Bubalo, Joining The Caravan 1

Lowy Institute Paper 05
joining the caravan?

THE MIDDLE EAST, ISLAMISM
AND INDONESIA
Anthony Bubalo
Greg Fealy
Lowy Institute Paper 05
joining the caravan?

THE MIDDLE EAST, ISLAMISM
AND INDONESIA
Anthony Bubalo
Greg Fealy
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Cataloguing-in-Publication data
Bubalo, Anthony 1968- .
Joining the caravan? : the Middle East, Islamism and Indonesia.
Bibliography.
ISBN 1 921004 11 8.
1. Islam and politics - Indonesia. 2. Indonesia - Foreign relations - Asia. 3. Asia

- Foreign relations - Indonesia. 4. Indonesia - Foreign relations - Australia. 5.
Australia - Foreign relations - Indonesia. I. Fealy, Greg. II. Lowy Institute for
International Policy. III. Title. (Series : Lowy Institute Paper ; no. 5).
327.598
Anthony Bubalo is a research fellow at the Lowy Institute
for International Policy. His principal field of research is
the politics of the Middle East.
Dr Greg Fealy is a research fellow and lecturer at the

Australian National University specialising in Indonesian
Islam and politics.
Executive summary
A gainst the background of the ‘war on terror’, many people have

come to view Islamism as a monolithic ideological movement
spreading from the centre of the Muslim world, the Middle East, to
Muslim countries around the globe. To borrow a phrase from Abdullah
Azzam, the legendary jihadist who fought to expel the Soviet Union
from Afghanistan in the 1980s, many today see all Islamists as fellow
travellers in a global fundamentalist caravan. This paper explores the
truth of that perception. It does it in part by looking at the way Islamism
has evolved in the Middle East. It then assesses the impact that Islamist
ideas from the Middle East have had in Indonesia, a country often cited
as an example of a formerly peaceful Muslim community radicalised by
external influences.
The evolution of Islamism in the Middle East has always been reflected
in the social, political and economic changes that have taken place in
the region. Over the course of that evolution three themes have been
evident: an effort toward Islamic revival in the first half of the twentieth
century as the Muslim world attempted to deal with the dissolution of
the Ottoman Caliphate and the physical and intellectual encroachments
of the West; a radicalisation of thought in the second half of the century,
as young Islamists, stimulated by social, economic and political crises,
came into conflict with ruling regimes; and finally a reassessment at the
end of the century, prompted in part by political failure which has seen
Islamists either seek greater political integration in their own societies
vii
J O I N ING THE CAR AVAN?
or head towards new supranational forms of activism.

Many Islamists, some of whom had clashed violently with their
own societies in the past, now seek political integration and advocate
democracy. On the other hand, exploiting the opportunities provided
by globalisation, some Islamists focus on the supranational. Among
the latter are so called salafists, or what Olivier Roy has called ‘neo-
fundamentalists’, who emphasise the effort to purify Islam of
historical, cultural and national accretions and the creation of a
generic transnational Islamic identity. By and large peaceful, neo-
fundamentalism nonetheless includes an ultra-violent element, led by
al-Qaeda and its partisans who launch acts of terrorism in the name
of defending a global, if virtual, Islamic community against those they
claim to be its existential enemies, namely the United States and its
Western allies.
The transmission of Islamist and neo-fundamentalist ideas from the
Middle East to Indonesia reflects this diversity. Most often these ideas
and models of activism are imported by Indonesian Islamists looking
for new ways of thinking about the relationship between Islam, politics
and society. Indonesian students who travelled to the Middle East came
back influenced by the ideas of the Muslim Brotherhood. This helped
inform their participation in Indonesia’s process of democratisation.
Similarly, Indonesian jihadists who went to Afghanistan in the 1980s
and 90s, and forged links with the future leaders and activists of al-
Qaeda, were critical to the emergence of the Indonesian terrorist group
Jemaah Islamiyah (JI). In some cases, ideas from the Middle East are
more purposefully exported to Indonesia, with Saudi Arabia playing a
critical role in the emergence of a salafi current within the Indonesian
Muslim community.
The impact of these ideas has varied. Muslim Brotherhood ideas have
helped the Islamist Prosperity and Welfare Party (PKS) play a positive
role in Indonesian politics, though some of the darker sides of the PKS,
notably the anti-Semitic views and anti-Western conspiracy theories
subscribed to by some of its members, also seem to have been influenced
by thinking from the Middle East. Many of the Indonesian groups
supported by Saudi Arabia are essentially concerned with questions of
viii
EXECUTIVE SUMMARY
morality and Islamic piety — albeit in a fairly puritanical form. They

limit their activities to preaching and education. But some salafi groups
do cross into acts of vigilantism and sectarian violence. More insidious
has been the influence al-Qaeda and other Middle Eastern sources have
had on JI’s doctrine and operational techniques.
Nonetheless, Indonesian Islamists and neo-fundamentalists have also
been selective in their appropriation and application of ideas from the
Middle East in Indonesia. A process of indigenisation is almost always
at work to some degree. In terms of Muslim Brotherhood thinking, the
gradualist approach of Hassan al-Banna has been utilised more than the
revolutionary ideas of Sayyid Qutb and his radical heirs. The influence
of Middle Eastern salafi sheikhs is sometimes manipulated by their local
Indonesian representatives. Even the relationship between al-Qaeda
and JI is not one of command and control; and there are, arguably,
tensions within JI between the imperatives of al-Qaeda’s global project
and more local, but still violent, priorities.
Overall, any reckoning of Middle Eastern influence on Indonesian
Islamism needs to look not just at the radical elements inclined toward
violence or divisive sectarianism but also at those ideas that enhance
democratic life and provide a legitimate form of expression for religious
sentiment. The diverse flows of information that accompany globalisation
mean that the impact of the Middle East will continue to be felt in a wide
variety of ways. But this will never be a straightforward process. Indeed,
in a globalised world, the flow of Islamist ideas into Indonesia is less and
less a function of specifically Middle Eastern influences than a broader,
global process of intellectual exchange and adaptation.
The issues canvassed in the paper are of obvious relevance to policy
makers. At a time when al-Qaeda is increasingly seen as an ideology
rather than an organisation, assessing the extent to which that ideology
has spread, and how it has done so, will provides clues as to the future
trajectory of the terrorist threat. But it is also important for policy
makers to understand the differences within, and evolution of, Islamism
with respect to the role of Islamist parties in nascent democracies.
ix
A number of policy implications flow from the conclusions of this

paper:
1. In focusing on the global, don’t lose sight of the local
In focusing on the transnational dimensions of contemporary

terrorism, governments should not lose sight of local causes.
Today there is a tendency to see contemporary terrorism as
largely a function of the spread of a global ideology. But while
the transmission of Islamist and neo-fundamentalist ideas is
part of the problem, it is by no means a defining characteristic.
More important in terms of determining the future trajectory of
this threat in Indonesia is what occurs in the country, from the
dynamics of Muslim–Christian relations and the continuation
of sectarian violence, to the relationship between Islamists and
the state.
2. Adopt a more nuanced categorisation of Islamists and

neo-fundamentalists
Western governments and commentators should avoid labelling

Muslims or Islamists simply as radicals or moderates. Not only
are these terms often misleadingly reductionist, they also carry
connotations of ‘good’ versus ‘bad’ Muslims, ‘friendly’ versus
‘hostile’ Muslims. This has an alienating effect on Muslims,
who see it as evidence of a self interested Western stereotyping
of the Islamic community. While shorthand categorisations are
sometimes inescapable, at the very least it is important to be
conscious of the complexities that lie behind such labels and to
avoid using them too rigidly.
x
EXECUTIVE SUMMARY
3. Take a less timorous approach to engagement with

Islamists
Initiatives such as inter-faith dialogues and conferences on Islam

play an important symbolic role in ensuring that the ‘war on
terror’ does not poison relations between the Muslim world and
the West. But Western governments tend to be far too timorous
in whom they invite. More would be achieved by pursuing a
dialogue with a broader range of Islamist views. This could help
break down the misconceptions and conspiracy theories about
the West that one often finds among Islamists. Exposure to the
‘radical mainstream’ will also provide Western governments and
specialists with a greater and more nuanced understanding of the
various manifestations of Islamism and neo-fundamentalism.
4. Think about education and the ‘war of ideas’ in broad

terms
Combating terrorism is not simply about fighting terrorists but also

about combating the ideas that underpin it. Some outside observers
have identified the radical teachings of a number of pesantren in
Indonesia as part of the terrorism problem and have advocated the
reform of Islamic education. But other forums for radical ideas
exist outside these pesantren, including channels of electronic
communication and student experiences in the Middle East, and
these are often much more effective conveyers of ideas. Even in
the best case, promoting the reform of Islamic education won’t
stop the spread of these ideas. In the worst case, such policies will
be seen as yet another example of Western interference and efforts
to dilute Islam. As tempting as such involvement may seem, it is
better for the West to stay out of Islamic education.
xi
5. Encourage transparency
The complex question of Saudi Arabian religious propagation in

Indonesia (and elsewhere) needs to be addressed. But the answer
does not lie simply in placing additional pressure on the Saudis to
clamp down harder on material support for Islamic propagation.
In Indonesia, legitimate and non-jihadist educational and welfare
institutions have suffered as a result of pressure on Saudi Arabia,
leading to considerable resentment against the ‘war on terror’.
This could ultimately push hitherto peaceful groups toward more
militant financiers. The solution is to encourage Saudi Arabia to
accompany greater regulation of its charitable and propagation
activities with greater transparency.
6. Be conscious of double standards and the democracy

dilemma
The most damaging thing for Western governments in the context

of the ‘war of ideas’ is the perception of double standards. In
the Middle East, and elsewhere in the Muslim world, the West
needs to accept that democracy will sometimes deliver Islamist
victories. This is not a bad thing. In Indonesia, Islamists have
played a positive role in Indonesia’s process of democratisation,
reflecting the growing understanding among Islamist parties
around the world that to be successful they need to adapt their
political programs to incorporate the everyday concerns of voters.
The democratic credentials of every individual Islamist group
should not be assumed. But neither should Islamism’s purported
incompatibility with democracy.
xii
xiii
Contents
Executive summary vii
Acknowledgments xvii
Glossary xix
Introduction 1
A clash of ideologies
Islamism, the Middle East and Indonesia
Chapter 1: Revival, Radicalism and Jihad 9
Introduction
Revival and reform
Radicalism and revolution
The many meanings of jihad
Chapter 2: The politics of failure 29
Introduction
An accommodation with the state
Revisiting the global
Jihadist-salafism and al-Qaeda
Chapter 3: From the Middle East to Indonesia 47
Introduction
Human movement
Education and propagation
Publishing and the internet
xiv
Chapter 4: ‘Every seed you plant in Indonesia grows’ 65
Introduction
The Muslim Brotherhood
Salafist groups
Jihadist groups
Palestine, Iraq and Indonesia
Conclusion and Policy Implications 91
Introduction
Between Islamism and neo-fundamentalism
Between the global and the local
The virtues of a broader perspective
Policy implications
Endnotes 109
Bibliography 123
xv
Acknowledgments
The authors would like to thank a number of people who

contributed to the research and writing of this paper: Sidney
Jones, whose groundbreaking research and analysis of Indonesian
Islamism has provided us with invaluable insights; Solahudin,
for generously sharing with us his vast knowledge on salafism
and jihadism; Yon Machmudi, for his insights into the Tarbiyah
movement; and Lowy Institute intern Fouad al-Aswad, for
doggedly tracking down obscure references when most others
failed. Dr Peter Mandaville, at George Mason University, Dr Peter
Singer of the Brookings Institute and Mr Ken Ward provided
valuable comments on the draft. Olivier Roy generously provided
a pre-publication draft of the first two chapters of ‘Globalised
Islam’. We would like to thank a number of people in Sydney,
Canberra and Jakarta who shared their wisdom with us, including
Professors Tony Johns and James Fox at the Australian National
University, Dr Nellie Lahoud at Goucher College, Maryland,
Associate Professor Ahmed Shboul, at Sydney University, and
Ulil Abshar-Abdalla and Rachmat Abdullah in Jakarta. Thanks
also to Joanne Bottcher for her amazing ability to procure any
book or article, published or otherwise. Any remaining errors
of fact or interpretation remain those of the authors. Finally,
Anthony Bubalo would like to thank Allan Gyngell, director of
the Lowy Institute for International Policy, for his counsel and
his wife Jackie for her patience.
xvii
Glossary
NB: all words are English transliterations of Arabic words (where necessary
Indonesian transliterations have been provided in parentheses).
ahl al-thughoor (ahluts tsughur): historically, those who defended

Islam’s frontier zone in the early centuries of its expansion,
specifically the area straddled by the Anti-Taurus and Taurus
Mountains of what is today Turkey. Contemporary jihadists use it
as a reference to those who fight to defend the Muslim community,
notably Osama bin Laden, Abdullah Azzam, Ayman al-Zawahiri
and Muhammed bin Abdullah al-Saif.
bid’a: a pejorative reference to innovations introduced into the practice
of Islam.
da’i: literally a ‘caller’ to Islam or religious propagator.
dar al-Harb (darul harbi): literally the ‘region of war’. Used in Islamic
jurisprudence to refer to non-Muslim parts of the world which were
viewed as inherently opposed to Islam.
dar al-Islam (darul Islam): literally ‘the region of Islam’, used
in Islamic jurisprudence to refer to areas under Islamic control
(including those that contain non-Muslims).
da’wa (dakwa): literally ‘call’ to Islam or religious propagation.
fard ayn: an individual obligation incumbent on all members of the
Muslim community.
fard kiffaya: a collective obligation, fulfilled provided at least some
Muslims perform it.
fitna: internal discord within the Muslim community.
xix
fiqh: Islamic jurisprudence.

ghazwa al-fikri (ghazwul fikri): the ideological or intellectual assault
on Islam by Western ideas (broadly defined to included capitalism,
secularism and communism etc).
hakimiya: an Islamist concept formulated by the Pakistani Islamist
thinker Abu al-A’la Maududi refering to the sovereignty of God in
an Islamic state.
Islamism: Islam conceived as an ideology. Most commonly refers to
political Islam, but can also mean the application of Islamic principles
in the economy, arts, education etc.
jahiliya: used by the Pakistani Islamist thinker Abu al-A’la Maududi
and elaborated by the Egyptian Islamist ideologue Sayyid Qutb to
condemn their respective societies for abandoning the true path of
Islam. The historical jahiliya was the period of ‘ignorance’ that had
existed prior to the Prophet’s preaching of Islam, though the word
can also be translated as ‘barbarism’.
jihad: literally ‘striving’, it can be defined broadly as any effort taken
in the cause of Islam. It is often divided into the greater and lesser
jihad, the former being the personal struggle for a perfect spiritual
life and the latter involving everything from missionary activity to
holy war. Islamists and neo-fundamentalists most often use it to
describe some form of armed action.
jihadist-salafism: the extreme, violent wing of contemporary salafism.
It has the same literalist approach to Islam as salafism but substitutes
the latter’s fervent religiosity with an advocacy of violent jihad.
madrassa/madaris (pl): Islamic college, usually for secondary-level
education.
manhaj: methodology or approach to Islamic faith.
mujahid/mujahideen (pl): one who participates/participants in jihad.
neo-fundamentalism: a term coined by the French author Olivier
Roy to describe a range of groups and movements which share a
conservative, literalist approach to Islam but whose activism ranges
from contemporary salafist groups concerned with reforming religious
practices to jihadist-salafists like al-Qaeda, pre-occupied with jihad.
pesantren: literally, ‘the place of santri (Muslim students)’, the term is
xx
GLOSSARY
usually applied to Islamic boarding and day schools where students

receive an intensive religious education. Larger pesantren often
contain madrassa (colleges) for formal secondary education.
as-salaf as-salih: literally, the ‘pious predecessors’, the first three
generations of the Prophet Muhammed’s followers seen as the
paragons for the correct faith and practice of Islam.
salafism: a method or approach to Islam. Historically it has been an
effort to revive what are viewed as Islam’s fundamentals, returning
the religion to that practiced by as-salaf as-salih (though there is not
always agreement between self-described salafists as to what these
fundamentals are). While most revivalists and Islamist movements are
salafist to some degree, contemporary salafism describes distinct groups
that preach a literalist approach to Islam and are largely concerned
with reforming the religious practises of individual Muslims.
Salafiya: a historical movement for Islamic reform marked by the
ideas of three thinkers in particular, Jamal al-Din al-Afghani (1839–
1897) Mohammed Abduh (1849–1905) and Rashid Rida (1865–
1935). While they also sought to revive the true practice of Islam
via reference to as-salaf as-salih, as a movement it is distinct from
contemporary salafism; most of today’s salafists would condemn the
Salafiya as religious innovators.
santri: term applied to Muslim students (especially those studying
at a pesantren), but is also used in Indonesia to refer to devout (as
opposed to lax or nominal) Muslims.
shari’a: God’s revealed law.
sheikh: term given to men of high Islamic learning.
shirk: polytheism.
takfir: the declaration in Islamic jurisprudence that a Muslim has
become apostate and therefore potentially licit to be killed; effectively
excommunication.
taqlid: literally ‘blind adherence’, it refers to the strict following of one
of the four schools of Islamic jurisprudence. Often used pejoratively
by salafists.
tarbiya: education.
tawhid: monotheism, a central tenet of Islam.
xxi
Wahabism: the Islamic creed which originated with the eighteenth

century revivalist movement of Muhammed Ibn Abd al-Wahab
(1703–1787) and became a state ideology via Abd al-Wahab’s
alliance with a central Arabian tribal chieftain, Muhammed Ibn
Saud. Today it is the official creed of the Saudi state, though its
adherents would rarely define themselves as Wahabists, preferring
the term salafi or muwahidoon (a reference to the emphasis placed by
the creed on tawhid). Wahabism is a salafi movement par excellence,
and Saudi Arabia has contributed immeasurably to the spread of
salafism internationally. But not all salafists are Wahabists, nor are
all salafists oriented toward Saudi Arabian religious scholars.
umma: the community of Muslims.
ulema (ulama): religious scholars.
usrah/nizam al-usar: literally ‘family’/‘family system’ employed as
the basic unit of organisation by the Muslim Brotherhood.
ustadz: respectful title for a teacher.
xxii
Introduction
The popular jihad movement with its long path of effort, great
sacrifice and serious losses, purifies souls so that they tower
above the lower material world. Important matters rise above
petty disputes about money, short-term desires and inferior
provisions. Malice disappears and souls are sharpened; and
the caravan moves up from the foot of the mountain to the lofty
summit, far away from the stench of clay and the struggles
of the low ground. Along the path of jihad, the leadership is
categorised. Abilities become manifest from the offerings and
sacrifices, and men come forth with bravery and service.
Ilhaq bil-Qaafila by Abdullah Azzam.1
It is my hypothesis that the fundamental source of conflict in

this new world will not be primarily ideological or primarily
economic. The great divisions among humankind and the
dominating source of conflict will be cultural. Nation states
will remain the most powerful actors in world affairs, but
the principal conflicts of global politics will occur between
nations and groups of different civilizations. The clash of
civilizations will be the battle lines of the future.
The Clash of Civilisations by Samuel P. Huntington.2

I n 1987 a Palestinian Islamist, Abdullah Azzam, wrote a polemic

entitled Ilhaq bil-Qaafila (‘Join the Caravan’). In it Azzam, a central
figure among foreign mujahideen fighting in Afghanistan in the 1980s,
urged Muslims to join the jihad against the Soviet Union. Appealing to
the idea that Muslims worldwide formed one supranational community
or umma, and citing Islamic jurists and scholars, he argued that Muslim
lands everywhere were like one land. Coming to the defence of Islam
in Afghanistan was therefore a religious duty that all Muslims were
required to fulfil. ‘Join the Caravan’ even helpfully listed telephone
numbers in Peshawar that individuals could call to join the jihad.
Azzam’s zeal for the cause and tireless efforts recruiting foreign
jihadists would ultimately see him acclaimed, including by Time
magazine, as the chief modern reviver of jihad. Of course, notions of
jihad and of a supranational Muslim community were hardly new.
Most Islamists had long considered that national borders were simply
twentieth century Western impositions aimed at weakening the umma.
In practice, however, few Islamists were able to escape those boundaries,
becoming for the most part preoccupied with events in their own states
and societies.3 What most Islamist movements of the 1970s and 80s
called jihad was, therefore, usually either the fight against their own
‘impious’ governments or, in the case of Palestinian or Lebanese
Islamists, against Israel.
By contrast Azzam’s horizons were far broader. A one time partisan
of the Palestinian struggle, he reputedly abandoned it because it was
insufficiently Islamic, sullied by secular nationalism. While never
forsaking the Palestinian cause in his writings, it was in Afghanistan
that he found his model jihad. In Afghanistan, he noted, jihad was led
by the ‘sons of the Islamic movement’ with clear Islamic aims. But even
the jihad in Afghanistan was, for Azzam, merely one part of a broader
struggle to defend Islam against its enemies. Forcing a Soviet withdrawal
would not be the end of jihad, just the beginning. Azzam argued that
jihad would remain an obligation until Muslim rule was restored in all
former Muslim lands, from ‘Andalusia’ to the Philippines.
Azzam’s Islamist caravan outlived the Soviet defeat in Afghanistan;
2
INTRODUCTION
indeed it survived Azzam himself who was assassinated in 1989.

Long after the Soviet withdrawal, foreign jihadists could be found
participating in Muslim struggles in Mindanao in the Philippines, in
Bosnia and in Chechnya. A more sinister evolution would be manifest
in the involvement of Islamist extremists in the World Trade Centre
bombing in 1993 and in the terrorist attacks against US embassies in
Africa in 1998. But the most spectacular echo of Azzam’s ideas would
come on 11 September 2001. Whether or not he would have approved,
al-Qaeda’s attacks on the Pentagon and the World Trade Centre were
an extreme elaboration of the idea articulated by Azzam that the first
priority of Muslims was the defence of the umma against Islam’s
external enemies.
A clash of ideologies
In 1993 Harvard Professor Samuel Huntington wrote his famous

polemic in the US journal, Foreign Affairs, entitled ‘The Clash of
Civilizations’. Huntington argued that with the end of the Cold War the
battle lines of future conflicts would be cultural; that is, they would occur
between ‘civilisations’. Despite the fact that Huntington had, in his original
article, identified seven or eight major civilisations, his thesis became
synonymous with the idea of conflict between the Western and Muslim
worlds. The events of 11 September 2001 would, of course, contribute to
this perception. Today, whether one agrees with Huntington’s thesis or
not, it has become a touchstone for public discussion and debate about
the relationship between Islam and the West.
Hoping to reassure nervous Muslims while waging a global ‘war on
terror’, most Western governments have publicly rejected Huntington’s
argument. But they have done so with a regularity that implies many
non-Muslims and Muslims still suspect a fundamental conflict between
Islam and the West is precisely what is occurring. Keen to underline
the point that most Muslims are not the foe, Western governments have
pointed the finger at Islamists; that is, those Muslims who view Islam as
an ideology rather than just a religion. They allude not to Huntington’s
clash of civilisations but to an old fashioned clash of ideologies in which
3
the communist reds of old have been replaced by Islamist greens. Thus
for US President George Bush the terrorist attacks of 11 September
2001 were driven in part by the terrorists’ abhorrence of democracy.4
Similarly the Australian government’s 2004 White Paper on terrorism
argued that it was the ideology of the terrorists that lay at the heart of
the threat facing the world.5
One finds echoes of this view among Islamists who typically make
a symmetrical comparison between Islamism and ‘Western’ ideologies
such as capitalism and communism.6 The West’s offensive against the
Islamic world is seen as not just a physical threat but as al-ghazwa al-
fikri — an ideological assault. The veterans of the Afghan jihad of the
1980s believed they had defeated one of the world’s major ideological
blocs, manifest in the Soviet Union’s ignominious withdrawal from
Afghanistan and the collapse of the Soviet state shortly thereafter.
Incidentally, many Islamists also happily subscribe to Huntington’s
thesis (even if only a minority have gone on to become partisans of
al-Qaeda’s campaign of terrorism).
Recent acts of terrorism have given Islamism a global dimension.
The seemingly worldwide operational linkages established by terrorist
networks are seen as underpinned by a common ideology. Today
Islamist movements everywhere are viewed with suspicion. Of course
some Islamists readily contribute to the perception that they are part
of a global movement. Al-Qaeda articulates its goals and positions
with regard to a global Muslim community that it is trying to rouse
into conflict with the West. The literalist approach to Islam known as
salafism has become a vehicle for the creation of a new global Islamic
identity stripped of any national or cultural references.7 And Islamists
and Islamic networks have helped build via the internet what some
authors have labelled a ‘virtual umma’.
Finally, if there is an epicentre of the Islamist ideology it is typically
seen to be the Middle East. In parallel to the technical and organisational
linkages that groups such as al-Qaeda have established beyond the
region, there is a concern today that Islamist ideas from the Middle East
have infected and radicalised Muslim communities around the globe,
taking the region’s conflicts onto the international stage. Thus critics
4
INTRODUCTION
of the Bush Administration argue that it has not done enough to solve
the Israeli–Palestinian conflict and that this has, in turn, hampered
its efforts to defeat terrorism around the world. At the same time the
Administration has regularly identified Iraq as a key front in the global
‘war on terror’, an interpretation that al-Qaeda no doubt shares, even if
it obviously portrays it in different terms.
Islamism, the Middle East and Indonesia
This paper is intended as a contribution to the broader debate about

the role Islamists play in contemporary international politics. Its line
of inquiry is framed by some of the perceptions — and misperceptions
— mentioned above; specifically that Islamism is today a monolithic
ideological movement spreading from its putative centre, the Middle
East, to Muslim countries around the world. Or, as implied by the title
of this paper, that Islamists around the world are fellow travellers in a
global, ideological or fundamentalist caravan.
Obviously, there is a limit to what can be achieved in a paper of
this length. There is already a growing literature on the technical and
operational links between various Islamist groups, most notably those
engaged in terrorism, to which we don’t intend to add.8 We have focused
largely on the ideological dimension, undertaking what is, in effect, a
case study examining the impact of Islamist ideas from the Middle East
on Indonesia, a country often cited as an example par excellence of a
formerly irenic Muslim community radicalised by external, influences.
We also hope this paper will contribute in its own right to a broader
understanding of the evolution of Islamism — and other forms of Islamic
activism — in both the Middle East and in Indonesia.
Our analysis occurs against the background of a number of major
changes taking place in both the Muslim world and the West’s perception
of the Muslim world. An obvious change has been the impact of the
terrorist attacks of 11 September 2001. At a time when al-Qaeda is
increasingly seen as an ideology rather than an organisation, assessing
the extent to which that ideology or worldview has spread will provides
clues as to the future trajectory of the terrorist threat.9 Terrorism has
5
also coloured the West’s view of Islamism more generally. One senses
that an appreciation for the diversity of Islamist ideas and activism has
been lost and thus the attempt will be made in this paper to disentangle
some of the different currents of contemporary Islamism and Islamic
religiosity as well as the contentious question of Islamism’s relationship
with democracy.
Another major transformation in the shape of the Muslim world of
which many in the international community often seem unaware is that
most of the world’s Muslims today no longer live in the Middle East.
While figures vary, today some 350–380 million of the world’s 1.2 to 1.5
billion Muslims are found in the region — in other words still a sizeable
proportion of the total Muslim community, but a minority nevertheless.
The rest of the world’s Muslims are either of Middle Eastern descent
but have migrated outside the region, or are part of the world’s many
non-Middle Eastern Muslim communities.
Indonesia is an excellent example of this shift in demographic weight.
Today it has the largest Muslim population of any country. The 2000
census showed that there were 178 million Muslims in Indonesia, 88.2
per cent of the then total population of 201 million.10 This figure needs
to be treated with some care as Indonesians are obliged to adhere to
one of five formally recognised religions (in addition to Islam, these are
Protestantism, Catholicism, Hinduism and Buddhism), leading to some
probable ‘inflation’ of the number of Muslims. Nonetheless, census
data throughout the last 50 years has consistently shown that more
than three quarters of the population are self-ascribed Muslims. One
interesting development in recent decades has been an acceleration
in the process of Islamisation within Indonesian society. This has not
greatly changed the proportion of Muslims to non-Muslims but it has
significantly increased the number of pious or ‘santri’ Muslims compared
to unobservant or unorthodox Muslims. Far more Indonesians now
regard Islam as a central part of their life. This can be measured in
the popularity of ‘Islamic dress’, increased mosque and religious school
attendance, greater numbers undertaking the hajj (pilgrimage to Mecca)
and growing sales of Islamic literature.
Chapters One and Two will provide an overview of the central
6
INTRODUCTION
ideas and evolution of Islamism in the Middle East. We will proceed

in Chapter Three to a discussion of some of the main vectors through
which Islamist ideas have been transmitted to Indonesia. In Chapter
Four we will try to assess the impact of these ideas and models of
activism focusing in particular on Muslim Brotherhood inspired groups
such as the so called Tarbiyah movement and the Welfare and Justice
Party (PKS), salafist groups such as Laskar Jihad and al-Sofwah and
terrorist groups, notably Jemaah Islamiyah (JI). Our research is not,
however, driven by a purely academic interest. The analysis presented
in this paper is intended to be relevant to how policy makers respond to
the Islamist phenomenon in all its dimensions, from the spread of ideas
that underpin terrorism to the role of Islamist parties in processes of
democratisation. A concluding chapter will, therefore, consider some of
the broader policy implications of this paper’s findings.
7
Chapter 1
Revival, Radicalism and Jihad
Introduction
What is Islamism? Traditionally it has been defined as Islam conceived

