From Anger to Tolerance

Moh

ammad Zakaria is an angry man. The headmaster of al-Islam pesantren in Tenggulun, on the island of Java—gaunt, bearded and with deep-set black eyes blazing—is warning visitors to his Islamic boarding school that it is fortunate they come in peace. If not, he says, non-Muslims "would be lucky to get out alive." Asked about terrorist attacks by Muslims, Zakaria grows more agitated, raising his voice. "The unbelievers accuse us Muslims of being terrorists because they don't have the guts just to say they are waging war against Islam." Of those convicted for their parts in the 2002 bombings in Bali that left 202 dead—three of whom, brothers allegedly at the center of the plot, come from this very village—the headmaster says this: "They are not terrorists ... they were trying to enforce Islamic law. They were people who wanted to teach the world that it was the Americans who were the terrorists and that Islam has international power."

Zakaria's words seem harshly out of place in this sleepy village of narrow lanes and rattan-and-straw shacks. But despite its peaceful air, Tenggulun could reasonably be described as ground zero for militant Islam in Indonesia. Al-Islam school was founded in the early 1990s by two brothers of the three convicted bombers. Yet the bitter radicalism of Zakaria, together with the drawings of automatic rifles and slogans calling for jihad and martyrdom in students' essays pasted to one of the school's walls, is at odds with the beliefs and practices of the roughly 200 million Muslims in Indonesia. Since Arabic traders began to spread Islam across the archipelago about 700 years ago, the religion has assumed many forms. Indonesia has fiery Wahhabi evangelists and Jakarta sophisticates who drink cocktails during Ramadan. The vast majority of Indonesian Muslims fall somewhere in between, practicing a form of the religion distinguished by its "peacefulness and tolerance," says Masdar Mas'udi, an influential progressive cleric based in Jakarta. That tolerance includes an acceptance of widely differing interpretations of what it means to be a good Muslim. Islam in Indonesia incorporates traditional mysticism and animism—particularly in farming communities, where some two-thirds of the country's population lives.

Maksun, a genial man in his late 40s who has served as Tenggulun's village chief for the past eight years exemplifies that syncretic, tolerant tradition. Apart from the usual country smells of manure and woodsmoke wafting through the windows of his house, Maksun's office is also faintly redolent of incense. For Maksun is a traditional faith healer. He has no problem reconciling his magic with Islam. "I am a good Muslim, but I am also a paranormal," he says, shrugging.

The teachers at al-Islam school have no truck with faith healing or visits to tombs of famous scholars to seek answers to prayers. "Their ideology is not suitable to local people," says Maksun of the fundamentalists. "They don't agree with many of our traditions that we have practiced for hundreds of years." Kasmawati, a 22-year-old who stands outside her house a few hundred yards from the school, agrees. "The students don't mingle at all with us," she says, adding that few local children attend the school. "Those strange-looking trousers, the robes and the beards say it all," Kasmawati says. But she continues, "I know they're different, but we leave them alone and don't disturb them. We're all Muslims." Headmaster Zakaria is less generous, and says his most important job—and the mission with which he charges his students—is to convert other Indonesians to his views. Those who don't agree with his strict interpretation of Islam, he says, are "slow to understand the Koran" or "just stupid." So far, Zakaria and his fellow believers have had relatively little success in changing the views of most Indonesians. So far, the quiet tolerance espoused by the likes of Maksun and Kasmawati has proved a bulwark against extremism. So far.