On 25 April, separatists in Papua shot dead Indonesia’s head of intelligence for the restive region. Brig.-Gen. I Gusti Putu Danny Karya Nugraha was killed during a roadside ambush on his convoy in the remote Puncak regency, making him the most senior military official to be killed in the conflict over Indonesia’s easternmost territory. The West Papua National Liberation Army (TPNPB)—which has battled for independence since Jakarta annexed the region in a flawed referendum in the late-1960s following the end of colonial rule by the Netherlands—claimed responsibility for the attack.
Indonesian president Joko Widodo was quick to respond. In a televised statement on 26 April, the day after the ambush, he appeared alongside security chiefs and ordered the police and military to ‘‘pursue and arrest’’ armed rebels in an intensified crackdown. Indonesia has often been accused by human rights activists of deploying heavy-handed tactics and discriminating against Papua’s native Melanesian population, who are predominantly Christian—a minority in a Muslim-majority nation. Yet rebels have also been linked to atrocities and have killed teachers and road workers in attacks.
Indonesia deploys troops
Papuans are now braced for more violence. It was reported in May that Indonesia had deployed an additional 400 troops to Papua, from the battle-hardened 315/Garuda battalion. Its soldiers gained the nickname ‘‘Satan troops’’ after involvement in past conflicts in East Timor, but army spokesman Brig.-Gen. Prantara Santosa has insisted their deployment to Papua is just part of a routine rotation and that the personnel being sent are ‘‘trained infantry troops, not special forces’’. The military has 7,000 troops in the region, while an additional 1,200 police officers have been deployed since April.
Indonesia’s national police intelligence chief, Paulus Waterpauw, told Reuters in an interview on 21 May that efforts to tackle the insurgency would be co-ordinated through a task force established in 2018, known as Operation Nemangkawi, which aims to ‘‘wipe out’’ armed rebels in Papua’s Central Highlands region—where they are strongest due to knowledge of the remote, mountainous terrain. Since the April ambush, the government has also moved to formally designate Papuan rebel groups as ‘‘terrorists’’, permitting authorities to detain suspects for up to 21 days without charge. However, it is understood the elite police counter-terrorism unit, Densus 88, has not been deployed to Papua.
Fear of military atrocities
Leaders of the separatist movement fear that a renewed crackdown will be accompanied by human rights abuses. Benny Wenda, a long-time figurehead of the Papuan liberation struggle, living in exile in the United Kingdom, recently described resistance as ‘‘legitimate and necessary’’, and called for a dialogue to resolve the conflict. In his words, independence advocates consider Indonesia’s rule ‘‘an illegal invasion and occupation’’ and view separatist forces as battling to ‘‘expel an illegal colonizer’’.
Indonesia has launched a firmer clampdown on such political expression since the April ambush. On 9 May, police detained high-profile activist Victor Yeimo and charged him with treason for calling for a referendum on Papuan independence. Human Rights Watch has documented 43 similar arrests of activists or protest leaders since pro-independence street demonstrations erupted across the region in August 2019, which saw large-scale civil unrest in cities such as Jayapura, Manokwari, Sorong and Wamena. Several activists have received lengthy prison sentences despite not partaking in violence.
In April, United Nations human rights spokeswoman Ravina Shamdasani told reporters of ‘‘credible reports of excessive use of force by the military and police’’ in Papua including ‘‘extrajudicial killings, arbitrary arrests and the detention of indigenous Papuans’’. Human Rights Watch Asia Director Brad Adams, meanwhile, recently warned Indonesia to ‘‘ensure that all security force operations in Papua are carried out in accordance with the law and that peaceful activists and civilians are not targeted’’.
An internet blackout in parts of Papua since the April ambush have compounded fears that a broad military operation is about to be launched. In provincial capital Jayapura, and surrounding regions—covering an area home to approximately 500,000 people—disrupted service and connectivity issues have been reported regularly in recent weeks. Jakarta has blamed the repeat outages on a damaged undersea cable though many suspect the authorities are trying to restrict media coverage of events.
Unresolved historical grievances
Sporadic clashes and displacement have been reported in Papua in May and June, in the absence of any desire for dialogue from Jakarta. At the other end of the Indonesian archipelago, in Aceh, rebels laid down their weapons in the 2000s, after talks with the government resolved a separatist dispute. Yet in Aceh, a smaller disputed territory, Islamist rebels proved easier for the government to engage and reach a settlement on autonomy. Papua, expansive and resource-rich by contrast, is considered an indivisible part of Indonesian territory by Jakarta while Papuan rebels demand full independence.
The region was annexed through a flawed 1969 vote—known as the ‘‘Act of Free Choice’’—in which only 1,025 Papuans hand-picked by the military were selected to cast a ballot. A proper referendum on independence in Papua, which had been promised by the outgoing Dutch colonizers earlier in the decade, was never held and accordingly the western half of New Guinea island—today the provinces of Papua and West Papua—became part of Indonesia. This remains the primary source of grievance.
In the five decades that have passed, in-migration of Muslims from elsewhere in the archipelago has altered Papua’s demographics and left indigenous Papuans feeling increasingly marginalized. Mining operations, and the arrival of multinational firms at the invite of Jakarta, are also a source of growing tension in Papua. Widodo hopes that over time, the building of roads and the provision of services in Papua will lead Jakarta to be viewed more favourably by locals and blunt support for separatism. Yet as recent attacks—like April’s ambush—demonstrate, Papua’s rebels won’t go down without a fight.
The communist insurgency in the Philippines is into its sixth decade. Since its formation in 1969, the New People’s Army (NPA)—the armed wing of the Communist Party of the Philippines (CPP), formed a year earlier—has fought a low-level guerrilla war against government troops. Over that time, much has remained the same. The CPP’s founder Jose Maria Sison remains at the helm, albeit now aged 82 and living in self-imposed exile in the Netherlands. Across the Philippines, NPA insurgents still target soldiers and police officers in roadside ambushes before retreating to their isolated rural hideouts.
Amid this violence, peace talks have failed under six successive Philippine leaders, including current president Rodrigo Duterte since 2016. His election—as an outsider candidate hailing from Mindanao where the insurgents are most active—initially led to hopes of a breakthrough. Yet since peace talks collapsed a year into his tenure, the proliferation of ‘‘red-tagging’’, whereby senior officials routinely label political opponents as communist sympathizers, now risks further violence. Killings of left-wing activists by vigilantes and police have become more frequent, and threaten reprisals from the NPA.
Talks collapse under Duterte
Such an outcome was not inevitable. In August 2016, the NPA and the Philippine military had both declared unilateral ceasefires soon after Duterte came to power. Manila entered negotiations with the National Democratic front of the Philippines (NDFP)—a negotiation panel representing the CPP and NPA in peace talks with the government—and several rounds of talks were held in Amsterdam, Oslo and Rome. But in early-2017, the peace process collapsed after Duterte refused a CPP demand to release political prisoners, sparking renewed rebel attacks and bringing an end to the ceasefires.
Efforts to re-start talks have since failed. The CPP has refused to meet a list of pre-conditions set by Duterte; which include an immediate cessation of rebel violence and for the CPP to pledge never to partake in a future coalition government. Sison has also declined repeated requests from Duterte to return to the Philippines for one-on-one talks, fearing the invitation is a pretext for his arrest. A war-of-words has erupted between the two men in recent years as Government-CPP ties have faltered.
Localized peace initiative stalls
Since terminating talks in 2017 and disbanding its negotiating panel, Manila has pursued a localized approach to tackle the NPA uprising. In December 2018, Duterte signed Executive Order 70, forming the National Task Force to End Local Communist Armed Conflict (NTF-ELCAC). The role of this body is to oversee smaller provincial and municipal task forces, charged with engaging rebel commanders in local settings and encouraging defections. Rebels who surrender are offered livelihood support, jobs and skills-training through a government-run programme. This local-level strategy has several flaws.
First, it rules out a peace agreement with the CPP-NDFP at the national level, preventing a solution to the conflict in its entirety. Second, the success of this plan has been overstated by the military. In 2020, the military claimed 7,615 rebels had surrendered over the course of the calendar year; this is more than the entire fighting force of the NPA, which has around 4,000 fighters. This figure presents an inaccurate picture of inroads being made against the NPA locally, as among those listed as having defected were rebel supporters or villagers belonging to the NPA’s Militia ng Bayan. In any case, the NPA has proven its ability over five decades to continually replenish its ranks after suffering losses.
The military’s aim to defeat the NPA by the end of Duterte’s term in mid-2022 is a near-impossible task. Many previous deadlines have come and gone, with the NPA’s strength seemingly unaffected. Eastern Mindanao, Samar, Mindoro, Negros Island and northern Luzon all remain NPA strongholds.
The proliferation of ‘‘red-tagging’’
Aside from violence in those areas, the broader narrative of the conflict is increasingly being driven by government propaganda. Under Duterte, ‘‘red-tagging’’—the labelling of a wide range of political adversaries as NPA supporters—has returned on a scale not seen since the dictatorship of Ferdinand Marcos at the height of the insurgency in the 1980s. The practice has been deployed to target labour leaders, human rights activists, students, journalists and legislators from opposition left-wing parties in the Makabayan bloc. This campaign has been waged alongside intimidation, threats and violence.
