-Caveat Lector-
>From Steve Weissman, ed., with members of the Pacific Studies Center and the North
American
Congress on Latin America, The Trojan Horse: A Radical Look at Foreign Aid (Palo
Alto CA:
Ramparts Press, 1975 revised edition), pp. 93-116.
Ford Country: Building an Elite for Indonesia
by David Ransom
____________
Author's note: Much of the material appearing in this article was gathered in
numerous personal
interviews conducted between May 1968 and June 1970. The interviews were with
a broad range of past
and present members of the State Department and the Ford Foundation, faculty
members at Harvard,
Berkeley, Cornell, Syracuse, and the University of Kentucky, and Indonesians
both supporting and
opposing the Suharto government. Where possible, their names appear in the
text. Other information in
the article is derived from a wide reading of the available literature on the
history and politics of
Indonesia. Consequently, only those items are footnoted which directly quote
or paraphrase a printed
source.
____________
In the early sixties, Indonesia was a dirty word in the world of capitalist
development.
Expropriations, confiscations and rampant nationalism led economists and
businessmen alike to fear that the fabled riches in the Indies -- oil, rubber
and tin --
were all but lost to the fiery Sukarno and the twenty million followers of
the
Peking-oriented Indonesian Communist Party (PKI).
Then, in October 1965, Indonesia's generals stepped in, turned their
counterattack
against an unsuccessful colonels' coup into an anti-communist pogrom, and
opened
the country's vast natural resources to exploitation by American
corporations. By
1967, Richard Nixon was describing Indonesia as "the greatest prize in the
Southeast Asian area."1 If Vietnam has been the major postwar defeat for an
expanding American empire, this turnabout in nearby Indonesia is its greatest
single
victory.
Needless to say, the Indonesian generals deserve a large share of credit for
the
American success. But standing at their side and overseeing the great
give-away was
an extraordinary team of Indonesian economists, all of them educated in the
United
States as part of a twenty year strategy by the world's most powerful private
aid
agency, the billion-dollar Ford Foundation.
But the strategy for Indonesia began long before the Ford Foundation turned
its
attention to the international scene.
Following Japan's defeat in World War II, revolutionary movements swept Asia,
from
India to Korea, from China to the Philippines. Many posed a threat to
America's
well-planned Pax Pacifica. But Indonesian nationalists, despite tough
resistance to
the postwar invasion by Holland in its attempt to resume rule over the
Indies, never
carried their fight into a full-blown people's war. Instead, leaders close to
the West
won their independence in Washington offices and New York living rooms. By
1949
the Americans had persuaded the Dutch to take action before the Indonesian
revolution went too far, and then to learn to live with nationalism and like
it.
American diplomats helped draft an agreement that gave Indonesians their
political
independence, preserved the Dutch economic presence, and swung wide the Open
Door to the new cultural and economic influence of the United States.
Among those who handled the diplomatic maneuvers in the U.S. were two young
Indonesian aristocrats -- Soedjatmoko (many Indonesians have only one name)
and
Sumitro Djojohadikusumo, an economist with a Ph.D. from Holland. Both were
members of the upper-class, nominally socialist PSI, one of the smaller and
more
Western-oriented of Indonesia's myriad political parties.
Distressed by the specter of Sukarno and the strong left wing of the
Indonesian
independence forces, the American Establishment found the bland nationalism
offered by Soedjatmoko and Sumitro a most comfortable alternative. The
Marshall
Plan strategy for Europe depended on "the availability of the resources of
Asia,"
Soedjatmoko told a New York audience, and he offered them an Indonesia open
to
"fruitful cooperation with the West."2 At the Ford Foundation-funded School
of
Advanced International Studies in Washington in early 1949, Sumitro explained
that
his kind of socialism included "free access" to Indonesian resources and
"sufficient
incentives" for foreign corporate investment.3
When independence came later that year, Sumitro returned to Djakarta to
become
minister of trade and industry (and later minister of finance and dean of the
faculty
of economics at the University of Djakarta). He defended an economic
"stability" that
favored Dutch investments and, carefully eschewing radicalism, went so far as
to
make an advisor of Hjalmar Schacht, economic architect of the Third Reich.
Sumitro found his support in the PSI and their numerically stronger
"modernist" ally,
the Masjumi Party, a vehicle of Indonesia's commercial and landowning santri
Moslems. But he was clearly swimming against the tide. The Communist PKI,
Sukarno's Nationalist PNI, the Army, the orthodox Moslem NU -- everybody, in
fact,
but the PSI and Masjumi -- were riding the wave of postwar nationalism. In
the 1955
national elections -- Indonesia's first and last -- the PSI polled a
minuscule fifth
place. It did worse in the local balloting of 1957, in which the Communist
PKI
emerged the strongest party.
Nevertheless, when Sukarno began nationalizing Dutch holdings in 1957,
Sumitro
joined Masjumi leaders and dissident Army commanders in the Outer Islands
Rebellion, supported briefly by the CIA. It was spectacularly unsuccessful.
>From this
failure in Sumatra and the Celebes, Sumitro fled to exile and a career as
government
and business consultant in Singapore. The PSI and the Masjumi were banned.
America's Indonesian allies had colluded with an imperialist power to
overthrow a
popularly elected nationalist government, headed by a man regarded as the
George
Washington of his country -- and they had lost. So ruinously were they
discredited
that nothing short of a miracle could ever restore them to power.
That miracle took a decade to perform, and it came outside the maneuvers of
diplomacy, the play of party politics, even the invasion of American troops.
Those
methods, in Indonesia and elsewhere, had failed. The miracle came instead
through
the hallowed halls of academe, guided by the noble hand of philanthropy.
Education had long been an arm of statecraft, and it was Dean Rusk who
spelled out
its function in the Pacific in 1952, just months before resigning as
Assistant
Secretary of State for Far Eastern Affairs to head up the Rockefeller
Foundation.
"Communist aggression" in Asia required not only that Americans be trained to
combat it there, but "we must open our training facilities for increasing
numbers of
our friends from across the Pacific."4
The Ford Foundation, under the presidency of Paul Hoffman (and working
closely with
the Rockefeller Foundation), moved quickly to apply Rusk's words to
Indonesia. As
head of the Marshall Plan in Europe, Hoffman had helped to arrange Indonesian
independence by cutting off aid funds to Dutch counterinsurgency and by
threatening a total cutoff in aid to the Dutch. As the United States
supplanted the
Dutch, Hoffman and Ford would work through the best American universities --
MIT,
Cornell, Berkeley, and finally Harvard -- to remold the old Indonesian
hierarchs into
modern administrators, trained to work under the new indirect rule of the
Americans.