as an ideology. This is not to imply, however, that Islamism is simply
the application of religion to politics. Islamists extend the traditional
idea of Islam as an all encompassing religion to modern society. 11 In
their view it should shape everything in that society, from the way it is
governed, to its education and legal systems, to its culture and economy.
In this respect Islamism is less the extension of religion to politics than
an effort to reassert what Islamists contend has always been Islam’s
inherently political, social and even economic message.
Historically, the major consequence of such a view has been the
Islamist’s belief in the need for an Islamic state or system. For Islamists
a truly Islamic society — and flowing from this, a just, prosperous
and strong one — is not simply one comprised of pious Muslims, it
requires an Islamic state or system. Islamists’ opinions often differ over
what this means in practice. For Ayatollah Khomeini, for example, an
Islamic state implied clerical rule, while other Islamists have envisaged
a much more circumscribed role for the clergy in governance. Indeed,
Islamists are more likely to agree on what an Islamic state doesn’t mean
— secular rule and the separation of state and religion — than what it
does mean.
A second key element of Islamism is its activism. For Sayyid Qutb,
one of radical Islamism’s seminal theorists, being a good Muslim not
only meant praying five times a day, it implied political, social, and
even paramilitary acts necessary to establish an Islamic state. Since the
events of 11 September 2001, Islamism has commonly been associated
with violent activism and terrorism. As we shall demonstrate in this
chapter, Islamist movements in the Middle East have employed many
different forms of activism. One central debate among Islamists is over
the choice between a focus on preaching (da’wa), and various forms of
para-military, revolutionary and, in extreme cases terroristic activism,
all typically defined as jihad.12 But this debate also encompasses options
such as the utility of forming political parties and participation in
parliamentary politics.
Is Islamism distinct from Islam? Most Muslims would make a
distinction. That is, for many Muslims, it is possible to be a good Muslim
without being an Islamist. For the purposes of this paper we will make
it as well, though not because the Qur’an says nothing about politics;
in fact, it says a great deal about law, politics, social relations and
even economics. But what it says is by no means clear or undisputed,
certainly in a contemporary context. This paper is not an effort to prove
whether Islamist ideas and forms of activism are consistent with or
reflect true Islam. Rather, we are seeking to reflect what Islamists say
Islam says about politics and society and how Islamists use this as a
basis for particular kinds of activism.
This is a satisfactory starting point for a definition of Islamism but
it is far from definitive. Islamism is an evolving discourse about the
relationship between Islam, politics and society. It needs to be understood
not just in terms of ideas that have developed and changed over time,
but the historical moments in which these ideas emerged and have been
applied. It also needs to be emphasised that the survey of Islamism in
the Middle East that we present in the next two chapters is by no means
exhaustive. We have simply attempted to reflect some of Islamism’s main
currents, with a particular focus on those ideas and forms of activism
10
REVIVAL, RADICALISM AND JIHAD
that seem to have been most influential in Indonesia.
Revival and reform
Islamism was born out of a central idea, that of Islamic revival or

reform. Even today one still finds at the core of Islamism the notion
that the world of Islam is in decline and must somehow be restored.
Thus, while most Islamists can trace their immediate inspiration
to the Egyptian Muslim Brotherhood, they can also be seen as heirs
to a revivalist or reformist tradition that runs the course of Islamic
history. Two revivalist movements in particular provide a context for
the development of contemporary Islamism in the Middle East: the
eighteenth century movement of Muhammed Ibn Abd al-Wahab (1703–
1787) in central Arabia; and the nineteenth and twentieth century
movement led by three thinkers — Jamal al-Din al-Afghani (1839–1897)
Mohammed Abduh (1849–1905) and Rashid Rida (1865–1935).
Ibn Abd al-Wahab’s main concern was what he saw as the weakening
of Islam by the pre-Islamic traditions and local practices of the Bedouin
tribes of central Arabia. To remedy this he called for a return to the
fundamentals of the religion and to the Islam practiced by the so called
pious predecessors — as-salaf as-salih — the first three generations of
the Prophet Muhammed’s followers. Ibn Abd al-Wahab placed particular
emphasis on the central Islamic tenet of monotheism (tawhid) and
promoted a strict, literal reading of the Qur’an and the Sunna (normative
conduct or practice based on the Prophet’s life). His goal was to purify
Islam of what he saw as innovations (bid’a), blind imitation (taqlid), and
idolatry (shirk). In practice this meant an assault on mystical and popular
Islam — notably Sufism and its tradition of saint worship — and Shi’ism.
A follower of the Hanbali school — generally considered the most literal
of the four schools of Islamic law — Ibn Abd al-Wahab helped revive the
ideas of the thirteenth century Hanbali jurist, Ibn Taymiyah, though he
was more dogmatic in his approach than the latter.13
Part of the dogmatism associated with what would come to be known
as Wahabism resulted from the transformation of Ibn Abd al-Wahab’s
creed into a state ideology via his alliance with a local tribal chieftain,
11
Muhammed Ibn Saud.14 Ibn Abd al-Wahab’s preaching questioned the

dominant social and political order; challenging both the loyalty of
Bedouin tribesmen to their tribal leaders, and the religious orthodoxy
vested in the Ottoman Sultan, at that time nominal suzerain of central
Arabia.15 Ibn Saud put this to political effect and struck what would
still be seen in modern day Saudi Arabia as a contract between himself
and Ibn Abd al-Wahab.16 The latter would legitimise and help expand
Ibn Saud’s political authority over other tribes, while the former would
help spread Ibn Abd al-Wahab’s religious message and indeed form a
state along its puritan lines. This first short lived Saudi ‘state’ would
be destroyed in 1818 by the Ottoman Khedive of Egypt, Muhammed
Ali. Ibn Saud and Ibn Abd al-Wahab’s twentieth century heirs would,
however, revive the original contract to more lasting effect in the forging
of modern day Saudi Arabia.
The interplay between the revival of Islam and politics was even
more evident in the distinct revivalist movement of Afghani, Abduh and
Rida in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Confronted with the
stark disparity in power between Europe and the Middle East, all three
thinkers addressed a common question: how could a Muslim world in
decline both defend against and absorb the advances being made in the
West in law, industry and military technology while remaining true to
its own unique society, culture and beliefs? For all three the answer lay
in the revival and reform of Islam.
For Afghani the key was not to slavishly adopt the ideas of the
West, as he thought some around him were doing, but for Muslims
to understand and live in accordance with the true nature of their
religion which would, in turn, strengthen them against the external
challenges being faced.17 Abduh similarly tried to show that the change
and modernity symbolised by the West’s ideas and power were not only
compatible with true Islam, they were its necessary implications.18
Rida, more of a chronicler and pamphleteer, took these ideas in a more
fundamentalist and conservative direction. Like Ibn Abd al-Wahab, the
immediate reference was to the past and the pious predecessors; indeed
their movement would be called the Salafiya. But unlike Ibn Abd al-
Wahab, the Salafiya sought to reconcile ‘modern’ ideas with Islam by
12
rediscovering — and in some respects reinterpreting — the virtues that

they argued lay in the religion. 19
It was in the shadow of the Salafiya that the prototypical Islamist
movement, the Muslim Brotherhood was born.20 Formed in Egypt in
1928 by Hassan al-Banna, it was, like the Salafiya, profoundly concerned
with the decline of Islam and more specifically, the corruption of Egyptian
society. For al-Banna the challenge posed by Western civilisation was
amplified by the dissolution of the Ottoman Caliphate in 1924 and the
carving up of the Ottoman Empire by Western powers.21 In his view the
threat was not just physical however, it was an intellectual and spiritual
one as well, posed by the secular ideas of the West. As for the Salafiya,
al-Banna’s cure was a return to the fundamentals of Islam. But whereas
Afghani, Abduh and Rida sought to revive Islam essentially through
the force of their ideas and individual activism, al-Banna’s contribution
was the establishment of a movement.
For al-Banna the Muslim world’s decline was symbolised by its
acceptance of Western forms of government and western laws — in
particular the separation of religious and political authority. As a
consequence, for him a return to Islam implied the establishment of
an Islamic state or system (al-nizam al-Islami). Central to this system
would be shari’a — God’s revealed law — and the Qur’an would be
its constitution. Political parties would be banned, administrative posts
given to those with a religious education and the government would
maintain a strict control over private morals.22
Al-Banna’s strategy was, for the most part, a gradualist and reformist
one. He envisaged that an Islamic state would be a consequence of the
Islamisation of society. In effect his project was to create an Islamic
state from below by sparking a vast ‘spiritual awakening’ among his
fellow Muslims. To this end he developed the Muslim Brotherhood as
a broad based movement geared toward various forms of grass roots
activism, one that many subsequent Islamist movements have emulated.
The basic unit of organisation within the Brotherhood was the cell
or ‘family’ (nizam al-usar) of ten members with a leader. Each was
a component of successively larger units of organisation, reinforcing
group loyalty and providing a well defined and tightly knit chain of
13
command for the Brotherhood as a whole. The main role of each family
unit was education (tarbiya) and propagation (da’wa), with weekly
meetings held to teach Islamic principles and correct behaviour aimed
at ensuring that behaviour across all spheres of an individual’s daily
activities was guided by Islamic principles.23 Each unit also provided
mutual support, welfare and solidarity.
The Brotherhood’s activities were not, however, solely didactic.
It was deeply involved in social welfare and economic activities
and organised mosques, schools, and medical clinics. It ran its own
factories, providing employment opportunities for the urban poor and
established athletic clubs. Moreover, while arguably ambivalent about
the seizure of political power, the Brotherhood was not ambivalent
about political activity.24 Shari’a required a state to enforce it and the
power to reform society was inextricably tied to the power to rule.25
The Brotherhood’s political and, at times, militant activism would see
it, among other things, push for reform of Egypt’s constitution and rail
against government corruption; send volunteers to the Arab uprising
in Palestine in 1936–39 and the Arab–Israeli war in 1948; coordinate
strikes and violent demonstrations and carry out acts of terror and
political assassination. Indeed the violent confrontation between the
Brotherhood and the Egyptian government in the late 1940s would
lead to al-Banna’s assassination in 1949. While al-Banna’s immediate
successor would return the movement to a more didactic focus, to this
day there remains a tension within the organisation between those who
emphasise its reformist and spiritual goals and those, typically younger
generations, inclined toward more overtly political activism.
Throughout the Brotherhood’s history a tension has existed
between its local and international objectives. Al-Banna’s concept of
the Islamic nation transcended political boundaries and he had as a
goal the restoration of the Caliphate. By the 1940s the Brotherhood had
established branches throughout the Arab world, including in Jordan,
Syria, Palestine, Kuwait, Sudan and Yemen, most of which still exist
today. And many of the region’s Islamist organisations — and indeed
some beyond the region — emerged from Brotherhood beginnings or
inspiration, including the Palestinian Hamas, an-Nahda in Tunisia, the
14
National Islamic Front in Sudan and the Movement of Islamic Youth

(ABIM) in Malaysia. Indeed the Muslim Brotherhood describes as
much a specific sociopolitical movement as a more general intellectual
tendency or current within Islamism.26
Yet the Egyptian Brotherhood and its various offshoots could never
quite escape national boundaries. While sharing the same general
intellectual or ideological approach of the parent organisation, most
became preoccupied with the issues and politics of their own states,
adapting their agendas and methods to suit local needs.27 Indeed, a
press report in late 2004 suggested that the Egyptian headquarters of the
movement was even considering finally disbanding the Brotherhood’s
international organisation, which has been targeted as a part of the
war on terror.28 There are exceptions, however, which we shall deal
with in greater detail in the next chapter. Most notable among them
are the Qatar based Muslim Brother and tele-Islamist, Sheikh Yousef
al-Qaradawi and other Muslim Brothers who, usually because of state
repression, left their home countries in the Middle East and became
roving Islamists working for transnational Islamic (usually Saudi)
organisations.
Radicalism and revolution
By the time of al-Banna’s death, the Brotherhood had become the

principle articulator and standard-bearer of Egyptian mass grievances.29
In this role it competed and sometimes cooperated with the Egyptian
nationalists led by Muhammed Naguib and Gamal Abd al-Nasser. When
the latter seized power in 1952, al-Banna’s successors in the Brotherhood
welcomed the revolutionaries as ‘sons of the Egyptian people’.30 It was
inevitable, however, that the Nationalists would eventually dismantle
the Brotherhood as the only significant competition for the hearts and
minds of ordinary Egyptians. Following an attempt on Nasser’s life,
the movement was officially dissolved by the government in 1954, its
members arrested, hanged or exiled; though the movement was never
completely eradicated (and over its history has gone through cycles of
tolerance and government repression). This confrontation between the
15
state and Islamism coincided with a radicalisation of both ideas and

activism reflected in the writings of one of the Brotherhood’s most
influential and controversial sons, Sayyid Qutb.
Contemporary interest in Qutb, driven by perceptions of a direct line
between his thought and that of al-Qaeda, makes much of the disgust
he expressed for American society following a study visit he made to
the United States in the late 1940s. While this visit was undoubtedly
important in the development of his ideas, the crucible of Qutb’s
radical thought seems less the licentious streets of New York than the
harsh prisons of Cairo. With the Brotherhood driven underground in
the 1950s and 60s and many of its members imprisoned and tortured,
any thought of a modus vivendi with the new Egyptian regime had
disappeared. When Muslim Brothers began emerging from prison in the
early 1960s many remained keen to continue the reformist approach
of al-Banna. Qutb however, offered a more incendiary alternative for
those who, like him, had suffered at the hands of Nasser’s prison guards
and interrogators.
It was in the stark and desperate prison environment that Qutb
wrote what arguably became radical Islamism’s most influential
political manifesto, Ma’alim fi al-Tariq (‘Signposts along the Way’).
Whether Qutb intended it as an Islamist version of Lenin’s ‘What is
to be Done’ is debatable. Nevertheless, ‘Signposts’ would have a lasting
impact on Islamist movements worldwide, a testimony to the force of its
ideas and its electric, yet accessible, literary style. Despite its apparent
timelessness, it is worth remembering that Qutb’s thought was both
a product of particular historical and personal circumstances and
unfinished, cut short by his execution in 1966. The fact that an extreme
current used Qutb’s writings as a basis for violent strategies was as much
about how they chose to interpret and develop his unfinished ideas as
what he wrote.31 Qutb did, however, put some powerful weapons in
their hands.
Central to Qutb’s thesis was the notion of an Islamic state elaborated
from the writings of the Pakistani Islamist thinker, Abu al-A’la Maududi.
Parallel to al-Banna’s formation of the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt
in the 1930s and 40s, Maududi had been evolving his own ideas and
16
strategy for achieving an Islamic state. Responding to what he saw as

the empty nationalism of Mohammed Ali Jinnah’s Muslim League, he
argued that what the subcontinent’s Muslims needed was not a state of
Muslims, but an Islamic state ruled according to, and by those steeped
in, the true principles of Islam. For Maududi a truly Islamic state was
one that recognised only the sovereignty of God (hakimiya), worshipped
God alone, and implemented His law, the shari’a. Anything short of
this was jahiliya — a term often taken to refer to the historical period
of ignorance that had existed prior to the Prophet’s preaching of Islam,
though it can also be translated as barbarism.32
The idea of jahiliya formed the cornerstone of Qutb’s polemic. He
developed and extended the term beyond Maududi’s usage, defining all
the societies of his era as being in a state of jahiliya. This applied to
communist societies and the West most obviously. Yet the real drama in
Qutb’s elaboration of the concept was not his labelling of the West as
jahili — an idea most Islamists of his time would have readily accepted
— but his use of it to condemn his own nominally Muslim society and,
in particular, its rulers. For Qutb, it was not enough for Muslims in a
given society to be individually pious. Islam was a total system rather
than just a religion and therefore any society was jahili if its complete
way of life was not based solely on total submission to God. While not
referring specifically to Egypt, the import of Qutb’s ideas were clear.
God’s sovereignty had been usurped in Egypt by the Nasserite state and
it had established itself as the object of the people’s worship. Society
had submitted to this alternative earthly authority and had derived
from it, rather than from God, ‘its laws and its values, its standards’ its
‘customs and traditions’ and almost every practice of life.33
Qutb saw Islam and jahili society as two systems in fundamental
opposition to each other, each fighting for total victory. Jahiliya reflected
the sovereignty of humans and Islam entailed the sovereignty of God.34
No compromise or coexistence between the two was possible; indeed,
he argued that jahili institutions and rulers actively worked against
Islam. Qutb was not, however, merely substituting the dictatorship of
God for the dictatorship of man. Islam for him was a liberating and
just religion. The battle between Islam and jahiliya was, therefore, a
17
battle between civilisation and barbarism. Qutb argued that jahili

society was both an obstacle to society’s true happiness through Islam
and inherently oppressive; it was in his words ‘un-Islamic and illegal’.35
Only in societies where God alone was sovereign and Islam and its laws
were applied and accepted in full could humankind find true freedom,
dignity and social justice.
Both Maududi and Qutb proposed the radical transformation of their
own societies. Maududi’s ideas were, however, pursued largely through
parliamentary and party political activism, through the Jama’at-e-
Islami which he founded in prepartition India in 1941. By contrast Qutb
provided — intentionally or otherwise — a discourse for revolutionary
activism. In ‘Signposts’ he argued that jahili society had to be confronted
and swept away. The first step was personal purification, ridding oneself
of the corrupting influences of jahili ideas and contemplating the true
meaning of Islam. Once this had occurred a movement was necessary
to overthrow jahili society led by a vanguard of true and committed
Muslims.36 Qutb argued that preaching and persuasion to reform ideas
and beliefs — the traditional approach of the Brotherhood — would
not be enough. ‘Physical power’ and ‘jihad’ were also needed.37 If for
al-Banna an Islamic system was achieved from below — that is from
the Islamisation of society through reform — for Qutb it could only be
achieved from above, by directly removing the jahili system that stood
in Islam’s way.
Qutb was executed before he could spell out the full implications of
his ideas and, as a result, a number of different readings of his work
emerged.38 Within the Brotherhood his ideas proved controversial and
an allegorical interpretation was promoted by the leadership, with
Qutb’s notion of jahiliya seen to imply only a spiritual rather than
militant rupture with society.39 In 1969 the Supreme Guide of the
Brotherhood, Hasan al-Hudaybi, published Du’ah, la Qudah (‘Preachers
not Judges’), which, while not mentioning ‘Signposts’ specifically, was
an effort to distance the Brotherhood from the more radical dimensions
of Qutb’s thinking and to reassert the movement’s focus on preaching
and education.40
A radical reading was, however, adopted by a younger and more
18
extreme Islamist current in Egypt (and elsewhere in the Middle East)

who elaborated the most serious implication of Qutb’s writings — that
of takfir. This is the declaration in Islamic jurisprudence that a nominal
Muslim has become apostate and therefore potentially licit to be killed.
Takfir has traditionally been the preserve of established religious jurists
and when applied was done cautiously and very selectively. Qutb’s
articulation of the concept of jahiliya helped, however, to create the
basis for a wider and less discriminate usage by potentially branding
everyone in society as impious. This was not just a break with the
mainstream Brotherhood’s view but also with the traditional aversion
within Islam toward internal conflict or fitna. For most traditional
scholars and jurists, internal rebellion was worse than living under
even an unjust Muslim ruler. Qutb, however, provided a discourse that
envisaged as entirely legitimate a jihad against one’s own ruler, and
potentially against one’s own nominally Muslim society.
To the extent that a ‘Qutbist’ current of radical Islamism emerged
following his death, it was distinguished by the priority it gave to the
radical transformation of its own state and society, above and beyond
any desire to confront the West.41 In Egypt two of the most dramatic
elaborations of takfir were those of the radical Islamists Shukri Mustapha
and Mohammed Abd el-Salaam Faraj. Deciding that Qutb had meant that
every Muslim was impious, Mustapha applied takfir to society as a whole.
For him, therefore, the only option for a true Muslim was to physically
separate from jahili society. He took his followers off to live in caves in
Upper Egypt or in communal apartments where they would, in theory,
build up their strength until they were in a position to conquer jahili society
and establish true Islam.42 As Gilles Kepel has noted, what this extreme
and marginal sect in reality offered were answers to those disenchanted
elements from the lowest echelons of Egyptian society unsettled by social
and economic change in post-Nasser Egypt.43 Eventually Mustapha and
some of his followers fell foul of the authorities over the kidnapping and
killing of a former minister of religious endowments and were arrested
and, in some cases, executed.
By contrast Faraj applied takfir specifically to Egypt’s rulers. In a
polemic entitled al-Farida al-Ghaiba (‘The Neglected Duty’), he argued
19
that religious scholars were obliged to declare jihad against any Muslim
ruler who did not rule according to the principles of Islam.44 In Faraj’s
eyes the Egyptian President, Anwar Sadat, had demonstrated his impiety
by making peace with Israel and through his growing repression of
Islamists (after having reversed an earlier policy of encouraging them —
see below). Because Faraj believed that the religious establishment had
failed in its duty he took it upon himself to declare jihad against Sadat’s
regime. Indeed, he argued that jihad against the impious rulers took
precedence over the ‘liberation of Jerusalem’.45 Shortly after his tract
was published, Faraj and his organisation, Tanzim al-Jihad, assassinated
Sadat in October of 1981. It is not clear what the conspirators were
trying to achieve. Some undoubtedly saw it as a spark for a general
uprising and there was subsequent, though short lived, unrest in a few
Islamist strongholds in upper Egypt. But the spontaneous revolution did
not come and the conspirators, including Faraj himself, were executed
and large numbers of Islamists imprisoned.
Qutb’s ideas were not the only factor motivating these radical Islamists
toward revolt. As important, if not more so, were the social, political
and economic conditions of the time which provided both mainstream
Islamism and more extreme currents with an opportunity to gain broader
currency. Most notably, the catastrophic defeat of Arab states by Israel
in 1967 saw the apogee of nationalism as an ideology, and provoked a
major intellectual soul searching throughout the Arab world. This left
an ideological vacuum that Islamism could fill. Ironically, Islamism was
initially helped in this regard by some Arab regimes, most notably in
Egypt, where Islamists were encouraged on university campuses as a
counter to the threat posed by left wing radicals.
Socio-economic factors also helped to underpin the emergence
of more radical streams of Islamism. Throughout the 1950s and 60s
many Arab governments had encouraged a process of urbanisation,
had expanded educational opportunities and improved literacy levels.
Generally, however, they could not match this with the provision of
economic opportunities. A generation of young men who thought they
had — though often lacked in practice — the skills to expect a better
life grew disappointed and frustrated.46 The contrast of their lives to
20
the ‘corrupt’ and ‘westernised’ lives of the elites in their societies only
amplified their anger. This coincided with the rise of young, literate
Islamists able to articulate solutions — if somewhat simplistic ones —
to ordinary people’s problems in an Islamic vocabulary. Establishment
clerics, compromised by the need to expediently defend the state that
paid their salaries, were largely powerless to counter the message of
these new Islamist ideologues.
Despite the ferment in the Sunni world, it was in predominantly
Shi’ite Iran that Islamist radicalism, led by Ayatollah Ruhollah
Khomeini, would have its first major success. Khomeini transformed the
largely politically passive Shi’ite cosmology to produce a revolutionary
outlook. In doing so he picked up the intellectual threads of other
Iranian thinkers, notably Ali Shariati who had been influenced by
leftist and third world intellectuals, from Sartre to Franz Fanon. But
it was only when Khomeini, a respected member of the ulema, threw
his weight behind these ideas that they gained currency.47 Khomeini
proposed not just the overthrow of the Shah but his replacement by
the clergy embodied in his doctrine of velayat-e-faqih (clerical rule).
Khomeini’s real success, however, was less the articulation of a
coherent framework for an Islamic state than his ability to mobilise
— and at times manipulate — a broad, popular coalition of the Shah’s
opponents to seize power and retain it. As Ervand Abrahamian has
argued, Khomeini’s popular appeal was based less on the articulation
of a new religious theory of the state than a recognition of the everyday
social, economic and political concerns of ordinary Iranians. 48
Though we have chosen not to discuss Khomeini’s ideas in detail here,
because they are less relevant than Sunni Islamism in an Indonesian
context, it would be wrong to underestimate their significance and that
of the Iranian revolution. Together with Qutb and Maududi, Khomeini
stands as one of the three seminal theorist of radical Islamism. The
resonance of his ideas was reinforced by the overthrow of the Shah in
1979. But perhaps even more important was Iran’s active efforts, in
the aftermath of the revolution, to export its mixture of theology and
third world populism to the corners of the Islamic world. This included
Indonesia where the Iranian Embassy was very active in propagating
21
its revolutionary message. Indeed, despite the fact Indonesian Muslims

are overwhelmingly Sunni, Iranian organisations continue to sponsor
students to study at religious institutions in Iran and the writings of
Khomeini and other revolutionary thinkers are also still found on sale
in Jakarta.
Arab states feared that significant Shi’ite minorities in countries such
as Saudi Arabia, Bahrain and Lebanon, and the Shi’ite majority in Iraq,
would fall under the thrall of Iran’s revolutionary ideology, or that the
revolution might inspire radical Sunni Islamists. For Saudi Arabia, in
particular, the revolution was a threat on a number of levels. Apart from
concern about its own Shi’ite minority, Iran challenged Saudi Arabia’s
hegemony in the Muslim world, which derived from the Kingdom’s
financial largesse for Muslim causes and its custodianship of Islam’s two
holiest sites. This was not simply a question of honour for the al-Saud;
their Islamic role was critical to the ruling family’s domestic legitimacy,
built as it was on the Wahabist creed. In the end, though, it would only
be in Lebanon that Iran would be able to exert real influence.
Ideology would not be the only thing that Iran would export however.
It would become a major state sponsor of terrorism, through its
intelligence services, sub-contractors such as Hizballah and clients like
Palestinian Islamic Jihad. In the West — and for the US in particular,
still smarting from the seizure of its embassy in Tehran by revolutionary
students — Khomeini’s rise provoked fears of a radical Islamist wave
sweeping the Middle East. Indeed it was in large part as a result of the
revolution and Iran’s vigorous support for revolutionaries and terrorists
beyond its shores that a new word entered the popular lexicon in the
West — jihad.
The many meanings of jihad
Perhaps no single term has come to be as associated with Islamism

as jihad. Among scholars of Islam — Muslim and non-Muslim — it
provokes debate as to its true meaning. It is often divided into the
greater and lesser jihad, the former being the personal struggle for
a perfect spiritual life and the latter involving essentially everything
22
from missionary activity to holy war. In the context of our discussion

of Islamism, however, armed jihad has typically separated mainstream
from radical or more militant groups. But even among the latter, jihad
often reflects distinct purposes. As we saw above, for much of the last
century in Egypt and other countries of the Middle East, jihad typically
meant armed struggle — whether in the form of insurgency or terrorism
— against impious rulers (or in particular cases, violence directed at
Israel). The 1980s and 90s would, however, see the term applied to a
distinct struggle focused not on internal conflicts within the Muslim
community, but the defence of the umma against two external enemies,
the Soviet Union in Afghanistan and Israel.
The Soviet invasion of Afghanistan in 1979 would ultimately become
central to the evolution of Islamism, both radical and state-sponsored.
For Saudi Arabia, in particular, it provided an opportunity to fight
communism, a key ideological opponent of the Saudi state, but also to
address the Iranian challenge. Saudi Arabia saw its material support of
the jihad as a way to buttress its Islamic credentials. It hoped that by
encouraging radical Islamists in the region to go to Afghanistan it could
divert their energies from revolution at home, an objective the Saudis
shared with other regimes in the region, notably Egypt. The Saudis
were not of course alone in the support for the Afghan jihad. Their
efforts had been encouraged and facilitated by the United States, keen
to bleed the Soviets in Afghanistan. Pakistan too played a critical role
for its own political and strategic reasons.
In its effort to channel men and money toward the Afghan jihad,
Saudi authorities often relied on Muslim Brothers from around the Arab
world, many of whom had found refuge or employment in Saudi Arabia
in the 1960s and 70s after fleeing repression in their own countries.
Among these was Abdullah Azzam, a Palestinian–Jordanian Muslim
Brother, who would go on to become perhaps the central figure within
foreign jihadist circles in Afghanistan. Azzam played a critical role in the
training and deployment of foreign jihadists, notably through Maktab
al-Khidamat (Office of Services) which he ran with Saudi backing in
Peshawar. But more importantly Azzam was a tireless and effective
polemicist for a jihad that, at least initially, seemed peripheral to Islamists
23
in the Middle East, preoccupied as most were with either the struggle
against their own apostate regimes or the Israeli–Palestinian conflict.
Azzam had a formal Islamic education, having received a doctorate
from al-Azhar University in Cairo. The weight of this training can be
felt in the legalistic tone of his most famous polemics, Ilhaq bil Qaafila
(‘Join the Caravan’) and Defa’a aan Araadi al-Muslimeen (‘Defence of
Muslim Lands’)49. Azzam argued that Islamic jurists had documented
that the lands of the Muslims were ‘like a single land’ and therefore all
Muslims had an obligation to rally to the defence of any part of that
land, including in this case Afghanistan. He defined the jihad against
the Soviets as fard ayn — an individual obligation on all Muslims.
(Interestingly the Saudi clerical establishment which provided financial,
spiritual and juridical backing for the jihad only defined it as fard kifaya
— a collective obligation, fulfilled by the Islamic community provided at
least some Muslims were performing it).50
For Azzam the jihad in Afghanistan was, however, more significant than
simply the fight to repel the Soviets. Azzam argued that the obligation of
jihad did not end with victory over the Soviets in Afghanistan but extended
until all former Muslim lands had been liberated from ‘Andalusia’ to the
Philippines. Moreover, jihad was not just a means toward an end but an
end in itself, an idea that would be echoed in al-Qaeda’s spectacular though
seemingly nihilistic acts of violence. In a polemic entitled al-Qaeda al-
Sulbah (‘The Solid Base’), which is sometimes seen as an early manifesto
for al-Qaeda, Azzam argued that every principle or ideology needed a
vanguard to carry it forward to victory.51 Such a movement required,
however, to mature through trial by fire.52 For Azzam the Afghan jihad
provided just such an opportunity for training and preparation which he
likened to the Prophet’s 13 year period of contemplation in Mecca before
he set out to propagate Islam.
In many respects Azzam was less an ideologue than a chronicler of
a particular mindset or experience. Notions of jihad and of the Muslim
umma were hardly new, but Azzam and the Islamist internationals
lived these ideas. Whatever their ultimate, and probably minor role,
in the victory over the Soviets, the foreign jihadists could lay claim to
have participated in a real jihad. They left their former professions and
24
took up the fight against Islam’s enemies in a harsh and distant land.
Mixing with other Muslims from North Africa, the Gulf and Southeast
Asia reinforced the idea of a common fight for a common community.
The time they spent in Afghanistan provided practical opportunities
for military training, indoctrination and for the establishment of
international networks.
This is not to say that all those who came to Afghanistan were
entirely inspired by notions of jihad in the cause of the umma. For some
jihadists, Afghanistan provided a useful opportunity to hone their skills
for what remained in their mind as the jihad of first priority, the fight
against their own impious rulers. Ayman al-Zawahiri — a leader of
Faraj’s reconstituted Tanzim al-Jihad or, as it became known, Egyptian
Islamic Jihad and later a key member of al-Qaeda — saw Afghanistan
above all as a secure base for jihadist training and activism. This, he said,
was lacking in Egypt where Islamists like himself were constantly being
hunted by the security forces. For al-Zawahiri Afghanistan provided an
‘incubator’ for the jihadist movement, where it could grow and ‘acquire
practical experience in combat, politics and organisational matters’.53
One of the by-products of the Afghan conflict was the militarisation
of the struggle between radical Islamists and governments in the Middle
East. In Egypt and Algeria, in particular, so-called ‘Arab-Afghans’
returned equipped with both martial skills and confidence in what
could be achieved through jihad. In Algeria, the violence that would
leave some 100 000 dead erupted after the army’s cancellation in 1992
of legislative elections that the Islamist Front Islamique du Salut (FIS)
looked set to win. A torrent of violence was unleashed by a variety of
groups. Some, such as the armed wing of the FIS, the Armee Islamique
du Salut (AIS), pursued an effort to overthrow the regime. Others,
most notably the Groupe Islamique Arme (GIA), were more interested
in physically compelling ‘good’ and driving out ‘evil’ among Algerian
Muslims.54 The latter would be responsible for much of the terror
directed against civilians that would see, among other things, the killing
of women who refused to wear the hijab.
In Egypt, radical Islamists had in the aftermath of Sadat’s assassination
regrouped into two currents: Egyptian Islamic Jihad that tended to
25
focus its violence directly at the regime; and the more broadly based al-
Gama’a al-Islamiyah that undertook both violent jihad and a campaign
of popular mobilisation. The latter would, at one stage, establish a short
lived Islamic liberated zone in a poor neighbourhood of Cairo (a tactic
common among Islamist groups whereby they exploit the inability of
central governments to provide basic services among the urban poor).
From the late 1980s the conflict between radical Islamists and the state
would progressively become more violent and by the 1990s a campaign of
terror and assassination was in full swing directed, against government
officials, secular intellectuals, Egyptian Christians and tourists.
A key figure among al-Gama’a al-Islamiyah was its spiritual head,
the so called blind Sheikh Omar Abd al-Rahman. Like Azzam, he too
had been a prominent recruiter for the Afghan jihad (though, like al-
Zawahiri, he had already been a prominent actor in the confrontation
between radical Islamists and the Egyptian government before going to
Afghanistan). Abd al-Rahman was a religious scholar, having once been
a professor at the Upper Egypt faculty of Cairo’s al-Azhar University. He
used that training to provide religious opinions and fiery sermons, often
circulated by cassette tape, justifying the acts of violence undertaken by
the militants. For example, he legitimised attacks on tourists by arguing
that they promoted debauchery and alcoholism among Egyptian
Muslims.55 He would eventually be arrested in the United States for his
role in the 1993 World Trade Centre bombing.
Despite considerable bloodshed, terrorist groups in Egypt and
Algeria failed to dislodge the ruling regimes. Both governments
employed repression to crush the militants with thousands killed,
arrested or forced into exile. Moreover, terrorism had proven entirely
counter productive, alienating the broader population which was often
among the victims of the violence, particularly in Algeria. In Egypt the
targeting of foreign tourists had clearly been intended to deprive the
government of a major source of national income. But it also served to
deprive ordinary Egyptians, many of whom relied directly or indirectly
on tourism for their own income. This failure, among others, would
ultimately prompt Islamists to reassess their strategies, a reassessment
that shall be discussed in our next chapter.
26
Afghanistan was not the only jihad against an ‘external enemy’. In