In 2020, four NDFP negotiators were killed. Some were shot dead by unknown gunmen while others died during law enforcement raids. In March, Julius Soriano Giron was killed in Baguio city. In August, Randall Echanis was shot dead in Manila. And in November, Eugenia Magpantay and Agaton Topacio were killed during a raid in nearby Rizal province. These high-profile killings demonstrate that targets of police operations often extend beyond armed rebels, to the political leadership of the movement.
A pattern has also emerged of law enforcement raids targeting activists judged by the government to share ideological links with communist fighters. On 30 December, nine local indigenous leaders, suspected to have ties to the NPA, were killed in co-ordinated police raids on Panay Island. Then on 7 March this year, another nine people were killed in similar raids across the provinces of Batangas, Cavite, Laguna and Rizal. Human rights groups claimed that among the deceased were anti-poverty campaigners, the leader of a workers’ union and two members of a local fisherman’s organization.
The killings in March sparked huge outrage, coming just two days after Duterte had ordered police and military forces to ‘‘finish off’’ communist rebels. In the same remarks, made in Cagayan de Oro city at a meeting of NTF-ELCAC, Duterte told soldiers to ‘‘forget about human rights’’ in operations targeting suspected insurgents. His national security advisor, Hermogenes Esperon, later defended the raids as legitimate and claimed the victims were all insurgents, stating ‘‘in the name of law and order, a shoot-to-kill order has been issued against armed CPP-NPA members. It is shoot on sight’’.
Encouraging vigilante violence
The widening crackdown associated with ‘‘red-tagging’’ has been assisted by a new Anti-Terrorism Act passed last year, which granted the state new powers to list groups and individuals as terrorists and openly publish their names. Amnesty International has said this practice is ‘‘in contravention of international standards on due process and the presumption of innocence’’, while ‘‘vague and over-broad definitions’’ of terrorism risk the law being ‘‘used to target government critics’’. In December, the NPA and CPP were both designated under the new legislation as domestic terror organizations.
Armed vigilantes have been empowered in this hostile climate. On Negros Island, a hotspot of NPA activity, anti-communist militia Kagubak has been linked to assassinations of farmers and left-wing activists in recent years. In February, Cristina Palabay, head of Philippine human rights organization Karapatan, toldVOA that at least 78 people were killed and 136 arrested in 2020 in cases recorded as being linked to ‘‘red-tagging’’, warning that ‘‘more and more people are now in the firing line’’.
Human Rights Watch raised similar alarm in a recent statement, warning that the deadly practice ‘‘constricts further the increasingly diminished democratic space in the Philippines, where activists, rights lawyers, journalists and even ordinary Filipinos on social media are under threat’’, and called out ‘‘government officials who give a wink and a nod to extrajudicial killings by their red-tagging’’.
Aiding the rebel cause?
The ‘‘red-tagging’’ epidemic now risks pushback from the NPA and escalation on the battlefield. At the start of this year, the CPP directed the NPA to revive its Special Partisan Units, which are tasked with assassinating soldiers and government figures in towns and cities. These secretive units, usually made up of three or four NPA snipers, proliferated during the Marcos dictatorship in the 1980s, and their revival on a notable scale would bring the insurgency from the countryside into urban centres.
In response to the 7 March killings of activists by police, the NPA has welcomed those targeted by ‘‘red-tagging’’ to join its ranks, vowing that ‘‘targets of Duterte’s state terrorism can be absorbed by NPA units or provided safe haven’’ in rebel bases. A CPP statement also called on the NPA to launch ‘‘tactical offensives’’ and ‘‘mobilize its units’’ to ‘‘punish the perpetrators and masterminds of these crimes’’. Through his expanded crackdown, rather than defeat the NPA, Duterte is aiding its cause.
In the mid-morning of 28 March, worshippers filled the Sacred Heart of Jesus Cathedral in Makassar—the largest city on the Indonesian island of Sulawesi—for a Palm Sunday service marking the start of the Holy Week leading up to Easter. At 10.30am, just as mass was ending, the force of a powerful explosion ripped through a side entrance to the church, injuring 20 people. No churchgoers were killed, but found among the debris were the body parts of two people who had not attended the service that morning—they were Islamist suicide bombers, who had pulled up on a motorbike and detonated their device.
Authorities said the attackers, later revealed to be a husband and wife, were affiliated to local militant group Jamaah Ansharut Daulah (JAD). Indonesian president Joko Widodo—leader of the world’s largest Muslim-majority nation—condemned the assault as an ‘‘act of terror’’ that went against Islamic values.
Just three days after the bombing, on 31 March, a woman radicalized by ISIS ideology opened fire in a ‘‘lone wolf’’ attack before being shot dead by police officers at the headquarters of the National Police in Jakarta. This led to fears of repeat attacks over Easter, which fortunately did not materialize; yet the attacks last month were among the most serious in Indonesia since a spate of suicide bombings in the East Javan city of Surabaya in May 2018, which killed scores of civilians. Like the Makassar attack, those blasts were perpetrated by families of bombers linked to JAD. Is the militant threat now rising again?
Disparate terror networks
Investigations in the aftermath of the Makassar blast have revealed much about the nature of militant activity in Indonesia. The couple who perpetrated the attack were born in the 1990s, and were recently married. They have joined a growing list of Indonesian jihadists to have blown themselves up in suicide attacks together as a couple, while some have even involved their children in attacks. The phenomenon reflects ISIS ideology that glorifies involving children in jihad and seeking martyrdom as a family unit.
In the Surabaya blasts three years ago, which also targeted churches, six of the attackers came from the same family, including several young children. A similar attack in January 2019 on a Catholic cathedral in Jolo, in the southern Philippines, was also carried out by a young Indonesian couple who had joined Abu Sayyaf. That attack left 22 people dead and more than 100 injured, in addition to dozens killed earlier in Surabaya. Indonesian authorities have said the bombers in those incidents also had close ties to JAD.
JAD is more of a collection of cells, inspired by jihadist ideology and online propaganda, than a coherent or hierarchical organization, making it difficult for intelligence agencies to track and disrupt. The militant network can be thought of as an unstructured alliance between small, radical groups, in which members are often related to one another, or have close links through friendship and online activity. ISIS ideology unifies JAD with a separate group, Mujahideen Indonesia Timur (MIT), operating out of Poso, Sulawesi.
The Makassar suspects used a pressure cooker bomb, which the head of Indonesia’s National Counter-Terrorism Agency (BNPT), Boy Rafli Amar, said was constructed after ‘‘online training on social media’’, which allowed the two suspects to ‘‘develop the procedure for making explosives’’. Others likely aided the couple ahead of the bombing, and police have since detained four members of a Koran study group attended by the attackers. After those arrests, National Police chief Gen. Listyo Sigit Prabowo said each had played a role to ‘‘spread doctrine, plan for jihad’’ and ‘‘buy materials’’ used to make the bomb.
In further raids related to the attack, 13 people were detained across Makassar, Jakarta and West Nusa Tenggara—evidencing the geographical spread of those involved—while security forces seized 5.5kg of explosive materials including triacetone triperoxide (TATP), a bomb component often used by jihadists.
While a small network was discovered in relation to the Makassar attackers, the woman who opened fire at the National Police headquarters in Jakarta three days later, identified as 25-year-old ex-student Zaikah Aini, is thought to have acted alone. In this case, police cited online radicalization as a prominent factor, after the suspect posted an ISIS flag on her social media account before launching the attack. ISIS sympathizers unable to join the 700 or so Indonesians who have travelled to fight in Syria and Iraq since 2014 have been encouraged by ISIS, via its network of online channels, to launch attacks in Indonesia.
Jemaah Islamiyah threat
Besides the threat from diffuse networks, there remains an organized element to Indonesian militancy in the form of Jemaah Islamiyah (JI), a group which committed a succession of mass-casualty assaults in the early part of this century; most notably the Bali attacks in 2002 and hotel bombings in Jakarta in the following years, claiming hundreds of lives. JI was banned in court but has still been allowed to conduct social, educational and religious activities on the understanding that it renounces its violent tactics.
Yet there are recent signs that JI is regrouping, and is no longer committed to non-violence. Last year, police accused the group of using cash from charity donation boxes, placed in restaurants and stores in seven provinces, to fund terrorist activities and send jihadists abroad for training. Police seized 31 such boxes in raids in March. Authorities have also arrested JI figures who may still have harbored ambitions to restart attacks, detaining senior JI military commander Aris Sumarsono—also known as Zulkarnaen—in December, who had spent 18 years on the run. He had been sought by police since the Bali blasts.
More recently, a sizeable JI cell was discovered in East Java earlier this year, commanded by Usman bin Sef—also known as Fahim. Fahim was among 22 suspects arrested in police raids in late-February and early-March. Police allege he was training new JI members in Malang district and had built a bunker for storing weapons and constructing bombs. Authorities have seized pistols, knives, swords and machetes from Fahim’s followers, and uncovered materials detailing a plot to attack on-duty police officers.