In Ford's own jargon, they would create a "modernizing elite."
"You can't have a modernizing country without a modernizing elite," explains
the
deputy vice-president of Ford's international division, Frank Sutton. "That's
one of
the reasons we've given a lot of attention to university education." Sutton
adds that
there's no better place to find such an elite than among "those who stand
somewhere in social structures where prestige, leadership, and vested
interests
matter, as they always do."
Ford launched its effort to make Indonesia a "modernizing country" in 1954
with field
projects from MIT and Cornell. The scholars produced by these two projects --
one
in economics, the other in political development -- have effectively
dominated the
field of Indonesian studies in the United States ever since. Compared to what
they
eventually produced in Indonesia, however, this was a fairly modest
achievement.
Working through the Center for International Studies (the CIA-sponsored
brainchild
of Max Millikan and Walt W. Rostow), Ford sent out a team from MIT to
discover "the
causes of economic stagnation in Indonesia." An interesting example of the
effort
was Guy Pauker's study of "political obstacles" to economic development,
obstacles
such as armed insurgency.
In the course of his field work, Pauker got to know the high-ranking officers
of the
Indonesian Army rather well. He found them "much more impressive" than the
politicians. "I was the first who got interested in the role of the military
in economic
development," Pauker says. He also got to know most of the key civilians:
"With the
exception of a very small group," they were "almost totally oblivious" of
what Pauker
called modern development. Not surprisingly, the "very small group" was
composed
of PSI aristocrat-intellectuals, particularly Sumitro and his students.
Sumitro, in fact, had participated in the MIT team's briefings before they
left
Cambridge. Some of his students were also known by the MIT team, having
attended
a CIA-funded summer seminar run at Harvard each year by Henry Kissinger. One
of
the students was Mohammed Sadli, son of a well-to-do santri trader, with whom
Pauker became good friends. In Djakarta, Pauker struck up friendships with
the PSI
clan and formed a political study group among whose members were the head of
Indonesia's National Planning Bureau, Ali Budiardjo, and his wife Miriam,
Soedjatmoko's sister.
Rumanian by birth, Pauker had helped found a group called "Friends of the
United
States" in Bucharest just after the Second World War. He then came to
Harvard,
where he got his degree. While many Indonesians have charged the professor
with
having CIA connections, Pauker denies that he was intimate with the CIA until
1958,
after he joined the RAND Corporation. Since then, it is no secret that he
briefs and is
briefed by the CIA, the Pentagon, and the State Department. Highly placed
Washington sources say he is "directly involved in decision-making."
In 1954 -- after the MIT team was in the field -- Ford grubstaked a Modern
Indonesia
Project at Cornell. With an initial $224,000 and periodic replenishments,
program
chairman George Kahin built the social science wing of the Indonesian studies
establishment in the United States. Even Indonesian universities must use
Cornell's
elite-oriented studies to teach post-Independence politics and history.
Among the several Indonesians brought to Cornell on Ford and Rockefeller
grants,
perhaps the most influential is sociologist-politician Selosoemardjan.
Right-hand man
to the Sultan of Jogjakarta, Selosoemardjan is one of the strong-men of the
present
Indonesian regime.
Kahin's political science group worked closely with Sumitro's Faculty of
Economics in
Djakarta. "Most of the people at the university came from essentially
bourgeois or
bureaucratic families," recalls Kahin. "They knew precious little of their
society." In a
"victory" which speaks poignantly of the illusions of well-meaning liberals,
Kahin
succeeded in prodding them to "get their feet dirty" for three months in a
village.
Many would spend four years in the United States.
Together with Widjojo Nitisastro, Sumitro's leading protégé, Kahin set up an
institute to publish the village studies. It has never amounted to much,
except that
its American advisors helped Ford maintain its contact in the most difficult
of the
Sukarno days.
Kahin still thinks Cornell's affair with Ford in Indonesia "was a fairly
happy marriage"
-- less for the funding than for the political cover it afforded. "AID funds
are relatively
easy to get," he explains. "But certainly in Indonesia, anybody working on
political
problems with [U.S.] government money during this period would have found
their
problem much more difficult."
One of the leading academic Vietnam doves, Kahin has irritated the State
Department on occasion, and many of his students are far more radical than
he. Yet
for most Indonesians, Kahin's work was really not much different from
Pauker's. One
man went on to teach-ins, the other to RAND and the CIA. But the consequences
of
their nation-building efforts in Indonesia were much the same.
MIT and Cornell made contacts, collected data, built up expertise. It was
left to
Berkeley to actually train most of the key Indonesians who would seize
government
power and put their pro-American lessons into practice. Dean Sumitro's
Faculty of
Economics provided a perfect academic boot camp for these economic shock
troops.
To oversee the project, Ford President Paul Hoffman tapped Michael Harris, a
one-time CIO organizer who had headed Marshall Plan programs under Hoffman in
France, Sweden, and Germany. Harris had been on a Marshall Plan survey in
Indonesia in 1951, knew Sumitro, and before going out was extensively briefed
by
Sumitro's New York promoter, Robert Delson, a Park Avenue attorney who had
been
Indonesia's legal counsel in the United States since 1949. Harris reached
Djakarta in
1955 and set out to build Dean Sumitro a broad new Ford-funded graduate
program
in economics.
This time the professional touch and academic respectability were to be
provided by
Berkeley. The Berkeley team's first task was to replace the Dutch professors,
whose
colonial influence and capitalist economics Sukarno was trying to phase out.
The
Berkeley team would also relieve Sumitro's Indonesian junior faculty so that
Ford
could send them back to Berkeley for advanced credentials. Sadli was already
there,
sharing a duplex with Pauker, who had come to head the new Center for South
and
Southeast Asian Studies. Sumitro's protégé Widjojo led the first crew out to
Berkeley.
While the Indonesian junior faculty studied American economics in Berkeley
classrooms, the Berkeley professors turned the Faculty in Djakarta into an
American-style school of economics, statistics, and business administration.
