10
Intangible Cultural Heritage and Peace Building in Indonesia and East Timor
Peace, Conflict and (Intangible) Cultural Heritage
Conflicts and wars have long been recognised as threats to tangible cultural heritage. Well-known examples include the Buddhas of Bamiyan and the Mostar Bridge in Bosnia-Herzegovina, both of which show the importance of safeguarding such sites (see for example, Albert 2006: 32–33, Stanley-Price 2007b: 4–5). However, much less attention has been paid to intangible heritage in times of conflict, although the 2003 UNESCO Convention explicitly ascribes intangible cultural heritage an invaluable role ‘in bringing human beings closer together and ensuring exchange and understanding among them’, in other words, peace (UNESCO 2003; see also Albert 2006: 30, Albert and Gauer-Lietz 2006: 20, van Ginkel 2005: 25). The destruction of intangible cultural heritage (ICH) such as social and cultural structures, relationships and identities is usually not visible, thus much more difficult to detect, but potentially more grave in its consequences and more difficult to heal (compare Nordstrom 1997: 93). In this chapter, I argue that the destruction or disregard of ICH damages or ignores some of the very means needed to solve problems, prevent conflicts and for social reconstruction. In an era of ethnic and religious wars, one often seems to forget that religion and culture are not only (mis)used to mobilise people to fight each other. On the contrary, they can also help prevent and resolve violent conflict and enable reconciliation.
To explore the subject further, this chapter aims to bring together the discourses on cultural heritage and traditional justice mechanisms as internationally recognised ‘peace tools’. To date, they have hardly crossed paths, although there are essential overlaps. This contribution looks into the question of whether it makes sense to declare traditional justice mechanisms as ‘cultural heritage’. Arguing for a progressive merging of the two discourses and a careful integration of traditional justice mechanisms into the body of internationally recognised ICH, the chapter draws on two case studies – East Timor and Indonesia.1 It reflects on shortcomings of traditional justice mechanisms and discusses the linking up of traditional justice and cultural heritage via one of the central features of both discourses: ritual performances.2 The chapter concludes with some challenges, problems and prospects of viewing traditional conflict resolution and justice mechanisms as part of Asia’s intangible cultural heritage and a critical part of dealing with conflicts and social unrest in parts of Asia.
The focus in cultural heritage discourse has long been on the material side of things, which has resulted in the UNESCO Convention Concerning the Protection of the World Cultural and Natural Heritage in 1972. Awareness arose, albeit slowly, that not only tangible heritage, but also ICH, need protection. From 2001 onwards, UNESCO proclaimed the Masterpieces of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity. In October 2003, it finally adopted the Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage, which entered into force on 20 April 2006 (UNESCO 2006b: 4).3 In Article 2 of the 2003 Convention, ICH is defined as ‘the practices, representations, expressions, knowledge, skills – as well as the instruments, objects, artefacts and cultural spaces associated therewith – that communities, groups and, in some cases, individuals recognize as part of their cultural heritage’. Interestingly and importantly, the convention explicitly acknowledges the continuously changing nature of culture and cultural heritage, which is quite revolutionary. Moreover, it is mentioned, and this is of special interest for my later argumentation, that ‘safeguarding’ ICH does not only mean ensuring its viability through various means, but also the ‘revitalization of the various aspects of such heritage’ (Article 2.3; compare also UNESCO 2005: Introduction). Since ICH only exists in its enactment by practitioners, the convention gives cultural communities a central role and promotes their participation in the process (Aikawa-Faure 2009, Blake 2009: 45–46). It is not outlined however, what this participation could and should look like. This, according to Aikawa-Faure (2009: 36), is one of the most difficult themes throughout the current negotiation of the drafting of the operational directives in the Intergovernmental Committee.
At the same time, peace and reconciliation practitioners are increasingly becoming aware that internationally established ‘peace tools’ such as court trials or truth and reconciliation commissions often fail and that multidimensional approaches are needed that suit the particularities of each society after a violent conflict (see Bloomfield 2006: 18–19, Fischer and Ropers 2004: 11, Galtung 2001, Huyse 2008: 3, Stover and Weinstein 2004: 4). It is therefore important to ground justice mechanisms in local values, traditions and practices – the ICH of a society – thus contributing to the rebuilding of community life (Stover and Weinstein 2004: 11–12). Successful initiatives need to be rooted in the population they are supposed to reconcile and local perceptions of ‘reconciliation’ need to be taken into account. This includes understanding what sustainable peace actually means for the local population, how they deal with conflict memory, what role does remembering, forgetting or accusing, individual or collective guilt play in their cultural system. Traditional justice mechanisms are of utmost importance here.4
The important link between the traditional justice and cultural heritage discourse seems to be the concept of change and ritual performance. What is at stake is how the proclaimed dynamism of ICH can be preserved. At the same time, keeping the flexibility inherent in traditional justice mechanisms is crucial for their success.