After further raids, a total of 49 members of the Fahim-led cell are now in custody. Yet might more be unaccounted for, and do other such groups exist? Aswi Siregar, the head of Detachment 88, Indonesia’s elite police counter-terror force, told a press conference his unit would ‘‘continue to hunt them down’’.
A rising terror threat?
Militants were deterred from carrying out fresh attacks over easter, with security stepped-up at police stations and places of worship nationwide. Yet as law enforcement operations after the Makassar blast continue, a short-term threat persists as militants wary of being detained may choose to act with haste to avoid their plots being disrupted. Longer term, networked cells affiliated to JAD will continue to pose a major challenge as will the remnants of MIT and JI, and individuals inspired by ISIS propaganda online.
Indonesian authorities are fighting a constant battle against Islamist terrorism. In an in-depth interview in January with Channel News Asia, BNPT director of enforcement Brig.-Gen. Eddy Hartono warned that terror cells are ‘‘actively recruiting, spreading their ideology, raising funds and conducting training’’ and described the threat to Indonesia as ‘‘omnipresent’’. In particular, he cited a risk of radicalization due to the COVID-19 pandemic, with terrorist recruiters able to exploit the economically vulnerable in society.
Indonesia will continue with its multi-pronged strategy. Visible police operations are just the public face of these efforts—monitoring of social media, deradicalization programmes in prisons, and a civil society drive to contest the extreme narratives peddled by radical preachers, are all equally as important as law enforcement raids. These measures limit the damage; but with online propaganda raising the appeal of homegrown groups like JI and JAD, preventing all events like the Makassar bombing is an arduous task.
The military coup in Myanmar, which saw Aung San Suu Kyi and other elected leaders detained in pre-dawn raids on 1 February, marked an abrupt end to ten years of democratization which had propelled the National League for Democracy (NLD) to power. The Tatmadaw takeover has also dashed hopes of peace in border regions home to ethnic minorities, where rebel groups have fought the Tatmadaw for decades. Since seizing power, the army has moved to scrap the civilian peace negotiating mechanism.
It is true that the peace process was already faltering under Aung San Suu Kyi. Five years of discussions had resulted in only vague principles being agreed between Naypyidaw and ten ethnic armies based in the south. Major issues related to autonomy and self-governance remained untouched, while the most powerful armed groups in the north and west remained outside of a national ceasefire agreed in 2015. After decades of Tatmadaw oppression, peace under the new Junta now looks further away than ever.
Ceasefire signatories suspend talks
The day after the coup, the Peace Process Steering Team (PPST)—comprising the ten rebel groups that are party to the nationwide ceasefire—met virtually. After the meeting, Secretary General of the Karen National Union (KNU), Padoh Saw Ta Doh Moo, said initially the groups would ‘‘work together to find a solution’’, and would stick by the Nationwide Ceasefire Agreement (NCA) to keep the peace talks alive. At the same time, a PPST statement condemned the coup and called for the release of elected leaders.
In the days before the coup, the Tatmadaw had extended its own suspension of military operations in some areas until the end of February on the pretext of tackling the COVID-19 pandemic, and released a statement urging ethnic armies to continue on the path of dialogue with the government. Taking events that followed into account, the timing was likely aimed at reassuring ethnic armed groups and reducing tension in Myanmar’s volatile border regions, in anticipation of a tense post-coup scenario developing.
Events have quickly unraveled, ending hopes that the peace process might continue unimpeded. On 8 February the Junta disbanded the National Reconciliation and Peace Centre (NRPC), which had been led by Aung San Suu Kyi as the coordinating peacemaking body in Naypyidaw. Going forward, ethnic armies are permitted to negotiate only with a Tatmadaw-formed peace committee, led by Lieut.-Gen. Yar Pyae. The PPST responded by announcing after a second emergency meeting, held on 19–20 February, that its members had ‘‘unanimously’’ voted to suspend all political talks with what it labelled the ‘‘coup Junta’’.
The PPST later declared ‘‘we strongly support all public mobilizations, including the civil disobedience movement’’, vowing its armies would ‘‘collaborate with all national and international actors, including the international community, to end military dictatorship and to seek a durable solution to the current political crisis’’. The strong rebuke reflected concerns by ethnic leaders, including chairman of the Pa-O National Liberation Organization (PNLO) Col. Khun Okkar, that participation in talks with the Tatmadaw would ultimately risk granting legitimacy to Junta chief Gen. Min Aung Hlaing and his military regime.
FPNCC and Northern Alliance position
Ethnic armed groups outside of the NCA process have largely remained silent on the coup. Neither the seven-member Federal Political Negotiation and Consultative Committee (FPNCC)—led by the 30,000-strong United Wa State Army (UWSA) based along the Chinese border—or the four-member Northern Alliance have issued a statement. Members of these alliances had refused to participate the last major peace conference with the NLD last August after the Arakan Army (AA)—a group based in Rakhine that has engaged in clashes with the military since 2018—was labeled as a ‘‘terrorist group’’ by Naypyidaw.
A statement by the 10,000-strong Kachin Independence Army (KIA)—an influential member of both the FPNCC and Northern Alliance—on 17 February, indicates that informal dialogue with insurgents outside of the NCA process might also be disrupted. KIA General Secretary La Nan was quoted by VOA Burmese as having said anti-coup protests reflected the ‘‘will of the people’’ and were ‘‘on the side of truth’’. He added it would be ‘‘impossible to discuss issues such as peace and a ceasefire’’ in light of recent events.
Ethnic autonomy and democratization
As an eventual end point of the peace process, ethnic armies envision administering autonomous, self-governed regions within a new federal system. Under the NLD, there was at least a degree of hope. The peace initiative run by the government—dubbed the 21st Century Panglong initiative—was named after an accord signed by Aung San Suu Kyi’s father, Aung San, and ethnic minority leaders shortly before his assassination in 1947, which pledged autonomy in border regions and respect for minority rights. Upon taking power, the NLD had promised to make resolving conflict a priority of its five-year term in office.
But with the Tatmadaw at the helm, ethnic minorities are fearful. During the period of Tatmadaw rule from 1962–2011, troops routinely raped, tortured and killed ethnic minority civilians as well as fighting armed groups. Such abuses persisted against the Rohingya and others, even under the NLD. The effect of decades of hostility and mistrust makes a peace deal with the new Junta near-impossible to foresee, while brutal crackdowns on protestors in recent weeks demonstrate the authorities’ willingness to use force. The use of water cannon and rubber bullets has quickly progressed to instances of live gunfire.
Ethnic minorities, despite mostly aspiring to self-governance rather than democratization, have joined demonstrations as protests have spread from major cities like Mandalay and Yangon to border regions. Signs of growing solidarity between ethnic minority groups and the Bamar majority are evident, and in rallying against a mutual enemy in the Tatmadaw, the protests offer a chance to foster a broad alliance across traditional ethnic divisions. This might, in a nation where elites in both the armed forces and the NLD have long viewed minority rights as a side issue, do more to advance peace than talks ever could.
From 19-21 August, Aung San Suu Kyi convened in Naypyidaw alongside army chief Gen. Min Aung Hlaing and representatives of ten ethnic armed groups for Myanmar’s fourth Union Peace Conference. The event – initially scheduled for April but pushed-back amid the COVID19 pandemic – marked the latest effort to revive the Panglong peace initiative, tasked with ending 70 years of conflict in Myanmar’s border regions.
The delayed summit – which took place after two years of frozen negotiations – offered a final chance for the ruling National League for Democracy (NLD) to claim that progress had been made in resolving ethnic strife – a key policy objective – since it came to power in October 2015. With the next general election set for November, does Naypyidaw’s positive rhetoric after the latest Panglong meeting stand up to scrutiny?
Myanmar’s Panglong Initiative
The 21st Century Panglong initiative takes its name from a peace agreement signed in 1947 by Myanmar’s independence hero, and father of Aung San Suu Kyi, Aung San, promising autonomy for ethnic minorities.
The concept was revived after a dialogue process was initiated by the former military regime of Thein Sein in 2011, which resulted in the signing of a Nationwide Ceasefire Agreement (NCA) with eight ethnic armies in October 2015. The NLD secured a landslide election win the following month, joining the army in power.
Upon assuming power, the NLD government pledged to hold a Union Peace Conference every six months, yet only four have been held during its five-year term. Progress has been slower than hoped, and only two additional ethnic armies have joined the accord since 2015, raising the total number of signatories to ten.
The process stalled in mid-2018, after the third summit was held. Yet informal talks gathered pace in early-2020 and the fourth summit was planned for April, before being moved to August due to the pandemic.
FPNCC alliance refuses to attend
The build-up to the rearranged conference was beset by problems. Organizers had hoped to persuade six non-signatory armed groups, all members of the Federal Political Negotiation and Consultative Committee (FPNCC), to attend as observers. Yet they refused to attend after a seventh member of the FPNCC alliance, the Arakan Army (AA), was snubbed after being declared a ‘terrorist organization’ by Naypyidaw in March.