Lebanon in the 1980s, and in the Palestinian territories in the late 1980s
and the 1990s, essentially nationalist struggles were given an Islamist
hue by the entry of Hizballah (in Lebanon) and Hamas and Palestinian
Islamic Jihad (in the Palestinian territories) into these respective
conflicts. The Palestinian struggle, in particular, captured the attention
of much of the Islamic world (including Indonesia). Hamas evolved
out of a decision by a group of Palestinian Muslim Brothers to drop
their passive role in the Israeli–Palestinian conflict, and join the first
uprising or Intifada against Israel that began in 1987. While sharing the
Brotherhood’s broader goals for the Islamisation of Palestinian society,
this essentially took a back seat to the struggle for the establishment
of a Palestinian state over the whole territory that comprised mandate
Palestine (in other words, the eradication of the Israeli state). Hamas
opposed the Oslo Agreement reached between Israel and the Palestine
Liberation Organisation in 1993 which ultimately envisaged a two state
solution and, with the advent of the second Intifada in 2000, its role in
Palestinian politics and society continued to strengthen.
Hamas gained particular notoriety for employing suicide bombers
against Israeli targets, often against civilians. Suicide bombings are
not uniquely Islamic, nor did the tactic originate among Palestinian
Islamists. The Tamil Tigers, whose recruits are predominantly Hindu
and whose ideology includes elements of Marxism and Leninism, often
employed the tactic; indeed from 1980–2001 they used it more than
any other single organisation in the world.56 Prior to Hamas’ adoption
of the practice, the Lebanese Hizballah drew on Shi’ite traditions of
self sacrifice to justify such attacks as an act of martyrdom, using them
to devastating effect against US and other foreign forces in Lebanon
in the 1980s. And while Sunni scholars subsequently issued religious
opinions sanctioning the practice — if selectively57 — it has also been
employed by secular groups in the Middle East. Nevertheless, the
linkage of suicide bombing with the Palestinian struggle — whether in
religious or nationalist terms — had undoubtedly provided the tactic
with added resonance which, as we shall see in Chapter Four, is today
felt as far as Indonesia.
27
Chapter 2
The politics of failure
Introduction
In the period from 1979 to 1992 Islamism could list some tangible
achievements. Islamists had come to power in Iran (1979), Sudan (1989)
and Afghanistan (1992, when Kabul fell to the Afghan mujahideen).
The FIS seemed on the verge of winning Algeria’s parliamentary
elections (1992), while the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt had won
seats in Egypt’s parliament and had taken control of large segments of
civil society, notably professional associations and syndicates. Yet what
appeared, at the beginning of the 1990s, to be an unstoppable Islamist
wave had, by the end of the decade, largely crested, prompting some
commentators to pronounce — albeit unfashionably at the time — the
failure of political Islam.58 In both Egypt and Algeria, radical Islamism’s
advance had been deflected by the drastic actions of ruling regimes,
while more mainstream movements such as the Muslim Brotherhood
also faced repression. Islamism’s ‘victorious’ foreign legion, which
had helped to force the Soviet Union out of Afghanistan, was largely
abandoned by its sponsors and Afghan veterans often faced repression
when they returned to their home countries by governments nervous
about their ideas and new found military skills.
Even those countries in which Islamists had come to power offered

at best limited models of an Islamic state, far from the utopias promised
by Islamism’s polemics.59 In Iran the regime had increasingly turned
inward, forced to deal with its own crumbling legitimacy and the social,
political and economic challenges of running a modern state. In Sudan
it had been a military coup rather than a broad based revolution that
had given the Islamist Hassan al-Turabi a share of power and that
same military would dispense with him unceremoniously in 1999.
In Afghanistan, the mujahideen who seized Kabul proved incapable
of overcoming their divisions and an Islamist mutation, the Taliban,
was later welcomed to power by Afghans as a relief from the post-
Soviet chaos. But those same Afghans were as relieved, if not more so,
when the Taliban were removed from power by a US led international
coalition in 2002.
Failure prompted a reassessment and reorientation by many Islamist
groups in the Middle East. As Olivier Roy has argued, Islamism in this
period reached a crossroads. Islamists could choose between two distinct,
if broad, trajectories.60 Some would opt for political normalisation or
accomodation with the states in which they lived; in effect deciding
to play by the rules of the political game. Unsurprisingly, these have
typically been Islamists who retained the strongest links with their own
societies. As Marc Sageman has noted, their ‘embeddedness’ tended to
make them sensitive to local criticism and more preoccupied with the
worldy concerns of their domestic constituencies.61
Others, however, would drift toward what Roy has called ‘neo-
fundamentalism’ that encompasses a broad range of groups sharing a
conservative, literalist approach to Islam, but whose activism ranges
from the reform of religious practices (salafism) to, in extreme cases,
ultra-violent terrorism (jihadist-salafism).62 What neo-fundamentalists
also have in common is that they bypass the nation state and focus on
individual Muslims and on a supranational, if largely virtual, umma.
Unsurprisingly, it has largely been the up-rooted and the dislocated
who have drifted toward neo-fundamentalism which, in the case of
salafism, provides a religious ‘code of conduct’ and a supra-national
generic Muslim identity that functions in any time or place, or, in the
30
THE POLITICS OF FAILURE
case of jihadist-salafism, provides perpetual jihad in the cause of the

global umma.63
An accommodation with the state
From the mid-1990s onward, Islamists in Egypt and Algeria began

confronting the strategic failure of their respective campaigns of
violence and terrorism. In Egypt, leading figures of al-Gama’a al-
Islamiyah began to call publicly for a halt to armed attacks and in 1999
the movement proclaimed a cease fire that has held to this day. Most
dramatically, in 2002 the movement’s imprisoned leaders published
four volumes of self criticism and ideological revision. This saw an
apology for and renunciation of past violence, and the abandonment
of the group’s opposition to party politics and democracy. Indeed in
subsequent interviews key al-Gama’a al-Islamiyah leaders called on
Muslim youth to refrain from participation in operations by al-Qaeda.64
The reassessment was, in part, attributed to extensive religious study
by leaders of the movement who, it was argued, came to understand the
inconsistency of their actions with Islam.65 But there seems little doubt
that the major factor behind it was government repression and the
strategic failure of their campaign of terrorism. Most of the movement’s
members had either been killed in confrontations with the security
forces, were in prison or forced into exile. Even more importantly, as
noted in the previous chapter, the gradual escalation of violence through
the 1990s had alienated many ordinary Egyptians.
A similar reassessment was evident in Algeria. In 1995 those
elements of the FIS that had not drifted into extremist groups signalled
a change of direction by committing to the ‘Rome Peace Platform’
which renounced violence as a way of achieving power and embraced
pluralism.66 While the Rome process was ultimately inconclusive,
it reflected the FIS’s revisitation of both its strategy and ideology,
including a cornerstone of radical Islamist thought: the notion that
democracy is un-Islamic. Despite its participation in national elections,
the FIS had originally taken the Qutbist view of an Islamic state in
which sovereignty belonged to God alone.67 This obviously foreclosed
31
the possibility of a democratic system in which sovereignty was vested

in the people. Indeed, in all likelihood, had the FIS come to power
in 1992 Algeria’s nascent democracy would have been one of the
early casualties. Since the mid-1990s, the FIS has begun speaking of
democracy as entirely compatible with its revised notion of an Islamic
state. Such a state is seen as one whose reference is to Islam but whose
sovereignty is vested in the people.68 Underlining its preoccupation
with its own state and society, this revision also includes acceptance
of the Algerian state as opposed to the classic Islamist view of modern
states as artificial constructs that serve only to divide the umma.69
In assessing these developments there is naturally a danger of
mistaking a tactical manoeuvre for a genuine ideological shift. The
reassessment undertaken by al-Gama’a al-Islamiyah and the FIS
undoubtedly represents an effort to get back into the political game.
Moreover the overt disavowal of al-Qaeda’s actions is hardly surprising
given the consequences of the ‘war on terror’ for Islamist groups around
the world. As acknowledged by one of the key figures in al-Gama’a al-
Islamiyah’s turnabout, Montasser al-Zayyat, the attacks of 11 September
2001 have seen Islamists everywhere subject to greater pressure and
repression. He neatly mirrors the West’s perception of the globalisation
of terrorism, by seeing today the ‘globalisation of security’ in which the
West is working with Arab regimes to ‘round up’ Islamists.70
Nonetheless, even if the shift is entirely tactical, it is not insignificant.
As one Algerian Islamist has noted, by rejecting democracy as apostasy,
all the FIS did was provide a pretext for the Algerian military to abort
elections and the Western world to look the other way; that democracy
is no longer a heresy simply reflects political realism.71 Both the FIS
and al-Gama’a al-Islamiyah recognise that there is still a constituency
in their respective countries for their Islamist project. But at least
for the moment, they seem to understand that strategies of violence
provide limited scope for mobilising that constituency. Thus some
within these movements advocate a return to a focus on da’wa. Their
overt renunciation of al-Qaeda’s campaign of terror can also be seen
in a similar vein. As al-Zayyat notes, his rejection of bin Laden’s
approach does not mean that he disagrees with his complaints against
32
the United States and the West, simply that he sees his approach as
counter productive.72 But the fact that he sees it as counter productive
is in itself significant. As we will see in a moment, this concern for
more worldly political ends contrasts with al-Qaeda’s more utopian (or
nihilistic) notion of jihad as an end in itself.
It was not just the violent current among Islamist groups that began
to revisit their ideas and activism in the 1990s. Throughout the 1980s
and 90s the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt had continued to pursue a
peaceful mission of religious preaching combined with civic activism, in
particular, establishing a presence in areas where the central government
was weak. Most notably it had sent a younger generation of activists
to infiltrate Egypt’s professional syndicates and associations which,
by the early 1990s, were mostly under the Brotherhood’s control. The
movement also focused on social activism, often highlighting the gaps
and inefficiences in the services provided by the central bureacracy. For
example, in 1992, the Brotherhood’s well organised response to the Cairo
earthquake stood in stark contrast to the role played by cumbersome
government agencies.73 Yet the Brotherhood’s fortunes remained subject
to the whims of the Egyptian regime. When the latter changed its approach
from tolerance of mainstream Islamists in the 1980s to ‘zero tolerance’
for all Islamist movements in the 1990s, the Brotherhood’s advances were
rolled back.74 In a major crackdown in 1994, some 80 of the movement’s
leading members were arrested and new rules were introduced to erode
its control over professional syndicates.
Within the Brotherhood a younger generation began to agitate for
change. They had grown impatient with the Brotherhood’s gradualist
and more religiously oriented activism. They advocated a more overtly
political though still non-violent approach, including the establishment
of a political party, a direction long opposed by the older generation
leadership. The younger generation were also frustrated by the
undemocratic internal structure of the Brotherhood which had enabled
the historic leadership to block their efforts at change.75 As a result, a
number of Brothers broke from the movement and attempted to register
a political party under the title Hizb al-Wasat (the Centre Party). The
Egyptian government refused registration of the party a number of
33
times, portraying it simply as a stalking horse for the Brotherhood. Yet

despite this failure and its currently marginal role in Egyptian politics,
Hizb al-Wasat represents a significant evolution of Islamist politics and
bears some consideration.
Hizb al-Wasat’s leaders were heavily influenced by the ideas of a
group of Egyptian Islamic intellectuals including Yousef al-Qaradawi,
Kamal Abul Magd, Tariq al-Bishri and Muhammed Salim al-Awa,
dubbed by some the ‘Wasatiyya’ (the ‘centrists’).76 While holding a
diverse range of views, what unites these thinkers is their effort to place
contemporary problems faced by Muslims and, in particular, notions
such as democracy, civil society, human rights and the nation state,
in an Islamic context. They represent an evolution of the mainstream
Islamist ideas of the Brotherhood together with a rejection of the more
radical approaches of the militants. This is, however, qualified at times
as reflected in Yousef al-Qaradawi’s support of the insurgency in Iraq
and of Palestinian suicide bombings against Israeli citizens. Among
other things, the Wasatiyya have promoted the idea of an Islamic
democracy (Qaradawi), and the notion that Islam as a civilisation
provides a foundation for an inclusive and pluralist national project
(Abul Magd).
The latter became a key component of Hizb al-Wasat’s platform and
marked it as an important break with the Muslim identity politics of the
Brotherhood.77 Hizb al-Wasat distinguished between Islam as a religion,
which by definition excludes non-Muslims, and Islam as a civilisation,
which includes all its members, Muslim and non-Muslim alike. This is
not to imply that the party rejected Islam as a religion; a religious Islam
remained a key referent within its platform. Rather the party argued
in a positive way that Islamic civilisation provided for and protected
the rights of all those in society including those of other faiths.78 This
commitment to a broader notion of Islamic civilisation was reflected
in the inclusion of three Egyptian Christians among the new party’s
membership. Consistent with this theme of Islamic civilisation, the
movement called for democratic elections, attempted to reconcile shari’a
with parliamentary rule and advocated the rights of minorities.79
As important as its ideas was Hizb al-Wasat’s preference for a more
34
overtly political activism. The movement’s leaders made clear theirs

was an explicitly political project distinct from the broader preaching
mission of the Brotherhood. In part, this preference emerged as a result
of their experience in the professional syndicates that the Brotherhood’s
leadership had sent them to infiltrate. In these organisations they ran
for and won office and operated essentially as they would in a political
party, even though this was not their original intention.80 They also
found themselves supported by people who, in the first instance, weren’t
necessarily sympathetic to the Islamic cause, thereby providing an
independent and broader constituency from that of the Brotherhood.81
In other words these activists, sent to Islamise these organisations, were
instead politicised, setting them on a path that would ultimately lead to
Hizb al-Wasat.
Whereas for Hassan al-Banna politics was a necessary sphere of
activity insofar as it served the Muslim Brotherhood’s broader goals of
Islamising society, for the leaders of Hizb al-Wasat politics is the core
activity for which they are prepared to subordinate or adapt Islamist
ideology. In this respect their advocacy of Islam as a civilisation may
well be genuine but it is also convenient in terms of attracting a broader
base of support. This is not to say that Hizb al-Wasat has given up
on Islamism and become entirely pragmatic. For example, the party’s
platform on issues such as the role of women is not very far removed
from the views of the Brotherhood.82 But where the revolutionary
project of groups like al-Gama’a al-Islamiyah and even the gradualist
project of the Brotherhood sought to completely transform if not
transcend the Egyptian nation state, substituting an Islamic variant,
Hizb al-Wasat seeks a role for itself within the existing state akin to
other political actors.
Al-Wasat is not the only Islamist movement seeking political
integration. Perhaps the most salutary example — and one not lost
on other Islamist movements around the world — is in Turkey where
the Justice and Development Party is today in power after its own
reassessment of its Islamist underpinnings, having watched its more
Islamist predecessor, the Refah Party, forced out of politics. Islamist
parties have also entered parliaments in Jordan, Kuwait and Bahrain,
35
content to pursue their objectives within the boundaries imposed by

what Daniel Brumberg has called ‘liberalising autocracies’; in part
because they know that to trespass these limits is usually counter
productive.83 In Algeria, Islamist parties such as Harakat al-Nahda
and the Movement for National Reform have been allowed to stand
for elections and have absorbed much of the still banned FIS’ electoral
constituency. The implications of this are undoubtedly not lost on either
these parties or the FIS; that is, if you play by the political rules, or bend
them only gradually, you are more likely to be successful.
None of this is to suggest that Islamist groups operating in a national
context have irrevocably abandoned violence. Future generations
of Islamist militants could well return to violence, particularly if the
avenues for political expression remain closed or limited.84 Moreover,
there remain contemporary examples of Islamists operating in a national
context that continue to employ terrorism. In Saudi Arabia a violent
current of the diverse Islamist opposition has established itself as a local
franchise of al-Qaeda; though significantly it strikes not at the regime
but at the West, echoing al-Qaeda’s global strategy.85 The Lebanese
Hizballah and the Palestinian Islamist groups Hamas and Palestinian
Islamic Jihad (PIJ) also continue to see violence and terrorism as a
successful part of their respective strategies, though even in these cases
violence has at times been modulated by political calculations. Hamas,
for example, has in the past been willing to halt attacks against Israel
when it felt that these were not serving its political interests within its
Palestinian constituency. Moreover, both Hamas and PIJ are participants
in a struggle that is not uniquely Islamic and was pioneered by secular
Palestinian nationalists. Much of the violence in Iraq can also been seen
in a similar, largely nationalist context.
Revisiting the global
If, as the foregoing illustrates, many Islamist groups have reconciled

themselves to essentially national, or even nationalist, pursuits, others
have continued along an internationalist path, in particular exploiting
the technical opportunities provided by globalisation to reach a
36
supranational Muslim audience. Two prominent examples are the

Qatar based tele-Islamist Yousef al-Qaradawi and another offshoot of
the Muslim Brotherhood, Hizb ut-Tahrir.
Currently al-Qaradawi is, arguably, the Muslim world’s most
influential Islamist figure, a function of the broad appeal of his ideas
and the methods he uses to spread them. We have already noted the
role that al-Qaradawi has played as a leading light of the so called
Wasatiyya stream of Islamist thinkers. Al-Qaradawi’s subjects range
from international politics to more everyday questions (including
whether singing and cinema are illicit in Islam — he says they are licit).
The fact that his sermons are topical, contemporary and delivered in an
accessible language has undoubtedly helped to enhance his influence
in the Muslim world. Categorising his ideas is difficult, however. Some
Muslims (and some in the West) have labelled him a dangerous radical,
while he is regularly denounced by salafists for being too liberal.86 He
condemned al-Qaeda’s terrorism but defends the rights of Hamas to
carry out terrorist attacks against Israeli civilians and for insurgents
in Iraq to attack the US led coalition. He actively promotes Muslim–
Christian dialogue, but does not extent this to Jews.
Al-Qaradawi’s broad appeal is, however, as much about medium as it
is message. As the host of a popular Islamic program on the Qatar based
Arabic satellite channel al-Jazeera but also via the internet, books, audio
and video cassettes — many of them translated — he has been able to
reach and establish a major following, from the Middle East and Africa,
to Southeast Asia and the Balkans. In some respects his views seem to
reflect a convenient populism. Nonetheless the significance of his ideas
lies in the precedence they give to an individual’s religious identity.
Thus, for example, in promoting democracy he reconciles it with Islam
— arguing that it is enshrined in the Qur’an, in the form of shura
(consultation) — rather than with the political culture or traditions of
particular countries in which Muslims live.
While a more marginal phenomenon than al-Qaradawi, Hizb ut-
Tahrir also addresses a global Muslim audience. Established in 1953
by Sheikh Taqi al-Din al-Nabhani (1909–1977) as an off-shoot of
the Palestinian Muslim Brotherhood, it is an explicitly revolutionary
37
political party with Islam as its ideology.87 From the start, however, the
movement saw the Israeli–Palestinian conflict as merely symptomatic of
the broader conflict between the Islamic and non-Islamic worlds. It has
as its goal the restoration of the Islamic caliphate and explicity endorses
the ‘clash of civilisations’ thesis. While there have been allegations of
involvement by Hizb ut-Tahrir members in terrorism (in Central Asia,
for example), officially the movement claims to be non-violent.
While originally established in Jerusalem, the party has established a
number of branches outside the Middle East where it has been banned
by most governments. The organisation — or possibly one faction of it
— is prominent in London (where it may be linked to the Muhajiroun
movement88), while branches also operate in central Asia and, as will
be discussed in Chapter Four, in Indonesia. Like al-Qaradawi, Hizb
ut-Tahrir uses the opportunity provided by globalisation to promote a
Muslim identity stripped of any particular cultural or national context.
In Britain, for example, the party rejects any forms of integration into
British society contrasting, superficially, ‘British’ values against ‘Islamic’
ones.89 Unlike al-Qaradawi, however, it links this identity with a much
more specific, political objective — restoration of the Caliphate.
But if there is an Islamic tendancy which is best suited to exploiting
the opportunities offered by globalisation it is salafism.90 Salafism
describes less a coherent movement or ideology than an approach to
Islam. Salafists refer to it as a manhaj — a methodology for implementing
the beliefs and principles of Islam. As one salafi writer states, salafism
is ‘neither of one nation nor of a particular group of people’ but is a
method of understanding Islam and acting according to its teachings.91
As noted in the previous chapter, salafism has historically been an
effort to revive Islam’s fundamentals, returning to the religion practiced
by the pious predecessors (as-salaf as-salih). Most revivalist and
Islamist movements have reflected a salafist approach to some degree.
But contemporary salafists distinguish themselves from the historical
Salafiyya of Afghani, Abduh and Rida and from Islamist groups like
the Muslim Brotherhood.
Salafism is distinct from Islamism in a number of respects. Islamists
and salafists will often hold similar views on the challenges facing the
38
Muslim world but differ on what to do about them.92 Historically for

Islamists the solution has been to establish Islamic states via political
or revolutionary action. By contrast, for most salafists the solution is
personal salvation through faith (iman) and the correct practice of
Islam, in particular by avoiding anything considered to be an innovation
(bid’a), idolatrous (shirk), or blind imitation (taqlid). Salafists believe
that shari’a is the only law under which a true Muslim should live,
but do not see the existence of an Islamic state as necessary for this to
occur. Indeed salafists tend to eschew political activism, or any form of
organisation, believing that this leads to the prioritisation of material
concerns over the spiritual (and thus potentially an innovation or
idolatrous).93 Typically, therefore, the key activity for most salafists is
preaching (da’wa). This indifference to political activism also means
that salafists are less prone to revolt against Muslim rulers and, unlike
some Islamists, reject jihad against even unjust ones. They do, however,
believe in the necessity of jihad to defend the umma, but tend to accord it
less priority than da’wa and typically impose stricter and more legalistic
conditions on when it can be undertaken.94
Despite the fact that most salafists condemn Islamist activism, some
Islamists have drifted toward salafism. In part this has also been a
consequence of the failure of Islamism.95 But another major factor in
this drift has been the role Saudi Arabia has played since the 1960s
and 70s in co-opting Islamists and promoting its own conservative
Wahabist creed.96 Wahabism is a salafi movement par excellence
(though its adherents typically refer to themselves as salafi rather than
Wahabi).97 It should, however, be viewed as a distinct form of salafism
given that it is not just an approach to religion but also, in effect, a state
ideology. In many cases salafists are oriented toward Saudi Arabian
religious scholars including the late Sheikhs Abd al-Aziz Bin Baz,
Mohammed bin Saleh al-Uthaimeen and Nasir ad-Din al-Albani and
current figures Sheikh Salih Ibn Fawzan al-Fawzan and Sheikh Salim
al-Hilali. Apart from the extensive material support provided to salafi
groups worldwide, Saudi Arabian religious institutions have become
a key vector in the establishment of salafi networks. Nonetheless, not
all leading salafi scholars are Saudi or Wahabi, a prominent example
39
being the Yemeni Sheikh Muqbil Bin Hadi al-Wadi. And not all salafis
are oriented toward Wahabai religious scholars. Indeed salafism should
not be seen as monolithic; the international salafi community is riddled
with disputation and salafists spend considerable time debating each
other over matters of orthodoxy.
Notwithstanding the prominent role Saudi Arabia has played in its
promotion, salafism is an excellent illustration of the extent to which
some forms of Islamic religiosity are becoming less specifically Middle
Eastern. Salafism copes better than many forms of Islamic religiosity
with what Roy and others have called the ‘de-territorialisation’ of
Islam.98 That is, one of the consequences of globalisation is that Islam
is today less ascribed to a particular region or territory, in large part
because many of the world’s Muslims live outside traditionally Muslim
countries.99 Indeed Roy argues that de-territorialisation can also be
experienced by Muslims who have not migrated, in the sense that the
‘Westernisation’ of their own societies leave some feeling that they too
are now in the minority.100
As Peter Mandaville has noted, new media technology, in particular
the internet, has also been a powerful factor in this process, allowing
the development and articulation of new forms of identity regardless
of time and place.101 What matters most is the ability to communicate,
whether electronically or personally, rather than where one is located.
This can have a transformative impact on Muslim communities because
it allows access to a vast array of views on Islamic life and doctrine.
Muslims, particularly those who feel alienated or oppressed, can find
idioms and ideologies that speak to their condition. As Mandaville has
argued, globalisation has greatly added to the ‘range of voices’ to which
a Muslim may have access and thus served to diminish the traditional
Islamic scholar’s monopoly over religious knowledge.102 The net result
is the creation of what is, in effect, a virtual umma that transcends
national borders but also different cultures and ethnic groups.
Salafism adapts to de-territorialisation precisely because it is an
effort to reduce Islam to an abstract faith and moral code, purifying it
of national or cultural identities, traditions and histories — whether
Western or those of traditional Muslim countries.103 The ‘portability’
40
of the highly idealised Islamic identity propagated has enabled it to