Although the UNESCO 2003 Convention explicitly refers to the constant transmission, change and recreation of ICH in response to their environment, their interaction with nature and their history, it does not provide any operationalisation of the proclaimed flexibility and the need to preserve change. Moreover, such a fluid and flexible notion of culture as promoted by social anthropologists seems to be difficult to reconcile with the fixed notion commonly required for executing law and policy or their objectification through the application procedure and UNESCO’s cultural heritage framework. What we find among the Masterpieces of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity (UNESCO 2006b) are mostly idealised (or nostalgic) images of local cultural elements that are under threat. Although it is the intangible that is to be protected, it often seems to be rather promoted through its material manifestations such as traditional masques or its visibility such as dances that give expression to the intangible underlying it (compare Bauer 2005, de Jong 2007). Smith (2006: 5) blames what she calls an ‘authorized heritage discourse’ that is defined by ‘assumptions about the innate and immutable cultural values of heritage that are linked to and defined by the concepts of monumentality and aesthetics’. Moreover, through the enlisting of ICH that is seen as living culture, we might risk freezing the element or social life in general, depriving it of its essential flexibility and alienating it to the local population (Nas 2002: 139–40; see also Brown 2005: 45, Coombe 1998). As Munjeri (2009: 148) argues, safeguarding ICH has to be a matter of ‘freeing rather than freezing the conditions under which intangible cultural heritage exists and operates’. This, of course, also extends to the enlisting of traditional justice mechanisms as ICH.
Rituals and performativity are important elements in traditional justice and reconciliation mechanisms, be it the rituals and ceremonies surrounding nahe biti in East Timor or the various ceremonies to celebrate pela partnerships in Maluku. At the same time, rituals and performativity are listed as manifestations of ICH in the 2003 UNESCO Convention. Wulf argues that:
(…) rituals are focal practices in the field of intangible cultural heritage, since they allow community members to establish cultural continuity from one generation to the other (…) On the one hand they transmit traditional cultural values and social practices, on the other hand they adapt them to the actual demands of the community (…) The performance of rituals is not simple repetitive activity, but a creative social act, unifying the different social groups in one performance and producing social order and cultural coherence and mastering the potential of social violence.
(Wulf 2006: 60–61)
Unfortunately, cultural heritage is often ‘treated as a luxury that cannot be afforded by societies emerging from the devastation of war’ (Barakat 2007: 26). It is often assumed that those weakened societies cannot help themselves and need international ‘expertise’ (compare Bräuchler 2009a) – in the form of tangible cultural heritage protection, among others – to solve their problems, thus marginalising local voices and values and, as was the case in Cambodia, supporting the image of a monolithic and national culture (Winter 2007: 141–42).5 In this chapter I show how traditional mechanisms such as ICH can be critical for societies emerging from the devastation of conflict.
The Inventive Adaptation of Traditional Justice Mechanisms: East Timor and Indonesia
I will explore two examples in Southeast Asia where alternative approaches (in which such performative aspects played a prominent role), among others, have been applied to cope with post-conflict situations: the East Timor case and the alleged religious conflict in the Moluccas, Eastern Indonesia. A short description of the situation and the traditional mechanism used in each case enables me to reflect on some typical advantages of traditional justice mechanisms. Thereafter, I will discuss challenges and problems associated with the concept of traditional justice to be taken into account when declaring those mechanisms to be ICH.