The FPNCC announced its members would not attend just six days before the summit began, after meeting on 13 August at the headquarters of the United Wa State Army (UWSA) in Panghsang. The 30,000-strong UWSA is Myanmar’s most powerful and best-equipped armed group, while the alliance also contains the Kachin Independence Army (KIA), Ta’ang National Liberation Army (TNLA), Myanmar National Democratic Alliance Army (MNDAA) and several other groups operating out of Shan state along the border with China.
Despite this setback, the Union Peace Conference went ahead as planned. Owing to COVID19 restrictions, the meeting took place over three days instead of the usual five, while delegates were limited to just 230. No major decisions were at stake, but negotiators looked to add to 51 previously-agreed basic principles with the aim of setting-the-stage for post-2020 dialogue and charting a path to forge a democratic federal union encompassing all ethnic nationalities; the envisioned end point of the NCA-centred Panglong talks.
Among the new principles, it was agreed that the future federal system would be based on power-sharing between the Union and states. However, talks on allowing states to draft separate constitutions faltered amid a dispute over wording. Even among agreements inked, the language used was vague. For example, the forging of a single ‘union identity’ which respects the histories, traditions and cultures of minorities is open to interpretation, and minorities will likely be skeptical given their past treatment by the Bamar elite.
Aung San Suu Kyi strives to make a collective identity central to future talks, whilst presidential spokesman Zaw Htay recently voiced the need for a careful step-by-step process toward ‘national reconciliation’. Yet such inclusive language seems hollow given the mistreatment of Rohingya Muslims; denied citizenship for decades and forced to flee to Bangladesh after repeated army crackdowns since 2017. If talks go awry and violence ensues, other ethnic minorities fear the same scorched-earth tactics could be applied to them.
Longer-term barriers to peace
Many of the principles decided so-far are procedural, laying out approximate positions. Turning these into a final text, agreeable to all parties, will be difficult due to the scale and complexity of Myanmar’s conflicts.
Implementing a federal structure and drafting state constitutions may be relatively simple in states where just one or two armed groups are the dominant actors, such as in the southern states of Kayah, Kayin and Mon. In the larger Shan state to the north, home to multiple ethnic armies, often in competition with each other, such an outcome may be unworkable. This reflects a broader geographical divide in the peace talks.
The majority of the ten NCA signatories are based in Myanmar’s southern conflict zones where fighting is at a low level. The groups here are small and poorly-armed, accounting for less than 20% of rebel fighters in the country. The formation of a democratic federal union would likely boost the power of these groups, thus making it attractive for them to reach some kind of devolved settlement with the government.
In contrast, Myanmar’s northeastern conflict zones of Shan and Kachin are home to well-resourced ethnic armies, outside of the NCA process. Several groups, including the UWSA, already run their own relatively prosperous self-administered zones, while others control territories in which they are the main economic and security actor. If they join the NCA and accept state-based autonomy, they may stand to lose-out.
Even before weighing-up such outcomes, the nature of the peace process itself is unpredictable in a nation where a broader civilian-military power contest still has a long way to run. The NLD has failed in its efforts to revise the 2008 constitution, which affords sweeping political powers to the Tatmadaw, via parliament. Aung San Suu Kyi suggested in her opening speech at August’s Panglong event that the constitution might yet need to be ‘amended’ to facilitate any future agreement that emerges out of the peace process.
In an apparent rebuttal, military chief Gen. Min Aung Hlaing warned-off approaching the peace talks with ‘ulterior motives’ and stated the NCA must be solely focused on Myanmar’s ‘national interests’. For now, the NLD and Tatmadaw have achieved a workable balance. Aung San Suu Kyi is satisfied with compromise and political maneuvering, rather than seeking radical reform. In the current system, 25% of parliamentary seats are reserved for the Tatmadaw, while it controls the defence and home affairs ministries. Aung San Suu Kyi meanwhile wields strong influence as State Counsellor and the NLD has remained broadly popular.
Whatever the outcome of November’s election, the quasi-civilian structure is likely to remain in place; yet the lingering potential of future political upheaval could derail or shift the direction of the Panglong talks.
A ‘one size fits all’ solution?
The central impediment to the Panglong process remains that Myanmar has so many active armed groups, each with distinct ambitions and varied levels of power, resources and degrees of leverage for bargaining. The peace process is already split in half: between the weaker signatories, and stronger non-signatories.
Yet even if more ethnic armies were to sign the NCA and partake in Union-level talks, division in non-state alliances, some with more to lose than others, may be inevitable as more contentious issues are discussed. The imagined end point, a democratic federal union, might not be enough to satisfy the strongest groups.
Yet what is the alternative? Bilateral talks between the government and non-signatories remain a possible path forward; yet at present, Naypyidaw insists such discussions would only be a pre-cursor to joining the NCA. After November’s election, giving the Panglong initiative another chance appears the safest option.
Three years ago, the siege of Marawi was in full-swing. A failed attempt by Philippine troops to capture Abu Sayyaf leader Isnilon Hapilon, on 23 May 2017, had prompted a militant uprising which would last until October. Armed Forces of the Philippines (AFP) soldiers were pitted against ISIS-affiliated jihadis led by Hapilon and his co-conspirators – the Maute brothers – in fierce street-to-street urban warfare.
By the time the battles ended, 1,200 – including 920 militants and 168 AFP soldiers – had been killed. 350,000 residents had fled their homes, unable to return to a city left in a state of ruin. Near-daily IED blasts and government airstrikes had flattened the central Banggolo district, where AFP bomb-disposal experts have since been working to clear debris and safely locate and detonate unexploded ordnance.
The last-known bomb was destroyed in October. Yet construction work has been slow to pick-up pace, even as 126,000 evacuees still reside in transitory shelters or with relatives across the Lanao provinces. Rebuilding Marawi, known as the ‘Islamic city’ with its symbolic Grand Mosque and majority-Maranao Muslim population, will be key to peace in a region afflicted by separatist conflict since the mid-1970s.
Last year, a peace accord was finalized between Manila and the region’s largest rebel group, the Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF), ending hostilities and forging a new Bangsamoro Autonomous Region in Muslim Mindanao (BARMM). The inauguration of the region last March signalled the arrival of self-governance, and a chance to address the grievances of western Mindanao’s Moro Muslim population.
Since then, violence perpetrated by the ISIS-aligned groups whom laid siege to Marawi has dwindled. Yet amid the perceived slow pace of reconstruction, further delayed by the COVID-19 pandemic, local frustrations are rising. A ‘growing sense of despair’ fuelled by a ‘lack of urgency’ in rebuilding the city is now raising fears of a fertile recruitment pool for jihadi groups intent on spoiling the peace process.
Reconstruction efforts directed by Manila
Manila has dismissed such criticism. In the aftermath of the siege, President Rodrigo Duterte created Task Force Bangon Marawi (TFBM), headed by Housing Secretary and former AFP general Eduardo del Rosario, to oversee rehabilitation efforts. A lengthy operation to clear unexploded ordnance from the former ‘Main Battle Area’ got underway in 2018 and was completed late last year, paving the way for the reconstruction of the worst-hit Banggolo district. The area was the city’s bustling commercial hub.
But from the start, plans have faltered. The initial plan, to give the entire task of rebuilding Marawi to a Chinese-led consortium, collapsed amid a political tussle over future visions for the city. Instead, the work was split into multiple projects, with government departments responsible for public works and highways, energy, health and education to award separate contracts to firms to build roads, electricity infrastructure, communications networks and drainage systems, as well as new hospitals and schools.
The role of TFBM to co-ordinate the projects within an overarching plan is inevitably a mammoth task. The task force aims to fully rebuild all public infrastructure and utilities by late-2021 before residents are permitted to return to Banggolo; although in some areas people have been able to start repairing damaged homes. Residents must obtain a building permit, by providing proof-of-ownership alongside a design plan, yet many are concerned that in undocumented cases their homes might be demolished.
COVID-19 setback compounds past delays
The government-led rebuilding of Banggolo looked set to pick-up pace earlier this year, but movement restrictions imposed to contain COVID-19 have delayed work by several months. From 20 March, cities and provinces in the BARMM began to be placed under ‘enhanced community quarantine’, before the whole region transitioned to ‘general community quarantine’ on 1 May. Yet lockdown measures were eased on 16 May after the BARMM was declared ‘low-risk’. The BARMM has seen 100 cases and four deaths from COVID-19 – far fewer than other parts of the Philippines, despite its weak health system.
While noting the impact of COVID-19 in restricting the movement of labour and materials, TFBM chief Eduardo del Rosario revealed early in June that preparatory work has continued, allowing firms to ‘go full blast’ in July. He said in a press release that TFBM remains committed to the 31 December 2021 deadline, and has urged project contractors to ‘work 12 hours a day’, or ‘double time’ if necessary. In further comments, del Rosario said he aims to ‘prove government critics wrong’, and labelled a claim of ‘inaction and neglect’ alleged in May by vice-President Leni Robredo as ‘very inaccurate and unfair’.