gain an audience among Muslims who feel alienated or marginalised
living in the West.104 But even in predominantly Muslim countries it
provides a vehicle for individuals to distinguish themselves from the
‘corrupted’ society around them. This is not just a case of rejecting
Western influences, though salafists are often more anti-Western than
Islamists.105 Often the first target of salafism is the indigenous culture of
Muslim countries in which they live that is perceived to have distorted
‘true’ Islam.106
Despite salafism’s emphasis on religiosity in the first instance, the
line between salafi activism and politics is sometimes blurred. Even if
salafists typically avoid specifically political activism their preaching can
still have political implications. Despite the formal condemnation by
Saudi scholars of al-Qaeda’s brand of terrorism as un-Islamic, and their
effort to blame Saudi involvement in terrorism on outside influences
— usually those of the Muslim Brotherhood — a few former Saudi
militants have pointed the finger inward. They have openly criticised
what they characterise as the xenophobic and ‘hate filled’ teaching that
emanates from the Saudi religious establishment.107 Moreover, some
salafi groups, while ostensibly still preoccupied with religiosity, will
cross the line into violence; for example, launching vigilante attacks on
video stores considered to be promoting immorality. There is, however,
a distinct and extreme minority of self described salafists who go
beyond even this into organised terrorism. Labelled jihadist-salafism it
substitutes a focus on violent jihad for the traditional focus on da’wa. It
is to this current that al-Qaeda and its partisans belong.
Jihadist-salafism and al-Qaeda
At least in part, al-Qaeda reflects the drift from Islamism into salafism
referred to earlier, albeit salafism of a distinct and militant variety. It too
can be seen to have emerged from a process of reassessment prompted
by failure. The most prominent example of this is bin Laden’s deputy,
and al-Qaeda’s purported ideologue, Ayman al-Zawahiri.108 Up until
the 1990s, al-Zawahiri’s Egyptian Islamic Jihad fought sight by side
41
with the more broadly based al-Gama’a al-Islamiyah (to some degree
the two organisations were indistinguishable). Yet unlike al-Gama’a al-
Islamiyah, al-Zawahiri responded to the failure of militant Islamism in
Egypt by taking his organisation into al-Qaeda. Al-Zawahiri rationalised
his own shift from a struggle against the Egyptian government to jihad
against the West by saying he had come to recognise the US would
never allow ‘any Muslim force to reach power in the Arab countries’.109
Former al-Zawahiri associate and Al-Gama’a al-Islamiyah figure,
Montasser al-Zayyat, is less charitable. He argues that al-Zawahiri’s
shift was dramatic; until 1996–97 he had remained committed to the
fight against the Egyptian government. Al-Zayyat argues that the shift
reflected little more than an unwillingness to abandon violence despite
the failure of terrorism in Egypt.110
Yet if al-Qaeda owes something of its beginnings to radical Islamism
in the Middle East, it is also a break with it, reflecting its deeper origins
in the Afghan jihad against the Soviets and its largely salafi outlook.
Following the ignominious Soviet withdrawal from Afghanistan in
1989, some foreign veterans of the Afghan jihad began looking for new
Islamic causes around the world for which to fight. While some did
return home to participate in jihad against the state, others remained
keen to pursue the course set in Afghanistan. Emboldened by the
victory over the Soviets, imbued with Azzam’s ideas about jihad in
the cause of the umma, and utilising bonds forged with other foreign
veterans, they fought in ‘Muslim’ conflicts around the world: Bosnia,
Chechnya, Kashmir and the Philippines among others. This coincided
with the fact that some Afghan veterans effectively became stateless
after the war, unable to return home or soon forced into exile by ruling
regimes suspicious of their radical outlook and military skills. The 1991
Gulf War played a particular role in this regard, contributing to the
emergence of a group of displaced veterans — most prominent among
them, Osama bin Laden — alienated from their former Saudi patron by
the latter’s decision to invite ‘infidel’ troops into the Kingdom to defend
it against Iraq.
Even after Kabul fell to the Afghan mujahideen in 1992, Afghanistan
continued to serve as a crucible for jihadist-salafist ideas and a vector for
42
the establishment of international networks. But the spread of jihadist-

salafism was by no means limited to those foreigners in Afghanistan.
Some Afghan veterans found exile in the West, particularly in Europe,
where they preached a jihadist-salafist message. Typical of this group
were Omar Uthman Abu Omar (Abu Qutada) who established himself
in a London mosque after having lived for a time in Peshawar; or
Mohammed Haydar Zammar, an Afghan veteran who preached at
the Hamburg Mosque.111 Indeed there is a strong theme of dislocation
and uprootedness in the backgrounds of most of al-Qaeda’s members,
even those who were not veterans of the Afghan war.112 For example,
Muhammed Atta and other key perpetrators of the attacks on
11 September 2001 were radicalised not in their home country — in
Atta’s case Egypt — but as students living in Germany.113
Al-Qaeda evolved over the period between the Soviet departure from
Afghanistan, in 1989, and 1998 — though it seems to have taken real
shape after bin Laden returned to Afghanistan in 1996 from exile in
Sudan. It was at this point that the Taliban in Afghanistan made bin
Laden responsible for all the foreign fighters still in the country and
that he formalised his long relationship with al-Zawahiri in the 1998
declaration of a ‘World Islamic Front’ to wage jihad against ‘Jews and
Crusaders’.114 The meaning of ‘al-Qaeda’ has been variously translated
as the ‘base’ or ‘vanguard’ of jihadist activity, or simply as a ‘database’
of jihadist activists. Most often al-Qaeda has been seen as a loose
transnational network led by a small core which has both carried out
terrorist attacks on its own, or sponsored attacks by others; a sort of
venture capitalist for terrorists. As one Saudi Islamist has described it,
‘al-Qaeda see themselves as a college where people enrol, graduate and
then go their separate ways. But they are encouraged to establish their
own satellite networks which ultimately link in with al-Qaeda.’115
A key distinction between al-Qaeda and the historic patterns of
radical Islamist activism in the Middle East is the former’s decision to
fight the ‘far enemy’ (the US and its Western allies) as opposed to the
‘near enemy’ (the impious rulers of Muslim states). Few if any radical
Islamists would disagree with Osama bin Laden’s complaints against
the West. Nonetheless the prioritisation by al-Qaeda and its partisans
43
of ‘peripheral’ jihad seems to reflect more than a tactical choice. In the

al-Qaeda world view, it is fighting at the borders of the Islamic umma
against the perceived assaults of the United States and its Western allies.
Indeed prominent salafi-jihadists are referred to as ahl al-thughoor — a
historic allusion to those who defended Islam’s frontier in the early
centuries of Islam’s expansion.116 It is thus the salafi mindset, and
that of the Afghan jihad, operating on a global scale reinforced by the
uprooted and dislocated status of most of al-Qaeda’s partisans.
Since the launch of the ‘war on terror’ and the destruction of its physical
base in Afghanistan, it is arguable whether al-Qaeda still possesses
meaning as an organisation. Jason Burke and others have increasingly
described al-Qaeda as an ideology rather than a movement.117 Indeed a
number of organisations or indeed small groups seem to have carried
out attacks with little or no organisational connection to al-Qaeda. The
Tawhid wa Jihad group in Iraq led by Abu Musab al-Zarqawi fits this
mould, though recently it appears to have formally subordinated itself
to al-Qaeda (to what effect remains unclear). Yet if Burke’s description
seems apt, it perhaps grants more coherence to al-Qaeda’s worldview
than it possesses. Among jihadist-salafists there are no real ideologues
in the mould of a Sayyid Qutb, though plenty of demagogues. In their
writings one typically finds little more than elaborate anti-American
and anti-Western conspiracies, mingled with a fervent anti-Semitism,
all justifying perpetual jihad.118 Perhaps reflecting a mutation of its
salafist underpinnings and the Afghan experience, jihad becomes an
end in itself and an act of faith. But jihadist-salafism lacks salafism’s
more rigorous approach to faith and its heavy reliance on traditional
religious scholars (ulema). Indeed it has created its own ulema and
religious doctrine. Despite the fact that bin Laden and other leading
al-Qaeda figures lack any formal religious training, they are frequently
addressed as shiekhs or imams. Efforts are also repeatedly made to
justify attacks via highly selective readings of the works of Islamic
jurists, notably Ibn Taymiyah.119
There is also clearly a political and opportunistic dimension to al-
Qaeda’s rhetoric. It weaves conflicts involving Muslims around the
world into its vision of a clash of civilisations in an effort to tap into
44
and promote angst felt by Muslims toward the United States and the
West.120 This is illustrated by the way bin Laden’s statements have
evolved over the years. In the original 1998 statement, bin Laden’s
main focus was the Middle East, in particular the ‘occupation’ by US
troops of Islam’s holiest land, Saudi Arabia; the ‘devastation’ inflicted
upon Iraq both during and, as a result of sanctions, after the 1991 Gulf
War; and US support for Israel. But reflecting al-Qaeda’s transnational
horizons, these soon expanded to more global concerns. By 2002, in his
‘letter to America’, bin Laden had elevated the Palestinian cause in his
complaints against the US. But he had also added to the list Russian
atrocities in Chechnya, Indian oppression in Kashmir, and US support
for the Philippine government against its Muslim minority. He even cited
the Bush Government’s refusal to sign the Kyoto Treaty as evidence of
how US companies were destroying the world’s environment. Australia
has also received a mention in earlier diatribes for its alleged role in
helping East Timor ‘secede’ from Indonesia.
Yet despite al-Qaeda’s belated elevation of the Palestinian struggle as
a cause celebre, with the possible exception of the Taba Hilton bombing
in October 2004, it does not appear to have fired a singly shot in anger
nor sent material nor men to fight for the Palestinians. Nonetheless
al-Zawahiri is in no doubt as to the Palestinian conflict’s propaganda
value. In his purported last will he argues that the ‘Muslim nation will
not participate with it (in jihad) unless the slogans of the mujahideen are
understood by the masses’. He continues that ‘the one slogan that has
been well understood by the nation and to which it has been responding
for the past 50 years is the call for the jihad against Israel’.121
Similarly, the US invasion of Iraq has undoubtedly helped al-Qaeda
articulate its message, while providing a new active front for its violent
campaign. It requires little imagination for al-Qaeda to portray it as yet
another assault on Islam — despite the overtly secular nature of Saddam’s
regime — and for its message to resonate among Muslims worldwide.
If al-Qaeda’s original strategy behind the 11 September attacks was to
draw the United States into an Afghan quagmire — a strategy that failed
dismally — then Iraq provides al-Qaeda and its partisans with a second
chance. Like the Afghan jihad against the Soviet Union, the conflict in
45
Iraq has rallied foreign fighters, though largely from neighbouring Arab
countries, and seen new radical Islamist groups emerge in Iraq echoing
al-Qaeda’s worldview. As the Saudi Islamist Saad al-Faqih has argued,
for al-Qaeda the US invasion of Iraq was a ‘gift from the heavens’.122
Yet there are also limits to the analysis that Iraq has opened a new
front for al-Qaeda in its war against the West or helped to swell its
ranks. While it has become commonplace to claim that the war in
Iraq has helped al-Qaeda and its partisans attract new recruits, little
evidence is typically presented to demonstrate either an increase in the
numbers of those joining international terrorist groups or indeed of
the emergence of new groups because of the Iraq war, outside of Iraq
itself. Moreover, within Iraq the foreign element, or that specifically
allied with al-Qaeda or pursuing its vision, is only one relatively small
— if destructive — part of a broader insurgency that includes ex-regime
figures, Iraqis inspired by nationalism or anger at occupation, and a
criminal element. Nor is it clear that all among this foreign element
are inspired by al-Qaeda. For example, many fewer Arabs came to al-
Qaeda’s defence in Afghanistan than have gone to Iraq.
The ever present tension between local and global imperatives is also
evident in Iraq today. There are signs among local insurgents and the
general population that any enthusiasm for the more nihilistic acts of
violence perpetrated by foreign fighters — which often kill more Iraqis
than Americans — is starting to run out. As one press report noted,
in Fallujah locals chafe at the salafi precepts being enforced by some
foreign insurgents (notably with respect to female dress).123 And local
insurgents recognise that being tarred with the same brush as the foreign
fighters undermines their more worldly political goals, particularly
among ordinary Iraqis.124 What this serves to underline is that while al-
Qaeda and its partisans can weave conflicts involving Muslims around
the world into its rhetoric, they can’t necessarily assume control over
these conflicts, nor do their more apocalyptic interests always coincide
for the more tangible objectives of the locals.
46
Chapter 3
From the Middle East to Indonesia
Introduction
The great Dutch Islamic scholar, Snouck Hurgronje, wrote of the

Indonesian community in Mecca in the 1880s: ‘Here lies the heart of
the religious life of the East-Indian archipelago, and the numberless
arteries pump thence fresh blood in ever accelerating tempo to the
entire body of the Moslem populace in Indonesia’.125 He also observed
that Indonesians ‘render in a purely formal manner due homage to
the institutions ordained of Allah, which are everywhere as sincerely
received in theory as they are ill observed in practice.’126 These two
quotes capture an enduring and widely held view among Western
observers of the relationship between Indonesian Muslims and their
Middle Eastern counterparts. On the one hand, Indonesians seek
knowledge and inspiration from the Middle East, but on the other
hand, apply this knowledge in a distinctively ‘local’ way. Some scholars
marvelled at what they saw as the adaptive genius of Indonesians, who
were skilled at borrowing and blending the old with the new to create
a rich religious synthesis. In general they approved of this ‘tropical’
variant of Islam over the ‘desert dried’ form of the Near East. Other
scholars, especially Islamicists, looked askance at what they saw as the
dilution of ‘pure’ Middle Eastern Islam.127

In contemporary times, and especially after 11 September 2001,
Western views of both Middle Eastern and Indonesian Islam and the
interaction between them have hardened. More than any other region
of the Islamic world, the Middle East is now seen as the crucible of
nihilistic jihadism. Indonesian Islam is still regarded as predominantly
tolerant and pluralistic, but the emergence in recent years of local
paramilitary jihadist and terrorist groups has led to concern over
perceived radicalisation and the eroding of the country’s essentially
‘moderate’ Islamic character. One reason commonly advanced by
Western observers for this ‘extremist’ minority trend in Indonesia is
the growing influence of Middle Eastern Islam. Globalisation and the
increasing penetration of mass communications have contributed to
this process, as also has generous Middle Eastern sponsorship of radical
outreach programs. Thus, the more Indonesian Islam is seen as having
Middle Eastern qualities, the greater spectre of threat it poses.
The reality is far more complex than these stereotypes suggest. As
demonstrated in Chapters One and Two, there is a wide range of Islamist
thinking and behaviour in the Middle East, from the innovative and the
pragmatic, to virulent jihadist-salafism. To characterise all of Middle
Eastern Islamism as dangerously radical is to miss a large part of the
mosaic. Islamism has never been uniquely Middle Eastern, and today it is
even less so, underlined by neo-fundamentalism’s growing detachment
from the region. Indonesian Islam, while mainly irenic, has also had a
long history of violent minority radicalism which owed little to external
influences, whether from the Middle East or elsewhere. Indeed, these
largely endogenous movements have been a major recruiting ground for
modern day terrorists.
Similarly, the relationship between Middle Eastern and Indonesian
Muslims is far more variegated that is commonly imagined by many
contemporary Western commentators. As the birthplace of Islam, the
Middle East has, not surprisingly, been a powerful force in shaping
the faith in Southeast Asia. Most of the major streams of thinking and
practice in the Middle East have made their way to Southeast Asia.
Rarely have these processes entailed direct transfer and unmediated
48
FROM THE MIDDLE EAST TO INDONESIA
application by Muslims in countries like Indonesia. More commonly,

though not always, there has been an ongoing process of selection
and modification of various practices, combining them with pre-
existing Islamic and non-Islamic features. The result is a local form
which resembles its Middle Eastern antecedents but which also has
distinguishing features.
In the next two chapters we will discuss the transmission and
impact of Islamist and neo-fundamentalist ideas, specifically salafism
and jihadist-salafism. This chapter will focus on three major vectors for
the transmission of these ideas: human movement, from students and
scholars to the Indonesian jihadists who participated in the Afghan war
against the Soviets; Middle Eastern religious propagation in Indonesia,
in particular the role played by Saudi Arabia; and publishing and the
internet. The impact of these ideas will then be considered in the next
chapter.
Two things become immediately apparent when considering the
transmission of Islamist ideas from the Middle East to Indonesia. First,
the transmission of ideas runs largely in one direction: from the Middle
East to Indonesia. Much as Indonesians seek an audience for their
work in the Middle East, in reality most Arabs regard Southeast Asia
as the intellectual periphery of the Islamic world from which little can
be gained. This Arab condescension if not derision towards Southeast
Asians is often a source of irritation.
Second, the transmission of Islamism to Indonesia has both pull
and push factors. On the one hand, many Indonesian Muslims actively
seek knowledge from the Middle East, whether as students studying
there or as consumers of publications and electronic media. On the
other hand, Middle Eastern governments, charitable organisations and
private donors keenly promote their interpretations of Islam within the
region, funding Islamic infrastructure such as mosques, schools and
colleges, sponsoring visits by preachers and the publication of books
and journals, and providing scholarships for study in Arab countries.
Thus, Indonesian Muslims who have a Middle Eastern orientation have
abundant opportunities to further their interest.
49
Human movement
Historically the main vector for the transmission of Middle Eastern

thought to Southeast Asia has been human movement. Arab traders and
scholars have been travelling to the region for at least eight centuries,
disseminating Islamic knowledge and proselytising among non-
Muslims. From the mid-nineteenth century many thousands of Yemeni
Arabs from the Hadramawt valley settled in Indonesia, becoming well
established as teachers, ulema and merchants.128 The implications of this
migration are still felt today in the role played by Indonesians of Arab
descent in the Muslim community. For their part, Indonesian Muslims
have, for several centuries, gone to the Middle East as pilgrims, officials,
businessmen, students and scholars. As Azyumardi Azra’s excellent
discussion of the Middle Eastern networks of Indonesian ulema of the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries shows, there is a rich tradition of
ideas being exchanged and mediated.129
In terms of human movement, students have been perhaps the most
important contemporary conduits of Islamist ideas from the Middle
East to Indonesia. They went to the Middle East, and especially Egypt
and Saudi Arabia, in large numbers to study with prestigious Islamic
scholars and immerse themselves in an ‘authentic’ Islamic culture. The
longer their education in the Middle East or the more famous the teacher
under whom they studied, the greater would be their standing upon
returning to Indonesia. In recent years, the number of Indonesians in
the Middle East has risen dramatically, due not only to the increase
in Indonesian government scholarships but also additional financial
assistance from Middle Eastern governments and private donors.
These students did not typically go to the Middle East to study Islamist
ideas, but rather the classical subjects of Islamic scholarship such as fiqh
(Islamic jurisprudence) and usul ad-din (theology). The time spent in
the region has, however, provided opportunities to interact with Islamist
groups and exposed students to their ideas. One Indonesian student at
Islam’s most prestigious educational institution, al-Azhar University in
Cairo, recalled that while in Egypt, Indonesian students often circulated
in Muslim Brotherhood circles. Another Indonesian interviewee noted
50
that Yousef al-Qaradawi was popularised in Indonesia by students who

watched his broadcasts and read his books while studying in the Middle
East.130
At present, there are more than 20 000 Indonesians living in the
Middle East. Many of these are workers, though a significant proportion
are students. According to 2004 figures supplied by the Indonesian
Ministry of Religious Affairs the key destination is Egypt (3528
students — with most if not all at al-Azhar), though Indonesians also
study at Islamic institutions in other countries of the region including
Saudi Arabia (87) Sudan (120), Yemen (143), Tunisia (12) and Iran
(65). The number of students in Egypt is a fourfold increase since the
1980s when the number of Indonesian students there was put at around
700.131 According to the Egyptian Embassy in Jakarta, the Egyptian
government provides around 120 scholarships a year for Indonesian
students. International Islamic organisations and charities provide an
additional number of scholarships for study at al-Azhar.
Saudi Arabia is, given the location of Islam’s two holiest sites there,
another important destination for Indonesian students. Indonesians
students study at the Islamic University in Madinah, Umm al-Qora
University in Mecca and Al-Imam Mohammed bin Saud University in
Riyadh (a small number also study at the King Abdul Aziz University
and some are also enrolled in petroleum studies at King Fahd University
in Dahran). Obtaining a reliable figure for student numbers in the
Kingdom is difficult, however. One reliable source said that the Saudi
government currently provides around 170 full scholarships, down
from around 200 three years ago (which conflicts with the Ministry of
Religious Affairs figure above of 87 students in the country).132
Moreover, alongside Saudi government sponsorship, Islamic
organisations such as the Muslim World League and other smaller
charities provide additional scholarships. According to a recent report
by the International Crisis Group, the Indonesian arm of a Kuwaiti
Islamic NGO, Jamiat Ihya at-Turath al-Islamiyah (or as it is known in
Indonesia, Yayasan Majelis at-Turots al-Islami), provides opportunities
for selected students to undertake fully funded study at the Islamic
University in Madinah.133 An unknown number of Indonesians also
51
study with individual religious scholars in Saudi Arabia. This is a

particularly important form of religious education among Indonesian
salafists and can later become a source of patronage for the students,
often enabling them to establish their own pesantren (Islamic boarding
school) in Indonesia.134
A key conduit of jihadist ideas was the war in Afghanistan in the 1980s.
We have already recounted the role that Afghan veterans played in militant
violence and terrorism in Algeria and Egypt, and in the formation of al-
Qaeda. More than 300 Indonesians (and possibly as many as 600) also
went through foreign mujahideen training camps from the early 1980s
until the mid-1990s. Why they went is a complex subject. Some responded
to the active recruitment efforts of Islamic organisations, notably the
Saudi-based Muslim World League. But like many Arab Islamists who
travelled to Afghanistan, more practical motives also seem to have been
at play; in particular, the opportunity Afghanistan provided for gaining
military training which could then be used in their home countries. It
is noteworthy in this respect that Indonesians were still undertaking
training in Afghanistan well after the Soviets had withdrawn and Kabul
had fallen to the Afghan mujahideen.
By far the largest group of Indonesians was sent to Afghanistan by
the future Jemaah Islamiyah (JI) founder Abdullah Sungkar, using
his networks within the Darul Islam movement. Most of JI’s senior
leadership and many of its middle level operatives were Afghan
veterans. Other Indonesian organisations, such as the Islamic Youth
Movement (GPI), also assisted members and sympathisers to travel
to Afghanistan. The linkages that were formed between Indonesian
and other foreign jihadists at this time, culminating in the operational
connections between the Indonesian terrorist group JI and al-Qaeda in
particular, are fairly well documented.135 It is important to note in this
regard the JI did not exist as an organisation when Indonesians started
travelling to Afghanistan.
Indonesian mujahideen had a varied exposure to their Arab
counterparts. On arrival in Pakistan, many went through Abdullah
Azzam’s Maktab al-Khidamat, before going on to the training camp of
Abdul Rasul Sayyaf, the Afghan commander who had the closest ties
52
to Saudi Arabia and Osama bin Laden. Probably 200–300 Indonesians

trained at the Sayyaf camp and they appeared to have been kept
together as a group with other Southeast Asians, with little interaction
between them and those undergoing training from the Middle East.136
Nevertheless many of their trainers were from the Middle East and
many Indonesians also seem to have met Osama bin Laden and other
future al-Qaeda figures, such as Khalid Sheikh Muhammed, in the
Sayyaf camp.137 A small number of Indonesian mujahideen trained at
the camps of other Afghan leaders such as Gulbuddin Hekmatyar and
Jamil ur-Rahman.
Apart from military training the Indonesian mujahideen were also
provided with religious and ideological training. As with many of the
Saudi funded camps there was a heavy focus on salafi teachings, though
of a jihadist bent.138 Other ideological influences were also present;
Muslim Brothers like Abdullah Azzam were prominent in Saudi
organisations supporting the jihad and among foreign mujahideen
more generally. Azzam’s writings and ideas were a significant part of
the curricula in the camps, though the romanticised personal example
he set was probably even more influential.139 Even today Azzam
is something of a Che Guevara figure among Indonesian jihadists.
Contacts also appear to have been made with the Egyptian militants,
both al-Zawahiri’s Islamic Jihad and al-Gama’a al-Isamiyyah.
While the Indonesians who went to Afghanistan returned with
military training and links with other foreign jihadists, the extent
to which they absorbed particular ideas is difficult to assess. One
complication is that, as Jason Burke has noted, while the isolated
and harsh nature of the camps undoubtedly played a role in forming
a particular mindset, most who travelled to Afghanistan were already
highly committed (at least ideologically), having endured significant
hardship to make the journey.140
It is also worth recalling that Osama bin Laden’s plans to launch al-
Qaeda’s jihad against the United States and its western allies probably
didn’t crystallise until after his return to Afghanistan in 1996. By this
time many JI members had already left the camps there (in 1995, JI
began shifted its training to the Philippines, though it still maintained
53
a presence in Afghanistan141). The time spent in the common Afghan

milieu, and in particular the tangible personal connections that persisted
beyond Afghanistan, undoubtedly made it easier for JI to fall in behind
al-Qaeda’s call for a global jihad. But at the same time, it also suggests
that JI’s decision was arrived at independently.
Education and propagation
A second key conduit for Islamist ideas has been education and
da’wa (preaching) supported by government and non-government
organisations and individuals from the Middle East. At the outset it
needs to be emphasised that da’wa typically involves the propagation of
a religious (Islamic) message rather than a political (Islamist) message.
Similarly, support for institutions of Islamic education in Indonesia often
comprises little more than provision of teaching materials on classical
Islamic subjects. Our focus here, therefore, is specifically on those da’wa
or educational activities that either serve as a conduit for Islamist ideas
or potentially have political or indeed violent implications.
Organisations and individuals from a number of Middle Eastern
countries have been active in Indonesia in the education and da’wa
fields, including from Egypt, Kuwait and other Gulf states. According
to one estimate there are currently some 50 teachers from al-Azhar
University teaching at Islamic institutions in Indonesia.142 According
to a confidential source at the Indonesian Ministry of Religious Affairs,
Iranian institutions are particularly aggressive — despite the fact the
Indonesian Muslims are overwhelming Sunnis — offering several
dozen generous scholarships a year for study in Iran. But it is the role
played by Saudi Arabia in both da’wa and education that has attracted
greatest attention and will be our main focus.
Since 11 September 2001, Saudi Arabia’s support for international
Islamic causes around the world has come under intense scrutiny. In
large part this reflects the role some Saudi-based Islamic charities have
played — inadvertently or otherwise — in the financing of terrorism.
There has also been concern about Saudi Arabia’s propagation of its
Wahabist brand of salafism. It has been argued that the promotion of
54
this puritanical form of Islam has radicalised once tolerant and moderate
Muslim communities around the world, including in Indonesia. For
example, in the latest report of the Independent Task Force on Terrorist
Financing, sponsored by the US think tank, the Council on Foreign
Relations, it was claimed that in its ‘support for madrassas (sic),
mosques, cultural centres, hospitals, and other institutions, and the
training and export of radical clerics to populate these outposts, Saudi
Arabia has spent what could amount to hundreds of millions of dollars
around the world financing extremism’.143
The issue is a complex one. As the Taskforce Report concedes,
Saudi Arabia has provided considerable legitimate humanitarian and
development assistance to Muslim causes around the world. The
difficulty is trying to disentangle genuine charity from the funding
of terrorist groups and the propagation of ideas that cross the line
between purely religious and a more political activism. This difficulty
is reinforced by the lack of Saudi transparency. Indeed official Saudi
representatives in Jakarta were unwilling to discuss in any detail the
extent of official and semi-official propagation and education activities.
The incomplete picture presented here is, therefore, largely constructed
from discussions with Indonesian and other interlocutors.
A variety of Saudi official and non-government agencies either
primarily or partially focused on education and religious propagation
are active in Indonesia. These include: religious attachés at the Saudi
Arabian Embassy in Jakarta; the non-government Muslim World League
(MWL) and two of its subsidiary agencies, the International Islamic
Relief Organisation (IIRO) and the World Assembly of Muslim Youth
(WAMY); and private donors and other non-government charities (such
as the infamous Saudi charity al-Haramein whose Indonesian branch
was listed as a terrorist supporting organisation by the United States
and the UN and ostensibly shut down.).
Saudi sponsored educational and da’wa activities in Indonesia
expanded dramatically in the 1980s, probably as a part of Saudi Arabia’s
broader ideological conflict at that time with Iranian Islamism.144
It would be wrong, however, to view Saudi activism in Indonesia as
reflective of a coherent strategy or aim. Saudi religious propagation and
55
educational activities often seemed to us to manifest different motives

and sometimes competing interests. Saudi sponsorship has undoubtedly
been provided to those groups whose religious inclinations are closest
to Wahabism, notably Indonesian salafi groups. But it has by no means
been limited to them. Nor indeed does Saudi largesse always seem tied
to a particular religious or ideological ends; in many cases mosques and
orphanages have been built simply as a function of charity (a central
tenet of Islam) with no strings attached.145
Where the goal has been the propagation of Wahabist oriented forms
of Islamic practice, ostensibly the concern has been with religiosity
rather than politics. That is, the purpose has been to purify or correct
the form of Islam practised by Indonesian Muslims. Indeed there
are examples where members of the Saudi religious establishment
have counselled an Indonesian client specifically against engaging in
political forms of activism (see Chapter Four). Nevertheless the line
between strictly apolitical propagation and one that is either politically
motivated, or has political consequences, is often blurred. In some cases
Saudi funding has been provided to groups involved in more explicitly
political and sometimes violent forms of activism, one example being
Wahdah Islamiyah (see below).
This coexistence of purely religious da’wa and activities that have
political implications reflects the different interests at play among
the various Saudi government and non-government bodies active in
this field and their Indonesian grantees. The extent to which these
interests and those in Indonesia sometimes conflict is illustrated by
accounts surrounding efforts in early 2004 to remove the director of the
Muslim World League and International Islamic Relief Organisation in
Indonesia, a Saudi national. A number of Indonesian sources separately
confirmed that these efforts had been prompted by complaints from
Indonesian salafists that he was insufficiently salafi (indeed that he
was a Sufi, and thus rejected on doctrinal grounds by salafists). It was
not clear, however, whether this was related to any perceived laxity in
his religious practices or outlook or his willingness to provide financial
assistance to non-salafi causes.
Perhaps the key institution of Saudi sponsored Islamic education in
56
Indonesia is Lembaga Ilmu Pengetahuan Islam dan Arab (the Indonesian

Institute for Islamic and Arabic Sciences or LIPIA), a branch of Al-
Imam Muhammad bin Saud University in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia.
Established in 1980, it provides courses in both Arabic and Islamic
studies for Indonesian students, the most successful of whom can gain
scholarships for postgraduate study at Al-Imam University. All tuition
at LIPIA is conducted in Arabic, between 80 and 90 per cent of the
teaching faculty come from the Middle East and the Institute has always
been headed by a Saudi. Admission standards are high; according to
former students the Institute typically takes at least 200 students per
year from around 1–2000 that apply.146 Once accepted however, tuition
is free and students are provided with a generous stipend by Indonesian
standards.147 LIPIA produces around 200 graduates a year.
The teaching at LIPIA reflects a combination of its salafi curriculum
and the particular orientation of faculty members, though the balance
between the two has varied over the years. Ulil Abshar Abdalla, founder
of Indonesia’s Liberal Islam Network, and a former LIPIA student from
1988 to 1993, said that when he studied at the institution the curriculum
was that of the parent Saudi institution.148 He noted that the study
of Ibn Taymiyah was ‘a must’ at LIPIA.149 In general he characterised
the teaching at LIPIA as hostile to the local Indonesian culture and
Muslim practices; he recalled that when he had confronted his teachers
over this issue they had responded by saying that they did not want to
teach narrow minded nationalism.150 Other former students also noted
a Wahabist-salafist orientation, though characterised it as more ‘open’
than what one would find in Saudi Arabia.
Alongside a salafist disposition, however, LIPIA also had, to varying
degrees throughout its history, strong Muslim Brotherhood influences.
Many of its teachers have a strong Brotherhood background. This is
hardly surprising given that Saudi institutions of Islamic education have
long employed Muslim Brothers. This tolerance of Muslim Brothers
has begun to recede in Saudi Arabia in recent years, as the regime has
come to blame the movement for encouraging extremist ideas in the
Kingdom. This does not appear to have had an impact on LIPIA at
this stage. The International Crisis Group’s Sidney Jones characterised
57
LIPIA as basically Brotherhood dominated these days.151