Nahe Biti in East Timor
In 1999 the majority of East Timorese people voted for independence after almost 25 years of occupation by Indonesia. The referendum was followed by a massacre where pro-Indonesian militias together with the Indonesian military fought those who had voted for independence; thousands of people were murdered, hundreds of thousands had to flee and most of the country’s infrastructure was destroyed. The United Nations Transitional Administration in East Timor (UNTAET) set up a Serious Crimes Unit (SCU), meant to deal with crimes such as murder and severe human rights violations, and the Reception, Truth and Reconciliation Commission (Portuguese acronym CAVR) that was authorised to conduct Community Reconciliation Procedures (CRP’s). These CRP’s were designed in 2002 to provide an alternative to the only recently established formal justice system for resolving the thousands of ‘less serious’ crimes committed in the context of political conflict between 1974 and 1999. The idea was to incorporate East Timorese customary dispute resolution mechanisms with a focus on restorative justice, the reintegration of soldiers and refugees and the rebuilding of communities (Daly and Sarkin 2007: 85, Kent 2004).6
As a central element, the CRP was building on a concept known in most parts of East Timor, namely nahe biti (literally stretching or laying down the mat), a traditional practice that has been inventively adapted to the requirements of the reconciliation processes following the 1999 violence and has been described by Babo-Soares in his 2004 article in The Asia Pacific Journal of Anthropology (Babo-Soares 2004). This East Timorese equivalent of ‘reconciliation’ is based on meetings, discussions and consensus among the opposing parties, involving traditional authorities and aims at restoring social stability; it is part of a long process not the end of the process, in which not just the crime, but above all its sociocultural context is of importance. That’s why ‘nahe biti goes beyond short-term reconciliation towards a much greater aim, which is continuing [or re-establishing] harmony and peace in society’ (Babo-Soares 2004: 22). As laid out by Babo-Soares (2004: 24):
Conceptually, a ready biti (mat) symbolises consensus. Bringing together different leaves in the form of a mat symbolises the willingness to bring together the conflicting parties and to find a common settlement. ‘Consensus’ is paired with ‘past mistakes’, making them different but complementary as a means designed to achieve rohan, social harmony in society.
The intervention of the ancestors is prerequesite to reach that goal; that’s why each achieved consensus has to be concluded by an oath taking ritual in the involved lineage’s sacred house (uma lulik) (ibid.: 28). ‘In some parts of East Timor, an ‘‘Oath of Blood” ceremony, a symbolic bond in which both sides drink each other’s blood … is … held’ (ibid.: 20) in order to ‘both “officialise” and legitimise the process’ (ibid.: 28). Local customary ceremonies are held to receive and accept refugees back into the community; a process that is usually concluded by the ‘ceremonial exchange of betel nut to show sincerity and commitment’ (ibid.: 20). As discussed above, these ritual components are of great importance, since the performative aspect integrates the community and gives public proof to the reconciliation process. Usually, such community reconciliation processes take place in the presence of customary authorities who, unlike judges in national or international courts, know the local sociocultural context and situation. To distinguish nahe biti from such formal reconciliation, the latter is cynically called ‘boot sira nia lian (the words of those in power) or “elite reconciliation”’ (ibid.: 24).
The ceremonies, rituals and perceptions thus obviously combine many of the advantages traditional justice mechanisms are commonly praised for (in contrast to high-level reconciliation and the formal justice system). They were considered to be cost-effective, visible, oral, accessible with regards to language, distance and the procedural efforts (no lawyer is needed on the local level), sensitive to the local context, not isolating the dispute from its overall social context, flexible and informal. The main aim is the reintegration of offenders and/or the restoration of social relationships and social harmony. They are community-oriented, participatory and customary authorities play a leading role as mediators (see also Babo-Soares 2004: 17, Byrne 2005, Daly and Sarkin 2007: 85–86, Kent 2004, McWilliam 2007a: 2–3, 2007b: 89).7
Pela in Maluku, Eastern Indonesia
In the Moluccas, an archipelago in Eastern Indonesia, a bloody conflict was fought mainly between Christians and Muslims from 1999 until 2003.8 It caused thousands of deaths on both sides and a geographic and ideological divide of the Moluccan population, affecting all aspects of daily life. Up to the end of 1998, the Moluccas were famous for the interreligious harmony on the islands and the vehement and long-term violence took all observers by surprise. Following the outbreak of the conflict in January 1999, there have been hundreds of efforts to put an end to the conflict; for a long time without apparent success. The Indonesian government mainly relied on military interventions, which were not very successful. Law enforcement did not take place at all. The Moluccan people therefore had to search for alternative means to cope with the violence and to get back to normalcy. On almost all levels of society, there were high expectations towards adat (tradition and customary law) as a means for reconciliation from below and a sustainable solution to the conflict.
In the Central Moluccas, the traditional pela system, i.e., forming alliances between two or more villages irrespective of their religion, was mainly held responsible for the long-lived interreligious harmony in the area.9 Pela pacts were concluded after incidents such as wars or accidents, where certain villages had helped or have been fighting each other. Some of them go back to pre-colonial times, some were built to resist the colonial intruders and some are of more recent origin. Pela partners are not usually allowed to marry each other; they are supposed to help each other in times of crisis and in undertaking large community projects such as the building of churches, mosques and schools and to share food whenever needed. According to Bartels (1977), for a long time pela was the cultic centre of the ethnic religion of the Ambonese people that transcends Islam and Christianity. Although most villages have only one to four pela partners, the overlapping of hundreds of these pela networks integrates large parts of the Central Moluccan population.