TFBM has highlighted the reconstruction of the Mapandi Bridge – a key entry-point into the city centre that witnessed fierce clashes at the height of the siege – and work to repair the 18.97km transcentral Marawi road as evidence that progress is being made. Government support for 25,300 still-displaced families is also seen via the provision of rice, cash assistance, livelihood training and tractors for local farming co-operatives. Yet despite the help available, displaced residents living in cramped conditions in transitory shelters, vulnerable to the threat of COVID-19, are increasingly desperate to return home.
Frustration rising among long-term evacuees
Anger among evacuees though, pre-dates the untimely arrival COVID-19. Back in November, Marawi Reconstruction Conflict Watch (MRCW), a civil society organization founded to monitor the rebuilding of the city, issued a strongly-worded statement after attending a public Congressional hearing on the issue. MRCW criticized a lack of transparency and accountability in the Manila-led rebuilding process, labelling it a ‘total mess’. Aside from lamenting the slow-pace of construction work, MRCW criticized the delayed passage of a compensation bill, alleging that Maranaos are being ‘treated as second class citizens’ and were blamed by the authorities for the incursion of ISIS that led to the five-month siege. The group also asked Duterte to reverse a controversial decision to build a new AFP camp in Marawi.
Dissenting voices have also emerged from those in power, at the local and national level. Al Haj Murad Ebrahim, interim Chief Minister of the BARMM and former head of the MILF, who in his position must tread a fine line between BARMM citizens and Manila, has sought to reassure Maranao Muslims that the government remains committed to the project while acknowledging that the job is ‘far from over’. Other BARMM lawmakers have been more vocal and called for TFBM’s leadership to be overhauled. Mindanaoan politician Amihilda Sangcopan has asked the agency to hold a ‘State of Marawi Address’ to tell evacuees when they can ‘go home to their beloved city’, while detained opposition senator Leila de Lima has lamented the ‘suffering, worsening poverty and dispossession’ of Marawi’s ex-residents.
ISIS recruitment and the BARMM peace process
The effort to re-start construction following the COVID-19 disruption comes a year into the three-year BARMM transition period; designed to implement the peace deal and secure a lasting peace in Moro-majority western Mindanao. The MILF is currently disarming its 30,000 fighters, while ordinary citizens have placed their hopes on the new autonomous region to end decades of large-scale armed conflict.
Yet radical groups – born out of the Moro separatist rebellion and later inspired by ISIS ideology – are still active and aim to upend the peace process. Abu Sayyaf pose a risk in the Sulu islands to the west, while the Maute Group and Bangsamoro Islamic Freedom Fighters remain present in the provinces of Lanao del Sur and Maguindanao. Further delay in rebuilding Marawi could assist in their recruitment. A U.S. diplomatic cable, released in February, noted that ‘public anger at the Philippine government’s extended delays in providing for the reconstruction of Marawi has allowed extremist elements to re-gain a foothold in the city’, warning that a negative public perception of efforts to rehabilitate the city had likely ‘reinforced extremist anti-government narratives and contributed to terrorist recruitment’.
The AFP has reported recruitment by the Maute group in towns around Lake Lanao, on which Marawi sits, in the three years since the siege, with the militants offering a financial incentive for young men to join-up. Although the strength of militant groups has undoubtedly declined since the height of the siege, when the Mautes and their allies deployed 1,000 fighters in the city, such reports drive concern that a failure to rebuild swiftly could create an atmosphere conducive to the terrorists’ bolstering their ranks – by targeting displaced residents seeking a way out of homelessness, joblessness and poverty.
‘I want to finish the projects during my time’
The BARMM, in which the hopes of Mindanao’s Moro Muslims are invested, has little control over the reconstruction of Marawi. The fate of the city lies with the central government in Manila. Earlier this year, after releasing funds for construction in the Banggolo district to begin, Duterte remarked: ‘I want to finish the projects during my time’. Despite confirming he would go ahead with plans to build a new army base in the city, he said ‘I am not after the Maranao’, arguing it is necessary to prevent a repeat of the siege. Duterte’s term ends in 2022, around six months after TFBM’s deadline to rebuild the city.
If the deadline is not met and reconstruction efforts drag on for years, Marawi risks becoming another ‘open wound’ driving recruitment to rebel groups unsatisfied with the peace process. Former chief of the Autonomous Region in Muslim Mindanao (ARMM) – the failed predecessor to the BARMM – Mujiv Hataman, has warned that a failure to rebuild in good time could lead Marawi to become the modern equivalent to the 1968 Jabidah massacre, which drove recruitment for the old Moro separatist groups. In the current context, as ISIS allies look to rebound, such a scenario would pose a huge security risk.
With the BARMM in place and the MILF disarming, Manila could not have a bigger incentive to deliver on its promise to rebuild Marawi – and ensure the peace gains made since the siege are not reversed.
On March 22, a teenage boy was tending dry-season rice fields with his father on a quiet Sunday in the southern Lao province of Savannakhet when a bomb concealed beneath vegetation exploded. The 15-year-old did not survive the blast. Just days earlier, in a nearby district of Savannakhet, three men suffered the same fate after venturing into the forest in the heat of the afternoon in search of wild plants and food. The men died almost instantly, succumbing to devastating wounds inflicted by hidden ordnance.
They are among the latest victims of the 1964-1973 US bombing campaign, when at the height of the Vietnam War, more ordnance was dropped on Laos in the space of nine years than during the entirety of World War II in Europe. The onslaught resulted in over 30,000 casualties.
Yet since the last bomb fell from the skies, another 20,000, mostly civilians, have been killed or maimed by unexploded bombs left behind.
The number of blasts each year is falling, and with the help of modern medicine a higher proportion of victims are surviving. Out of 1,660 casualties since 1996, more than two-thirds were wounded, but lived. That presents a new challenge to modern-day Laos: how to provide the long-term care and assistance needed to help victims rebuild their lives.
Laos is thought to have 15,000 living survivors of accidents involving war remnants, with 13,500 having lost a limb since the air attacks ended. In the early decades after the war, amputees often fashioned their own artificial limb from wood, rubber and metal – even making use of discarded bomb casings. Although a badge of resilience, makeshift limbs might soon become a relic of the past.
“Prosthetics and assistive devices help victims move more freely, enable them to enjoy their daily lives and go back to participating in community activities,” explains Paphavady Keomeuangsene. Paphavady works for COPE, a non-profit organization based in Vientiane, that works alongside the Lao Ministry of Health to rehabilitate Laotians with physical disabilities.
COPE provides over 1,200 prosthetic and orthotic devices – designed to either replace or support a damaged limb – every year, with around one-third of the recipients having survived an accident related to unexploded ordnance.
Most accidents occur in Savannakhet, the site of the two fatal explosions in March, and Xieng Khouang further north. Both provinces are heavily-contaminated with unexploded ordnance and sit along what was once the Ho Chi Minh trail. In the mid-1960s, then-US president Lyndon Johnson grew concerned as American ground forces failed to halt the southward advance of the North Vietnamese Army down the trail, who had been using the jungles of neighbouring Laos, officially a neutral country, as an overland supply route to avoid US air power.
In response, the US began striking targets on the Laotian side of the border, aiming to weaken the country’s Pathet Lao communist group and prevent North Vietnamese troops using the country to smuggle weapons and equipment to aid the war effort against the US-backed regime in Saigon. The raids were made all-the-more urgent from the US’ perspective by the escalating Cold War battle against the Soviet Union, in which American leaders saw landlocked Laos as a vital buffer nation separating communist states, like China and North Vietnam, from Western allies in the region.
The first US bombs were dropped in December 1964, beginning a nine-year onslaught that constituted the most extensive aerial bombing campaign in history. US aircraft flew 580,000 sorties and dropped two million tonnes of ordnance on Laos, most in the form of cluster munitions. Each cluster bomb casing contained hundreds of smaller bombs – known in Laos as ‘bombies’ – which were released mid-air and dispersed over a wide area to cause maximum indiscriminate spatial carnage.
An estimated 260 million bombies were released in total, of which around 80 million failed to detonate on impact and now litter the countryside in 14 of Laos’ 17 provinces. More than 25% of villages are contaminated with bombies, each roughly the size of a tennis ball – but with a 30-metre killing radius.
Rivers, streams, forest paths, rice paddies, roads and settlements are all home to a hidden killer, laying silent but primed and ready to detonate five decades after their arrival from above.
In some areas of the country, every step brings a risk of death or life-changing injury.
Mr Mai, a 27-year-old construction worker from Xieng Khouang province, was digging at the roadside in 2015 when a device exploded, inflicting severe injuries which led to the loss of his arm.
“I’ve always been careful about unexploded ordnance, [but] one day, my arm was suddenly snatched away from me,” he told COPE after a mobile clinic team visited his village in June 2016.
Medical staff assessed his injuries and referred him to a regional rehabilitation centre, and a year after his accident, Mr Mai was fitted with a prosthetic arm, with the costs covered by COPE. After receiving the prosthetic, he said he had regained hope of being able to resume work and raise animals to support his children’s education.
Clearance work, conducted by the Lao People’s Armed Forces, a national clearance operator and a network of international NGOs, has been underway since the 1990s. Over 1.4 million remnants of war have been destroyed, but that represents just 2% of the total.