Sukarno objected. At an annual lecture to the Faculty, team member Bruce
Glassburner recalls, Sukarno complained that "all those men can say to me is
'Schumpeter and Keynes.' When I was young I read Marx." Sukarno might grumble
and complain, but if he wanted any education at all he would have to take
what he
got. "When Sukarno threatened to put an end to Western economics," says John
Howard, long-time director of Ford's International Training and Research
Program,
"Ford threatened to cut off all programs, and that changed Sukarno's
direction."
The Berkeley staff also joined in the effort to keep Sukarno's socialism and
Indonesian national policy at bay. "We got a lot of pressure through
1958-1959 for
'retooling' the curriculum," Glassburner recalls. "We did some dummying-up,
you
know -- we put 'socialism' into as many course titles as we could -- but
really tried to
preserve the academic integrity of the place."
The project, which cost Ford $2.5 million, had a clear, and some times
stated,
purpose. "Ford felt it was training the guys who would be leading the country
when
Sukarno got out," explains John Howard.
There was little chance, of course, that Sumitro's minuscule PSI would
outdistance
Sukarno at the polls. But "Sumitro felt the PSI group could have influence
far out of
proportion to their voting strength by putting men in key positions in
government,"
recalls the first project chairman, a feisty Irish business professor named
Len Doyle.
When Sumitro went into exile, his Faculty carried on. His students visited
him
surreptitiously on their way to and from the United States. Powerful
Americans like
Harry Goldberg, a lieutenant of labor boss Jay Lovestone (head of the CIO's
international program), kept in close contact and saw that Sumitro's messages
got
through to his Indonesian friends. No dean was appointed to replace him; he
was the
"chairman in absentia."
All of the unacademic intrigue caused hardly a ripple of disquiet among the
scrupulous professors. A notable exception was Doyle. "I feel that much of
the
trouble that I had probably stemmed from the fact that I was not as convinced
of
Sumitro's position as the Ford Foundation representative was, and, in
retrospect,
probably the CIA," recalls Doyle.
Harris tried to get Doyle to hire "two or three Americans who were close to
Sumitro."
One was an old friend of Sumitro's from the MIT team, William Hollinger.
Doyle
refused. "It was clear that Sumitro was going to continue to run the Faculty
from
Singapore," he says. But it was a game he wouldn't play. "I felt that the
University
should not be involved in what essentially was becoming a rebellion against
the
government," Doyle explains, "whatever sympathy you might have with the rebel
cause and the rebel objectives."
Back home, Doyle's lonely defense of academic integrity against the political
pressures exerted through Ford was not appreciated. Though he had been sent
there for two years, Berkeley recalled him after one. "He tried to run
things,"
University officials say politely. "We had no choice but to ship him home."
In fact,
Harris had him bounced. "In my judgment," Harris recalls, "there was a real
problem
between Doyle and the Faculty."
One of the younger men who stayed on after Doyle was Ralph Anspach, a
Berkeley
team member now teaching college in San Francisco. Anspach got so fed up with
what he saw in Djakarta that he will no longer work in applied economics. "I
had the
feeling that in the last analysis I was supposed to be a part of this
American policy of
empire," he says, "bringing in American science, and attitudes, and culture
... winning
over countries -- doing this with an awful lot of cocktails and high pay. I
just got out
of the whole thing."
Doyle and Anspach were the exceptions. Most of the academic professionals
found
the project -- as Ford meant it to be -- the beginning of a career."This was
a
tremendous break for me," explains Bruce Glassburner, project chairman from
1958
to 1961. "Those three years over there gave me an opportunity to become a
certain
kind of economist. I had a category -- I became a development economist --
and I
got to know Indonesia. This made a tremendous difference in my career."
Berkeley phased its people out of Djakarta in 1961-62. The constant battle
between
the Ford representative and the Berkeley chairman as to who would run the
project
had some part in hastening its end. But more important, the professors were
no
longer necessary, and were probably an increasing political liability.
Sumitro's first
string had returned with their degrees and resumed control of the school.
The Berkeley team had done its job. "Kept the thing alive," Glassburner
recalls
proudly. "We plugged a hole ... and with the Ford Foundation's money we
trained
them forty or so economists." What did the University get out of it? "Well,
some
overhead money, you know." And the satisfaction of a job well done.
In 1959 Pauker set out the lessons of the PSI's electoral isolation and
Sumitro's
abortive Outer Islands Rebellion in a widely read paper entitled "Southeast
Asia as a
Trouble Area in the Next Decade." Parties like the PSI were "unfit for
vigorous
competition" with communism, he wrote. "Communism is bound to win in
Southeast
Asia ... unless effective countervailing power is found." The "best equipped"
countervailing forces, he wrote, were "members of the national officer corps
as
individuals and the national armies as organizational structures.5
From his exile in Singapore, Sumitro concurred, arguing that his PSI and the
Masjumi
party, which the Army had attacked, were really the Army's "natural allies."
Without
them, the Army would find itself politically isolated, he said. But to
consummate their
alliance "the Sukarno regime must be toppled first." Until then, Sumitro
warned, the
generals should keep "a close and continuous watch" on the growing and
powerful
Communist peasant organizations. Meanwhile, Sumitro's Ford-scholar protégés
in
Djakarta began the necessary steps toward a rapprochement.
Fortunately for Ford and its academic image there was yet another school at
hand:
SESKOAD, the Army Staff and Command School. Situated seventy miles southeast
of Djakarta in cosmopolitan Bandung, SESKOAD was the Army's nerve center.
There, generals decided organizational and political matters; there, senior
officers on
regular rotation were "upgraded" with manuals and methods picked up during
training in Fort Leavenworth, Kansas.
When the Berkeley team phased itself out in 1962, Sadli, Widjojo and others
from
the Faculty began regular trips to Bandung to teach at SESKOAD. They taught
"economic aspects of defense," says Ford's Frank Miller, who replaced Harris
in
Djakarta. Pauker tells a different story. Since the mid-'50s, he had come to
know the
Army General staff rather well, he explains, first on the MIT team, then on
trips for
RAND. One good friend was Colonel Suwarto (not to be confused with General
Suharto), the deputy commander of SESKOAD and a 1959 Fort Leavenworth
graduate. In 1962, Pauker brought Suwarto to RAND.
Besides learning "all sorts of things about international affairs" while at
RAND, Pauker
says, Suwarto also saw how RAND "organizes the academic resources of the
country
as consultants." According to Pauker, Suwarto had "a new idea" when he
returned to
Bandung. "The four or five top economists became 'cleared' social scientists
lecturing
and studying the future political problems of Indonesia in SESKOAD."
