Just off the coast of Ambon lies an unassuming place known as Pulau Saparua that gives off a peaceful air. But can the same be said when a visitor gets to know this corner of Indonesia?
The notion of abstract outlines shapes many places in the archipelago. But these lines do not always tell what one may find within.
Many have commented on the distinct form of Sulawesi. There, a person in an elevated position, many miles up in the air, may see a chitinous border that brings to mind the fever dream rendering of a turtle infected by cordyceps.
There are many beautiful islands and much great hiking in that region, where vibrant, graceful tradition awaits. But rarely would a visitor draw a link between Sulawesi, shelled creatures and the twisted embrace of an invasive, canny fungus.
Further south, to Maluku, those with lepidopterist tendencies will perhaps note that the island of Saparua bears the form of a butterfly. But, similar to Sulawesi, although Pulau Saparua is a place where one may find the understated but beautiful species Charaxes eurialus, Saparua rarely claims the title ‘Domain of Butterflies’.
Instead, many will know Saparua as one of the Lease [lay-a-say] Islands. Its siblings in this chain comprise Haruku, Saparua Timur and Nusa Laut. A visitor heading east from Tulehu port in Ambon may reach Pulau Saparua singular in around an hour or so by sea.
Once there, most likely having docked at the coastal village of Haria, the first things one’s attention tends to fall on are the pleasant beaches and coral reefs dotted about the place.
There then grows the sense of having reached a place somewhat less well-known than others in Indonesia. The visitor can feel within the pit of their gut a sourceless feeling of not knowing what to expect and the excitement that tends to stem therefrom.
And each step across the island brings an unexpected thing: an abandoned dive centre, perhaps on Jl. Raya Saparua-Nolot; a magnificent gereja, or church, in the same area; a remote stretch of beach at Pantai Potalae Paperu.
First impressions
Eventually, many visitors will reach Kota Saparua, the island’s capital. It is easy to call this place ‘sleepy’ thanks to an easy pace and lack of surface noise. But like many centres, it comes to life on market days. Sellers and buyers from across the four islands descend upon the marketplace, where fresh and smoked fish, in particular, encourage a roaring trade.
Looking further afield will bring the curious traveller to the Booi, a district with many farms, and reachable only by a large staircase. To the Pulau Saprua’s southeast, one may find the village of Ouw. Here, artisans make fine pottery by hand. Ouw also has a resident fort, now semi-overgrown and claimed by villagers as their home.
But it is only when settling on Kota Saparua that the true weight of history becomes clear. Skirting around the bay, shaped like a scimitar with clear views to Nusa Laut, and passing by a sports field guarded by an enormous tower, the visitor will find, on the water’s edge, a historic Dutch fort called Benteng Duurstede. More will be made of this site later.
But for now, the fact that this site exists at all conveys the unrest that has stained Pulau Saparua, both in centuries past and in living memory.
Further research will reveal that Maluku suffered political unrest in 1999. This chaos quickly escalated. It became violent and then, as is the way of such things, terminal. The ensuing bedlam cast a drape over this corner of Indonesia and left it very much in the corner of Places to Avoid, where it resided for a good many years.
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The roots of this most recent conflict run deep. For now, it is worth understanding the constituent parts of Pulau Saparua, which reads with the same detachment as an anthropological tract from some time ago.
Thus: Pulau Saparua is an island of 17 villages and around 35,000 residents. The prominence of churches indicates that this is a mainly Christian island, but the smattering of masjids shows that Islam, too, has a presence.
Each faith has about it the total conviction that its message is more true than all others. But there are many cases of the followers of many beliefs living side by side. In Salatiga in Central Java, for instance, the Muslim community is known to honour the Christians’ festive celebrations. The latter group, in turn, gives space and support during Islamic holidays.
Violent clashes
But the fire of worship runs deep, and it is easy to combust. Such a tragedy occurred in Maluku at the end of the twentieth century, when upwards of 5,000 people died for their faith. This sectarian conflict, from 1999 to 2002, drew a marked religious divide and spread over Ambon and Halmahera.
At the time, Indonesia struggled with economic and political instability. The value of the Rupiah fell sharply after the fall of Suharto, compounded by the wider financial crisis in Southeast Asia. And the archipelago’s regions faced great change as well.
The province of Maluku was about to split into Maluku and North Maluku, which heightened extant political discord. And since this friction had a religious aspect, fighting soon broke out between Christian and Muslim communities. Indonesian government forces stepped in to quell the violence, to little effect.
This was in January 1999. Soon enough, violence spread through Maluku as though borne on by a typhoon. Pulau Saparua, not so far from Ambon, soon suffered the blight of savage tumult.
By June of that year, many people had died on the island: one clash between Christian and Muslim youths in Sirisori left around ten fighters dead, and in the same village, six died after a row over damaged clove plants became violent. Such a tragic loss of life played itself out across Saparua.
Dreadful conflict tore Maluku apart, with much loss of innocent life and reports of forced conversion and forced circumcision, amongst other awful things. Rioting, mass displacement and wanton destruction had become commonplace.
Only in 2002 and the signing of the Malino agreement did the violence come to an end, to be replaced by the scars and trauma of such bloodshed.
The observant reader will note that the strands of Pulau Saparua and violence intertwine. Perhaps not often, at least on a widespread scale, but enough to have a lasting impact and draw an association between the two things.