The distinct influences mediated by LIPIA over its history are
reflected in the trajectories of its graduates. On the one hand no
single institution seems to have done more than LIPIA to propagate
contemporary forms of salafism in Indonesia.152 Graduates of LIPIA
have become leading figures in the Indonesian salafi movement and are
particularly prominent as publishers, preachers, teachers and ulema. In
particular, LIPIA graduates have gone on to establish salafi pesantren
often with Saudi funding.153 These have grown from a handful in the
1980s to hundreds today, providing a mechanism for spreading salafi
ideas through outreach activities and for the training of local salafi
teachers and propagators.154
On the other hand LIPIA has also served as a seedbed of Brotherhood
ideas. Many graduates emerged steeped in Brotherhood thinking,
including some who would go on to be leaders of the Brotherhood
oriented Prosperity and Justice Party (PKS). The obvious question
is whether the difference between salafi and Muslim Brotherhood
approaches is meaningful in practice. There is much in common with
respect to religious faith and doctrine. In the past the Saudi religious
establishment — and the Saudi regime — saw no difficulty employing
Muslim Brothers in teaching positions, with the tacit understanding
that the political dimensions of the Brotherhood’s da’wa would not
be propagated in Saudi Arabia. Many Muslim Brothers have drifted
toward salafism as they became more disconnected from the societies
from which they originally came.155
Nonetheless it is the Brotherhood’s more overtly political activism
and its generally accommodating attitude to both political pluralism
and religious diversity that still distinguishes it from contemporary
salafism. As already noted, the latter tends to eschew politics and to be
intolerant toward what it perceives as impure or innovative religious
practices. In Indonesia, this distinction has been manifest in the efforts
of Indonesian salafi ‘purists’ to discourage their followers from attending
LIPIA from the mid- to late 1990s onward, because they believed the
institution to have been excessively compromised by Brotherhood
ideas.156 Nonetheless it is also possible that the combination of a
58
salafi curriculum and Muslim Brotherhood teachers may at times have

produced graduates that combine a puritanical religious outlook with
more overtly political forms of activism.157
In terms of da’wa, both government and non-government activity is
largely focused on the support of local Indonesian organisations. Support
is provided to groups across the spectrum, from those propagating a
purely Wahabist oriented salafism to groups that take their inspiration
from a range of influences including from the Muslim Brotherhood.
Embassy religious attachés provide these organisations with materials
on Wahabism to distribute and by some accounts pay their da’i
(preachers) a monthly stipend. One Indonesian interlocutor claimed
that embassy religious attachés fund some 400 da’i on a monthly basis,
although we were not able to confirm this number.158
Three organisations, in particular, have received significant Saudi
support, both government and non-government: Dewan Dakwah
Islamiyah Indonesia (DDII; Indonesian Islamic Predication Council),
Jamiat Islam wal-Irsyad (The Islamic Association for Enlightenment,
usually known as simply al-Irsyad); and the Persatuan Islam (Persis;
Islamic Union). DDII was established in 1967 by leaders of the banned
Masyumi Islamic Party. Its focus has been propagation rather than
practical political activity. DDII’s chairman, Mohammad Natsir, was
widely respected in Middle Eastern Wahhabi and salafist circles and
he became the most important conduit for Saudi funding flowing into
Indonesia during the 1970s and 80s. Al-Irsyad, founded in 1913, is
primarily devoted to Islamic education and propagation, and Persis was
established in 1924 as a modernist Muslim organisation. Both al-Irsyad
and Persis have Islamic schools that have featured prominently in the
education of Indonesian Islamists.
Together with LIPIA, DDII was critical to the growth of salafism
in the 1970s and early 1980s. DDII, as the main disburser of Saudi
money in Indonesia during the 1970s and 1980s, provided scholarships
for young Indonesian Muslims to study at Middle Eastern institutions,
including several of the leading centres of salafi education such as al-
Imam University in Riyadh. Through its chairman, Natsir, DDII also
facilitated the establishment of LIPIA. But again Saudi support did not
59
necessarily orient an organisation toward Wahabism or salafism. DDII

also played a key role in popularising Brotherhood thought, translating
a number of seminal Brotherhood texts in the late 1970s and 1980s, the
most popular of which was Sayyid Qutb’s ‘Signposts’ (Petunjuk Jalan).
Many of these students sent to al-Azhar by DDII took the opportunity
to study at first hand Brotherhood thinking and organisational methods.
Moreover, DDII funded intensive training courses for Muslim tertiary
students which drew heavily upon Brotherhood principles. Indeed the
breadth of DDII’s approach has probably helped it to obtain funding
from sources other than those in Saudi Arabia.159
In general terms Indonesian salafi groups have benefited greatest
from Saudi and Gulf States’ funding. Many of the leading salafi groups
received generous funding from and, in several prominent cases, were
founded at the instigation of Middle Eastern donors, both government
and non-government. As noted in the recent ICG report on salafism in
Indonesia, two salafi organisations that receive significant support from
the IIRO are Yayasan al-Sofwah and Wahdah Islamiyah (WI).160 The
former has largely been involved in salafi propagation. The latter has,
however, produced a number of Indonesian militants including Agus
Dwikarna and even among Indonesian salafists the movement is seen
as leaning toward jihadist-salafism.161
Other organisations that have received, or continue to receive,
Saudi support (at least non-government) include: the al-Huda
Islamic Foundation, which was established in 1998 and runs its own
kindergartens and schools as well as a teachers’ college and an AM radio
station (Radio al-Iman Swaratama); the al-Ta’ifah Mansoura Foundation
founded in 1994 by salafi activists from campus mosques in East Java;
the al-Imam Foundation (which appears to be struggling because of a
decline in Saudi funding); the al-Sunnah Foundation, in Cirebon, West
Java, which runs the largest salafi pesantren in Cirebon with programs
from kindergarten to junior high school; and Nda’ al-Fatra Foundation,
in Surabaya, East Java, which publishes and distributes salafi texts and
also maintains a radio station (as-Salam FM).162
The US crackdown on the flow of money from Middle Eastern
institutions to countries such as Indonesia since 11 September 2001
60
has resulted in a sharp drop in Saudi funding for both Indonesian salafi
groups and other organisations such as DDII. For example, construction
of DDII’s long awaited school and college complex at the organisation’s
Jakarta headquarters has been halted by the sharp drop in Middle Eastern
funding with the building about 75 per cent complete. Dewan Dakwah
officials complain that the US instigated pressure on such funding is
more likely to drive students into radical institutions than undermine
terrorism. The salafi website ‘Al-Islam’ has also had its Saudi funding
curtailed, resulting in a sharp decline in its operations. The director of
the IIRO office in Jakarta claimed to us in May 2004 that he had not
received any new funding for a year. He also noted that many wealthy
Saudis with a genuine interest in providing humanitarian assistance
had been scared off from donating to the IIRO.
This has affected salafi groups more than others, given their reliance
on Saudi funding. Some of these groups have succeeded in gaining funds
directly from individual donors; others have sought to increase their
own fund raising capacity by establishing enterprises and cultivating
local donors.163 Nonetheless, we were presented with circumstantial
evidence that non-government Saudi donors had found ways to bypass
the official crackdown on the funding and had continued in 2004 to
provide money to some of the salafi groups mentioned above, including
WI.164 The Eastern Province (in Saudi Arabia) Branch of the IIRO seems
to have been particularly active in Indonesia in this regard.165 Indeed
the unintended impact within Indonesia of international pressure on
Saudi Arabia has been to reduce funding to legitimate projects without
preventing more zealously motivated patrons from getting their money
through. Not only does this create resentment towards the West among
lawful recipients of this assistance but could potentially lead such
groups and organisation into the arms of more ideologically oriented
sources of finance.
Mosque construction is another form of activity that reflects both
purely charitable motivations and the aims of propagation. No figure is
available for the number of mosques built with government and non-
government money from Saudi Arabia but it is likely to go into the
thousands. Both government and non-government funding has been
61
provided for this purpose. According to the IIRO’s own figures, in 2003
it constructed 309 mosques.166 The extent to which this is a vehicle
for propagation seems to vary, however. A number of Indonesian and
other interlocutors told us that in certain cases the Saudi financiers
of a particular mosque would insist on appointing the imam (prayer
leader). In other cases, however, as already noted, mosques appear to
have been built without any strings attached.
Publishing and the internet
The flow of printed material from the Middle East has long historical
roots. It has taken many forms, from textbooks and commentaries
on various Islamic sciences, to journals, pamphlets and newspapers
representing different doctrinal and political views. This material was
read in its original Arabic by the relatively small number of Muslims
with the competence to do so, or translated into vernacular languages
such as Malay and Javanese, thus bringing it to a far large audience.
Since the 1980s, however, the popular demand for books on Islam has
increased markedly, with sections on Islam in bookstores becoming
increasingly prominent.167 Translations of Yousef al-Qardawi’s writings
and sermons are among the most popular Islamic texts, in no small
part because they provide guidance on the ‘correct’ Islamic approach
to a range of everyday tasks and concerns confronting Indonesian
Muslims.
Accompanying this has been a dramatic expansion in Islamic
publishing with a growing quantity of material translated from Arabic
into Indonesian. In the case of salafi and Brotherhood works, much of
the translation has been done by LIPIA graduates. Some of the publishing
appears driven by da’wa objectives; as already noted DDII played a
major role in the translation of Sayyid Qutb and Hassan al-Banna’s
works into Indonesian. The number of salafi oriented publishing houses
has risen sharply in recent years and they have a growing presence in
the mainstream Islamic market. Though no reliable sales figures are
available, the wide distribution of salafi literature, including through
large bookshop chains such as Gunung Agung and Gramedia, is proof
62
of high public demand for works of this kind.

A considerable body of material also deals with the plight of
Muslims in the world or offers political commentaries from an Islamic
perspective, among them a sub-class of publishing some have dubbed
‘pamphlet Islam’.168 Typically these are translations from Arabic
material and often the topics are anti-Western and anti-Semitic.
In some cases it seems the more lurid and conspiratorial material is
published because it sells well. As James Fox has recounted, in one case
an Indonesian publisher amended the original title of an Arabic book
from ‘Globalisation or Americanisation’ to ‘America: Dictator of the
World’.169 Similarly a number of Indonesian interlocutors commented
that the volume of material being translated and published was high
simply because it was profitable.
As with other parts of the Muslim world, in recent decades digital
technology and globalisation have greatly accelerated the flow of
information from the Middle East to Indonesia. The main vector has
been the internet, which has allowed Indonesians quick and relatively
cheap access to a diverse array of material from across the Islamic
world. Internet usage in Indonesia is low by international standards,
but Islamist groups in particular have proven adept at exploiting this
technology and using it to disseminate information. If a small number of
activists have access to the Internet, material can be quickly downloaded
and distributed through mosque networks, students groups, Qur’anic
study classes and the like.170 Indonesian websites also provide links to
major Middle Eastern conflicts and others involving Muslims around
the world. One site, for example, provides up to date information on the
Palestinian Intifada (www.info.palestina.com), while other sites offer
often graphic accounts of Muslim struggles in regions such as Chechnya
and Kashmir (www.qoqaz.net and www.maktab-islam.com).
The importance of the internet as a tool for the transmission and
dissemination of ideas is particularly strong among Indonesian salafi
groups. Notwithstanding their typical social conservatism, salafi
groups in the Middle East and elsewhere have tended to embrace the
internet precisely because it offers an opportunity to create a generic or
de-culturated Islamic identity. These sites abound: see for example
63
www.salafi.net or www.salafipublications.com. The internet offers

them a facility to link directly to other salafi scholars overseas and use
the ideas they download to challenge local traditions of Indonesian
Islam, bypassing local sources of religious authority.171 Indeed the net
makes manifest a virtual umma that these groups can inhabit; or as Peter
Mandaville has argued, provides them with a means of re-imagining the
umma as something beyond their immediate Muslim community (as
Mandaville notes, this does not simply apply to salafi discourses, but to a
broader critical re-evaluation of some of Islam’s central ideas facilitated
by the internet).172 That said, the virtual umma is not necessarily a
harmonious one. Most salafi groups in Indonesia often use their own
websites to launch vitriolic attacks on other salafists.
64
Chapter 4
‘Every seed you plant in Indonesia grows’
Introduction
Asked why salafism had developed so quickly in Indonesia, one

Indonesian salafist replied to us that ‘every seed you plant in Indonesia
grows’. As the last chapter underlined, the vectors for the transmission
of Islamist and neo-fundamentalist ideas are constantly expanding. The
question is what impact is this having on the development of Islam,
Islamism or neo-fundamentalism in Indonesia? One obvious difficulty
in making a net assessment is that ideas and influences from the Middle
East are not the only seeds being planted in Indonesia today. Everything
from ‘Western style’ consumerism to international Christian missionary
activity compete for influence. And not all these seeds grow in the
direction intended by those who sewed them. All of these external
influences compete with and are influenced by Indonesia’s indigenous
culture, history and traditions.
With respect to the impact of Middle Eastern ideas, many observers
are naturally most interested in those currents related to contemporary
forms of terrorism. This is certainly part of our focus, but we have
sought to go beyond this narrow though important issue to give some
sense of the broader impact of Islamist and neo-fundamentalist thinking
(in part to help disentangle those ideas which do contribute to the

terrorism problem from those that do not). Thus we will examine the
three broad intellectual currents identified in this paper: the Islamist
ideas of Muslim Brotherhood (including its more radical iterations),
and two key manifestations of neo-fundamentalism — salafism and
jihadist-salafism. The key question framing our inquiry is the extent to
which these currents have been absorbed wholesale or whether there
has been a process of Indonesianisation, in which external ideas have
been sifted and applied in a Southeast Asian context.
The Muslim Brotherhood
Of all forms of contemporary Islamism, the influence of the

prototypical Muslim Brotherhood in Indonesia has perhaps the longest
history. But even in this case, the Muslim Brotherhood came rather later
to Indonesia than to many other areas of the Islamic world. Although
a small number of modernist Muslim intellectuals in Indonesia became
attracted to Brotherhood thinking in the late 1950s, it was not until the
late 1970s and early 1980s that Brotherhood ideas and organisational
techniques began to win a sizeable following.
Several factors account for this rising popularity. For many younger
Muslims, this was a period of growing frustration and disillusionment
with both the Soeharto regime’s treatment of Islamic organisations and
the behaviour of Muslim leaders themselves. The regime systematically
emasculated Islam as an independent political force and allowed
relatively few devout Muslims privileged positions in the bureaucracy or
business world. At the same time, many Muslim leaders were drawn into
the New Order’s vast patronage networks, conforming to the regime’s
largely ‘secular’ rhetoric in return for material rewards and peripheral
involvement in state decision making. As one activist recalled of that
era: ‘We looked around us and found very few Muslim leaders whom
we could respect, who were men of integrity. When we heard them
speak or saw what they did, we were constantly disappointed. So, we
sought a new model of Islamic struggle.’173
It was in this context of disaffection that many young Muslims began
66
‘EVERY SEED YOU PLANT IN INDONESIA GROWS’
to be drawn to a Brotherhood model that offered a new approach to

Islamic activism. We have already explored in Chapter Three some
of the ways in which Muslim Brotherhood ideas were transmitted to
Indonesia, notably the role played by DDII. What was particularly
attractive were the Brotherhood’s organisational ideas, notably the
emphasis on personal piety, the provision of community services and
the formation of close knit groups capable of creating discrete Islamised
spaces from which the broader community might be made more
devout. The fact that the Brotherhood had developed these concepts
and structures in the highly repressive environment of Nasser’s Egypt
added to the attraction.
The main expression of Brotherhood thinking was the Gerakan
Tarbiyah which emerged in the early 1980s, at the height of New Order
suppression of Islam and student politics. The regime had banned student
political organisations (a program euphemistically called ‘normalisation
of campuses’) and obliged university administrations to monitor closely
all campus activities. In this restrictive environment, Muslim students
adopted the Brotherhood model of organising themselves into small
groups or cells, known as usrah (literally, ‘family’ — see Chapter One).
As in the Egyptian prototype, within these units emphasis was placed
on strict observance of ritual obligations, mutual support, the acquiring
of Islamic knowledge, and social activism such as providing health
and welfare services to needy communities. Close bonds were formed
between cell members, who tended to see themselves as a vanguard
bringing genuine Islamic values to society.
The ideals and models of activism of Hassan al-Banna became the
cornerstone of Tarbiyah thinking. Al-Banna’s views on politics, the state,
personal behaviour and organisational methods were widely read within
the movement and formed a primary reference in shaping the doctrine
and activities of Tarbiyah members. As the founder of the Brotherhood,
al-Banna carried special legitimacy and the Tarbiyah movement found
his writings more applicable in an Indonesian context than those of
other more radical Islamist thinkers. Like al-Banna, Tarbiyah members
regarded Islam and the state as inseparable, as a matter of principle. But
they did not regard the founding of a formal Islamic state in Indonesia
67
in the near future as either necessary or possible. Echoing al-Banna’s

approach, Islamisation of the state was seen as a gradual process that
must begin with greater pietism within society. Until Islamic law and
principles were well understood by Muslims, a viable Islamic state
would be difficult to establish. Nonetheless, an Islamic state was seen
as the endpoint of the struggle.174
The writings of post-al-Banna Brotherhood ideologues and
intellectuals such as Sayyid Qutb and Yousef al-Qaradawi have been
used selectively by the Tarbiyah movement. In the 1980s and early
1990s, Qutb’s ideas on jahiliya had a powerful effect on Tarbiyah
thinking. In some respects, however, the emphasis was placed on
the less dramatic dimensions of Qutb’s notion of jahiliya. Tarbiyah
members commonly quoted Qutb in asserting that ‘Muslims are now
in jahiliya, like in the early period of Islam. Everything around us is
jahiliya’. But the main danger to Muslims came from outside the Muslim
community. The West was seen as conducting an ideological assault
— al-ghazwa al-fikri (ghazwul fikri) — against the Islamic community
which must be resisted if Muslims were to create a strong and pious
community. Muslims, they argued, must realise that their faith provides
a complete, perfect and timeless set of beliefs and principles which they
must embrace wholeheartedly. One need not look outside Islam for
enlightenment.175
All of this is consistent with Qutb’s thinking, but would seem to
downplay the real drama in his elaboration of the jahiliya — specifically
its application to Muslims within his own society. This is underlined by
the fact that takfir — effectively, excommunication, articulated by some
of Qutb’s more radical heirs in the Middle East in attacks against their
impious rulers or society — was seldom referred to in Tarbiyah texts,
as it was seen as inappropriate to Indonesian conditions and harmful to
the movement’s relations with other Islamic groups. Other key Qutbist
concepts in relation to the Islamic state were also not picked up by the
Tarbiyah movement. There are, for example, few references in Tarbiyah
texts to hakimiya — that is, the idea that sovereignty belongs to God
alone — a key concept that Qutb had elaborated from Maududi.
Throughout the 1980s and early 1990s, the Tarbiyah movement
68
remained overtly apolitical and appeared to the regime and university

administrators as primarily a religious movement which posed little
threat to the established order. Accordingly, it was able to access state
resources for training and predication programs which facilitated its
spread across campuses in Java, Sumatra, Kalimantan and Sulawesi.
The well organised Tarbiyah members also made rapid gains in campus
representative bodies and by the early 1990s the movement controlled
the student councils of many of Indonesia’s largest and most prestigious
state universities.
As the Tarbiyah movement consolidated itself during the 1990s,
pressure grew from within the movement to become more politically
active. This crystallised in early 1998, when the New Order began to
teeter following the Asian financial crisis. Tarbiyah activists formed
the student organisation KAMMI (Kesatuan Aksi Mahasiswa Muslim
Indonesia, or Indonesian Muslim Student Action Union) in April
1998 which quickly assumed a prominent role in protests that brought
down the regime. Following Soeharto’s downfall, many of these same
Tarbiyah leaders founded a new party, the Justice Party (PK), which
gained 1.4 per cent of the vote at the 1999 general election and seven
seats in the national parliament. Much of its support came from campus
Islamic groups and young graduates who had been involved in Tarbiyah
activities. As it failed to meet the 2 per cent threshold needed to contest
the 2004 election, PK changed its name to the Prosperity and Justice
Party (PKS), though it was effectively the same party. It was the only
party that contested the 1999 election to make major gains in the 2004
parliamentary elections, lifting its vote to 7.3 per cent and securing 45
seats in the new 550 member parliament. A large majority of the party’s
new voters at this election seemed attracted more by its message of clean
government and social justice rather than any Islamic appeals.176
The evolution of Brotherhood inspired movements from the
Gerakan Tarbiyah to a mainstream political party offers a revealing
case study of the impact of Middle Eastern Islamism in Indonesia and
the process of adaptation to changing local conditions. Tarbiyah was a
closed movement whose members were carefully selected and inducted
into a program designed to ensure pious behaviour. The emphasis
69
was upon personal rectitude and group solidarity rather than mass
involvement. The decision of some Tarbiyah leaders in 1998 to form
PK was a reaction to the post-Soeharto lifting of politically repressive
measures and a belief that it was now time to move into a new stage of
development, one that focused on formal politics and popular appeal as
a means of furthering their objectives. The exclusivity of Tarbiyah thus
gave way to a more inclusive and outward looking approach. At the
time of the 1999 election, PK had about 60 000 members; when PKS’s
formation was announced in mid-2003, the party had more than 300
000 members. The party consciously recruited members from a non-
Tarbiyah background to broaden its appeal and, at the 2004 election,
fielded more than 30 non-Muslim legislative candidates.
As noted in Chapter Two, the Egyptian Muslim Brotherhood,
reflecting both local political conditions and the preferences of its
historic leadership, consistently rejected its transformation into a
political party. In this regard the PKS seems closer to that younger
generation of Muslim Brothers in Egypt who left the movement to
form Hizb al-Wasat. There are indeed some striking similarities, most
notably the shift away from a heavily Islamic vocabulary, the adoption
of the language of democracy and economic reform, reflecting the
everyday concerns of constituents, and the inclusion of and appeal to
non-Muslims. PKS, like Hizb al-Wasat, would seem to reflect the victory
of political over religious logic — though again without abandoning the
religious underpinnings — though PKS obviously has greater scope to
pursue this process given Indonesia’s democratisation. Interestingly
though, PKS leaders rarely draw parallels between their own party
and Hizb al-Wasat, despite the obvious similarities between the two
parties. (More frequently they will cite Turkey’s Welfare and Justice
Party (AKP) as a model and inspiration.) So, starting from a common
Muslim Brotherhood framework, both PKS and Hizb al-Wasat appear
to have arrived independently at similar political destinations.
While Tarbiyah members regarded the Islamisation of society, the
economy, and state as a cornerstone of their struggle, PKS downplayed
these issues in the 1999 and 2004 elections, emphasising instead the
‘secular’ themes of fighting corruption, socio-economic equality and the
70
need for continued political reform. Party leaders made clear that their
stance on these issues was informed by their Islamic norms, but they
usually conveyed their electoral messages in religiously neutral language.
This was not to say that PKS leaders had abandoned their earlier
commitment to Islamist causes; rather they argued that it was premature
and ultimately counter productive to take such issues to the broader
electorate. Most voters, they said, had a poor understanding of Brotherhood
principles and PKS did not want to risk being labelled sectarian or radical
if it promoted such an agenda. Thus, PKS’s constitution and manifesto
made no mention of establishing an Islamic state.
When drawn on the issue by the media or researchers, party leaders
usually admitted that an Islamised state was an aspiration but that
formalising this by declaring Indonesia to be an ‘Islamic state’ was not
important. The views of one senior PKS leader were paraphrased in the
following way:
If the substance sufficiently represents the name [i.e., ‘Islamic

state’], the name does not need to reflect the substance… What
is the use of a country as large as Indonesia, whose Muslim
population is the largest in the world, declaring itself to be
[an Islamic state]. Previously, the people ran this nation in a
secular way [but] now we want to run it Islamically. That is
the essence of it. Hence, Partai Keadilan never bears aloft the
Islamic state or syariat Islam.177
There is another characteristic of PKS which makes it distinctive

in Indonesian politics, also reflecting Muslim Brotherhood influences:
it is the only genuine cadre party. Advancement within PKS usually
depends on members establishing a strong record of service within
their community and also showing detailed knowledge of PKS ideology
and policies. In other major parties ambitious cadre often purchase
prestigious positions or secure preferment through the intervention of
powerful patrons; in PKS, merit and demonstrated commitment are the
usual basis for promotion. While PKS is not entirely free of corruption,
‘money politics’ is far less commonplace within its ranks than with
71
other parties.
A final feature of the party seldom found in its rivals is its community
service function, again another hallmark of the Brotherhood. This
takes a wide variety of forms, including supplying emergency relief to
flood and fire victims, providing mobile medical and dental clinics, and
organising mass circumcisions and welfare services to poor communities.
As a result of such measures, PKS has acquired a reputation as one of
the few parties whose rhetoric of social concern is backed up by regular
grassroots assistance programs.
Some PKS actions, however, have drawn criticism. The party has, at
times, cultivated a public image of itself which is starkly at odds with
its internal discourses. While its spokespeople have stressed the party’s
commitment to pluralism and tolerance, PKS training documents and
websites indicate a far more militant stream of thinking among many
of its branches. PKS has also been attacked for its choice of legislative
candidates in the 2004 election. The most controversial of these was
Tamsil Linrung who was nominated by PKS despite a prima facie
case linking him to several violent Islamic organisations, including
Jemaah Islamiyah, and his unenviable reputation for financial
mismanagement.178 Another contentious PKS parliamentarian is the
former senior intelligence official, Soeripto, who was under investigation
for corruption and has gained a high profile by peddling outlandish
conspiracy theories about Western involvement in terrorist acts.
Another of PKS’s pernicious dimensions is the fact that trenchantly
anti-Christian and anti-Semitic rhetoric is commonplace among
many of its members, as are various theories regarding global plots to
subjugate Muslims. This is not unique to PKS; it is certainly found in
more extreme groups but can also be found in most Islamic parties.
While the anti-Christian rhetoric reflects Indonesia’s recent history of
sporadic sectarian conflict, anti-Semitism is largely a Middle Eastern
import (Indonesia’s Jewish community numbers only in the dozens).
To some extent, Indonesian Muslims have been drawn to conspiracy
theories regarding ‘global Jewish domination’ because this provides a
powerful sense of the hostile ‘other’ on to whom responsibility can be
shifted for the plight of the Islamic community (both in Indonesia and
72
elsewhere). Martin Van Bruinessen has also suggested some Indonesian