Katherine Harrison, programme coordinator in Laos for Norwegian People’s Aid (NPA) – a demining group that has removed at least 68,000 explosive items since it began clearance activities in Laos more than a decade ago – says that ‘‘[local] estimates of the remaining contamination are indicative of areas where the risk is higher’’.
She adds that aside from Xieng Khouang and Savannakhet, which bore the brunt of the bombing, Laos’ four southernmost provinces of Attapeu, Champassak, Saravane and Sekong ‘‘are all heavily contaminated due to the location of the Ho Chi Minh trail through the southern part of Laos’’. NPA has deployed its own survey and clearance staff in those provinces since 2009, having provided technical assistance since 1997 to the national clearance operator, UXO-Lao.
Contact with unexploded ordnance is usually unintentional. Accidents continue to occur despite public awareness campaigns, each year adding to the 12,000 explosions that have taken place since the US air raids concluded in 1973. Activities central to human existence can even be high risk. Ploughing land to cultivate crops, digging to facilitate construction and lighting fires for open-air cooking all bring the danger of sparking a dormant bomb back to life. Children have also mistaken war remnants for toys.
Harrison says it is ‘‘difficult to generalise’’ when forecasting who among the civilian population faces the greatest threat, ‘‘as individuals and communities may, out of socio-economic need, interact [with unexploded ordnance] in different ways in contaminated areas with differing levels of risk’’.
Laos’ scrap metal trade encourages risk-taking with UXO. The price of scrap has risen over the last 15 years as regional demand for construction materials has grown, meaning the scrap trade in heavily-bombed areas has been fed by an expanding number of smelting mills and foundries along the Vietnam border.
Poor, rural communities, with limited access to cash, have greater incentive to hunt for scrap as, using a metal detector, large finds can bring a quick financial return. Yet digging to investigate signals is risky, with some even attempting to defuse or dismantle ordnance to sell its components, risking a deadly explosion.
In the event of a blast, about 200 metal fragments inflict devastating wounds to those at the site. The shockwaves from the explosion, and shrapnel penetrating the body, causes horrific injuries like blindness, hearing loss, and the loss of limbs. Most accidents occur in rural areas and on mountainous terrain, meaning immediate medical help is often unavailable, resulting in severe blood loss and infections of untreated wounds being major causes of death.
In addition to the facility in Xieng Khouang that treated Mr Mai, COPE, along with the government-run Centre for Medical Rehabilitation (CMR), runs another four rehabilitation centres across the country.
Supported by international donors and fundraising, all medical costs are covered, along with transport and food for victims and family members. Paphavady, who oversees the COPE-CMR visitor centre and supports their outreach from Vientiane, says amputee survivors are thankful for the chance to fulfil a “big dream; to have a chance to come back to walk again” when receiving a new limb for the first time.
While prosthetics manufactured in previous decades were made of leather, resin and aluminium, technicians now make use of polypropylene technology to ensure a more comfortable fit; essential to relieve pain and prevent pressure sores from developing.
Each prosthetic device is made-to-measure. Technicians forge an exact replica of the patient’s residual stump, before heating sheets of polypropylene to make the socket. Minor adjustments are then made by hand, according to the requirements of each patient.
Survivors of explosions are also in need of orthotics; small assistive devices which help support an injured body part and make it easier to carry-out daily tasks. Specially-designed fittings to hold a toothbrush, or cutlery, can make a huge difference in allowing survivors to live independently.
Most patients later need to attend physical and occupational therapy sessions; while their prosthetics and assistive devices need to be replaced after, at most, seven years – or every six months for children.
Amputees sometimes experience phantom pain, a sensation that occurs when nerve endings that used to serve the absent limb send signals to the brain.
Patients have reported feeling uncomfortable pain, itching and cramps. To alleviate this, patients use a mirror box. By sitting down at a table and placing an arm into the box, a mirror down the centre fools the brain into thinking the reflection is the missing arm. Moving, massaging or scratching the arm, with practice and in time, can help relieve symptoms.
The therapy was invented by Indian-American neuroscientist, Prof. Vilayanur S. Ramachandran, in the late-1990s, and has been adopted widely in Laos by survivors of bomb blasts. The therapy can also be used for leg amputees.
Canadian Stephen Sumner, himself an above-the-knee amputee following a motorbike accident in Italy 15 years ago, has gone to great lengths to enable wider access to reflection therapy in Southeast Asia’s former conflict zones. Over several years, Sumner travelled Cambodia and Laos by bicycle, distributing mirrors to amputees and teaching recipients how to use them effectively.
But the challenges facing blast survivors are, of course, not only limited to physical mobility.
Each accident has reverberating social and economic impacts on the victim and their family. Farmers make up a high proportion of those involved in incidents, and their inability to work as productively as they once did, leads to a loss of income. Immediate family members, often wives, are forced to take-on the bread-winning role of their husband, while the children drop-out of school early to become full-time carers.
Assistance for victims of US bombs in Laos has greatly improved since the early post-war years. The uncomfortable, home-fashioned artificial limbs of previous decades have now been replaced, in most cases, with prosthetics made using the latest technology, and available for next to no cost to survivors.
Some of the improvised legs, still a symbol of pride for their wearers, are now on display in Vientiane. The prosthesis of one veteran survivor, who lost his left leg in 1972 and carved his first artificial limb from a single piece of wood, has been as far as Oslo and New York to advocate for a cluster bomb ban.
Prosthetics help give independence back to their recipients, but there is concern that despite the huge progress made, such life-changing support has not reached everyone.
Paphavady from COPE says the outreach project and mobile clinics hope to expand access to survivors throughout the country, some of whom may not know the service is available.
Paphavady also says continued funding of the project, and the ability to continue training technical staff, is crucial for victims to be able to access the support they need. The outreach programme, which also involves distributing leaflets to villagers, will be key as in some areas a lack of infrastructure and fear of the unknown may prevent victims travelling for help.
Sadly, there will be more victims, with the explosive legacy of the US bombing embedded in the soil. At the annual meeting in February of the government-led National Regulatory Authority, which oversees the de-mining sector, officials set a target to clear 10,000 hectares of land of ordnance this year. Yet up to 8.7 million hectares are still contaminated, emphasising the huge scale of the task ahead.
While deadly remnants of war are set to remain for generations, the resilience of those who have survived them is a mark of Laos’ efforts to move on from a time when it was the most bombed nation on earth.
On 30 March, separatist rebels opened fire on three employees of the Grasberg gold and copper mine near Puncak Jaya – the highest mountain in Indonesia’s remote easternmost province of Papua. One worker was killed and another two sustained gunshot wounds in the attack, which targeted an office and housing area of US-based firm Freeport-McMoRan. The company jointly owns the site – which is the largest gold mine and second largest copper mine in the world – with the Indonesian government.
The mine sits at the heart of a volatile region. The Papua region, which encompasses the provinces of both Papua and West Papua, has been the site of a low-level separatist insurgency since the 1960s. Seven years after the end of Dutch colonial rule, the region was incorporated into Indonesia in 1969 via a disputed referendum, in which only 1,025 Papuans, carefully chosen by the Indonesian military, were permitted to cast a ballot. The poll remains a source of tension and drives separatism to this day.
While the conflict has persisted at a low level for decades, last year – the 50th anniversary of the vote – witnessed an uptick in violence. Protestors took to the streets across the two provinces last August, angered by an incident in Surabaya in which Papuan university students were arrested by police and suffered racial taunts from nationalists, over accusations they had desecrated an Indonesian flag. The ensuing street demonstrations soon turned violent, with deaths and injuries reported on both sides.
The recent shooting incident near Puncak Jaya was preceded by a series of clashes in the area between rebels and the Indonesian military, which prompted 917 residents to flee to the nearby city of Timika. Violence appears to be rising while the political campaign for Papuan independence stalls, leaving the status-quo intact and the future no-clearer for the region’s residents, who have long endured poverty and underdevelopment. As the stalemate persists, what makes the situation in Papua so intractable?
The roots of the independence movement
The origins of the dispute date to the mid-20th Century, when the area was under Dutch colonial rule. Indonesia gained Independence in 1949, yet the Dutch retained control of Papua through the 1950s. As calls for independence grew, Papuan leaders held a Congress in 1961 and raised their own flag, the Morning Star. Violence erupted between Papuans, Indonesians and Dutch forces until a UN-sponsored treaty – the New York Agreement – was brokered in 1962. The agreement facilitated initial Indonesian control with the promise of a future referendum to decide the final status of the disputed territory.
The ballot, labelled the ‘Act of Free Choice’, was held in 1969. The Indonesian authorities selected just 1,025 Papuan representatives to vote, by raising of the hand, on behalf of the entire population of the region, which at the time had almost a million inhabitants. Voters unanimously backed staying under the rule of Jakarta; yet did so within an atmosphere of intimidation and under the threat of violence. The result was controversially ratified by the UN, which voted by a majority 84-0, with 30 abstentions.