In effect, this group became the Army's high-level civilian advisors. They
were joined
at SESKOAD by other PSI and Masjumi alumni of the university programs --
Miriam
Budiardjo from Pauker's MIT study group, and Selosoemardjan from Kahin's
program at Cornell, as well as senior faculty from the nearby Bundung
Institute of
Technology, where the University of Kentucky had been "institution-building"
for AID
since 1957.
The economists were quickly caught up in the anti-communist conspiracy
directed at
toppling the Sukarno regime and encouraged by Sumitro from his Singapore
exile.
Lieutenant General Achmad Yani, Army commander-in-chief, had drawn around him
a
"brain trust" of generals. It was an "open secret," says Pauker, that Yani
and his
brain trust were discussing "contingency plans" which were to "prevent chaos
should
Sukarno die suddenly." The contribution of Suwarto's mini-RAND, according to
Colonel Willis G. Ethel, U.S. defense attaché in Djakarta and a close
confidant of
Commander-in-Chief Yani and others of the Army high command, was that the
professors "would run a course in this contingency planning."
Of course, the Army planners were worried about "preventing chaos." They were
worried about the PKI. "They weren't about to let the Communists take over
the
country," Ethel says. They also knew that there was immense popular support
for
Sukarno and the PKI and that a great deal of blood would flow when the
showdown
came.
Other institutions joined the Ford economists in preparing the military.
High-ranking
Indonesian officers had begun U.S. training programs in the mid-'50s. By 1965
some
four thousand officers had learned big-scale army command at Fort Leavenworth
and
counterinsurgency at Fort Bragg. Beginning in 1962, hundreds of visiting
officers at
Harvard and Syracuse gained the skills for maintaining a huge economic, as
well as
military, establishment, with training in everything from business
administration and
personnel management to air photography and shipping.6 AID's "Public Safety
Program" in the Philippines and Malaya trained and equipped the Mobile
Brigades of
the Indonesian military's fourth arm, the police.
While the Army developed expertise and perspective -- courtesy of the
generous
American aid program -- it also increased its political and economic
influence. Under
the martial law declared by Sukarno at the time of the Outer Islands
Rebellion, the
Army had become the predominant power in Indonesia. Regional commanders took
over provincial governments -- depriving the Communist PKI of its plurality
victories
in the 1957 local elections. Fearful of a PKI sweep in the planned 1959
national
elections, the generals prevailed on Sukarno to cancel elections for six
years. Then
they moved quickly into the upper reaches of Sukarno's new "guided
democracy,"
increasing the number of ministries under their control right up to the time
of the
coup. Puzzled by the Army's reluctance to take complete power, journalists
called it a
"creeping coup d'état."7
The Army also moved into the economy, first taking "supervisory control,"
then key
directorships of the Dutch properties that the PKI unionists had seized "for
the
people" during the confrontation over West Irian in late 1957. As a result,
the
generals controlled plantations, small industry, state-owned oil and tin, and
the
state-run export-import companies, which by 1965 monopolized government
purchasing and had branched out into sugar milling, shipping, and
distribution.
Those high-ranking officers not born into the Indonesian aristocracy quickly
married
in, and in the countryside they cemented alliances -- often through family
ties -- with
the santri Moslem landowners who were the backbone of the Masjumi Party. "The
Army and the civil police," wrote Robert Shaplen of the New York Times,
"virtually
controlled the whole state apparatus." American University's Willard Hanna
called it "a
new form of government -- military-private enterprise."8 Consequently,
"economic
aspects of defense" became a wide-ranging subject at SESKOAD. But Ford's
Indonesian economists made it broader yet by undertaking to prepare economic
policy for the post-Sukarno period there, too.
During this period, the Communists were betwixt and between. Deprived of
their
victory at the polls and unwilling to break with Sukarno, they tried to make
the best
of his "guided democracy," participating with the Army in coalition cabinets.
Pauker
has described the PKI strategy as "attempting to keep the parliamentary road
open,"
while seeking to come to power by "acclamation." That meant building up PKI
prestige as "the only solid, purposeful, disciplined, well-organized, capable
political
force in the country," to which Indonesians would turn "when all other
possible
solutions have failed."9
At least in numbers, the PKI policy was a success. The major labor federation
was
Communist, as was the largest farmers' organization and the leading women's
and
youth groups. By 1963, three million Indonesians, most of them in heavily
populated
Java, were members of the PKI, and an estimated seventeen million were
members of
its associated organizations -- making it the world's largest Communist Party
outside
Russia and China. At Independence the party had numbered only eight thousand.
In December 1963, PKI Chairman D.N. Aidit gave official sanction to
"unilateral action"
which had been undertaken by the peasants to put into effect a land-reform
and
crop-sharing law already on the books. Though landlords' holdings were not
large,
less than half the Indonesian farmers owned the land they worked, and of
these
most had less than an acre. As the peasants' "unilateral action" gathered
momentum, Sukarno, seeing his coalition endangered, tried to check its force
by
establishing "land-reform courts" which included peasant representatives. But
in the
countryside, police continued to clash with peasants and made mass arrests.
In
some areas, santri youth groups began murderous attacks on peasants. Since
the
Army held state power in most areas, the peasants' "unilateral action" was
directed
against its authority. Pauker calls it "class struggle in the countryside"
and suggests
that the PKI had put itself "on a collision course with the Army."10 But
unlike Mao's
Communists in pre-revolutionary China, the PKI had no Red Army. Having chosen
the parliamentary road, the PKI was stuck with it. In early 1965, PKI leaders
demanded that the Sukarno government (in which they were cabinet ministers)
create a people's militia -- five million armed workers, ten million armed
peasants. But
Sukarno's power was hollow. The Army had become a state within a state. It
was
they -- and not Sukarno or the PKI -- who held the guns.11
The proof came in September 1965. On the night of the 30th, troops under the
command of dissident lower-level Army officers, in alliance with officers of
the small
Indonesian Air Force, assassinated General Yani and five members of his
SESKOAD
"brain trust." Led by Lieutenant Colonel Untung, the rebels seized the
Djakarta radio
station and next morning broadcast a statement that their September 30th
Movement was directed against the "Council of Generals," which they announced
was
CIA-sponsored and had itself planned a coup d'état for Armed Forces Day, four
days
later.