Various external and internal factors led to the gradual degrading of this pela system, especially after the 1970s:10 continuous efforts to purify Moluccan Islam and Christianity from adat, influences of globalisation and modernisation, migration to the area, the rise of the Muslims in politics and economics and the central government’s unification endeavours (e.g. the unification of village governments throughout Indonesia). Nevertheless, pela became a symbol of brotherhood, reconciliation and peace for the war-torn Central Moluccan society and Moluccans usually emphasise that pela partners never attacked each other during times of conflict, even though it was rather difficult to actively help each other. A lot of public occasions such as the installation ceremonies of traditional village heads, traditional boat races (lomba arumbai mangurrebe) or warming-up pela ceremonies (bikin panas pela) are currently used to bring pela partners together again, especially if they come from different religious backgrounds and to re-enact the history of the pela pact. It seems to have become a competition on who can put up the most elaborate ceremony, i.e., the biggest festivities with the most number of attendees. The downside of this is the rise of costs, which makes such ceremonies not affordable to all villages (cost-effectiveness being one advantage of traditional justice mechanisms). These occasions are used to symbolically demonstrate that adat is more important than religion and that people should remind themselves of their common origin. It has become a common saying in post-conflict Maluku that now, adat – in particular pela and gandong ([mythical] common ancestry) – is stronger and sweeter (lebih kuat dan lebih manis) than ever before. As Bartels (2003) argues, ‘ “Pela Gandong” miraculously has become some sort of mythical pact of brotherhood encompassing all Ambonese Moslems and Christians’ (see also Bräuchler 2009d, Hohe and Remijsen 2003, Pannell 2003: 25–26);11 it evolved into the symbol for peace in the current post-conflict phase. By using cultural elements such as pela, which are rooted in local contexts and involve people at the community level, the Moluccan case replicates the advantages of traditional justice mechanisms outlined in the previous section on East Timor (compare also Amirrachman 2007, Malik 2003, Malik et al. 2003).
Discussing Some Challenges of Traditional Justice
Both conflicts were communal conflicts in the sense that it was not the state fighting against its people, but rather people against people, neighbours against neighbours, involving large parts of the population. This makes it extremely difficult to find a sustainable solution. In all cases, various peace initiatives had failed or were not sufficient and there was a lot of hope put into the revival of the above mentioned traditional mechanisms. The two case studies provided good insights into the advantages of traditional justice mechanisms when compared with high-level reconciliation and the formal justice system.12 They are based on traditions that are central to the sociocultural life of the societies concerned and form an important part of their cultural heritage which is in urgent need of protection, especially given the massive influences from the outside and the people’s ongoing search for sustainable peace. Many East Timorese and international observers regarded the CRP as a success since it had community legitimacy and involvement and it helped formalise the reintegration of people into their communities (Byrne 2005, McWilliam 2007a: 2, Daly and Sarkin 2007: 85–86).13 I have already portrayed the enthusiasm of the local population in the Moluccas (on all levels of society) to use cultural elements as means for peacebuilding. One has to keep in mind, of course, that this is a rather idealised depiction that is clearly meant to try not to emphasise the bitter experience of the conflict any more, but rather highlight the positive side of it. In this section I would like to express some more caveats towards too much enthusiasm regarding ‘traditional justice’ – issues that find parallels in the ICH discourse and that need to be considered when discussing the incorporation of traditional justice mechanisms into an international ICH corpus.
First, one has to be aware of the time factor involved in traditional justice mechanisms, needed for the restoration of social relationships. Thus, the main criticism towards the East Timorese CRP was that the process was too short (Kent 2004: 41). In principle, people were in favour of the process, but generally there was not enough time for preparations, socialisation, hearings, let alone for follow-ups (Pigou 2004).
Furthermore, collectivity is not always a blessing. The collective orientation of traditional justice can also lead to the escalation of a conflict, when a problem between two individuals, for instance, is seen as the problem of the groups they belong to. This was clearly the case in the Moluccas. A focus on the collective dimension might also foster the illusion of internal homogeneity, which would not only be a threat to ‘traditional’ flexibility again, but might also be used to suppress those who are not in line with what is propagated.