Muslims, particularly during the Soeharto era, found it safer to attack
Jews than the much resented and largely non-Muslim minority Chinese
community. In that sense, Indonesian anti-Semitism was a proxy for
anti-Sinicism.179
Nonetheless, PKS represents one of the few genuine alternatives in
Indonesian politics to the elite controlled and vastly corrupt mainstream
parties. As such, its emergence is a positive development for Indonesian
democracy, offering a new paradigm of political behaviour and greater
electoral choice. In this respect, the role that PKS has played is a
tangible demonstration of how Islamists can sometimes assist a process
of democratisation by generating an alternative to the oligarchic
structures that often underpin autocratic — or formerly autocratic —
regimes.180 PKS’s distinctiveness in this regard is a direct consequence
of its Brotherhood derived ideology and norms. Although the party
has adapted its thinking to fit Indonesian political conditions, its core
frame of reference remains that of the Brotherhood. Viewed from this
perspective it can be argued that this particular form of Middle Eastern
influence has had a positive impact on Indonesian political life.
In terms of Brotherhood influences in Indonesia it is worth mentioning
two other examples, Sheikh Yousef al-Qaradawi and Hizb ut-Tahrir.
Al-Qardhawi has been one of the most influential of contemporary
Middle Eastern thinkers within Indonesian Islam. He has made several
visits to Indonesia over the past two decades and at least 15 of his works
have been translated and published since the mid-1980s. His writings
on Islamic jurisprudence have become especially popular and are
widely cited, not just in Muslim Brotherhood-inspired groups such as
Gerakan Tarbiyah and the PKS, but more broadly among younger, urban
Muslims who lack a strong formal religious education. Many in these
sections of society find Qardhawi’s pronouncements on shari’a more
accessible and practical that those found in classical jurisprudential
texts. For example, he provides guidance on everyday matters such
as what approach Muslims should take to working in a conventional
bank or a large corporation owned by non-Muslims.181 His readers are
attracted to the directness and relevance of his works and the way they
73
can quickly find answers to the problems confronting them in daily life.
His views have, however, had little impact among mainstream and more
traditional organisations such as Nahdlatul Ulama.
Another interesting case study in this context is the Brotherhood
derived Hizb ut-Tahrir. In many parts of Europe, the Middle East and
Central Asia, it has a reputation for strident radicalism (see Chapter
Two). By contrast, in Indonesia, where it has had a presence since 1982,
Hizb ut-Tahrir has a record of peaceful predication and intellectual
activity which avoids the inflammatory rhetoric of some of its overseas
counterparts. Unlike many other Indonesian Islamist organisations
it has no paramilitary wing or thuggish ‘security units’. Moreover, it
has sought to tailor its message to Indonesian conditions and, of late,
has given as much emphasis to the implementation of shar’ia as it
has to the caliphate.182 Hizb ut-Tahrir has a growing membership in
Indonesia — no precise figures are available but it is probably several
tens of thousands — but it remains small in comparison to mainstream
organisations and parties.
Salafist groups
The development of the salafi movement in Indonesia has much

in common with that of Brotherhood inspired groups, but there are a
number of significant differences. The salafi community is small when
compared to mainstream Islamic organisations such as Nahdlatul Ulama
and Muhammadiyah, whose members number in the tens of millions.
Most of the salafi groups are based around educational and propagation
institutions such as the al-Sofwah Foundation, the Ihsa at-Turots
Foundation and al-Haramain al-Khairiyah. The number of students
in each of these institutions may number up to several thousand, but
most salafi groups are much smaller, usually in the hundreds. The very
nature of salafism, with its emphasis on exemplary piety, ensures that
these groups are more concerned with the quality of their members or
students than in their quantity. The largest single salafi movement in
recent history was the Forum Komunikasi Ahlus Sunnah Wal Jamaah
(FKAWJ) and its high profile paramilitary force, the Laskar Jihad. The
74
Forum was established in 1998 by a group of about 60 prominent salafi

teachers and preachers led by a veteran of the Afghan war, Ja’far Umar
Thalib.
In early 2000, the Forum founded Laskar Jihad, primarily to defend
Muslims it believed were being attacked and slaughtered by Christians
in Maluku. At its height in 2001, Laskar Jihad claimed to have about
10 000 members, up to 5000 of whom were involved in fighting and
providing health and welfare services in Maluku, Central Sulawesi, and
even Papua. The Forum voluntarily dissolved itself and Laskar Jihad
in early October 2002, following criticism of LJ activities by several
key Saudi sheikhs, growing internal disputes between Ja’far and other
leaders, declining support from the Indonesian military and a drop in
funding.183
The relative smallness of the salafi community is not, however, an
accurate indicator of its influence. There is evidence to suggest that
the salafists enjoy considerable success in communicating their ideas
to a wider audience and, to some extent, attracting people to their
cause. Significant demand exists for salafi publications. This is not to
say that salafi ideas find ready acceptance among mainstream Muslims,
but rather that many Muslims are interested in such material and may
selectively subscribe to the views set out within. The salafi movement
is also highly effective at training and mobilising preachers through
mosque and campus networks. Such da’wa (dakwah) activities have
proved effective in popularising salafi thinking.
Salafi groups in Indonesia bear all the hallmarks of contemporary
salafism in the Middle East and indeed of the movement globally. In
particular, they seek to de-link the practice of Islam from Indonesian
culture. Thus local salafists are far less likely than their Brotherhood
inspired counterparts to accommodate local cultural preferences when
attempting to reform religious practice. They regard ‘indigenous’
manifestations of Islamic religiosity with some caution, believing them
to contain deviations and ‘innovations’ from pure orthodox religious
practice. They typically adopt forms of salafi clothing distinct from
traditional Indonesian Islamic garb symbolically echoing the dress
norms of salafists in the Middle East and elsewhere.
75
As already noted with respect to salafi groups in the Middle East,

salafism in Indonesia is far from monolithic. The salafi community is
notoriously fractious and its history since the early 1990s is replete
with bitter personal and doctrinal disputes, leading to frequent splits
within groups and the formation of new entities. Salafi publications
and websites are notable for the often vitriolic attacks on other salafi
groups and denunciation of those seen to have deviated from the pure
salafi teachings. Frequently such disputes revolve around competing
claims to be enacting the most pure form of salafism and protecting the
movement from harmful ‘innovation’.184
In practice — and somewhat ironically — the effort to promote a
universalist or generic form of Islamic identity makes salafism in Indonesia,
of all the Islamist streams discussed in this paper, the most closely tied
to the Middle East. This is true not only doctrinally and culturally but
also financially. As already noted, the growth of contemporary salafism
in Indonesia in the 1980s was in large part the result of the assistance
provided by Gulf States, notably Saudi Arabia. Unlike the Tarbiyah/
PKS movement, where Brotherhood ideas and principles were seen as a
guide rather than a strict prescription, salafist groups regard their Middle
Eastern counterparts as exemplars of proper thinking and behaviour
and they strive to follow closely the norms and practices of Arab salafi.
Indeed some Indonesian liberal Muslims have been critical of what they
say is the growing ‘Arabisation’ of Indonesian Islam.
A distinctive element in Indonesian salafist behaviour is the deference
paid to senior Middle Eastern salafi leaders. Eminent salafi sheikhs in
Saudi Arabia and Yemen are regarded as masyaikh, or those capable
of authoritative pronouncements on matters of Islamic law, whereas
Indonesian salafi leaders see themselves as at the subordinate level of
tholibul ilm (talib al-ilm) or ‘seekers of knowledge’. While Indonesian
salafist scholars may take the title of ‘ustadz’ (literally, ‘teacher’) and
make rulings on lesser matters of Islamic law, they would seek and
adhere to the religious opinions of senior Middle Eastern salafi sheikhs
on important or controversial issues.
Yet this process is not beyond manipulation by Indonesian ustadz.
Frequently, a local salafi will furnish Middle Eastern sheikhs with
76
partisan or self serving information and lobby them to issue a statement

favourable to their particular interest or doctrinal position. The
sheikhs’ lack of knowledge of Indonesia makes them susceptible to such
campaigns. So, while Indonesian salafists will ultimately respect the
ruling made by a prominent Middle Eastern Sheikh, they will also seek
to steer the decision making process.
A well documented case of this is the Forum Komunikasi Ahlus
Sunnah Wal Jamaah. Throughout its existence, the Forum repeatedly
sought guidance from a number of Middle Eastern ulama regarding key
decisions. The establishment of Laskar Jihad was only undertaken after
such prominent sheikhs as Muqbil bin Hadi al-Wadi, Rabi bin Hadi
al-Madkholi and Wahid al-Jabiri gave their approval and, similarly, the
disbandment of the Forum and Laskar was prompted by disapproving
comments from Saudi and Yemeni ulama.185 This latter case provided a
rare instance of an Indonesian ustadz questioning a fatwa from senior
salafi sheikhs. Ja’far Umar Thalib rejected the criticism of his behaviour
and the direction of Laskar Jihad, not on the basis of the sheikhs’
competence, but rather by challenging the veracity of the information
presented to them by his Indonesian salafi rivals. Ja’far’s reluctance to
accept the fatwa led to him being ostracised by most salafi groups.
The relationship between salafism, politics and violence (including
terrorism) is as complex in Indonesia as it is in the Middle East. The
only real certainty is that one cannot place all salafi groups in the same
category. Most Indonesian salafi groups focus exclusively on religiosity
and peaceful missionary and educational activity. Like salafism in the
Middle East they actively avoid political activism. While many purists
take the orthodox salafi view against democracy, some Indonesian salafi
groups have permitted their members to vote in Indonesian elections.186
Nonetheless a number of salafi groups have resorted to violence to, as
they see it, defend the Muslim community in Indonesia. Thus religiously
minded salafists have participated in sectarian violence — in Maluku,
as noted above — or in acts of vigilante violence against moral threats
to the Islamic community.
As with the Middle East, those self described salafi groups who
focus on organised acts of terrorism need to be viewed as a separate
77
category (under the broad rubric of jihadist-salafism). While the line

between sectarian violence and terrorism is by no means clear cut, it is
a distinction that salafists themselves make; that is, some salafists see
their participation in sectarian violence as legitimate but would draw
the line at what they consider an act of terrorism. Indeed despite the fact
that some Indonesian terrorist groups — such as JI — call themselves
salafist, there are sharp differences between them and mainstream
salafists.
In Indonesia, most strict salafists appear to regard the terrorist
movement Jemaah Islamiyah (JI) with suspicion and contempt. They
object to its clandestine nature and its practice of members swearing
oaths to the JI amir. For purist salafists, allegiance should only be given
to the amirul Muslimeen (amir al-Muslimeen) or ‘commander of the
faithful’ (i.e., leader of the global Islamic community), not to the head of
a small covert group. They also reject JI’s interpretation of jihad, which
sanctions terrorist attacks and the use of ‘martyr’ suicide bombers. Most
salafi leaders regard terrorists as muharibeen (those who cause harm on
earth) and believe that the perpetrators of such acts should be punished
by death. They further believe that death by suicide in a terrorism attack
is a sin that precludes martyrdom. Finally, salafist groups condemn JI’s
determination to bring down the ‘Muslim governments’ of Indonesia
and other Southeast Asian countries, believing that Muslims are
forbidden to rebel against their rulers, even if they are tyrannical and
impious.187
Such objections are dismissed by the leaders of JI, who see jihad
as essential to realising salafi ideals in the modern world. Indeed JI
figures such as Mukhlas have written derisively about those who call
themselves salafi but are not prepared to undertake jihad.188 JI argue
that such is the military and economic might of Islam’s enemies, only
through unremitting war and terrorism can Muslims hope to re-establish
the kind of state which existed at the time of the salafi. The difference
between mainstream salafists and jihadist-salafists is most often
manifest in their attitude toward religious scholars. Mainstream salafists
tend to ascribe primacy to the teachings of prominent establishment
sheikhs in Saudi Arabia such as the late Sheikhs Abd al-Aziz Bin Baz
78
and Mohammed bin Saleh al-Uthaimeen. By contrast JI gives primacy

to what it calls ahluts tsughur (ahl al-thughoor — see Chapter Two; in
effect, ‘warrior ulama’) — notably Abdullah Azzam, Osama bin Laden,
Ayman al-Zawahiri and Abu Qatada (not all of whom, of course are
religious scholars). Imam Samudra, for example, wrote that jihadists
should only ‘hold to the fatwa of the ulama (ulema) mujahid. That is,
those who have fought directly in the jihad battlefield’. For him, Islamic
knowledge alone is insufficient; to have real authority in matters of
jihad, an ulama needs to have battlefield experience, to have borne arms
as part of God’s struggle.189
Jihadist groups
In the minds of many Western government officials and journalists

working in Indonesia, the recent rise of terrorism is proof of the
malignant effect of Middle Eastern Islam on the region. Such a view
ignores Indonesia’s long history of violent Muslim extremism. In reality,
Indonesian terrorism is the product of a complex interaction between
local and external factors.
Indonesia has the most serious terrorism problem of any Southeast
Asian state. It has suffered more terrorist attacks and far more
casualties than any of its neighbours. It has also provided most of
the region’s confirmed Islamist terrorists, though this should not be
statistically surprising given that Indonesia is home to almost 90 per
cent of Southeast Asia’s Muslims. Nonetheless the number of proven
or suspected Indonesia based terrorist groups is small. Foremost among
them is Jemaah Islamiyah (JI), but there are several local groups such as
Wahdah Islamiyah and Laskar Jundullah, sections of which have been
repeatedly implicated in terrorist activity.
Jemaah Islamiyah was founded on 1 January 1993 by Abdullah
Sungkar.190 Like al-Qaeda, JI is a genuine transnational movement: a
large majority of its leaders and members are Indonesian, but Muslims
from Malaysia, Singapore, the Philippines, Thailand and possibly several
other Southeast Asian states are also closely involved. The formal aim of
JI is to create a caliphate in the region, within which shari’a law would
79
be comprehensively implemented. This would then become the basis

for the restoration of a global caliphate.191 In reality, most JI members
are more concerned with establishing an Islamic state within Indonesia
and striking against Islam’s perceived foes. Doctrinally, JI regards itself
as strictly salafi, but as discussed above, this has been contested by non-
jihadist-salafists.
JI commenced serious planning for terrorist acts from the late 1990s,
the main targets of which were to be Christian places of worship and
clergy. These began with several church bombings in the Sumatran city
of Medan in May 2000, followed three months later by the car bombing
of the Philippines ambassador’s residence in Jakarta, which killed one
bystander. The first large scale operation was a near simultaneous set
of attacks on 38 churches across Indonesia on Christmas Eve 2000,
resulting in the deaths of 19 people. By far the most lethal terrorist
action by JI was the bombing of two crowded nightclubs in Bali on 12
October 2002, which killed 202 people and left more than 300 others
seriously injured. The Bali bombing represented a new development in
JI terrorism. Not only was it the first suicide attack undertaken by the
organisation, it was also the first time Westerners had been specifically
targeted. Statements by the perpetrators revealed that they had wanted
to strike at the United States, regarding it as the leader of global anti-
Islamic forces. The Bali attack was followed by the car bombing of the
J. W. Marriott Hotel in Jakarta on 5 August 2003, leading to the loss of
another 12 lives. The bombing of the Australian Embassy in Jakarta on
9 September 2004, which killed nine Indonesians, is also likely to be
the work of JI or its affiliates. In all, the death toll from these and other,
smaller, JI attacks probably exceeds 250.
In addition to its own operations, JI has spawned or cooperated
closely with other militant groups in the region which are involved
in jihadist activities. The Makassar bombing in South Sulawesi on 5
December 2002, that caused three fatalities, was carried out by members
of Wahdah Islamiyah and Laskar Jundullah, both of which have
ideological, training and personal links to JI. Along with the Mujahidin
Kompak, a paramilitary group associated with Dewan Dakwah’s aid
organisation, Kompak, Wahdah Islamiyah and Laskar Jundullah also
80
took part in sectarian violence in Central Sulawesi in late 2003. Across

the region, JI has worked closely with the Moro Islamic Liberation Front
(MILF), including running joint operations and training camps, and
the Kumpulan Mujahidin Malaysia (KMM), though the exact nature of
this latter relationship remains open to dispute.192
That JI is seen as predominantly a product of international jihadist
forces is scarcely surprising given the background of many of its leaders,
its ideological orientation, and its well established links with foreign
terrorist networks, most notably that of al-Qaeda. The Afghanistan
experience had a powerful effect on the outlook of the Indonesian
mujahideen and their capacity to undertake terrorist acts. The arduous
conditions in the training camps and on the battlefield created close
bonds among the Indonesian fighters and also with other mujahideen
from across the Muslim world. These friendships and networks would
later prove critical to JI’s ability to mount large, well coordinated
terrorist attacks. The mujahideen learned the skills necessary for
terrorism, such as bomb making, use of firearms and covert operation
techniques. They were heavily indoctrinated with jihadist thinking that
provided powerful religious sanction for the use of terrorist violence
and the experience of Afghanistan created a strong pan-Islamist
outlook. JI relocated its offshore training to MILF camps in Mindanao
in the southern Philippines in 1995, though the so called ‘alumni Moro’
did not have the same prestige and tight networking found among the
Afghanistan veterans.
Ideologically, the Middle Eastern influence on JI is unmistakable.
Significantly, however, the influences are diverse, cutting across various
currents of radical Islamism in the Middle East. In JI texts, Middle Eastern
figures, both contemporary and historical, have pride of place. Despite
the fact that JI describes itself as a salafi movement, Qutbist notions
of jahiliya and radical global jihad feature prominently, particularly
in the teachings of Abdullah Sungkar. He and Ba’asyir also applied
the Brotherhood’s usrah strategy within the movement, believing that
Islamising society was a precondition for an Islamic state. The Gama’a
Islamiyah connection was also important. Both Sungkar and Ba’asyir
were admirers of the spiritual head of Egyptian al-Gama’a al-Islamiyah,
81
Sheikh Omar Abd al-Rahman. JI’s General Declaration of Struggle

(commonly known by the acronym ‘PUPJI’) was, according to several
of the organisation’s leaders, inspired by the Gama’a’s Mithaq al-Amal
al-Islami (‘Charter of Islamic Action’ published by the JI linked press
al-Alaq as Pedoman Amal Islami).193 (Not all of JI’s texts, it should be
noted, are of Islamic origin. The current JI amir, Abu Dujana, appears
to have edited a manual for ‘urban mujahid’ which draws heavily upon
Carlos Marighella’s classic insurgency text ‘The Mini-Manual of the
Urban Guerilla’. The text has been Islamised, for example, replacing the
original ‘urban guerilla’ with ‘urban mujahid’.194)
The two most seminal ‘external’ authorities for JI are, however,
Abdullah Azzam and Ibn Taymiyah. JI texts often paid homage to
Azzam and his role in conceptualising and facilitating global jihad. Al-
Alaq in Solo translated and published many of his works, including a 12
volume collection of writings and speeches entitled Tarbiyah Jihadiyah,
and Di Bawah Naungan Surat at-Taubah, all of which became major
references on JI reading lists.195 Ibn Taymiyah’s treatises on jihad and
the need to remove Muslim rulers who did not uphold Islamic law were
also regarded as essential texts for JI recruits. Two other influential
texts are Abu Qutada’s al-Jihad wa’l-Ijtihad and Muhammad Sayyid
al-Qathani’s al-Wala’ wa’l-Bara.
The Middle Eastern influence is also evident in JI’s use of suicide
bombers in the Bali, Marriott and Australian Embassy attacks. Manuals
on suicide bombing, particularly those from Palestinian sources, were
studied in JI training courses and several of these texts were translated
and published in Indonesia by JI activists. The techniques used by JI draw
closely on those employed by groups such as Hamas.196 Nonetheless,
while the methods and inspiration for suicide bombings owe much
to the Palestinian example, it is wrong to assert, as several writers on
JI have done, that there is no historical precedent for such attacks in
Southeast Asia. Stephen Dale has shown that Muslims in Aceh, North
Sumatra, and the southern Philippines regularly resorted to suicidal
jihadism against ‘infidel’ colonial forces during the late nineteenth and
early twentieth centuries.197
Interestingly, available evidence suggests that JI rarely ever cite takfir
82
(excommunication) as a basis for terrorist action. As already noted, in

Egypt takfir was used by radical Islamists to justify attacks on their own
Muslim governments. The fact that JI does not apply it is not surprising
given that JI’s acts of terrorism have generally been directed at non-
Muslims, either Indonesian Christians or Westerners. JI members,
like mainstream salafists, are inclined to the view that lax or liberal
minded Muslims should be regarded as misguided rather than having
left the faith. This suggests that JI shares al-Qaeda’s prioritisation of the
struggle for the global Islamic umma, rather than the more traditional
focus of Islamists, overthrowing the impious rulers of Muslim states.
The al-Qaeda influence is also evident in the rhetoric and statements
of JI. Compare, for example, the following two texts. The first is the al-
Qaeda statement which appeared in April 2002. It said, in part:
There currently exists an extermination effort against the

Islamic peoples that has America’s blessing, not just by virtue
of its effective cooperation, but by America’s activity. The best
witness to this is what is happening with the full knowledge of
the world in the Palestinian cities of Jenin, Nablus, Ramallah
and elsewhere. Every day, all can follow the atrocious
slaughter going on there with American support that is
aimed at children, women and the elderly. Are Muslims not
permitted to respond in the same way and kill those among
the Americans who are like the Muslims they are killing?
Certainly! By Allah, it is truly a right for Muslims… It is
allowed for Muslims to kill protected ones among unbelievers
as an act of reciprocity. If the unbelievers have targeted
Muslim women, children and elderly, it is permissible for
Muslims to respond in kind and kill those similar to those
whom the unbelievers killed.198
Of note here is the listing of places across the globe where Muslims
have been victims of non-Muslim violence, and the resort to principles
of reciprocity and vengeance as justification for jihadist terrorism. Six
months later, immediately after the Bali bombing, JI leaders approved
83
the release of the following statement on the web:
Let it be acknowledged that every single drop of Muslim

blood, be it from any nationality and from any place will be
remembered and accounted for.’ [Reference to ‘thousands of
Muslims’ killed in Afghanistan, Sudan, Palestine, Bosnia,
Kashmir and Iraq.] The heinous crime and international
conspiracy of the Christians also extends to the Philippines
and Indonesia. This has resulted in Muslim cleansing in
Moro [southern Philippines], Ambon, Poso and surrounding
areas. It is clearly evident the crusade is continuing and will
not stop… Every blow will be repaid. Blood will be redeemed
by blood. A life for a life… To all you Christian unbelievers, if
you define this act [i.e., the Bali bombings] on your civilians as
heinous and cruel, you yourself have committed crimes which
are more heinous. The cries of the babies and Muslim women
has never succeeded in stopping your brutality. Well, here we
are the Muslim men! We will harness the pain of the death
of our brothers and sisters. You will bear the consequences of
your actions wherever you are… We are responsible for the
incident in Legian, Kuta, Bali.199
Several terrorism specialists have suggested JI is an integral or

subordinate part of al-Qaeda, whereas Sidney Jones of the International
Crisis Group has described the relationship as one of ‘mutual benefit
and parallel struggle’ in which JI is largely autonomous.200 The available
evidence favours the latter view. JI leaders have certainly had extensive
contact with bin Laden and other key al-Qaeda figures during the late
1980s and early 1990s in Afghanistan and several JI figures had ongoing
operational ties. The most obvious was Hambali, who not only headed
up JI operations but also consulted closely with the al-Qaeda leadership.
Others who appear to have good links with bin Laden’s group included
Zulkarnaen, the commander of JI’s military wing, and Fathur Rahman
al-Ghozi, a bomb expert with extensive experience in Afghanistan and
the Philippines. Al-Qaeda also provided substantial sums of money to
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JI for terrorist attacks, including US$35,000 for the Bali bombing, as

well as operatives such as the Kuwaiti, Omar al-Faruq, who assisted JI
in Indonesia from the late 1990s till his arrest in mid-2002.
There can also be little doubt about al-Qaeda’s ideological influence
on JI thinking. Al-Qaeda’s 1998 fatwa calling for a jihad against the West
had a galvanising effect on the most militant section of JI’s leadership.
This group, which included Hambali, Mukhlas, Zulkarnaen, Dr Azhari
Husin, Imam Samudra and Dul Matin, believed that the fatwa should be
acted upon and that the time had come for an emphatic jihadist response
to Islam’s enemies. This view was, however, opposed by other sections
of JI, which argued that the al-Qaeda fatwa did not reflect conditions
in Indonesia and that the organisation’s broader goal of creating an
Islamic state through predication and education would be jeopardised
by large scale terrorist attacks. This faction contains many leaders of
the Mantiqi II group (Java and Sumatra), including Ustadz Muhaimin
Yahya (alias Ustadz Ziad), Ustadz Abdullah Anshori (alias Abu Fatih),
Ahmad Roihan alias Saad and Ustadz Abdul Manan. The issue of
the religious and tactical merit of pursuing extreme jihad remains a
primary source of tension within JI, though observers are divided as to
the seriousness of this dispute. Sidney Jones from the ICG believes that
JI is fragmenting, with sections of the organisation conducting their
own operations with little or no reference to the central leadership.201
Zachary Abuza, possibly drawing on intelligence reporting, asserts
that there is no serious falling out within the JI leadership and that
the organisation’s outlook is broad enough to accommodate both mass
casualty terrorism and propagation. It is difficult to assess independently
the merits of these opposing views, but ICG has made the stronger case
in public to support its interpretation.
While all these elements point to Jemaah Islamiyah’s international
orientation, it would be wrong to see such violent Muslim extremism
as largely an imported phenomenon. Some 40 years before JI, the Darul
Islam rebellion in Indonesia provided one of the Islamic world’s first
major jihadist uprisings of the twentieth century. There are a number
of striking parallels between JI and Darul Islam, as well as some telling
differences.
85
The Darul Islam (DI) rebellion against the central government began
in 1948 and continued until the early 1960s. DI was overtly Islamist.
It rejected the religiously neutral state ideology of the Republic, known
as Pancasila (literally, ‘Five Principles’), and in 1949, established the
Indonesian Islamic State (Negara Islam Indonesia; NII) based on shari’a.
It described its struggle as a jihad fi sabilillah (‘holy war in the way
of God’) which would continue ‘until all Islam’s enemies were driven
out’.202 At its height in the mid-1950s, DI had at least 20 000 fighters,
which it called mujahid (holy warriors), and it waged military and terror
campaigns across six provinces. These included armed attacks on non-
combatants in public places such as markets, cinemas and government
offices, the use of assassination units (one of which almost succeeded
in killing President Sukarno in 1957), assaults on Islamic schools and
mosques in areas that refused to join DI, and the deployment of killing
squads in conflict zones with monthly quotas for victims.
Estimates of the death toll during the 15 year DI rebellion range from
about 15 000 to 40 000; well over one million people were displaced and
500 000 properties destroyed. Eventually, the rebellion was crushed by
the Indonesian army in 1962.203 Darul Islam reactivated itself in the
early 1970s as an underground organisation. From the mid-1970s, it
experienced growing internal rifts and organisational fragmentation. It
now has at least several thousand members and many more sympathisers,
only a small number of whom would appear to be involved in violent
or terrorist activity.204 The movement is more commonly known these
days by the acronym NII.
Darul Islam had (and has) a similarly absolutist and dichotomised
view of the world to JI. It believed that any Muslim who chose not to
live in an area where Islamic law was in force (i.e., darul Islam; dar
al-Islam) was apostate and therefore forfeited their rights to life and
property. Such people were part of the ‘region of war’ (darul harbi; dar
al-harb) and it was obligatory for all true Muslims to fight against them
until they were vanquished. Importantly, DI’s jihadism was based not
on contemporary Middle Eastern sources, such as the more militant
Brotherhood tracts that were beginning to appear at this time, but on
interpretations of centuries old classical jurisprudence (fiqh) texts.
86
There were other important differences between DI and JI. DI had none
of the strict salafist approach of JI; its religiosity was highly heterodox,
mixing mystical and village folk practices with traditional Islam. A cult
of personality with millenarian overtones developed around the DI
leader, S. M. Kartosuwirjo — something that JI figures would regard
as tantamount to polytheism (shirk). Lastly, DI was an endogenous
movement. It gained little or no financial or material support from
outside Indonesia and had no aspirations to found a transnational
caliphate, as does JI. DI’s sole political goal was to establish an Islamic
state in Indonesia.
The significance of Darul Islam for the present discussion is that it
shows that contemporary Middle Eastern influences are not required to
create a violent jihadist movement in Indonesia. Such influences may
be a sufficient but not a necessary condition for the rise of extremism.
Local factors, such as socio-economic marginalisation, political or ethnic
alienation and attraction to indigenous expressions of strict piety also
play a powerful role.
Despite the differences in religious doctrine and outlook between
Darul Islam and Jemaah Islamiyah, there are powerful historical
and contemporary links between the two. Many JI members regard
Kartosuwirjo as an inspirational figure who martyred himself for the
cause of founding an Islamic state. They also regard JI as continuing the
DI struggle, albeit in a different form. Both Sungkar and Ba’asyir held
senior positions in DI during the 1980s and early 1990s, and Sungkar
commonly dated the start of the Indonesian state as 7 August 1949
(i.e. the proclamation of NII) rather than 17 August 1945, the date on
which Sukarno declared Indonesia’s independence.205 DI communities
remain a major source of JI recruiting; many of the Indonesians who
went to Afghanistan from 1985 did so as DI members, only later joining
JI. Also, DI cadre trained as separate units in JI’s Camp Hudaibiyah in
Mindanao in the latter part of the 1990s and JI instructors continue to be
involved in training DI groups in Java. Last of all, there is considerable
intermarriage between DI and JI families, which serves to strengthen
the ties between the two networks.206
Thus, it is misleading to see Jemaah Islamiyah as purely, or even
87
predominantly, a product of external and particularly Middle Eastern

influences. JI is more accurately characterised as a hybrid of local
and international forces. It has been moulded by the deep and bitter
historical experience of radical Islam in Indonesia, overlaid with global
jihadist tendencies. As with most regional terrorist movements around
the world, it has distinctive local qualities. It is a hallmark of al-Qaeda
that it is able to inspire organisations such as JI and draw them into
its network, while also allowing those groups to pursue their more
parochial agendas.
Palestine, Iraq and Indonesia
JI’s effort to align itself with al-Qaeda’s struggle raises the broader
issue of Indonesian identification with prominent Middle Eastern
causes, notably that of Palestine and the conflict in Iraq. Pro-Palestinian
sentiment has a long history and can be traced back to the 1940s when
Indonesian Islamic organisations opposed the partition of Palestine and
the creation of an Israeli state. Most have continued this stance until
the present. Under pressure from the Muslim community, successive
Indonesian governments have refused diplomatic and trade relations
with Israel. By contrast, the PLO has had diplomatic representation in
Jakarta since 1989. The ongoing sensitivity of this issue was apparent
in late 1999, when newly elected President Abdurrahman Wahid
created a furore by proposing the opening of trade ties with Israel — he
was forced to back down shortly afterwards. More recently, the US led
bombing of Afghanistan in 2001 and the Iraq War have also aroused
strong sentiment among Indonesia’s Muslims. There were small and
occasionally violent protests against the Afghanistan campaign and the
invasion of Iraq drew large but peaceful crowds on to the streets of
major cities to rally against the military action.
Despite the widespread expression of support for Palestine, there
is evidence to suggest that many Indonesian Muslims regard this and
other international ‘Islamic issues’ as being of secondary importance to
domestic concerns. For example, surveys conducted by the Centre for
the Study of Islam and Society (PPIM) at the State Islamic University
88
Syarif Hidayatullah, Jakarta, showed that the Palestinian issue ranked

highly with Muslim respondents but was seen as less important than
problems facing Indonesia’s Islamic community.207 Also, Islamic groups
have found it difficult to maintain the momentum of mass protests over
US policies in Afghanistan and Iraq, as both the leaders and members
of mainstream organisations have swung their attention back to local
issues. Calls for boycotts on US products and aid related funding have
gained little support, even though international surveys record that
anti-American sentiment in Indonesia is at the highest point for a
generation. In general, most Muslim leaders have taken a pragmatic
view, believing that boycotts and violent protests would harm local
Muslims more than they would the United States.208
While the Islamic mainstream may not be preoccupied with bloodshed
and injustice elsewhere in the Muslim world, radical activists have a
higher awareness of Muslim suffering and may be galvanised by events
such as the Iraq war. JI activists have used images of ‘slaughtered’
Muslims from conflicts in Iraq, Afghanistan and Bosnia to recruit new
members, though the impact of these images may be less powerful
than those from local Muslim–Christian bloodshed in Ambon or Poso.
Nonetheless, even in this case it is difficult to point to evidence that
the war in Iraq is directly fuelling new recruits into JI, with most of its
recruits drawn from groups and communities that have had a radical
outlook stretching back at least several decades.209
89
Conclusion and
Policy Implications
Introduction
At the outset of this paper we outlined a broad objective; that is, to

explore whether Islamism was indeed today a monolithic ideological
movement spreading from its historical centre, the Middle East, to
Muslim countries around the world. As we explained at the outset, this
paper should be viewed as both a case study on the flow and influence
of Islamist ideas from the Middle East, but also as an effort in its own
right to shed some light on Islamism in Indonesia. In this final chapter
we will attempt to bring together the various strands of this paper and
discuss general policy implications derived from our conclusions.
Between Islamism and neo-fundamentalism
Chapters One and Two offered an overview of Islamism in the Middle

East which served to highlight the extent to which Islamism has always
been grounded in the social, political and economic changes that have
taken place in the region. Over the course of Islamism’s evolution in
the Middle East, three themes were evident: that of Islamic revival in
the first half of the twentieth century; a radicalisation of thought in the
second half; and the beginnings of a process of Islamist reassessment at

the end of the century. Two broad trajectories emerged from this process
of reassessment: one which has seen Islamists seek an accommodation
with the states in which they live; and a second involving a drift toward
neo-fundamentalism, manifest in contemporary forms of salafism, but
also in extreme cases, in jihadist-salafism.
The history of the Egyptian Muslim Brotherhood, in particular,
provides a window into the evolution of the Islamism. From its
beginnings in the shadow of the historical Salafiya, it translated a
desire for Islamic revival into a broad based movement. But early on,
as it would throughout its history, it fell victim to its own success as its
effectiveness as a representative of the masses brought it into conflict
with the state. This produced a radical turn, in the ideas of Sayyid Qutb,
which would go on to inspire a militant activism and confrontation
with the state through the 1970s, 80s and 90s. This activism was as
much a function of how Qutb’s radical heirs chose to interpret his
ideas as it was of the socio-political and economic conditions of the
time. Confrontation between the state and Islamist groups would be a
recurring theme and cause of radicalisation and often violence.
The radical project would not, however, eclipse that of more
mainstream Islamism. The two would coexist. The Muslim Brotherhood
would return to a focus on propagation (da’wa), though it would also
become more overtly political, running independent candidates in
elections, and trying to occupy those spaces that the Egyptian regime
couldn’t quite reach, such as unions, and professional syndicates and
institutions of social welfare. Meanwhile, the radicals would focus
on jihad, which for much of the history of radical Islamism meant a
violent and terroristic struggle against their own impious rulers and, in
particular cases, against Israel.
The radical current of Islamism would have few victories however,
save the Afghan jihad against the Soviets (which was won by the
Afghan Islamists not foreign fighters), revolution in Iran and a coup
in Sudan. The failure of the revolutionary project of violent Islamism
in Egypt and Algeria — marked, in particular, by a descent into brutal
terrorism — would help prompt a reassessment. For some radical
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CONCLUSION AND POLICY IMPLICATIONS
movements this would be evident in an effort to reconcile their ideas

and activism with the state and abandon violence — at least for the
moment. But even mainstream Islamist movements would go through a
process of reassessment reflecting the victory of a political over religious
logic. Some movements would seek to adapt Islamist dogma in the
cause of political respectability and popular support. The sustainability
of this shift toward moderation among both radical and mainstream
Islamists will remain, however, greatly dependent on the prospects for
democratisation in the Middle East. A return to violence remains a
possibility.
Political integration was not the only trajectory on offer, however.
The reassessment of the 1990s among Islamists in the region would,
in part, manifest itself in a neo-fundamentalist trajectory that has,
in effect, increasingly taken Islamism out of the Middle East. Neo-
fundamentalism has long historical roots, notably the efforts by Saudi
Arabia since the 1960s and 70s to promote Wahabism internationally.
But globalisation, in particular the ‘de-territorialisation’ of Islam
discussed in Chapter Two, has provided contemporary salafism with an
opportunity to create a new universalist identity particularly attractive
to those Muslims who find themselves living as minorities in the West
or indeed feel they are now minorities in their own majority Muslim
countries.
This neo-fundamentalist trajectory is not for the most part violent.210
Nonetheless, it does have an extreme and terroristic manifestation that
combines the jihadist ideas and activism of the displaced veterans of
the Afghan jihad against the Soviets with a salafi worldview. It is this
extreme end of neo-fundamentalism that has produced al-Qaeda, its
imitators and partisans. This broad group represents a break with the
traditional patterns of even violent Islamist activism in the Middle East.
They do not fight the impious regimes of the region or Israel (with a few
possible exceptions). Their struggle is against the United States and its
Western allies. References to Iraq and the Israeli–Palestinian conflict
are employed for their resonance among Muslims worldwide, but are
also subsumed into a vision of conflict between civilisations. Stripped of
his Saudi citizenship, bin Laden has stopped being a Saudi or an Arab;
93
in his mind he is simply a Muslim and a citizen of the umma.