Untung's preventive coup quickly collapsed. Sukarno, hoping to restore the
pre-coup
balance of forces, gave it no support. The PKI prepared no street
demonstrations,
no strikes, no coordinated uprisings in the countryside. The dissidents
themselves
missed assassinating General Nasution and apparently left General Suharto off
their
list. Suharto rallied the elite paracommandos and units of West Java's
Siliwangi
division against Untung's colonels. Untung's troops, unsure of themselves,
their
mission, and their loyalties, made no stand. It was all over in a day.
The Army high command quickly blamed the Communists for the coup, a line the
Western press has followed ever since. Yet the utter lack of activity in the
streets
and the countryside makes PKI involvement unlikely, and many Indonesia
specialists
believe, with Dutch scholar W.F. Wertheim, that "the Untung coup was what its
leader ... claimed it to be -- an internal army affair reflecting serious
tensions
between officers of the Central Java Diponegoro Division, and the Supreme
Command of the Army in Djakarta...."12
Leftists, on the other hand, later assumed that the CIA had had a heavy hand
in the
affair. Embassy officials had long wined and dined the student apparatchiks
who rose
to lead the demonstrations that brought Sukarno down. The CIA was close with
the
Army, especially with Intelligence Chief Achmed Sukendro, who retained his
agents
after 1958 with U.S. help and then studied at the University of Pittsburgh in
the early
sixties. But Sukendro and most other members of the Indonesian high command
were equally close to the embassy's military attachés, who seem to have made
Washington's chief contacts with the Army both before and after the attempted
coup. All in all, considering the make-up and history of the generals and
their
"modernist" allies and advisors, it is clear that at this point neither the
CIA nor the
Pentagon needed to play any more than a subordinate role.
The Indonesian professors may have helped lay out the Army's "contingency"
plans,
but no one was going to ask them to take to the streets and make the
"revolution."
That they could leave to their students. Lacking a mass organization, the
Army
depended on the students to give authenticity and "popular" leadership in the
events
that followed. It was the students who demanded -- and finally got --
Sukarno's
head; and it was the students -- as propagandists -- who carried the cry of
jihad
(religious war) to the villages.
In late October, Brigadier General Sjarif Thajeb -- the Harvard-trained
minister of
higher education (and now ambassador to the United States) -- brought student
leaders together in his living room to create the Indonesian Student Action
Command (KAMI).13 Many of the KAMI leaders were the older student
apparatchiks
who had been courted by the U.S. embassy. Some had traveled to the United
States
as American Field Service exchange students, or on year-long jaunts in a
"Foreign
Student Leadership Project" sponsored by the U.S National Student Association
in
its CIA-fed salad years.
Only months before the coup, U.S. Ambassador Marshall Green had arrived in
Djakarta, bringing with him the reputation of having masterminded the student
overthrow of Syngman Rhee in Korea and sparking rumors that his purpose in
Djakarta was to do the same there. Old manuals on student organizing in both
Korean and English were supplied by the embassy to KAMI's top leadership soon
after the coup.
But KAMI's most militant leadership came from Bandung, where the University
of
Kentucky had mounted a ten-year "institution-building" program at the Bandung
Institute of Technology, sending nearly five hundred of their students to the
United
States for training. Students in all of Indonesia's elite universities had
been given
paramilitary training by the Army in a program for a time advised by an ROTC
colonel
on leave from Berkeley. Their training was "in anticipation of a Communist
attempt to
seize the government," writes Harsja Bachtiar, an Indonesian sociologist and
an
alumnus of Cornell and Harvard.14
In Bandung, headquarters of the aristocratic Siliwangi division, student
paramilitary
training was beefed up in the months preceding the coup, and santri student
leaders
were boasting to their American friends that they were developing
organizational
contacts with extremist Moslem youth groups in the villages. It was these
groups
that spearheaded the massacres of PKI followers and peasants.
At the funeral of General Nasution's daughter, mistakenly slain in the Untung
coup,
Navy chief Eddy Martadinata told santri student leaders to "sweep." The
message
was "that they could go out and clean up the Communists without any hindrance
from the military, wrote Christian Science Monitor Asian correspondent John
Hughes. With relish they called out their followers, stuck their knives and
pistols in
their waistbands, swung their clubs over their shoulders, and embarked on the
assignment for which they had long been hoping."15 Their first move was to
burn PKI
headquarters. Then, thousands of PKI and Sukarno supporters were arrested and
imprisoned in Djakarta; cabinet members and parliamentarians were permanently
"suspended"; and a purge of the ministries was begun.
The following month, on October 17, 1965, Colonel Sarwo Edhy took his elite
paratroops (the "Red Berets") into the PKI's Central Java stronghold in the
Bojolali-Klaten-Solo triangle. His assignment, according to Hughes, was "the
extermination, by whatever means might be necessary, of the core of the
Communist Party there." He found he had too few troops. "We decided to
encourage
the anti-communist civilians to help with the job," the Colonel told Hughes.
"In Solo
we gathered together the youth, the nationalist groups, the religious Moslem
organizations. We gave them two or three days' training, then sent them out
to kill
Communists."16
The Bandung engineering students, who had learned from the Kentucky AID team
how to build and operate radio transmitters, were tapped by Colonel Edhy's
elite
corps to set up a multitude of small broadcasting units throughout strongly
PKI East
and Central Java, some of which exhorted local fanatics to rise up against
the
Communists in jihad. The U.S. embassy provided necessary spare parts for
these
radios.
Time magazine describes what followed:
Communists, Red sympathizers and their families are being massacred by
the thousands.
Backlands army units are reported to have executed thousands of
Communists after
interrogation in remote jails.... Armed with wide-blade knives called
parangs, Moslem
bands crept at night into the homes of Communists, killing entire
families and burying the
bodies in shallow graves.... The murder campaign became so brazen in
parts of rural East
Java that Moslem bands placed the heads of victims on poles and paraded
them through
villages. The killings have been on such a scale that the disposal of
the corpses has
created a serious sanitation problem in East Java and Northern Sumatra,
where the humid
air bears the reek of decaying flesh. Travelers from these areas tell of
small rivers and
streams that have been literally clogged with bodies; river
transportation has at places
been seriously impeded.17
Graduate students from Bandung and Djakarta, dragooned by the Army,
researched
the number dead. Their report, never made public, but leaked to correspondent
Frank Palmos, estimated one million victims. In the PKI "triangle stronghold"
of
Bojolali, Klaten, and Solo, Palmos said they reported, "nearly one-third of
the
population is dead or missing."18 Most observers think their estimate high,
putting
the death toll at three to five hundred thousand.