Questions of representativeness are equally challenging in the traditional justice and the ICH discourse. The weakening of tradition and traditional leadership through colonialism, neocolonialism or developments connected to modernisation and globalisation is an issue in East Timor and Indonesia, and is a crucial handicap for the success of ‘traditional’ justice mechanisms (see for example McWilliam 2007b: 89). If such an ‘idealised’ version of a traditional element is long lost, the question is what to go back to, what exactly to revive, who takes the initiative and how representative are these people. Moreover, traditional leaders might have lost the people’s respect due to their involvement in the conflict (for Liberia, compare Rowlands 2008: 141). As mediators, they might not be impartial due to their rootedness in the local social and political context. Having said this, in both cases, traditional leaders have played important roles in the reintegration, peace and reconciliation process. However, the expectations towards these leaders and their representativeness need to be analysed with care. There is no easy solution to that; both are needed: leaders are essential for the negotiation process, while a mobilisation of the masses is required for a psychological change to take place in the society as a whole (Bar-Tal and Bennink 2004).
Some of the issues clinging to traditional leadership are also a concern for human rights advocates and to those in favour of a western understanding of law. Other ‘traditional’ elements, which play a role in my case studies to various degrees and are not in line with western notions of law and human rights are, for example, traditional mechanisms that might enforce inequalities based on gender, age or other status; the absence of witness protection and victim’s rights; the lack of professional juristic background of those delivering judgements; the application of harsh physical and social sanctions; and the fact that the accused are not defended by a lawyer.14 The clarification of such issues is a prerequisite when it comes to the declaration of ICH, that, according to the 2003 Convention, has to be compatible with ‘existing international human rights instruments, as well as with the requirements of mutual respect among communities, groups and individuals, and of sustainable development’ (UNESCO 2003: Article 2). Talking about human rights, however, it is also essential to analyse the different notions of what conflict and peace imply for different societies that might not have set these concepts apart as the Western world has done.
Exclusivism is another issue in the Moluccan revival story, where adat is mainly referred to as an integrative force. As Putnam (2000) argues, inclusive identities usually imply the exclusion of others – what he identified as the dark side of bonding social capital. Pela is not only an integrative force, but an exclusivist one at the same time; it might help to prevent, but also foster conflict (see Hohe and Remijsen 2003). If we look at the history of pela, many of these pacts were concluded as a result of war, either in order to end hostilities or to celebrate the victory of partners (that conclude the pact) against a common enemy. Another point is the many migrants in Moluccan society who have difficulties identifying themselves with the new revival movements.
Brown warns that heritage protection has to be careful not to foster exclusivism.15 Heritage discourse in general does not reflect about what consequences the declaration of cultural heritage has on indigenous life and on everyday life in pluralist societies (Brown 2003: 209–12). Taking Australia as his case, Brown (2003: 217) argues: ‘To defend indigenous peoples, it promotes official boundaries that separate one kind of native person from another, and native persons from non-native ones, thereby threatening the fluidity of ethnic and family identities typically found in aboriginal communities.’ This, of course, is an especially delicate issue in post-conflict societies.
Yet another matter to be discussed is the transferability of these traditional mechanisms to cases of mass atrocity; cases for which they are usually not designed. Moreover, mass violence often destroys the fundamental value structure that constitutes the basis of traditional mechanisms (see also International Institute for Democracy and Electoral Assistance (IDEA) 2006). In East Timor, the mechanisms used were originally only applied for minor crimes or land and marriage issues. In the Moluccas, pela was never meant to be a force unifying the whole Moluccan society, let alone Islam and Christianity.16 The question is how far we can stretch the flexibility and interpretability of so-called ‘traditions’, what kind of changes and adaptations makes them survive, which ones bring about their demise?
What is of interest here and more generally for cases where traditional justice mechanisms are used to complement and aid formal justice systems to cope with the aftermath of mass atrocities is whether they should be formally integrated within state-authorised regulatory frameworks (Meitzner Yoder 2007; compare also Babo-Soares 2004, McWilliam 2007b: 89). Based on her extensive studies in sub-Saharan Africa, Stevens warns against such an incorporation that would lead to the institutionalisation and fixation of customary practices, which could, in the long run imply their death (Stevens 2001: 129). While in East Timor this issue is still being discussed, it was, for instance, a strategic move in Rwanda to incorporate traditional justice mechanisms in the formal justice system of the state.
Although most people affected by mass violence in East Timor and Maluku appreciate traditional mechanisms and are actively supporting them, they are not content with community reconciliation only. Kent’s report gives voice to local people in East Timor who are involved in the CRP process, but, at the same time in search of the truth behind the violence that should enable justice to be done and reparations to be paid, or so they hope (Kent 2004; see also Babo-Soares 2004: 19). In case neither truth nor justice are on the agenda due to the failure of the respective regional and national institutions as in Maluku, there is a real concern that such issues might come to the fore soon, since they are already simmering under the calm surface here and there. A prominent example are the many land issues resulting from the conflict such as border lines between villages and the occupation of other people’s land during the conflict or the reclaiming of traditional land rights in the aftermath of the conflict. What all these underline again is that multidimensional and multidisciplinary approaches are essential when dealing with complex post-conflict situations and the search for sustainable peace.
