-terrorism efforts are, at their heart, ceremonial affairs, said Muhammad Najib Azca, a researcher at the Amsterdam Institute of Social Science Research who studies de-radicalization programs. The event garnered a lot of press, but it accomplished little in regards to helping the survivors of attacks or preventing former terrorists from becoming re-radicalized.

“Some government agencies are indeed working with NGOs, but the ceremonial event was a part of their strategy,” Najib told me. “We need to take initiative to reach the grassroots level. These people are out there, but they don't have support from the government.”

Then there's all the people who weren't in attendance. There are still a lot of convicted terrorists sitting behind bars and out in the free world who still carry the same beliefs that landed them behind bars in the first place, explained Ridlwan Habib, a terrorism analyst from the University of Indonesia.

“I believe those who want to meet with the victims are those who are fine with it (the de-radicalization programs),” Ridlwan said. “It’s like they want to show that peace is important. But I don’t think that this is a useful strategy to combat terrorism in Indonesia. The real problem is those who don’t want to accept it.”

I approached Ahmad Sofyan as the event wrapped up. Ahmad was a former fighter in Poso—a bloody sectarian conflict that continued, in some form, until last year. What did he think of the event, I wondered. Would it help others like him from turning back to the path of militancy?

Ahmad told me that it was useful for the former terrorists to be in the same room as some of their victims. It wasn't a perfect event, but it could still have a lasting impact.

“At least, there is something that we can take from the event, like how we work together to combat terrorism,” Ahmad told me.