The KAMI students also played a part -- bringing life in Djakarta to a
standstill with
anti-communist, anti-Sukarno demonstrations whenever necessary. By January,
Colonel Edhy was back in Djakarta addressing KAMI rallies, his elite corps
providing
KAMI with trucks, loudspeakers, and protection. KAMI demonstrators could tie
up
the city at will.
"The ideas that Communism was public enemy number one, that Communist China
was no longer a close friend but a menace to the security of the state, and
that
there was corruption and inefficiency in the upper levels of the national
government
were introduced on the streets of Djakarta," writes Bachtiar.19
The old PSI and Masjumi leaders nurtured by Ford and its professors were home
at
last. They gave the students advice and money, while the PSI-oriented
professors
maintained "close advisory relationships" with the students, later forming
their own
Indonesian Scholars Action Command (KASI). One of the economists, Emil Salim,
who had recently returned with a Ph.D. from Berkeley, was counted among the
KAMI
leadership. Salim's father had purged the Communist wing of the major prewar
nationalist organization, and then served in the pre-Independence Masjumi
cabinets.
In January the economists made headlines in Djakarta with a week-long
economic
and financial seminar at the Faculty. It was "principally ... a demonstration
of
solidarity among the members of KAMI, the anti-Communist intellectuals, and
the
leadership of the Army," Bachtiar says. The seminar heard papers from General
Nasution, Adam Malik, and others who "presented themselves as a counter-elite
challenging the competence and legitimacy of the elite led by President
Sukarno."20
It was Djakarta's post-coup introduction to Ford's economic policies.
In March Suharto stripped Sukarno of formal power and had himself named
acting
president, tapping old political warhorse Adam Malik and the Sultan of
Jogjakarta to
join him in a ruling triumvirate. The generals whom the economists had known
best
at SESKOAD -- Yani and his brain trust -- had all been killed. But with the
help of
Kahin's protégé, Selosoemardjan, they first caught the Sultan's and then
Suharto's
ear, persuading them that the Americans would demand a strong attack on
inflation
and a swift return to a "market economy." On April 12, the Sultan issued a
major
policy statement outlining the economic program of the new regime -- in
effect
announcing Indonesia's return to the imperialist fold. It was written by
Widjojo and
Sadli.
In working out the subsequent details of the Sultan's program, the economists
got
aid from the expected source -- the United States. When Widjojo got stuck in
drawing up a stabilization plan, AID brought in Harvard economist Dave Cole,
fresh
from writing South Korea's banking regulations, to provide him with a draft.
Sadli,
too, required some post-doctoral tutoring. According to an American official,
Sadli
"really didn't know how to write an investment law. He had to have a lot of
help from
the embassy." It was a team effort. "We were all working together at the time
-- the
'economists,' the American economists, AID," recalls Calvin Cowles, the first
AID man
on the scene.
By early September the economists had their plans drafted and the generals
convinced of their usefulness. After a series of crash seminars at SESKOAD,
Suharto
named the Faculty's five top men his Team of Experts for Economic and
Financial
Affairs, an idea for which Ford man Frank Miller claims credit.
In August the Stanford Research Institute -- a spinoff of the
university-military-industrial complex -- brought 170 "senior executives" to
Djakarta
for a three-day parley and look-see. "The Indonesians have cut out the cancer
that
was destroying their economy," an SRI executive later reported approvingly.
Then,
urging that big business invest heavily in Suharto's future, he warned that
"military
solutions are infinitely more costly."21
In November, Malik, Sadli, Salim, Selosoemardjan, and the Sultan met in
Geneva with
a select list of American and European businessmen flown in by Time-Life.
Surrounded by his economic advisors, the Sultan ticked off the selling points
of the
New Indonesia -- "political stability ... abundance of cheap labor ... vast
potential
market ... treasurehouse of resources." The universities, he added, have
produced a
"large number of trained individuals who will be happy to serve in new
economic
enterprises."
David Rockefeller, chairman of the Chase Manhattan Bank, thanked Time-Life
for the
chance to get acquainted with "Indonesia's top economic team." He was
impressed,
he said, by their "high quality of education."
"To some extent, we are witnessing the return of the pragmatic outlook which
was
characteristic of the PSI-Masjumi coalition of the early fifties when Sumitro
...
dominated the scene,"22 observed a well-placed insider in 1966. Sumitro
slipped
quietly into Djakarta, opened a business consultancy, and prepared himself
for high
office. In June 1968 Suharto organized an impromptu reunion for the class of
Ford --
a "development cabinet." As minister of trade and commerce he appointed Dean
Sumitro (Ph.D., Rotterdam); as chairman of the National Planning Board he
appointed Widjojo (Ph.D., Berkeley, 1961); as vice-chairman, Emil Salim
(Ph.D.,
Berkeley, 1964); as secretary general of Marketing and Trade Research,
Subroto
(Harvard, 1964); as minister of finance, Ali Wardhana (Ph.D., Berkeley,
1962); as
chairman of the Technical Team of Foreign Investment, Mohamed Sadli (M.S.,
MIT,
1956); as secretary general of Industry, Barli Halim (M.B.A., Berkeley,
1959).
Soedjatmoko, who had been functioning as Malik's advisor, became ambassador
in
Washington.
"We consider that we were training ourselves for this," Sadli told a reporter
from
Fortune -- "a historic opportunity to fix the course of events."23
Since 1954, Harvard's Development Advisory Service (DAS), the Ford-funded
elite
corps of international modernizers, has brought Ford influence to the
national
planning agencies of Pakistan, Greece, Argentina, Liberia, Colombia,
Malaysia, and
Ghana. In 1963, when the Indonesian economists were apprehensive that Sukarno
might try to remove them from their Faculty, Ford asked Harvard to step into
the
breach. Ford funds would breathe new life into an old research institute, in
which
Harvard's presence would provide a protective academic aura for Sumitro's
scholars.
The DAS was skeptical at first, says director Gus Papanek. But the prospect
of
future rewards was great. Harvard would get acquainted with the economists,
and in
the event of Sukarno's fall, the DAS would have established "an excellent
base" from
which to plan Indonesia's future.
"We could not have drawn up a more ideal scenario than what happened,"
Papanek
says. "All of those people simply moved into the government and took over the
management of economic affairs, and then they asked us to continue working
with
them."