Today Islamists are placed by many in the same, ‘one size fits all’
category. But as the foregoing illustrates, Islamism is not monolithic. Al-
Qaeda is as distant from the ideas and activism of the Egyptian Hizb al-
Wasat as the Baader Meinhof group of the 1970s was from the German
Social Democrats. These differences are not only degrees of moderation
of radicalism, or the choice between violent and non-violent tactics.
Quite fundamentally they relate to the projects that various Islamists
pursue from the promotion of specific forms of religiosity, to a struggle
against authoritarianism, to terrorism against the West. They also relate
to the degree of ‘embeddedness’ that such movements feel with the
societies from which they emerged. There is no overall Islamist mission
of which these various movements are a part (even if sometimes their
lip service to the umma and the cause of global Islam might suggest it).
Some work within national boundaries, others beyond them, but more
often than not toward very different ends.
Between the global and the local
As Chapters Three and Four underline, the various currents of

Islamism and neo-fundamentalism have had an impact in Indonesia.
Most often these ideas have been imported by Indonesian Islamists
looking for new modes of thinking about the relationship between
Islam, politics and society or indeed new models for activism. Various
mechanisms have served as vectors for these ideas, from Indonesian
students who travelled to the Middle East to the jihadists who went to
Afghanistan in the 1980s and 90s to the proliferating sources of Islamist
information available through the Internet and satellite television.
These vectors have served, however, to mediate the transmission of
a range of ideas, from the more mainstream thinking of the Muslim
Brotherhood, to the jihadist-salafism of al-Qaeda.
In specific instances, notably via Saudi propagation, these ideas
have also been exported to Indonesia. Saudi support — financial and
otherwise — has been critical to the emergence of a salafi current within
the Indonesian Muslim community. Most salafists seem essentially
94
concerned with questions of morality and religiosity — albeit of an

intolerant form — limiting their activities to preaching and education.
Nonetheless some salafi groups do cross into acts of vigilantism and
sectarian violence. For the most part these groups should, however,
be seen as distinct from those self described salafi groups involved in
terrorism. The clamp down on Saudi funding for global Islamic causes
has placed a number of these organisations in difficult circumstances
and may see some of them disappear.
Saudi propagation has also served as a vector — if possibly
unintentionally — for the ideas of the Muslim Brotherhood. Indonesian
Islamists seem, however, to have been selective in their appropriation
of Brotherhood ideas. The gradualist approach of Hassan al-Banna has
been utilised more than the revolutionary thinking of Sayyid Qutb
and his radical heirs. In this respect there are parallels between PKS’s
pragmatic adaptation of its ideology and the shift occurring among
some Islamists in the Middle East (notably Hizb al-Wasat); although in
Indonesia, the existence of a democratic politics means this process is
more likely to realise its full, moderating potential. Nonetheless some
of the darker sides of the PKS also seem to have been influenced by
thinking from the Middle East, notably the anti-Semitic views and anti-
Western conspiracy theories subscribed to by some of its members.
There have been other more insidious influences flowing from the
Middle East, particularly with respect to the emergence of Jemaah
Islamiyah (JI). Significant parts of its doctrine and operational
techniques are drawn from Middle Eastern sources, making it a far
more lethal jihadist organisation than preceeding movements such as
Darul Islam in the 1950s and early 1960s. There is no denying that
al-Qaeda has had a significant impact on JI’s supranational worldview,
and how it chooses its targets, reflecting linkages forged in the Afghan
jihad against the Soviet Union. It is not, however, a command and
control relationship and there remains a tension within JI over national
versus global objectives. Many within the movement are more than
happy to inhabit al-Qaeda’s virtual umma and its vision of perpetual
conflict with the West. But perhaps knowing that this is also a caravan
to political marginalisation, some in the movement may be keener to
95
return to a more nationally focused, if still often violent, project that

enables it to build a broader support base among Indonesian Muslims.
If these conflicting imperatives do exist within JI it would hardly be
surprising. In Iraq today similar tensions exist between local insurgents
and foreign fighters, and the fact that much of the Egyptian radical
movement of the 1990s chose not to follow Ayman al-Zawahiri into
al-Qaeda are further illustrations that in many cases it will not always
be possible for Islamists to reconcile global and local imperatives.
This last point illustrates a key conclusion of this paper. That is,
while we have been able to point to the influence of Islamist and
neo-fundamentalist ideas from the Middle East in Indonesia, rarely
is this impact unmediated or unmodified. In most cases, a process
of indigenisation has taken place. In terms of Muslim Brotherhood
thinking, the gradualist approach of Hassan al-Banna has been utilised
more than the revolutionary ideas of Sayyid Qutb and his radical heirs
because it was seen as more appropriate to political conditions to
Indonesia. While the influence of Middle Eastern salafi sheikhs on their
Indonesian followers has been significant, that influence is sometimes
open to manipulation by Indonesian salafists. And JI is as much an
heir to the violent and largely endogenous Darul Islam tradition in
Indonesia as it is a local branch of al-Qaeda.
The virtues of a broader perspective
In much of the literature on the impact of Middle Eastern Islam

on Indonesia, there is a preoccupation with radical and particularly
terrorist influences. The case studies presented in this paper show the
need for a broader perspective. It is undeniable that the Middle East has
had a powerful effect on numerically small and ideologically extremist
minorities within the Indonesian Muslim community. JI is a good
example of this, though it also illustrates the point that even very small
groups can have a disproportionately large impact on a nation’s affairs
and the perceptions of its Islamic community. A similar argument might
be made regarding salafi groups. While salafists have greatly expanded
their presence in Indonesia in recent decades, they remain a peripheral
96
phenomenon whose ideas have little or no appeal to most mainstream

Muslims.
Muslim Brotherhood inspired activism such as the Tarbiyah
movement or PKS has the potential for much wider impact than
either salafism or salafi jihadism because it seeks mass support and is
cautiously willing to compromise on some Muslim Brotherhood ideals
in order to achieve this. If it is to become a large party, with say 25
per cent or more of the national vote, as some of its leaders predict,
then further compromise is inevitable. It remains to be seen whether
PKS can maintain its internal discipline and ideological coherence as it
moves toward the middle ground. The things which make PKS unique
in current Indonesian politics — its meritocratic cadre system, pietist
culture and social activism — may be undermined as party membership
and constituency interests expand and diversify. Nonetheless, Muslim
Brotherhood influences have led to new patterns of thinking and
behaviour within Indonesian political Islam. These have been, to
date, both Islamist and constitutionalist, and thus should be seen as
contributing to democratic consolidation.
It is beyond the scope of this paper to consider liberal Islamic
perspectives in Indonesia, but it is worth noting that this discourse
also draws heavily upon Middle Eastern thinking. Some of the more
innovative Indonesian Muslim intellectuals have been directly
influenced by scholars such as the postmodernist Moroccan philosopher
Muhammad Abid al-Jabiri, the Egyptian ‘leftist’ academic Hasan
Hanafi, and the gender writings of Moroccan feminist, Fatima Mernissi.
The works of these and other liberal authors have been translated into
Indonesian and published and have found a large readership. Their
ideas have also become the basis for ‘transformative’ Islam projects
run by liberal NGOs. These have used, inter alia, Middle Eastern
thinking to promote reinterpretation of Islamic precepts on matters
as diverse as religious tolerance, human rights, democracy, gender
equality and environmental sustainability. The efflorescence in Muslim
intellectualism in Indonesia since the 1970s is inextricably linked to
new ideas and practices emanating from the Middle East.
Any reckoning of Middle Eastern influence on Indonesian Islam
97
needs to look not just at the radical elements inclined toward violence or
divisive sectarianism but also at those ideas which enhance democratic
life and provide a legitimate form of expression for religious sentiment.
The diverse flows of information which accompany globalisation mean
that the impact of the Middle East will continue to be felt in a wide
variety of ways. But this will never be a straightforward process. Indeed,
as we have noted in this paper, if the idea of a ‘Middle Eastern Islamism’
ever made any sense — and we are not sure that it did — it certainly
makes less sense now. The flow of Islamist ideas into Indonesia is less
and less a function of specifically Middle Eastern influences than a
broader, global process of intellectual exchange and adaptation.
Policy implications
To the extent that the paper helps policymakers understand the ongoing
evolution of this important political, social and religious phenomenon
— both in the Middle East and Indonesia — it will have served its
purpose. But we would also like to draw attention to a number of policy
implications raised by the conclusions of this paper.
1. In focusing on the global, don’t lose sight of the local
One of the goals of this paper has been to highlight

the way globalisation and the technologies associated
with it — notably greatly enhanced means of travel and
communication — have facilitated the spread of both
Islamist and neo-fundamentalist ideas. At the same
time, however, the paper has also sought to highlight the
tension that exists between the global and the local in the
transmission of Islamist and neo-fundamentalist ideas.
That is, in most cases where ideas have been transmitted
to Indonesia a process of localisation or indigenisation has
taken place. And even in the case of JI, where the local
aims of the organisation run parallel to al-Qaeda’s global
98
campaign, the tension between the global and the local

is ever present, illustrated by signs of debate within the
organisation over its future directions.
This tension is relevant to the way that governments
around the world fight terrorism. In forming al-Qaeda, bin
Laden sought to subordinate a range of Muslim conflicts to
his theme of Manichean conflict between the Muslim and
Western worlds — and as JI and Abu Musab Zarqawi’s
terrorist organisation in Iraq demonstrate, he has been
successful to a degree. Nevertheless, in focusing on the
transnational dimensions of contemporary terrorism,
governments should not lose sight of local causes. This
focus on the global is exacerbated by the tendency of some
governments around the globe to redefine their own long
running internal political struggles against insurgent or
separatist groups as a part of the global war on terror and
therefore worthy of US political or material support, or
at least the turning of a blind American eye to the use
of harsh repressive measures (Kashmir, Chechnya and
potentially southern Thailand being a few examples).
Efforts to deepen bilateral relations with Indonesia
and regional counter terrorism cooperation, for example
by the Australian government, are a positive recognition
of the importance of considering the local. Nonetheless,
there is still a tendency — for example in the Australian
government’s White Paper on terrorism211 — to see the
terrorism threat as largely a function of the spread of
a global ideology. As our paper has underlined, while
the transmission of Islamist and neo-fundamentalist
ideas is part of the problem, it is by no means a defining
characteristic. Even in the case of JI, it is not a seed that
al-Qaeda planted (though it did encourage it to grow in a
particular way). JI’s roots lie in a long history of indigenous
Islamic radicalism in Indonesia that has little if anything
to do with the Middle East or al-Qaeda’s brand of violent
99
neo-fundamentalism. The same applies to the impact of

Middle Eastern issues in Indonesia. Continued violence
in the Middle East — in Iraq or on the Israeli–Palestinian
front — may well galvanise JI and others of its ilk as well
as increase antipathy toward the West among Indonesian
Muslims (and thus make the Indonesian government’s
anti terrorism efforts more difficult). But more important,
certainly in terms of recruitment to such organisations, is
what occurs in Indonesia, from the dynamics of Muslim–
Christian relations and the continuation of sectarian
violence, to the relationship between Islamists and the
state.
2. Adopt a more nuanced categorisation of Islamists and

neo-fundamentalists
One of the things this paper has sought to highlight is

that Islamism is far from monolithic. Not only do Islamist
and neo-fundamentalist movements often reflect different
approaches to politics (and to the use of violence) but
they often adapt and indigenise the ideas of their Islamist
counterparts. Moreover, traditional categories of radical
and conservative do not necessarily hold true. The Muslim
Brotherhood’s ideas about the transformation of society
are quite radical while the means they use to achieve
this transformation have largely been mainstream. By
contrast, al-Qaeda’s worldview reflects the conservatism
of its salafist underpinnings yet its activism is radical and
militant to say the least.
It is, of course, sometimes necessary to use such
descriptors as a shorthand (as we have in this paper). But
one should always be cognisant of the complexity that
lies behind such appellations. Western governments and
commentators should avoid labelling Muslims or Islamists
simply as radicals or moderates. Not only are these
100
terms often misleadingly reductionist, they also carry

connotations of ‘good’ versus ‘bad’ Muslims, ‘friendly’
versus ‘hostile’ Muslims. This has an alienating effect
on Muslims, who see it as evidence of a self interested
Western stereotyping of the Islamic community. Similarly,
where more specific terms such as ‘Islamism’ or ‘salafism’
are used, there is often too little appreciation of the
diversity within these categories. A common assumption
is that salafists always pose a threat (whether present or
latent). We have sought to show that this is sometimes,
but not always, the case.
3. Take a less timorous approach to engagement with

Islamists
In the aftermath of 11 September 2001, concerns that

the fight against terrorism might fuel broader tensions
between the Islamic and Western worlds prompted official
and semi-official efforts to promote greater understanding
through a range of initiatives, notably inter-faith dialogues
to academic conferences on Islam. While such initiatives
hold an important symbolic value, there are grounds for
questioning whether they achieve much. Those who
attend meetings aimed at promoting interfaith dialogue
tend to believe in it already. Similarly, the distinction
between Islam and Islamism means that conferences that
aim to demonstrate that Islam is a religion of peace will tell
us very little about why some Islamists resort to violence.
And, in many cases, these conferences tend to be elite
focused, and there is little effort to follow up with on the
ground initiatives to reduce sectarianism and interfaith
tension in vulnerable local communities.
A large part of the problem is that Western governments
tend to be far too timorous in whom they invite to such
101
meetings. In most cases Muslim invitees end up being the

usual suspects: namely, moderate and mainstream Muslim
religious leaders. More would be achieved by pursuing a
genuine dialogue with a broader range of Islamist and
neo-fundamentalist views. This is not to say that the bin
Ladens of the world should now be invited to conferences
promoting understanding between Islam and the West.
There is nothing to be achieved by pursuing dialogues with
those for whom violence is an end in itself. But there are
a significant number of both Islamists and salafists who
eschew violence and may be receptive to new perspectives
and the breaking down of stereotypes. In an Indonesian
context this would include PKS together with a number of
salafist groups. For example, as yet no member of the PKS
has been invited to Australia as an official guest of the
Commonwealth government and some Australian officials
have been content to label the PKS ‘fundamentalist’ rather
than look more closely at the range of views present
within the party and the opportunities for dialogue. Their
message may be difficult for the West to hear — and in
some cases may be unacceptable — but there seems
much to be gained and little to be lost by pursuing these
inevitably more challenging dialogues.
Including this element in dialogues may not change
their views (in which case nothing has been lost). But in
some cases such dialogues can help break down some of
the misconceptions and conspiracy theories about the West
that one often finds among this group. From a Western
perspective, exposure to what could be termed the radical
mainstream will help governments and specialists to reach
a greater and more nuanced understanding of the various
manifestations of Islamism and neo-fundamentalism.
In an Indonesian context it would, for example, help to
distinguish between those salafist groups whose activities
and ideas are of concern because they promote violence
102
and those whose concerns are limited to religiosity. This

will in turn help ensure that the efforts to prevent money
going to groups involved in terrorism are appropriately
targeted and do not unnecessarily promote antagonism
toward the West by groups who feel unfairly targeted by
Western sanctions and pressure.
4. Think about education and the ‘war of ideas’ in broad

terms
As many Western governments have acknowledged,

combating terrorism is not simply about fighting terrorists
but also about preventing the ideas which underpin
their brand of terrorism from spreading. Indeed, the
destruction of al-Qaeda’s physical base in Afghanistan and
the disruption of its international networks increasingly
mean that the main threat faced by the international
community is that other Islamist or neo-fundamentalist
movements will, independently of any organisational link,
adopt al-Qaeda’s worldview and its methods. To a great
degree this seems to have happened, for example, among
the foreign elements fighting in Iraq. This means that bin
Laden and other prominent jihadist preachers no longer
need organisational links to partisans around the world,
but can rely on pronouncements in the media or on the
internet to spark like- minded groups into action.
It is against this background that some outside observers
have identified the radical teachings of a number of
pesantren in Indonesia as part of the terrorism problem
(in the same way that concerns have been expressed
about radical teachings in madaris212 in South Asia and
the Middle East, or indeed European concern about
radical mosques in their own countries). To counter these
teachings some have proposed pushing for the reform of
103
Islamic education. Several points can be made about this.

In Indonesia, the number of radical jihadist pesantren is
very small, less than one per cent of the more than 30 000
pesantren in the country. Secondly, Indonesian Muslims
are highly wary of the motives of Australia and other
Western countries in offering assistance to pesantren.
Many see this as attempted Christian intervention in and
manipulation of Islamic education.
Furthermore, it would be unwise to over emphasise
educational institutions when considering the driving
forces for terrorism. There is abundant research to show
that the means for conveying radical ideas in a globalised
world are multitudinous. Modern publishing, the internet
and satellite television are far more effective and influential
conveyers of ideas than a few pesantren. In a best case
scenario, promoting the reform of Islamic education won’t
stop the spread of these ideas. In the worst case scenario
it will be counter productive because it will be seen as yet
another example of Western interference and efforts to
dilute Islam.
5. Encourage transparency
The ‘war of ideas’ also raises the complex question of

Saudi Arabian religious propagation. Leaving aside the
role some Saudi based non-government charities have
played in the funding of transnational terrorism, there
is a related though still separate question of whether the
international community should also be worried about
religious propagation by Saudi Arabian organisations
— and others from the Middle East — of salafi forms of
Islam. As we have attempted to show, Saudi propagation
is neither uniform nor always likely to produce the impact
that its sponsors intend (illustrated by the spread of more
politically minded Muslim Brotherhood thinking via an
104
ostensibly salafi institutions such as LIPIA). Moreover,

while Saudi Arabia has made a singular contribution to
the growth and spread of salafism in Indonesia it is not
necessarily the case that Indonesian salafists are drawn
toward terrorism and violence. Nonetheless some salafist
groups in Indonesia sponsored and funded by organisations
from Saudi Arabia have participated in acts of terrorism
and violence.
Responding to international pressure, Saudi Arabia
has taken a range of steps to regulate the operations of
its international charities, and to some degree agencies
for religious propagation (in some cases it has dissolved
particular charities or their international branches, for
example those of el-Haramein).213 In the case of Indonesia
these new stringencies seem to have had the effect of, in
some cases at least, reducing the flow of funds to local
Islamic organisations. At the same time, as we noted in
Chapter Three, some Saudi organisations seem able to
bypass their own government’s growing regulation of
such funding and propagation activities. In particular,
the activities of the Eastern Province (in Saudi Arabia)
Branch of the International Islamic Relief Organisation in
Indonesia would bear some additional scrutiny.
The answer does not, however, lie simply in placing
additional pressure on the Saudis to clamp down even
harder on material support for Islamic propagation. At
least in Indonesia the Saudi effort to deflect international
criticism by cutting funding to Islamic organisations seems
to have been indiscriminate. Legitimate and non-jihadist
educational and welfare institutions have suffered as a
result of these cuts, leading to considerable resentment
against the ‘war on terror’. Meanwhile, those financiers
from Saudi and elsewhere in the Middle East driven
more by ideological or militant motives are still getting
their money through. This situation creates additional
105
resentment among Indonesian Islamic groups toward the

West, which is blamed for their loss of external material
support and makes it harder to build local support for
counter-terrorism measures. It may also push Indonesian
salafi organisations toward more militant sources of
finance that are able to evade Saudi government regulation
and stringencies.
The solution is to encourage Saudi Arabia to accompany
regulation of its charitable and propagation activities with
greater transparency. The latter won’t necessarily prevent
the more nefarious forms of funding from getting through
(though it might make it easier to identify). But it will
help ensure that the pressure on Saudi Arabia to regulate
the activities of its organisations is not counter productive.
The message to the Saudi government should be that
legitimate activities of propagation organisations would be
strengthened by them being more transparent in terms of
who and what they are funding. One step to encourage this
process in Indonesia would be to promote a similar degree
of transparency among Christian missionary activity
(which would also help defuse perennial suspicion among
some Islamist groups that a campaign of conversion is
being undertaken by Christian groups in Indonesia).
6. Be conscious of double standards and the democracy

dilemma
The most damaging thing for Western governments

in the context of the ‘war of ideas’ is the perception
among Muslims of Western double standards. A common
complaint is that while the West preaches democracy,
Western governments and the US in particular, ignore
dictatorships, illiberal regimes and human rights abuses
in the Muslim world when this is convenient to their
106
interests. Indeed, since the war on terror began, the US

seems even more oblivious to the human rights abuses
that occur in countries like Egypt and Saudi Arabia (and
has in Guantanamo Bay replicated some of the arbitrary
and extra-judicial methods for which it once criticised
regimes in the region). In Southeast Asia the muted
official, public response — including of Australia and
the US — to the deaths of 82 Muslims in Thailand at the
hands of the security forces in October 2004 would have
only reinforced the view among Muslims in the region
that, for Western governments, Muslim blood is cheaper
than that of Christians or non-Muslims.
There is little doubt that current US efforts to promote
democracy in the Middle East have been undermined by
the decades long history of US support for non-democratic
regimes in the region. This is neither the current US
Administration’s fault, nor is it a perception that it can
change overnight. But in encouraging or supporting
processes of democratisation in the Middle East or
elsewhere in the Muslim world, Western governments
need to avoid the perception that they are in favour
of democracy and elections provided they deliver an
acceptable outcome. In the Middle East and elsewhere in
the Muslim world the fact the Islamists may win elections
should not be viewed as an obstacle to them taking place.
In the case of the PKS in Indonesia, Islamists have played

a positive role in Indonesia’s process of democratisation.
In Indonesia, Islamist parties and organisations have
adhered strictly to the ‘rules of the democratic game’,
pursuing their agendas though elections, legislatures and
peaceful direct action, which is in every case preferable
to the politics of the gun (and even if the views held by
some within PKS are abhorrent). The lesson from the
PKS involvement in parliamentary politics (and that of
107
Hizb al-Wasat in Egypt and the Justice and Development