Angered by the perceived unfairness of the process, breakaway elements in the Papua region resorted to violence. An armed guerrilla group, the Free Papua Movement or Organisasi Papua Merdeka (OPM) has carried-out attacks targeting security forces and multinational corporations since the 1970s. Other insurgent groups, such as the West Papua National Liberation Army or Tentera Pembebasan Nasional Papua Barat (TPNPB) also operate in the region. The latter group claimed responsibility for the attack in late-March on workers of the Grasberg mine, which it views as diverting profits abroad and harming the environment. The Indonesian military has also been accused of rights abuses and arbitrary arrests.
While the insurgency has persisted away from the scrutiny of the international media spotlight, 2019 marked a turning point in coverage. The protests which started last August, spread to cities including Timika, Fakfak, Sarong and regional capital Manokwari. Mobile phone footage was shared around the world on social media platforms and made it into mainstream news in the West. Indonesia promptly cut internet access to the region, claiming it would ‘accelerate the process of restoring security’. Yet Papuan independence activists and human rights organizations suspected the move was designed to limit global media coverage, cover-up abuses and prevent protestors from co-ordinating their actions.
Why is the Papuan situation so intractable?
The conflict is resistant to resolution given the diametrically opposed positions of both sides. From the perspective of Jakarta, the region came under its control in the 1960s via a legitimate vote, backed by the UN and supported by its neighbours and allies. Even today, regional powers such as Australia are reluctant to sympathize with Papuan separatists or criticize Indonesian military actions in the region. Indonesian politicians and military leaders are keen to defend the country’s sovereignty and territorial integrity in its outermost regions; while as a resource-rich area, Papua is vital to the national economy.
Papuan independence activists, such as exiled figurehead of the movement, Benny Wenda, present a different reality. They view the 1969 vote as flawed and unrepresentative of the native population of Papua. Indonesian rule is seen as being illegitimate and constituting a form of modern-day colonialism. A set of additional grievances have added to the Papuan narrative of unjust domination by Jakarta. Of particular concern to independence activists is transmigration; a policy which has seen mostly-Muslim Javanese settle in Papua, displacing elements of the culture of mostly-Christian Melanesian Papuans.
Economic grievances also feature highly on the list of concerns. Under Indonesian control, large multi-national companies have won contracts to extract Papua’s natural resources, diverting profits out of the region while much of the local population lives in poverty. Infrastructure also lags behind, leaving Papua underdeveloped and disconnected from more affluent sections of the Indonesian archipelago. Such companies also bring negative environmental impacts, such as pollution and the loss of forests. Many Papuans feel marginalized by the Jakarta elite and discriminated against by other ethnic groups.
An insurgency governed by stalemate
Indonesia shows little sign of budging from its long-term position on Papua, despite current President Joko Widodo pledging to listen to the concerns of Papuans after last year’s violent demonstrations. The Papuan independence movement – led primarily by Papuans exiled abroad – has made minimal progress amid internal divisions and a lack of coherence, despite the recent boost in global attention.
The UN – which ratified Indonesian control in the 1960s – is just as unlikely today to provide support for those intent on securing independence via political means. The principles of state sovereignty and territorial integrity remain the two cornerstones of international diplomacy, while regional allies with similar concerns about breakaway regions and separatist struggles at home are certain to back Jakarta. For major powers such as the US, China and Russia, Papua is of little wider geo-strategic significance.
It is hard to see how Papua will escape the current impasse. A cycle of insurgent attacks, alleged state oppression, protests and military deployments continue to dictate the region’s security architecture. Papuan separatist groups are no match for the strength of the Indonesian military; while in times of increased tension the authorities are able to suppress information, denting the organizational ability of rebels and their supporters. For as long as there is no meaningful political dialogue, the status-quo in Papua – of a conflict frozen in time and largely hidden from view – will prevail long into the future.
Late last year, Philippine President Rodrigo Duterte indicated a willingness to reverse his prior decision to terminate the peace process with the New People’s Army (NPA) – a communist rebel group at odds with Manila since the 1960s. On 26 December, Duterte appealed to Jose Maria Sison – the exiled head of the NPA’s political wing, the Communist Party of the Philippines (CPP) – to return home from exile in the Netherlands for one-on-one talks in an attempt to revive the peace process. Sison replied that while he was open to dialogue, he would only be prepared to meet Duterte in a neighbouring country.
This initial positive exchange was followed by a sense of growing momentum, when a 16-day ‘holiday truce’ agreed by the NPA and the Philippine military – covering the Christmas and New Year period – largely held firm despite several reported violations. In the early weeks of 2020, informal discussions have taken place and the government’s former chief negotiator, Silvestre Bello III, has even suggested Sison could return to Manila to sign an interim peace accord ahead of the resumption of formal talks. Duterte has sought to allay Sison’s fears over returning, stating on 11 January: ‘I guarantee his safety’.
Yet despite these steps forward, the window of opportunity for peace talks to resume may be limited. At the start of Duterte’s administration, talks with the NPA appeared to be moving forward until the peace process collapsed in early-2017 amid a dispute over a prisoner amnesty. All attempts to restart dialogue have since proven fruitless amid an atmosphere of rising hostility between the government and the CPP, typified by repeated tirades of insults exchanged in public between Duterte and Sison. This chequered history suggests the current receding of tensions may turn out only to be temporary.
A history of failed talks
The NPA and CPP have been led by Sison since he founded the rebel movement in the late-1960s. For five decades, the NPA has fought government troops in rural areas across the country, with the stated aim of overthrowing the Philippine state and replacing it with a political system predicated on Maoist ideology. While the insurgency reached its height in the 1980s during the dictatorial rule of Ferdinand Marcos, the rebel movement has since held peace talks with six successive democratic-era presidents.
The National Democratic Front of the Philippines (NDFP) – the negotiating body of the NPA and CPP – participated in failed talks during the administrations of Aquino, Ramos, Estrada, Arroyo and Aquino III before entering dialogue with Duterte upon his election in 2016. Talks initially progressed well, with a ceasefire being declared and four rounds of dialogue being held in Amsterdam, Oslo and Rome. Yet the peace process collapsed in 2017 amid Duterte’s refusal to release political prisoners and renewed rebel attacks. NPA activity has since rebounded in rural central and southern areas of the Philippines.
In 2018, several months of back-channel talks proved fruitless after the NPA refused to meet Duterte’s pre-conditions for the resumption of formal dialogue, which included an end to rebel attacks, an end to extortion and a political commitment from the CPP not to seek to form a coalition government. Last March, Duterte announced the peace process was ‘permanently terminated’ during his presidency – due to expire in 2022 – and disbanded his negotiating panel, which had been led by Silvestre Bello III. In its place, Duterte proposed localized talks with NPA commanders, bypassing the senior leadership.
Barriers to renewed dialogue
Duterte has rowed back on his decision, offering an olive branch in the form of a face-to-face meeting with Sison. Given this change in tone, what is the likelihood of formal national-level talks between the government and NDFP restarting, and ultimately succeeding, during the remainder of Duterte’s term?
Meaningful progress is unlikely for several reasons. First, Sison’s reluctance to return to the Philippines represents a firm barrier to dialogue. Duterte has long insisted that any future talks must be hosted in the Philippines, which Sison has described as ‘totally unacceptable’, arguing in December that agreeing to return would ‘put the NDFP and the entire peace negotiations in the pocket of the Duterte regime’. Alternatively, Sison has proposed holding informal talks in the Vietnamese capital, Hanoi, ahead of the resumption of formal negotiations in a third-party country – most likely Norway, which has served as a mediator between the two sides in the past. The Philippine government is unlikely to allow the CPP to dictate the timing or location of negotiations, leaving both sides at odds over their desired venue.
Second, the core areas of disagreement that have scuppered talks in recent years, remain unresolved. The government still requires the rebel movement to meet six pre-conditions, first proposed in 2018, before the peace process can resume. These conditions include an end to attacks, extortion and arson in addition to the encampment of rebel fighters, the signing of a bilateral ceasefire and an end to NPA recruitment. Given Sison’s lack of control over NPA commanders on the ground, from his base in the Netherlands, it is difficult to foresee these conditions being met, even if Sison and his advisors agreed. Sison also continues to call for ‘the release of political prisoners on humanitarian grounds’ as his own pre-condition for formal talks resuming. It is unlikely the government will deviate from its past stance.
Third, a lack of trust exists on both sides, with each suspicious of the other’s real intentions in seeking fresh talks. The CPP fears Duterte’s offer for Sison to return to partake in negotiations is a pre-text for his arrest. Despite Duterte’s reassurances, a court in Manila issued an arrest warrant for Sison just last August over his alleged role in the 1985 Inopacan massacre, while in September the Philippine police asked INTERPOL to issue a ‘red notice’ for the detention of Sison. These developments came after the arrest of several NDFP negotiators since 2017 and many previous threats from Duterte to detain Sison. Equally, the government is also suspicious of the CPP’s true intentions, having criticized NPA violations of past ceasefires and accused the group of using past peace negotiations as a cover for recruitment.