Traditional Justice, Cultural Heritage and Ritual Performance
As outlined above, performance and ritual play a dominant role in traditional justice mechanisms and are often constitutive parts of intangible cultural heritage. The strategic use of symbols and rituals is decisive in conflict as well as in building peace, as the two case studies clearly showed. As Schirch (2001: 147) holds, divergent worldviews find expression in symbols and rituals, which can become tools ‘for bringing competing views of justice and peace into converging visions of coexistence and reconciliation’.17 Rituals leave room for multiple interpretations (Schirch 2001: 158) and they can create spaces that are ‘in-between, set-aside contexts where the rules for acting and interpreting meaning are different from the rest of life’ (ibid.: 154), and that can facilitate such ‘emotional and cognitive reordering, which enables the development of a new relationship between former enemies’ (Ross 2004: 209). Such rituals need to be culturally sensitive, but they can at the same time be improvised and constructed, as Schirch (2001: 154, 156) emphasises, by conflict mediators or the people themselves. However, the emotional dimension is often neglected in the international or authoritative cultural heritage discourse (Smith 2006: 58).
Both case studies deal with invented adaptations of traditional rituals; either to make them fit the current situations, as complements to the judicial infrastructure, or in view of the nonexistence or non-functioning of the latter. In the East Timorese case, nahe biti traditionally meant a venue for debating and settling family and wider social issues. After the civil war in 1974 and again in 1999, the meaning of the term has been broadened ‘to encompass mending differences, resolving disputes or settling political conflicts among the East Timorese’ (Babo-Soares 2004: 23). Furthermore, pela, originally only a federation of two to five villages, is now celebrated to be a symbol of brotherhood, reconciliation and peace for the war-torn Central Moluccan society. All these ‘traditions’ are meant to provide inclusive symbols and rituals that acknowledge the past as well as depict the image of a common future and enable the reintegration of offenders and the community (Ross 2004, Stevens 2001: 34).
Although these adaptations took place in order to cope with the aftermath of mass violence and conflict, they are no exception as such. Custom and tradition (adat in Indonesia and lisan in East Timor) – expressions of intangible heritage – are constantly recreated and re-invented in order to make them fit changing social, political and economic circumstances. Only this flexibility lets them survive. The speed and the direction of the changes, of course, depend on the urgency given.
The revival, (re)invention or even manipulation of tradition and the important question of what is to be revived and who has the authority to define this, brings up the authenticity issue so often raised in connection with cultural heritage discourse. Although the term ‘authenticity’ is consciously avoided in the 2003 Convention (UNESCO 2005: Qualifying Criteria),18 the criteria put down for ICH invoke the image of the search for something authentic (see Zehbe 2006: 48–49). Skounti (2009: 77) argues that this ‘authentic illusion’ is necessary in order to ‘justify and reinforce the engagement and the activity of heritage agents’. The revitalisation of various aspects of cultural heritage is explicitly mentioned in the 2003 Convention. Considering that ‘heritage is simultaneously knowledge, a cultural product and a political resource’ (Graham 2002: 1007), it becomes very important to look closely at who actually speaks for a particular cultural heritage and who controls its meanings, values and past (Smith 2006: 52, see also above). Actors and audiences differ. In the case of a World Heritage site such as Angkor, it is mainly architects, historians and archaeologists who act as stewards of the past (Smith 2006: 30). In cultural heritage used for conflict resolution, it is mostly local leaders or spokespersons who claim to have the knowledge and the necessary background information of the conflict.
As I observed in the Moluccas, the people concerned do not always agree on what needs to be revived and who has the authority to do so, which leads to power struggles and conflicts (compare Khaznadar 2006: 100, 102). The only solution for this is to make sure that reflexivity and dialogue are seen as essential features in the negotiation of cultural heritage on all levels, the local, the national and the international (Nic Craith 2007: 5). Policies and initiatives dealing with such issues would need to be informed by in-depth ethnographic studies that also turn attention to the historical development of enmities and motivations for violent action (Funabashi 2003: 175, Gunter 2007, Leong 2007, McWilliam 2007b: 90).