Party in Turkey) is that to be successful, Islamist parties
need to adapt their political programs to incorporate the
everyday concerns of voters. Their slogan of ‘Islam is
the solution’ is no longer enough. The point here is not
that every Islamist’s democratic credentials should be
taken at face value. It is simply that Islamism’s purported
incompatibility with democracy should not be assumed,
nor should the moderating impact of the successful
participation by Islamist parties in democratic processes
be underestimated.
108
Endnotes
1
Abdullah Azzam, Join the Caravan, 2nd (English Edition) ed. London, Azzam
Publications, 2001.
2
Samuel Huntington, The clash of civilisations. Foreign Affairs 72 (3) 1993.
3
Olivier Roy, Globalised Islam: the search for a new umma. London, C. Hurst and
Company, 2004.
4
See for example President Bush’s address to the Joint Session of Congress in September
2001 available at http://www.whitehouse.gov/news/releases/2001/09/20010920-8.html
5
Australian Government, Transnational terrorism: the threat to Australia. Canberra,
2004. p. 104.
6
Olivier Roy, The failure of political Islam, trans. Carol Volk. London, I.B. Tauris, 1994.
p. 39.
7
Roy, Globalised Islam: the search for a new umma. Chapter 6.
8
See for example: Rohan Gunaratna, Inside al-Qaeda: global network of terror. New
York, Columbia University Press, 2002. Jason Burke, Al-Qaeda: casting a shadow of
terror. London, I.B. Tauris, 2003. Steve Coll, Ghost Wars: the secret history of the CIA,
Afghanistan and Bin Laden, from the Soviet invasion to September 10, 2001. New York,
Penguin Press, 2004. Marc Sageman, Understanding terror networks. Pennsylvania,
University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004.
9
See for example Burke, Al-Qaeda: casting a shadow of terror.
10
Leo Suryadinata, Evi Nurvidya Arifin and Aris Ananta, Indonesia’s Population:
Ethnicity and Religion in a Changing Political Landscape. Singapore, Institute of
Southeast Asian Studies, 2003. pp. 103–7.
11
Roy, Globalised Islam: the search for a new umma. p. 58.
12
There is of course considerable debate, even among scholars of Islam, about the
meaning of the term jihad from the striving for a perfect spiritual life to armed
conflict — a debate we do not intend to enter. Our application of the term simply
reflects the way it is variously used by Islamists.
13
Albert Hourani, Arabic thought in the liberal age 1789-1939. Cambridge, Cambridge
University Press, 1983. p. 37.
14
Soumaya Ghanoushi. On the Wahabi movement. Islam21 Website 2001: http://www.
islam21.net/pages/keyissues/key1-32.htm.
15
Hourani, Arabic thought in the liberal age 1789-1939. p. 37.
16
See for example Sheikh Abd al-Aziz Bin Abdullah Bin Baz, Imam Muhammad Bin Abdul
Wahab: his life and mission, trans. Hanan S.I.H. Riyadh, Darussalam, 1997. p.31.
17
18
Ibid. p. 139.
19
For more on the ideas of Afghani, Abduh and Rida see the classic text on the subject.
Ibid.
20
Roy, The failure of political Islam. p. 35
21
Ibrahim M. Abu-Rabi, Intellectual origins of Islamic resurgence in the modern Arab
world. State University of New York Press, 1996. p. 71.
22
23
Richard P. Mitchell, The Society of the Muslim Brothers. London, Oxford University
Press, 1993. p. 199.
24
See for example the argument mounted in Ibid. pp. 307–313.
25
Ibid. p 308.
26
The authors are grateful to Peter Mandaville for raising this point. See also Roy, The
failure of political Islam. in particular pp. 110–112.
27
Roy, Globalised Islam: the search for a new umma. Chapter 2.
28
Abd al-Hafiz Sa’d, International Muslim Brotherhood Organisation gathering for
emergency meeting in presence of Egyptian guide; reports say group seeks to disband
organisation (translation by BBC International reports). al-Sharq al-Awsat, 11
November 2004.
29
Lapidus, A history of Islamic societies. p. 522
30
Gilles Kepel, Jihad: the trail of political Islam, trans. Anthony F. Roberts. London, I.B.
Tauris, 2003. p. 29.
31
Gilles Kepel, The Prophet and the Pharoah, trans. Jon Rothschild. London, Al Saqi
Books, 1985. pp. 56–57.
110
ENDNOTES
32
For an excellent discussion of the translation of the term jahiliyya see William E.
Shepard, Sayyid Qutb’s doctrine of Jahiliyya. International Journal of Middle East
Studies 35 (No. 4) 2003.
33
Said Qutb, Ma’alim fi al-tariq, 5th ed. Dar al-Sharouk, 1992. p. 101.
34
Shepard, Sayyid Qutb’s doctrine of Jahiliyya. p. 525.
35
Qutb, Ma’alim fi al-tariq. p. 103.
36
Ibid. p. 11.
37
Ibid. p. 64.
38
Kepel, Jihad: the trail of political Islam. pp. 31–32.
39
Ibid. p. 32.
40
Kepel, The Prophet and the Pharoah. p. 61. As Kepel notes, the Brotherhood would
not, however, formally repudiate Qutb’s ideas until 1982.
41
This is not to say that Qutbists in the Middle East of the 1970s and 80s were not anti-
Western; simply that their effort to defend their societies from what they saw as the
encroachment of western ideas and values was largely conceived in terms of overthrowing
the impious rulers that were allowing this corruption of Muslim societies to occur.
42
Kepel, Jihad: the trail of political Islam. p. 84.
43
Ibid. p. 85.
44
See English translation of al-Farida al-Gha’ibah in Johannes J.G. Jansen, The
Neglected Duty. London, McMillan, 1986.
45
Ibid. p. 192.
46
Kepel, Jihad: the trail of political Islam.
47
Ibid. p. 37.
48
See Ervand Abrahamian, Khomeinism: essays on the Islamic Republic. Berkley, University
of California Press, 1993. See also Chapter 5 in Kepel, Jihad: the trail of political Islam.
49
Abdullah Azzam. Defence of Muslim lands. English edition available on Religioscope
Website: http://www.religioscope.com/info/doc/jihad/azzam_defence_2_intro.htm.
50
International Crisis Group, Saudi Arabia backgrounder: who are the Islamists? Amman,
21 September 2004. p. 3
51
Abdullah Azzam. al-Qa’idah al-Sulbah (The solid base). Appeared in al-Jihad
Magazine, No. 41 April 1988.
52
Ibid.
53
Serialized excerpts from ‘Knights under the Prophet’s banner’ by Ayman al-Zawahiri
(FBIS translation). al-Sharq al-Awsat December 2001.
54
For an excellent summary of the aims of the various groups see International Crisis
111
Group, Islamism, violence and reform in Algeria: Turning the page. ICG Middle East
Report No. 29, 2004. pp. 10-18.
55
56
Robert A. Pape, The strategic logic of suicide terrorism. American Political Science
Review 97 (3) 2003.
57
Underlining just how pragmatic the religious sanction for suicide bombing can be,
the prominent Islamist preacher Yousef al-Qardawi has issued religious opinions
endorsing Palestinian suicide bombings but condemning the suicide attacks on 11
September 2001.
58
The two most prominent exponents of this view were the French scholars Olivier
Roy and Gilles Kepel. See Roy, The failure of political Islam. and Kepel, Jihad: the trail
of political Islam.
59
See Roy, The failure of political Islam.
60
61
Sageman, Understanding terror networks. p. 146.
62
Roy, Globalised Islam: the search for a new umma. See in particular Chapter 6
63
Sageman, Understanding terror networks. p. 150 and Roy, Globalised Islam: the search
for a new umma. pp. 270–271
64
International Crisis Group, Islamism in North Africa II: Egypt’s opportunity. ICG
Middle East and North Africa Briefing, 2004. p. 8.
65
Dr Wahid Abdel Maguid. Egypt’s Gama’ah Islamiyah: the turnabout and its
ramifications. Al-Ahram Centre for Strategic Studies 2003: http://www.ahram.org.
eg/acpss/eng/ahram/2004/7/5/EGYP16.HTM.
66
The platform was brokered by the Catholic Sant’ Egidio Community and involved the
other Algeria parties including the Front de Liberation Nationale, the mainstream
Islamist Nahda Movement and the Algerian League for the Defence of Human Rights.
67
International Crisis Group, Islamism, violence and reform in Algeria: Turning the page. p. 8.
68
Ibid. p. 9. See also Hamou Amirouche, Algeria’s Islamist revolution: the people versus
democracy. Middle East Policy 5 (4) 1998.
69
International Crisis Group, Islamism, violence and reform in Algeria: Turning the page.
p. 9.
70
Montasser al-Zayyat, The road to al-Qaeda, trans. Ahmed Fekry. Pluto Press, 2004.
p. 111.
71
Amirouche, Algeria’s Islamist revolution: the people versus democracy.
72
al-Zayyat, The road to al-Qaeda. p. 96.
112
ENDNOTES
73
74
Ibid. p. 297.
75
Joshua A. Stacher, Post-Islamist rumblings in Egypt: The Emergence of the Wasat
party. Middle East Journal 56 (3) 2002.
76
See in particular Raymond William Baker, Islam without fear: Egypt and the new
Islamists. Cambridge and London, Harvard University Press, 2003.
77
International Crisis Group, Islamism in North Africa II: Egypt’s opportunity. p. 18.
78
Baker, Islam without fear: Egypt and the new Islamists. p. 193. See also Stacher, Post-
Islamist rumblings in Egypt: The Emergence of the Wasat party.
79
See Stacher, Post-Islamist rumblings in Egypt: The Emergence of the Wasat party.
80
Ibid. p. 419.
81
Ibid. p. 419.
82
Stacher, Post-Islamist rumblings in Egypt: The Emergence of the Wasat party. p. 428–
429
83
Daniel Brumberg. Liberalization versus democracy: understanding Arab political
reform. Carnegie Endowment for International Peace 2003: http://www.ceip.org/
files/Publications/wp37.asp?from=pubdate.
84
See in particular an excellent analysis in International Crisis Group, Islamism in
North Africa II: Egypt’s opportunity. pp. 7–9.
85
See International Crisis Group, Saudi Arabia backgrounder: who are the Islamists?
86
For a Muslim critique of al Qaradawi’s radicalism see Abdel Rahman al-Rashed,
Innocent religion is now a message of hate. The Telegraph, 5 September 2004. For a
salafist critique see for example Some Mistakes of Yousef al-Qaradawi at http://www.
islamicweb.com/beliefs/misguided/qaradawi.htm
87
Hizb ut-Tahrir. The reasons for the establishment of Hizb ut-Tahrir. Hizb ut-Tahrir
Website 2004: http://hizb-ut-tahrir.org/english/.
88
Olivier Roy, EuroIslam: the jihad within? The National Interest 41 (Spring) 2003.
89
Abdelwahab El-Affendi. Hizb al-Tahrir: the paradox of a very British party. Reproduced
by aljazeerah.net 2003: http://www.aljazeerah.info/Opinion%20editorials/2003%
20Opinion%20Editorials/September/2%20o/Hizb%20al-Tahrir,%20the%20parad
ox%20of%20a%20very%20British%20party%20Abdelwahab%20El-Affendi.htm.
90
91
Abu Iyad as-Salafi. A brief introduction to the salafi daw’ah. 2004: http://www.
salafipublications.com/sps/. p. 6.
92
113
93
Ibid. p. 247.
94
See for example Sheikh Nasir ud-Din al-Albani. Debate with a Jihadi. Salafipublications.
com: http://www.albani.co.uk/.
95
This is the central thesis of Roy, The failure of political Islam. See in particular
Chapter 5.
96
For an excellent discussion of what he has called ‘Petro-Islam’ see Kepel, Jihad: the
trail of political Islam. Chapter 3.
97
Interview with Associate Professor Ahmad Shboul, Sydney University, October
2004.
98
Roy, Globalised Islam: the search for a new umma. p. 18. See also Peter Mandaville,
Transnational Muslim Politics. Routledge Research in Transnationalism. London,
Routledge, 2004.
99
100
Ibid. p. 19.
101
Mandaville, Transnational Muslim Politics.
102
Ibid. p. 19.
103
Olivier Roy, Radical Islam appeals to the rootless. The Financial Times, 12 October
2004.
104
International Crisis Group, Islamism in North Africa I: the legacies of history. Middle
East and North Africa Briefing. Cairo/Brussels, 20 April 2004. p. 12.
105
Despite its condemnation of al-Qaeda’s brand of terrorism even the Saudi religious
establishment tends to take a hostile attitude to the West. See for example Sheikh Abd
al-Aziz Bin Abdullah Bin Baz, The ideological attack, trans. Abu ‘Aaliyah Surkheel
Ibn Anwar Sharif. Hounslow, Message of Islam, 1999.
106
Roy, Radical Islam appeals to the rootless.
107
See in particular Mansour al-Nogaidan, Telling the truth, facing the whip. New York
Times, 28 November 2003. See also Elizabeth Rubin, The jihadi who kept asking
why. The New York Times, 7 March 2004. and Faiza Saleh Ambah, Saudi Arabia’s
reformers say they are under fire from clerics, extremists. AP, 8 March 2003.
108
Bin Laden was also a veteran of a period of ferment in Saudi Arabia that essentially
petered out in the mid 1990s (though it has now resurfaced). It was as a direct result
of his involvement in that unrest that he found himself exiled first to Sudan and
then later to Afghanistan. In the mid-1990s the polemics of two Saudi dissidents
living London, Muhammaed al-Masari and Saad al-Faqih, initially received far more
attention than bin Laden’s calls for political change from his exile in Sudan.
114
ENDNOTES
109
(FBIS translation). p. 67.
110
al-Zayyat, The road to al-Qaeda. pp. 64–65.
111
Miriam Abou Zahab and Olivier Roy, Islamist Networks: The Afghan-Pakistan
connection, trans. John King. London, Hurst & Company, 2004. pp. 49–50.
112
For an excellent discussion of this see Sageman, Understanding terror networks. In
particular Chapter 5.
113
Roy, Globalised Islam: the search for a new umma. pp. 302–303.
114
For an interesting account of this see an interview with the London based Saudi
dissident Saad al-Faqih in Mahan Abedin. The essence of al-Qaeda: an interview with
Saad al-Faqih. The Jamestown Foundation 2004: http://www.ladlass.com/intel/
archives/003908.html. See also al-Zayyat, The road to al-Qaeda.
115
Abedin. The essence of al-Qaeda: an interview with Saad al-Faqih.
116
The jihadist-salafi web magazine Sawt al-Jihad regularly carries quotes of what it
refers to as ahl al-thughoor including Osama bin Laden, Abdullah Azzam, Ayman
al-Zawahiri and Muhammed bin Abdullah al-Saif. One meaning of thughoor is the
gaps between teeth. But in this context it refers to the historic western border zone
in early Islamic times straddled by the Anti-Taurus and Taurus Mountains of what is
today Turkey, specifically the gaps between these mountain ranges. Thus, people who
guard and fight in such regions can be regarded as ahl al-thughoor (literally, ‘people of
the gap’). The Thughur system became a series of fortified bases established near the
gaps or passes between the Taurus and anti-Taurus onto the Anatolian plateau.
117
Burke, Al-Qaeda: casting a shadow of terror.
118
A cursory glance at the writings of associated salafi-jihadist polemicists find
conspiracies and elaborate apologia for violence against the West. Yousuf al-Ayiri,
killed in 2003 in a shootout with Saudi security forces, argues in Hakikat al-Harb
al-Salibiya al-Jadida (‘The Truth about the New Crusade’) that the terrorism of
11 September 2001 was entirely justified by the West’s assault on Islam. Similarly,
the London based Palestinian Salafi-jihadist, Abu Qutada, argues that the jihad
as declared by bin Laden is the only way to counter Western dominance of the
world. His fellow Palestinian, Muhammad al-Maqdisi, argues in Mashrou’al-Sharq
al-Awsat al-Kabir (‘The Greater Middle East Initiative’) that democracy is a sin
that some Muslims have embraced out of ignorance and enthusiasm for Western
culture and values. See Abu Qutada, ‘Al Awlama wa Saraiya Al Jihad’, Manbar Al
Tawheed Wal Jihad, http://www.tawhed.ws/r?i=1235. Abu Muhammad Maqdisi,
115
Mashrou’Al-Sharq Al Awsat Al Kabir, Minbar Al Tawheed Wal Jihad, http://www.

almaqdese.com/r?i=2673&c=2390. Abu Muhammad Maqdisi, Mashrou’Al-Sharq
Al Awsat Al Kabir, Minbar Al Tawheed Wal Jihad, http://www.almaqdese.com/
r?i=2673&c=2390.
119
See for example Yousef al-Ayiri. Hakikat al-harb al-salibiya al-jadida. Centre for
Islamic Studies and Research 2001: http://www.tawhed.ws/a?i=250.
120
See for example, Abedin. The essence of al-Qaeda: an interview with Saad al-Faqih.
121
(FBIS translation). p. 70.
122
Abedin. The essence of al-Qaeda: an interview with Saad al-Faqih.
123
Karl Vick, Insurgent alliance is fraying in Fallujah. The Washington Post, October 13
2004.
124
Ibid.
125
C. Snouck Hurgronje, Mekka in the Latter Part of the Nineteenth Century: Daily Life,
Customs and Learning of the Moslems of the East-Indian Archipelago, trans. J. H.
Monahan. Leyden, E.J. Brill, 1931. p. 291.
126
C. Snouck Hurgronje, The Achehnese, trans. A. W. S. O’Sullivan. Leyden, E.J. Brill,
1906. p. 313.
127
For a good discussion of this discourse, see Clifford Geertz, The Religion of Java.
Chicago and London, University of Chicago Press, 1960. pp. 121–126.
128
Natalie Mobini-Kesheh, The Hadrami awakening: community and identity in the
Netherlands East Indies, 1900-1942. Southeast Asian Project. Ithaca, Cornell
University, 1999. Chapter 1.
129
Azyumardi Azra, The Origins of Islamic Reformism in Southeast Asia. Southeast Asia
Publications Series. Canberra, Asian Studies Association of Australia, 2004.
130
Al-Jazeera is available in Indonesia through satellite and cable TV, but relatively
few Indonesians have access to these expensive services. During the Iraq War, free
to air television networks carried special al-Jazeera broadcasts, but ceased shortly
thereafter. Al-Qardawi’s ideas are mainly circulated through written translations of
his sermons and books.
131
Mona Abaza, Indonesian Azharites, fifteen years later. SOJOURN 18 (1) 2003.
132
Confidential interview.
133
International Crisis Group, Indonesia Backgrounder: Why Salafism and terrorism
mostly don’t mix. Asia Report 83, 13 September 2004. p. 11.
134
Ibid. p. 3. and confidential interview.
116
ENDNOTES
135
By far the best accounts are provided by International Crisis Groups reports on the
subject. See in particular International Crisis Group, Jemaah Islamiyah in Southeast
Asia: Damaged but Still Dangerous. Asia Report 63, 26 August 2004.
136
Ibid. p. 5.
137
Ibid. p. 5.
138
Ibid. p. 5.
139
Interview with Ulil Abshar Abdalla in Jakarta 26 April 2004.
140
Burke, Al-Qaeda: casting a shadow of terror. p. 154.
141
International Crisis Group, Jemaah Islamiyah in Southeast Asia: Damaged but Still
Dangerous. p. 10.
142
Mena News Agency, Indonesian Education Minister meets Egyptian religious leader.
18 December 2003.
143
Maurice R. Greenberg and Lee S. Wolosky. Update on the Global Campaign Against
Terrorist Financing. Council on Foreign Relations 2004: http://www.cfr.org/pub7111/
maurice_r_greenberg_william_f_wechsler_lee_s_wolosky_mallory_factor/update_
on_the_global_campaign_against_terrorist_financing.php. p. 20.
144
From discussion with Indonesian interlocutors it appears that the Iranian embassy
was very active in the 1980s in spreading its revolutionary theology. Indeed by some
accounts a small number of Indonesians, who are predominantly Sunnis, converted
to Shi’ism. More recently Iranian activism seems to have declined markedly.
145
mostly don’t mix. p. 23.
146
Interview with Ulil Abshar Abdalla in Jakarta, 26 April 2004, and Farid Okhbah, 19
April 2004.
147
Ibid. and International Crisis Group, Indonesia Backgrounder: Why Salafism and
terrorism mostly don’t mix. p. 8.
148
Interview with Ulil Abshar Abdalla in Jakarta, 26 April 2004.
149
Ibid.
150
Ibid.
151
Electronic communication with Sidney Jones, International Crisis Group, 6 October
2004.
152
153
Ibid. p. 10. and Confidential interview.
154
Ibid. p. 10.
117
155
Roy, Globalised Islam: the search for a new umma. pp. 65–67 and 251.
156
157
Interview with Ulil Abshar Abdalla in Jakarta, 26 April 2004.
158
159
160
Ibid. p. 23.
161
Ibid. p. 24.
162
Confidential interviews.
163
mostly don’t mix. and Solahudin, Jihad: Salafy vs Salafy Jihadi (paper presented at the
Islamic Perspectives on State, Governance and Society in Southeast Asia Conference,
Canberra, 30–31 August 2004).
164
165
Confidential interviews.
166
mostly don’t mix. see footnote 109.
167
James J. Fox, Currents in contemporary Islam in Indonesia (paper presented at the
Harvard Asia Vision 21, Cambridge, MA, 2004).
168
Ibid.
169
Ibid.
170
For a good discussion of Islamist use of digital media see Robert W. Hefner, Civic
pluralism denied? The new media and jihadi violence in Indonesia, in New media
in the Muslim world: The emerging public sphere. ed. Dale F. Eickelman and Jon W.
Anderson. Bloomingdale and Indianapolis, Indiana University Press, 2003.
171
Mandaville, Transnational Muslim Politics. p. 185
172
Ibid. p. 187.
173
Interview with Rachmat Abdullah, Jakarta, September 2002.
174
A good discussion of the Islamic state issue can be found in Aay Muhamad Furkon,
Partai Keadilan Sejahtera: Ideologi dan Praksis Politik Kaum Muda Muslim Indonesia
Kontemporer (The Prosperity and Justice Party: Ideology and Practical Politics of Young
Contemporary Indonesian Muslims). Jakarta, Teraju, 2004.
175
Interviews with former Tarbiyah members, August and September 2002. and
Abdul Aziz, Kehidupan Beragama dan Kelompok Keagamaan di Kampus Universitas
118
ENDNOTES
Indonesia, Jakarta (Religious Life and Religious Groups on the University of Indonesia
Campus, Jakarta). Jakarta, 1995, unpublished research report, Departemen Agama
R. I., Balai Penelitian Agama dan Kemasyarakatan.
176
For a good account of the history of the Tarbiyah movement and PK, see Ali Said
Damanik, Fenomena Partai Keadilan: Transformasi 20 Tahun Gerakan Tarbiyah di
Indonesia (The Justice Party phenomenon: the 20-Year transformation of the Tarbiyah
Movement in Indonesia). Jakarta, Penerbit Teraju, 2002. and Ali Said Damanik,
Tarbiyah Menjawab Tantangan: Refleksi 20 Tahun Pembaharuan Tarbiyah di
Indonesia (Tarbiyah Answers the Challenge: Reflections on 20 Years of Tarbiyah Reform
in Indonesia). Jakarta, Robbani Press, 2002.
177
Furkon, Partai Keadilan Sejahtera: Ideologi dan Praksis Politik Kaum Muda Muslim
Indonesia Kontemporer (The Prosperity and Justice Party: Ideology and Practical Politics
of Young Contemporary Indonesian Muslims).pp. 234–235. For more on this subject,
see Partai Keadilan Sejahtera, Partai Keadilan Sejahtera Menjawab Tudingan dan
Fitnah (The Prosperity and Justice Party Answers Accusations and Slander). Jakarta,
Pustaka Saksi, 2004. pp. 13–22.
178
Tamsil Linrung was elected to the national parliament from South Sulawesi. For details
of his alleged involvement in paramilitary and terrorist groups, see International Crisis
Group, Indonesia Backgrounder: How the Jemaah Islamiyah terrorist network operates.
No. 43, 11 December 2003. pp. 9 and 21. See also Sian Powell, Terror Suspect Heads
for Parliament. The Australian, 24 September 2004, p. 8.
179
Martin van Bruinessen, ‘Yahudi sebagai simbol dalam wacana Islam Indonesia
masa kini’ (‘Jews as a symbol in contemporary Muslim discourse in Indonesia’), in:
Spiritualitas baru: Agama dan aspirasi rakyat [Seri Dian II Tahun I],. Yogyakarta:
Dian/Interfidei, 1994. pp. 253–268.
180
181
Two of Qardhawi’s best know works in Indonesia are Fatwa Fatwa Kontemporer
(Contemporary Religious Decisions) and Fikih Prioritas: urutan amal yang terpenting
dari yang penting (Jurisprudential Priorities: The order of the most important deeds
from the important), both published by Gema Insani Press, Jakarta in 1995 and 1996
respectively.
182
Interview with Ismail Yusanto, the official spokesman for HT, Jakarta, 26 April 2004.
183
Noorhaidi Hasan, Faith and politics: the rise of the Laskar Jihad in the era of transition
in Indonesia. Indonesia (No. 73) 2002. pp. 145–169. and Greg Fealy, Islamic radicalism
in Indonesia: The faltering revival?, in Southeast Asian Affairs 2004. Singapore,
119
Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2004. pp. 104–121. and Martin van Bruinessen,
Genealogies of Islamic radicalism in post-Suharto Indonesia, 2002. pp. 104–121.
184
The various salafi websites provide ample evidence of this. See for example, http://
www.salafyoon.cjb.net; http://www.salafy.or.id; and http://www.ngajisalaf.net.
185
mostly don’t mix. and Hasan, Faith and politics: the rise of the Laskar Jihad in the era
of transition in Indonesia. pp. 145–169.
186
187
Solahudin, Jihad: Salafy vs Salafy Jihadi.
188
Aly Ghufron Nurhasyim (Mukhlas), Pembelaan Bom Bali (In Defence of the Bali
Bomb). Bali, 2003.
189
Imam Samudra, Aku Melawan Teroris (I Oppose Terrorists), Solo: Jazera, 2004. pp.
67–72.
190
Ustadz Mu’nim Mulia, Pernyataan Resmi al-Jamaah al-Islamiyyah (Official Statement
of Jemaah Islamiyah). 6 October 2000.
191
Majlis Qiyadah Markaziyah al-Jama’ah al-Islamiyyah, Pedoman Umum Perjuangan al-
Jama’ah al-Islamiyyah (General Struggle Guidelines for Jemaah Islamiyah). May 1996.
192
International Crisis Group, Indonesia Backgrounder: Jihad in Central Sulawesi. Asia
Report no. 74, 3 February 2004. and John Funston, Malaysia: Muslim Militancy -
how much of a threat? AUS-CSCAP Newsletter (No. 13) 2002.
193
Confidential correspondence. See also the police interrogation transcript of
Thoriqudin (alias Abu Rusydan).
194
We have only been able to obtain an English language translation of the Abu Dujana
text which is entitled ‘Mini-Manual of the Urban Mujahid’, though information from
independent researchers suggests that the document is authentic.
195
Abdullah Azzam, Hijrah dan I’dad (Flight and preparation). Solo, Pustaka al-Alaq,
2002. and Abdullah Azzam, Tarbiyah Jihadiyah (Jihadist Training). Solo, Pustaka
al-Alaq, 2001.
196
We are grateful to Sidney Jones and a confidential Australian source for this
information.
197
Stephen Frederic Dale, Religious suicide in Islamic Asia: Anticolonial terrorism in India,
Indonesia and the Philippines. Journal of Conflict Resolution 32 (1) 1988. pp. 37–59.
198
Quoted in Quinton Wiktorowicz and John Kaltner, Killing in the Name of Islam: Al-
Qaeda’s Justification for September 11. Middle-East Policy X (2) 2003.
120
ENDNOTES
199
This was contained on www.istimata.com (the site was closed down soon after the
Bali bombing). The Istimata Declaration was seemingly prepared by the JI leader
Imam Samudra and several of his colleagues. He tipped off the press as to the existence
of the website (Kompas, 5 December 2002) and several versions of the statement
were also found on his laptop computer.
200
Zachary Abuza (Militant Islam in Southeast Asia: Crucible of Terror) and Rohan
Gunaratna (Inside al-Qaeda) regard JI as an integral part of al-Qaeda. Sidney Jones’s
reports for the International Crisis Group put the case for JI’s relative autonomy from
al-Qaeda. See, for example, International Crisis Group, Jemaah Islamiyah in Southeast
Asia: Damaged but Still Dangerous.
201
International Crisis Group, Indonesia Backgrounder: Jihad in Central Sulawesi. pp. i, 3
and 24
202
Holk Dengel, Darul Islam dan kartosuwirjo: ‘Angan-Angan yang Gggal (Darul Islam
and kartosuwirjo: ‘The illusion that failed’). Jakarta, Pustaka Sinar Harapan, 1995. pp.
73–86 and 127–154.
203
Ibid. and C. van Dijk, Rebellion under the banner of Islam: The Darul Islam in
Indonesia. VKI No. 94 1981.
204
For one version of DI’s murky post-1960s history, see Umar Abduh, Al-Zaytun Gate:
investigasi mengungkap misteri (Al-Zaytun Gate: an investigation to reveal a mystery).
Jakarta, LPDI-SIKAT and al Bayyinah, 2002. pp. 28–40.
205
See Interview with Sheikh Abdullah Sungkar, Suharto’s “Detect, Defect and Destroy”
Policy Towards The Islamic Movement. Nida’ul Islam (No. 17) 1997.
206
Interviews with two former DI members, Jakarta, April 2004. and International
Crisis Group, Al-Qaeda in Southeast Asia: the case of the “Ngruki Network” in Indonesia.
Asia Briefing, 8 August 2002. pp. 3, 6–9. and International Crisis Group, Jemaah
Islamiyah in Southeast Asia: Damaged but Still Dangerous. pp. 18 and 25.
207
Interview with Dr Jamhari, Executive Director, PPIM-UIN, Jakarta 28 April 2004.
208
See, for example, the 2003 Global Attitudes Survey conducted by Pew Research Center
for People and the Press, which showed 83 per cent of Indonesian respondents had an
unfavourable attitude toward the United States. Jakarta Post, 4 June 2003.
209
Maxine McKew. Interview with Sidney Jones, International Crisis Group, on the 7.30
Report. Australian Broadcasting Commission 16 December 2004: http://www.abc.
net.au/7.30/content/2004/s1267208.htm.
210
Roy, Globalised Islam: the search for a new umma.
211
See Australian Government, Transnational terrorism: the threat to Australia.
121
212
Plural of madrassa, a religious school.
213
See Royal Embassy of Saudi Arabia, Washington D.C. Initiative and actions taken by
the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia to combat terrorism. 2004: http://www.saudiembassy.
net/Issues/Terrorism/IssuesTer.asp. For an assessment of the effectiveness of Saudi
measures see Greenberg and Wolosky. Update on the Global Campaign Against
Terrorist Financing.
122
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Lowy Institute Paper 05

joining the caravan?

joining the caravan?

PO Box 7143 Alexandria New South Wales 1435 Australia

Copyright © Lowy Institute for International Policy 2005

Cover and text design by Shane Grantham

National Library of Australia

Joining the caravan? : the Middle East, Islamism and Indonesia.

1. Islam and politics - Indonesia. 2. Indonesia - Foreign relations - Asia. 3. Asia

Dr Greg Fealy is a research fellow and lecturer at the

A gainst the background of the ‘war on terror’, many people have

or head towards new supranational forms of activism.

morality and Islamic piety — albeit in a fairly puritanical form. They

A number of policy implications flow from the conclusions of this

1. In focusing on the global, don’t lose sight of the local

In focusing on the transnational dimensions of contemporary

2. Adopt a more nuanced categorisation of Islamists and

Western governments and commentators should avoid labelling

3. Take a less timorous approach to engagement with

Initiatives such as inter-faith dialogues and conferences on Islam

4. Think about education and the ‘war of ideas’ in broad

Combating terrorism is not simply about fighting terrorists but also

The complex question of Saudi Arabian religious propagation in

6. Be conscious of double standards and the democracy

The most damaging thing for Western governments in the context

Chapter 1: Revival, Radicalism and Jihad 9

Chapter 2: The politics of failure 29

Chapter 3: From the Middle East to Indonesia 47

Conclusion and Policy Implications 91

The authors would like to thank a number of people who

ahl al-thughoor (ahluts tsughur): historically, those who defended

fiqh: Islamic jurisprudence.

usually applied to Islamic boarding and day schools where students

Wahabism: the Islamic creed which originated with the eighteenth

Ilhaq bil-Qaafila by Abdullah Azzam.1

It is my hypothesis that the fundamental source of conflict in

The Clash of Civilisations by Samuel P. Huntington.2

I n 1987 a Palestinian Islamist, Abdullah Azzam, wrote a polemic

indeed it survived Azzam himself who was assassinated in 1989.

In 1993 Harvard Professor Samuel Huntington wrote his famous

Islamism, the Middle East and Indonesia

This paper is intended as a contribution to the broader debate about

ideas and evolution of Islamism in the Middle East. We will proceed

What is Islamism? Traditionally it has been defined as Islam conceived

that seem to have been most influential in Indonesia.

Revival and reform

Islamism was born out of a central idea, that of Islamic revival or

Muhammed Ibn Saud.14 Ibn Abd al-Wahab’s preaching questioned the

rediscovering — and in some respects reinterpreting — the virtues that

National Islamic Front in Sudan and the Movement of Islamic Youth

Radicalism and revolution

By the time of al-Banna’s death, the Brotherhood had become the

state and Islamism coincided with a radicalisation of both ideas and

strategy for achieving an Islamic state. Responding to what he saw as

battle between civilisation and barbarism. Qutb argued that jahili

extreme Islamist current in Egypt (and elsewhere in the Middle East)

its revolutionary message. Indeed, despite the fact Indonesian Muslims

The many meanings of jihad

Perhaps no single term has come to be as associated with Islamism