Officially the Harvard DAS-Indonesia project resumed on July 1, 1968, but
Papanek
had people in the field well before that joining with AID's Cal Cowles in
bringing back
the old Indonesia hands of the fifties and sixties. After helping draft the
stabilization
program for AID, Dave Cole returned to work with Widjojo on the Ford/Harvard
payroll. Leon Mears, an agricultural economist who had learned Indonesian
rice-marketing in the Berkeley project, came for AID and stayed on for
Harvard.
Sumitro's old friend from MIT, Bill Hollinger, transferred from the
DAS-Liberia project
and now shares Sumitro's office in the Ministry of Trade.
The Harvard people are "advisors," explains DAS Deputy Director Lester Gordon
--
"foreign advisors who don't have to deal with all the paperwork and have time
to
come up with new ideas." They work "as employees of the government would," he
says, "but in such a way that it doesn't get out that the foreigners are
doing it."
Indiscretions had got them bounced from Pakistan. In Indonesia; "we stay in
the
background."
Harvard stayed in the background while developing the five-year plan. In the
winter
of 1967-68, a good harvest and a critical infusion of U.S. Food for Peace
rice had
kept prices down, cooling the political situation for a time. Hollinger, the
DAS's first
full-time man on the scene, arrived in March and helped the economists lay
out the
plan's strategy. As the other DAS technocrats arrived, they went to work on
its
planks. "Did we cause it, did the Ford Foundation cause it, did the
Indonesians cause
it?" asks AID's Cal Cowles rhetorically. "I don't know."
The plan went into force without fanfare in January 1969, its key elements
foreign
investment and agricultural self-sufficiency. It is a late-twentieth-century
American
"development" plan that sounds suspiciously like the mid-nineteenth-century
Dutch
colonial strategy. Then, Indonesian labor -- often corvée -- substituted for
Dutch
capital in building the roads and digging the irrigation ditches necessary to
create a
plantation economy for Dutch capitalists, while a "modern" agricultural
technology
increased the output of Javanese paddies to keep pace with the expanding
population. The plan brought an industrial renaissance to the Netherlands,
but only
an expanding misery to Indonesia.
As in the Dutch strategy, the Ford scholars' five-year plan introduces a
"modern"
agricultural technology -- the so-called "green revolution" of high-yield
hybrid rice --
to keep pace with Indonesian rural population growth and to avoid "explosive"
changes in Indonesian class relationships.
Probably it will do neither -- though AID is currently supporting a project
at
Berkeley's Center for South and Southeast Asian Studies to give it the old
college
try. Negotiated with Harsja Bachtiar, the Harvard-trained sociologist now
heading the
Faculty's Ford-funded research institute, the project is to train Indonesian
sociologists to "modernize" relations between the peasantry and the Army's
state
power.
The agricultural plan is being implemented by the central government's
agricultural
extension service, whose top men were trained by an AID-funded University of
Kentucky program at the Bogor Agricultural Institute. In effect, the
agricultural
agents have been given a monopoly in the sale of seed and the buying of rice,
which
puts them in a natural alliance with the local military commanders -- who
often
control the rice transport business -- and with the local santri landlords,
whose
higher returns are being used to quickly expand their holdings. The peasants
find
themselves on the short end of the stick. If they raise a ruckus they are
"sabotaging
a national program," must be PKI agents, and the soldiers are called in.
The Indonesian ruling class, observes Wertheim, is now "openly waging [its]
own
brand of class struggle."24 It is a struggle the Harvard technocrats must
"modernize." Economically the issue is Indonesia's widespread unemployment;
politically it is Suharto's need to legitimize his power through elections.
"The
government ... will have to do better than just avoiding chaos if Suharto is
going to
be popularly elected," DAS Director Papanek reported in October 1968. "A
really
widespread public works program, financed by increased imports of PL 480
commodities sold at lower prices, could provide quick economic and political
benefits
in the countryside."25
Harvard's Indonesian New Deal is a "rural development" program that will
further
strengthen the hand of the local Army commanders. Supplying funds meant for
labor-intensive public works, the program is supposed to increase local
autonomy by
working through local authorities. The money will merely line military
pockets or
provide bribes by which they will secure their civilian retainees. DAS
Director Papanek
admits that the program is "civilian only in a very broad sense, because many
of the
local administrators are military people." And the military has two very
large, and
rather cheap, labor forces which are already at work in "rural development."
One is the three-hundred-thousand-man Army itself. The other is composed of
the
one hundred twenty thousand political prisoners still being held after the
Army's
1965-66 anti-communist sweeps. Some observers estimate there are twice as
many
prisoners, most of whom the Army admits were not PKI members, though they
fear
they may have become Communists in the concentration camps.
Despite the abundance of Food for Peace rice for other purposes, there is
none for
the prisoners, whom the government's daily food expenditure is slightly more
than a
penny. At least two journalists have reported Sumatran prisoners quartered in
the
middle of the Goodyear rubber plantation where they had worked before the
massacres as members of a PKI union. Now, the correspondents say, they are
let
out daily to work its trees for substandard wages, which are paid to their
guards.26
In Java the Army uses the prisoners in public works. Australian professor
Herbert
Feith was shown around one Javanese town in 1968 where prisoners had built
the
prosecutor's house, the high school, the mosque, and (in process) the
Catholic
church. "It is not really hard to get work out of them if you push them," he
was
told.27
Just as they are afraid and unwilling to free the prisoners, so the generals
are afraid
to demobilize the troops. "You can't add to the unemployment," explained an
Indonesia desk man at the State Department, "especially with people who know
how
to shoot a gun." Consequently the troops are being worked more and more into
the
infrastructure labor force -- to which the Pentagon is providing roadbuilding
equipment and advisors.
But it is the foreign-investment plan that is the payoff of Ford's
twenty-year
strategy in Indonesia and the pot of gold that the Ford modernizers -- both
American and Indonesian -- are paid to protect. The nineteenth-century
Colonial
Dutch strategy built an agricultural export economy. The Americans are
interested
primarily in resources, mainly mineral.
Freeport Sulphur will mine copper on West Irian. International Nickel has got
the
Celebes' nickel. Alcoa is negotiating for most of Indonesia's bauxite.
Weyerhaeuser,
International Paper, Boise Cascade, and Japanese, Korean, and Filipino lumber
companies will cut down the huge tropical forests of Sumatra, West Irian, and
Kalimantan (Borneo). A U.S.-European consortium of mining giants, headed by
U.S.