A lot still needs to be done on the cultural heritage front. The special issue of the Journal of Material Culture on Postconflict Heritage (2008) examines how ‘heritage technologies’, including artefacts, ritual practices and performances, ‘are appropriated for the recognition of past suffering and the creation of futures of hope’ (Rowlands and de Jong 2007: 13). However, as Rowlands and de Jong (2007: 14) hold, most of the ritual performances in indigenous societies focus on local collective memories (be it nahe biti or pela), and not on ‘globalising and/or state-building acts of memorialism’, and would therefore probably not be considered as ‘heritage’ in the dominant cultural heritage discourse (compare Rowlands and de Jong 2007: 20–22). This is another challenge of linking cultural heritage and traditional justice discourse.
What needs to be kept in mind is that these performances and rituals, or in other words, intangible cultural heritage, do not necessarily need to provide reconciliation and peace themselves; what they do – and this is essential in any reconciliation process – is to ‘trigger memory-work’ and ‘open up spaces for reflexive engagements’ with the past, as Rowlands and de Jong (2007: 27–28) aptly put it. It also needs to be kept in mind that both the revitalisation of traditional justice mechanisms and the declaration of cultural heritage are strategic projects. Selective artefacts, mythologies, memories and traditions and their specific interpretations and representations become resources for the present (Graham 2002: 1004).
Conclusion
I would argue that traditional conflict resolution and justice mechanisms can be seen as cultural heritage, but this needs to take place under a carefully constructed, culturally sensible and open umbrella. I have pointed out some of the problems that need to be taken into account when traditional justice mechanisms are considered to be included into the world’s ICH list. This should serve as a caveat and should relativise expectations and unreflected enthusiasm towards traditional justice mechanisms in the face of the failure of more established international tools. We need to be aware of the fact that in many cases of long-lasting mass violence, traditional justice mechanisms should not be the only means in the peace and reconciliation process. However, in most cases where other mechanisms are not in place yet, it is only traditional justice mechanisms that can, among others: (1) give ‘first aid’; (2) provide legitimacy to more top-down processes, through, for instance, the inclusion of traditional leaders;19 (3) provide means for people to cope with the aftermath of mass violence; (4) give people a sense of ownership of the peace process, which is essential for its sustainability.
In this context, ‘outstanding value’ and ‘representativeness’20 – the criteria for nominating tangible and intangible cultural heritage – have to be defined differently; namely in a way that might not make sense to outsiders or those actors usually dominating the international heritage discourse. Referring to Deacon et al. (2004: 11), Blake (2009: 46) raises the question whether it is ‘necessary for ICH expressions or practices to be highly valued outside the immediate cultural community in order to be defined officially as heritage’. The question is ‘who is the Heritage for?’ (Hall 2005: 26): to serve the needs of the people living with it, or the complacency of an international cultural heritage troupe? Traditional justice mechanisms can be of ‘outstanding value’ in the sense that they contribute to the ultimate goal that all these international and national conventions have, that is, peace on a local and a global level. Including well-tried or revived traditional justice mechanisms in the cultural heritage lists would set an important symbol for both international and national forces. This would acknowledge the efficacy of local agency for conflict resolution, which is an important part of sustainable peace.
Although international cultural heritage discourse and the connected framework have to be adapted in a substantial way to these new challenges, I think cultural heritage declarations could provide important funding and spaces where those sorts of mechanisms can be studied (which is an essential prerequisite), restrengthened, revived and adapted to the present circumstances and challenges. Sally Merry Engle spoke of the vernacularisation, that is, the translation of the human rights concept into local ideas. What we have to do now, I would argue, is to vernacularise the cultural heritage discourse, thus enabling the integration of traditional justice mechanisms into an internationally accepted list that is thought of as worth protecting, or better, enabling the provision of space so that their maintenance and continuity can be guaranteed. The real goal for protection should be, and here I fall back on Stovel (2004: 133), to maintain those rituals and mechanisms as an integral part of daily life within a community. This would automatically lead to their survival on a long-term basis, without a continuous (financial) input from the outside. Protection of cultural heritage should imply both: the reparation of ICH destroyed during armed conflict and mass violence, such as (invisible) social structures and cultural alliance systems, and the support of mechanisms that help to sustainably solve and/or to prevent violent conflict and war. When browsing ethnographic literature, one realises that customary law and traditional justice, ritual and performance, are still decisive elements in many societies throughout Asia, some of them used to sustainably deal with the aftermaths of the many communal conflicts in Asian countries. At the same time, Asian nations provide a substantive share for the official UNESCO list of intangible cultural heritage. So far, however, these two discourses have not met, which is evidence of gross negligence of the potential of traditional justice mechanisms as discussed in this chapter.
Notes
1 The analysis of the case studies is based on field work in the Moluccas, Eastern Indonesia, and literature research on East Timor.
2 For the history and development of the notion of heritage, see Smith (2006: 16–28). For a historical overview of the Intangible Cultural Heritage Convention, see Aikawa-Faure 2009.