One need only look at the spice trade in Maluku, from around the sixteenth to eighteenth centuries, to see the spectre of conflict hovering with unabashed glee in the hope of stoking up trouble.
This was a time when spice meant big business. Tales tell that at one point, the Banda islands, also of Maluku, were more valuable than Manhattan thanks to their fragrant produce, such as nutmeg and cloves.
But the same could be said for many places across the region. The spices found in Maluku commanded high prices across Asia.
Taking advantage
It was not long before the Europeans caught the scent of this profit-making potential. Thus, many powers descended upon Indonesia, where controlling the spice trade meant a great deal of money and influence.
The Portuguese arrived first in 1511, with the Dutch and British not far behind. Each felt their claim to the spice trade was stronger than the others; conflict and death soon followed as they vied for control of the region.
There, perhaps the first Dutch settlers would have been struck by the island’s small size and quiet demeanour. Their keen senses of smell would also have quickly found the clove, nutmeg and sago palm plantations.
And from a commercial perspective, the people who care about such things would have noted that the harvest season lasted from August until January.
It stands to reason, then, that an invading colonial force, keen to establish dominance, would seek to show their power. And thus, the colonists from Europe, having come to rule in Indonesia, and certainly Maluku, built great forts to remind everyone who was in charge.
On Saparua, the Dutch East Indies company built Fort Duurstede in 1691. The fortress went up in Kota Saparua and there it still stands, a martial husk on the waterfront.
And there the fort stood for over a hundred years, nominally to ‘protect’ the island. But protection is a broad term: protect what from whom and why, one may ask about the same thing, and they shall receive vastly different answers.
Either way, it would seem that the Dutch failed to ingratiate themselves, nor did they quell uproarious feelings from those under their yoke.
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The call for freedom soon amplified across the archipelago. Many heard the call, not least Thomas Matulessy, the famed Ambonese soldier who came to embody the struggle for independence. Nowadays, he goes by a more well-known name: Pattimura. And it was he who led a revolt in Maluku against the Dutch forces in 1817.
Pattimura was born on Ceram in 1873. He joined the British Colonial Auxiliary Forces after they claimed Maluku from the French. In British employ he stayed until around 1816, when the British returned the region to the Dutch.
But this turn of events did not end well. Soon enough, the Dutch, in a show of power, discharged Pattimura and his fellow soldiers to their hometowns.
Cause for coflict
But Pattimura did not fall for it, and his fears grew that, like the French in 1810, the Dutch would stop paying native Christian teachers. This lack of respect for the pious irked Pattimura: the planned switch to paper currency – rather than coins – would mean the Malukans could not give alms. And in turn, the church could not help the poor.
The rebels faced a long struggle. Upon returning to power in what is now Indonesia, the Dutch overhauled the colonial system. This they achieved with the aid of force: the Royal Netherlands East Indies Army, or the KNIL. The army sought to bolster its ranks with Malukan fighters.
Colonialism by its very nature breeds confrontation. Outsiders move into a place and mine its resources and people, who, often resentful, decide they will not stand for this. Some colonists may have more benevolent, helpful approaches than others, but rarely is there no friction.
The Dutch occupation bred such oppression, so much so that the people of Saparua anointed Pattimura as ‘Kapitan’ and, on 14 May 1817, charged him with leading a rebellion.
The Saparua rebels made their move the next day, led by Pattimaura and his lieutenants. And the day after that, they captured the fort. But not without cost: 19 Dutch soldiers died in the fighting, as did Van der Berg, their commander.
The sole survivor was Jean Lubbert, the commander’s son. This incident gave rise to the naming of Matulessy: ‘Pattimura’ translates into ‘big of heart’, suggesting that he had spared the child’s life. Adding further strength to this notion, the boy later called himself ‘Van der Berg from Saparua’.
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The following months saw further Dutch losses, including Major Beetjes, sent to reclaim Duurstede. At the end of May, the rebel leaders issued the Haria Proclamation. They named Pattimura the leader of the Malukans and set forth the offences committed by the Dutch. This edict saw the governor of Ambon lose his job in response to the wrongs suffered by the locals.
By August 1817, rebellious fervour had reached other corners of Saparua. This feeling fermented, and Indonesian resolve strengthened, even as the Dutch took back the fort. And thus, the endgame closed in.
Pati Akoon, the king of Booi, betrayed Pattimura and his group. Pattimura was captured in Sirisori in November. As is the way of such things, the authorities, with wounded pride, sought to assert their weakened power. They sentenced the insurgents to death; Pattimura and other rebels were hanged in Ambon, in front of Fort Victoria.
A place of death then, the fort now serves as the headquarters of the Pattimura Military Command, symbolising Maulessy’s lasting impact. The conflict had come to symbolise Malukan independence and Indonesian patriotism. The Kapitan was recognised for his courage and tenacity.
In 1973, President Suharto declared Pattimura a national hero. Visitors to many places in the archipelago may note that streets bear Pattimura’s name, as do the university and airport in Ambon. Many celebrate 15 May as Pattimura Day in the Kapitan’s honour, and his visage appeared on the 1,000 rupiah banknote.
Such is the legacy of Pattimura, and such is the role that Saparua played in his prestige. And such is the shape of tumult in Indonesia.
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