Steel, will mine West Irian's nickel. Two others, U.S.-British and
U.S.-Australian, will
mine tin. A fourth, U.S.-New Zealander, is contemplating Indonesian coaling.
The
Japanese will take home the archipelago's shrimp and tuna and dive for her
pearls.
Another unmined resource is Indonesia's one hundred twenty million
inhabitants --
half the people in Southeast Asia. "Indonesia today," boasts a California
electronics
manufacturer now operating his assembly lines in Djakarta, "has the world's
largest
untapped pool of capable assembly labor at a modest cost." The cost is ten
cents an
hour.
But the real prize is oil. During one week in 1969, twenty three companies,
nineteen
of them American, bid for the right to explore and bring to market the oil
beneath
the Java Sea and Indonesia's other coastal waters. In one 21,000-square-mile
concession off Java's northeast coast, Natomas and Atlantic-Richfield are
already
bringing in oil. Other companies with contracts signed have watched their
stocks soar
in speculative orgies rivaling those following the Alaskan North Slope
discoveries. As
a result, Ford is sponsoring a new Berkeley project at the University of
California law
school in "developing human resources for the handling of negotiations with
foreign
investors in Indonesia."
Looking back, the thirty-year-old vision for the Pacific seems secure in
Indonesia --
thanks to the flexibility and perseverance of Ford. A ten-nation
"Inter-Governmental
Group for Indonesia," including Japan, manages Indonesia's debts and
coordinates
Indonesia's aid. A corps of "qualified" native technocrats formally make
economic
decisions, kept in hand by the best American advisors the Ford Foundation's
millions
can buy. And, as we have seen, American corporations dominate the expanding
exploitation of Indonesia's oil, ore, and timber.
But history has a way of knocking down even the best-built plans. Even in
Indonesia,
the "chaos" which Ford and its modernizers are forever preventing seems just
below
the surface. Late in 1969, troops from West Java's crack Siliwangi division
rounded
up five thousand surprised and sullen villagers in an odd military exercise
that speaks
more of Suharto's fears than of Indonesia's political "stability." Billed as
a test in
"area management," officers told reporters that it was an exercise in
preventing a
"potential fifth column" in the once heavily-PKI area from linking up with an
imaginary
invader. But the army got no cheers as it passed through the villages, an
Australian
reporter wrote. "To an innocent eye from another planet it would have seemed
that
the Siliwangi division was an army of occupation."28
There is no more talk about land reform or arming the people in Indonesia
now. But
the silence is eloquent. In the Javanese villages where the PKI was strong
before the
pogrom, landlords and officers fear going out after dark. Those who do so are
sometimes found with their throats cut, and the generals mutter about "night
PKI."
1. Richard M. Nixon, "Asia After Vietnam," Foreign Affairs, October 1967,
p. 111.
2. Soedjatmoko, "Indonesia on the Threshold of Freedom," address to Cooper
Union, New York, 13
March 1949, p. 9.
3. Sumitro Djojohadikusumo, untitled address to School of Advanced
International Studies,
Washington, D.C., 1949, p. 7.
4. Dean Rusk, "Foreign Policy Problems in the Pacific," Department of State
Bulletin, 19 November
1951, p. 824 ff.
5. Guy J. Pauker, "The Rise and Fall of the Communist Party of Indonesia,"
Rand Corporation
Memorandum RM-5753-PR, February 1969, p. 46.
6. Michael Max Ehrmann, The Indonesian Military in the Politics of Guided
Democracy, 1957-1965,
unpublished Masters thesis (Cornell University, Ithaca, New York, September
1967), p. 296, citing Col.
George Benson (U.S. Army), U.S. military attaché in Indonesia 1956-1960.
7. Daniel S. Lev, The Transition to Guided Democracy: Indonesian Politics,
1957-1959 Ithaca NY:
Modern Indonesia Project, Cornell University, 1966), p. 70.
8. Robert Shaplen, "Indonesia II: The Rise and Fall of Guided Democracy,"
New Yorker, 24 May 1969,
p. 48; Willard Hanna, Bung Karno's Indonesia (New York: American Universities
Field Staff, 25
September 1959), quoted in J.A.C. Mackie, "Indonesia's Government Estates and
Their Masters," Pacific
Affairs, Fall 1961, p. 352.
9. Guy J. Pauker, "The Rise and Fall of the Communist Party of Indonesia,"
pp. 6, 10.
10. Ibid., p. 43.
11. W.F. Wertheim, "Indonesia Before and After the Untung Coup," Pacific
Affairs, Spring/Summer
1966, p. 117.
12. Ibid., p. 115.
13. Harsja W. Bachtiar, "Indonesia," in Donald K. Emmerson, ed., Students
and Politics in Developing
Nations (New York: Praeger, 1968), p. 192.
14. Ibid., p. 55.
15. John Hughes, Indonesian Upheaval (New York: McKay, 1967), p. 132.
16. Ibid., p. 151.
17. "Silent Settlement," Time, 17 December 1965, p. 29 ff.
18. Frank Palmos, untitled news report dated "early August 1966"
(unpublished). Marginal note states
that portions of the report were published in the Melbourne Herald at an
unspecified date.
19. Harsja W. Bachtiar, op. cit., p. 193.
20. Ibid., p. 195.
21. H.E. Robison, "An International Report," speech delivered at Stanford
Research Institute, 14
December 1967.
22. J. Panglaykim and K.D. Thomas, "The New Order and the Economy,"
Indonesia, April 1967, p. 73.
23. "Indonesia's Potholed Road Back," Fortune, 1 June 1968, p. 130.
24. W.F. Wertheim, "From Aliran Towards Class Struggle in the Countryside
of Java," paper prepared
for the International Conference on Asian History, Kuala Lumpur, August 1968,
p. 18. Published under
the same title in Pacific Research 10, no. 2.
25. Gustav F. Papanek, "Indonesia," Harvard Development Advisory Service
memorandum
(unpublished), 22 October 1968.
26. Jean Contenay, "Political Prisoners," Far Eastern Economic Review, 2
November 1967, p. 225; NBC
documentary, 19 February 1967.
27. Herbert Feith, "Blot on the New Order," New Republic, 13 April 1968, p.
19.
28. "Indonesia -- Army of Occupation," The Bulletin, 22 November 1969.
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