3 Opinions are divided about the relationship between tangible and intangible heritage. One extreme viewpoint is that they should be treated as separate entities; another one is that they cannot be regarded separately, or better, tangible heritage could never be defined as such without the intangible aspect to it. Accordingly arguments about the relationship of the two separate conventions of 1972 and 2003 vary. For the various opinions and discussions see, for instance, Bernecker 2006, Fejérdy 2006, Hundsnurscher 2006, Khaznadar 2006, Kirshenblatt-Gimblett 2004, Nic Craith 2007: 4, and Smith 2006: 56.
4 The report on Access to justice in sub-Saharan Africa: the role of traditional and informal justice systems written by Joanna Stevens in 2001 for the international NGO Penal Reform International gives an excellent overview of what is commonly understood as traditional justice in opposition to formal (criminal) justice, including a summary of advantages and disadvantages. Although the report is tailored to a certain region in Africa, many of the results nonetheless apply to traditional justice mechanisms on a broader geographical scope (Stevens 2001: 22–36, 127–28). See also the publications of the International Institute for Democracy and Electoral Assistance such as Bloomfield et al. 2003, Huyse and Salter 2008.
5 There is very little literature dealing with the issue of intangible cultural heritage in conflict and post-conflict phases. Among the few exceptions is the volume Cultural Heritage in Postwar Recovery, edited by Stanley-Price (2007a), a collection of papers presented at an ICCROM Forum held in October 2005 that promotes cultural heritage ‘as a crucial element of the recovery process immediately following the end of an armed conflict’. Another example is a special issue of the Journal of Material Culture on postconflict heritage with a focus on violence and war in Africa. It was published in 2008 and is concerned with how heritage can act as a therapy (Meskell and Scheermeyer 2008).
6 For more background information on the Community Empowerment Process (CEP) and Community Reconciliation Process (CRP) in East Timor, see Hohe and Nixon 2003, Ospina and Hohe 2001, Pigou 2004. See also the Special Issue of The Asia Pacific Journal of Anthropology 8.1, 2007 on ‘Traditional justice in Timor’.
7 It is not the aim of this chapter to provide a comprehensive discussion and analysis of the traditional justice mechanisms used in the two case studies, but rather to provide some examples in order to make the reader sensitive to the problematic nature of the endeavours discussed in this contribution.
8 For a more detailed conflict analysis and references see Bräuchler 2005.
9 For a detailed description of pela, see Bartels 1977.
10 Bartels (1977: 325) himself already warned in the 1970s of a crumbling of the Nunusaku religion which would lead to a direct confrontation of Ambonese Muslims and Christians, not primarily as Ambonese, but as Muslims and Christians first and Ambonese second.
11 With ‘Ambonese’, Bartels refers to people living on Ambon island, Lease and Western Seram. Due to space constraints, I have to omit the discussion of other cultural concepts that were (re)strengthened and (re)invented in the reconciliation process. See, for example, Bräuchler 2007, 2009b, 2009c.
12 What justice implies can differ widely from common ‘Western’ perceptions. In most of East Timor and in much of the East Indonesian archipelago, justice is never simply a matter of punishment but rather of compensation, consensus and restoration of social relationships (Mearns 2002: 43, 49).
13 However, as McWilliam (2007a: 6) noted, the National Government of Timor Leste has so far resisted calls to formally recognise traditional forms of justice and dispute resolution through regulation.
14 Compare also Stevens 2001: 126–27. For East Timor see McWilliam 2007b: 89, Pigou 2004: 31–32. For an overview of (dis)advantages of the local justice systems in East Timor see Mearns 2002: 40.
15 15 Brown refers to a UN document entitled Protection of the Heritage of Indigenous People written by the Greek jurist Eric-Irene Daes.
16 For East Timor see McWilliam 2007b: 88, for the Moluccas, Bartels 2003.
17 It is important to accept, as argued by Barakat (2007), that local priorities and visions do not necessarily correspond to those set by external actors or that not all internal stakeholders share them.
18 Compare also Agency for Cultural Affairs (Japan) 2004: 8, UNESCO 2006a: 222.
19 For East Timor see, for instance, Hohe and Nixon 2003: 55, Pigou 2004: 30–31.
20 Officially, ‘representativeness’ is defined in the sense of being ‘representative for the creativity of humanity, for the cultural heritage of States, as well as for the cultural heritage of communities who are the bearers of the traditions in question’ (UNESCO n.d.), in the sense that the ‘element proposed for listing complies with the minimum requisites provided in the definition of the Convention’ (UNESCO 2005: Qualifying Criteria).
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