These suspicions have not been helped by an ongoing war-of-words between Duterte and Sison since the peace process first collapsed in 2017, typified by increasingly heated rhetoric and personal insults. After back-channel talks failed in 2018, Duterte derided NPA rebels as ‘robots’ fighting for a ‘bankrupt mind’ in reference to Sison, while the CPP leader retorted that Duterte was ‘very capable of violence’, labelling him as a ‘crazy guy in power’. Duterte has openly criticized CPP ideology as ‘outdated’, while the CPP has condemned Duterte’s authoritarian leadership style and argues he seeks to crush dissent. Tensions have been raised by the alleged ‘red-tagging’ of left-wing advocacy groups in recent months.
Fourth, even if the peace process resumes, the likelihood of a final peace accord being signed is slim, given that both sides have opposing visions of its end point. The CPP’s stated aim remains to replace the Philippines’ system of government with a socialist-style system lead by the working classes. Sison’s ideology, first outlined in 1974, argues this must be achieved through a prolonged guerrilla-style war, leaving little room for political negotiation. Many suspect that even in the event of a deal being signed, the NPA would refuse to disarm, with a spokesperson for Duterte’s peace process advisor arguing on 17 January that ‘never has it been the rebels’ intention to demobilize their armed wing, even if both parties sign a final peace agreement’. The Duterte administration, in line with the view of past Manila administrations, foresees a solution in line with the Philippine constitution and democratic processes. In such a case, no parallel armed forces would be permitted and the NPA would be required to disarm.
Another false dawn?
Despite Duterte’s latest peace overture being accompanied by more positive rhetoric by both parties, recent history suggests that events could spiral downhill quickly if disagreement on the core stumbling blocks persists. Since talks first collapsed in 2017, relations between the government and the CPP have been characterized by rising hostility and distrust. Even amid the recent détente, on 5 January the new chief-of-staff of the Philippine armed forces, Lt. Gen. Felimon Santos, vowed to crush the NPA before the end of Duterte’s term in 2022 – a threat which Duterte himself his repeated on multiple occasions.
Such mixed-messaging and Duterte’s unpredictable, shifting stance on his approach toward the CPP, may dissuade the CPP from returning to the negotiating table and leave Sison to conclude the risk of returning to Manila is too high. Unless a formal summit is agreed during this rare moment of calm, the revival of the peace process may – as Duterte stated last March – have to wait ‘for the next president’.
On 10 December, Philippine President Rodrigo Duterte announced the end of martial law in Mindanao after opting against an extension, on the advice of military and police chiefs. The emergency measure, which was first imposed in the restive region in response to an ISIS-led siege of Marawi city in May 2017, had previously been extended three times and is now set to expire on 31 December. Two years after ISIS were defeated in Marawi, the jihadist threat has been reduced to a more manageable scale.
The ISIS-affiliated groups which led the siege have been pushed back and many of their leaders killed, leading Defence Secretary Delfin Lorenzana to declare his preference for lifting martial law entirely in November. Armed Forces of the Philippines (AFP) and Philippine National Police (PNP) chiefs initially suggested extending the measure only in ‘selective areas’ where extremist groups still operate. The provinces of Maguindanao and Sulu have both experienced attacks by ISIS-affiliated groups this year.
With martial law lifted, what level of threat do ISIS’ surviving local affiliates represent in Mindanao? And despite ISIS’ declining global influence, after territorial losses in the Middle East and the death of its leader Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi in a US raid in Syria, could its followers in the Philippines rebound?
ISIS remnants in Mindanao
The Maute Group, accused of planning the assault on Marawi in an attempt to carve out a Southeast Asian ISIS caliphate, are severely depleted after AFP operations in Lanao del Norte and Lanao del Sur. While the group was 1,000-strong ahead of the siege, it is now thought to have fewer than 25 active members. Its founders, brothers Abdullah and Omar Maute, were killed during the final gun battles in Marawi in October 2017; while its new leader, Abu Dar, was shot dead during a military operation in Tubaran on 14 March, leaving the Mautes without a main figurehead. After Abu Dar’s killing, the AFP said the Mautes were no longer capable of launching a Marawi-style raid, yet military spokesman Col. Romeo Brawner warned that the group was still trying to recruit and remains a national security risk.
The Bangsamoro Islamic Freedom Fighters (BIFF), which played a minor supporting role in the Marawi siege, emerged relatively unscathed and posed a larger threat in its aftermath. In 2018, they regularly fought government troops and carried-out a string of bombings, maiming civilians in restaurants and shopping malls, in the provinces of Maguindanao, North Cotabato and Sultan Kudarat. However, AFP airstrikes and ground operations targeting BIFF hideouts in the rural Liguasan Marsh area of central Maguindanao have dented the group’s capabilities in 2019. In April, regional military commander Maj. Gen. Cirilito Sobejana said the three BIFF factions – the most powerful of which is led by ISIS-affiliated militant Abu Toraife – had been forced into a tactical alliance and resorted to guerrilla-style tactics to survive while under growing pressure. In recent months, the group’s remaining fighters have lain low.
A smaller ISIS-aligned group, Ansar Khalifah Philippines (AKP), also remains active further south, in the provinces of Sarangani and South Cotabato. However, since its leader Mohammad Jaafar Maguid was killed in a firefight with police in 2017, AKP has been regarded by the authorities as more of a criminal nuisance than a transnational terror threat, having engaged only in a series of small-scale gun battles.
The threat from Abu Sayyaf
The Philippines oldest known jihadi group, Abu Sayyaf, which was formed in the early-1990s, currently represent the gravest threat of all Mindanao’s ISIS affiliates. After playing a leading role in the Marawi siege alongside the Mautes, Abu Sayyaf retreated from mainland Mindanao to their former maritime hideouts on the island provinces of Basilan, Sulu and Tawi-Tawi. After regrouping and replenishing its ranks, Abu Sayyaf has rebounded in 2019. The most extreme faction, led by ISIS supporter Hatib Hajan Sawadjaan, has perpetrated a wave of high-profile suicide bombings in Sulu this year. On 27 January, two militants detonated themselves inside a crowded cathedral in Jolo, leaving 22 worshippers dead and 81 wounded. A second double suicide attack killed eight people at a military base in Indanan on 28 June, while a fifth bomber blew themselves up at an AFP camp in the same town on 8 September.
The bombings were all claimed by ISIS via official statements. Several of the suspected bombers were revealed to be Indonesian and Moroccan nationals, adding to concerns that Abu Sayyaf is harbouring foreign fighters trained in bomb-making and willing to volunteer themselves for suicide missions. Back in July, Maj. Gen. Sobejana had warned that seven foreign terrorists were training Filipino militants in IED construction while another 42 suspected foreign fighters were being monitored by the authorities. He said many of these suspects were likely ‘embedded’ with Abu Sayyaf and the BIFF. On 5 November, government soldiers shot dead two Egyptian militants at a checkpoint in Jolo, confirming these fears.
Abu Sayyaf has around 400 fighters and continues to fight the army under the command of Sawadjaan in Sulu, while another ISIS-linked faction led by Furuji Indama remains active in Basilan. Smaller cells are active in the Tawi-Tawi islands, while Abu Sayyaf activity has been reported in Malaysia’s eastern state of Sabah and along the coast of mainland Mindanao’s Zamboanga peninsula. Abu Sayyaf is also notorious for launching piracy attacks and kidnappings-at-sea, several of which have occurred in 2019.
Guarding against an ISIS resurgence
Although degraded post-Marawi, and contained to the remote southwest of the country, ISIS-aligned groups are still active and intent on forging a regional caliphate centred on the southern Philippines.
There is growing concern that the BIFF and Mautes may look to replenish their ranks by targeting the 66,000 residents still displaced from Marawi city, more than two years since the end of the siege. The government has been criticized by its opponents for the slow pace of rehabilitation, with the central Banggolo district still in ruin and needing to be cleared of unexploded ordnance before building work can begin. It is feared that young men with limited economic opportunities and their livelihoods placed on hold due to the ISIS-led siege, may ironically become prime targets for recruitment by jihadi groups. Tensions are rising, with the government’s 2021 target for rebuilding the city unlikely to be achieved.
An extension to martial law in Abu Sayyaf and BIFF strongholds would have helped the AFP maintain pressure on ISIS remnants; but the military and intelligence agencies will maintain vigilance regardless. The AFP will likely continue launching airstrikes and undertaking ground offensives in the ISIS hotspots of Sulu and Maguindanao; while also holding regular trilateral naval patrols alongside Indonesian and Malaysian forces in the Sulu Sea, to deter kidnappings and prevent the movement of foreign fighters. Guarding against the transition of Abu Sayyaf to mainland Mindanao is crucial in preventing a repeat of Marawi, when the Philippines’ four ISIS-linked groups were able to join forces to take-over the city.
Hopes are also invested in a peace deal signed between the government and an older, more moderate Muslim rebel group, the Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF). The accord, ratified in a referendum in western Mindanao earlier this year, will see former rebels govern a new Muslim autonomous region, encompassing the core territories where ISIS-linked groups remain active. If the deal brings economic development and enhances livelihoods, then ISIS – known to prey upon unstable and poverty-stricken regions to reinvigorate itself – may be denied a climate conducive to its resurgence in the Philippines.
An earlier version of this article, written before it was announced that martial law would not be extended beyond December 2019, is published on Geopolitical Monitor.