The Free Papua Movement (OPM) is widely believed to be the core of opposition to the Indonesian Government in West Irian. But it is difficult to track down the OPM as an organization, although not because its security is tight or people are unwilling to talk. On the contrary, everyone talks about the OPM; it has few, if any, secrets, and many Irianese proudly proclaim they are “members” of the OPM. A foreigner travelling in West Irian has no difficulty in contacting anti-government activists. They stop you on the street and groups of them gather around when you visit a native village; in short, no one is reluctant to discuss the OPM and their reasons for disliking Indonesians. One American missionary explains this by saying that “the Papuans simply are unable to keep a secret.” Of course, information known to foreigners is also available to the Indonesian authorities, the Army, and even to the most casual observer. ... Regarding the magnitude of the opposition to Indonesian rule, probably a decided majority of the Irianese people, and possibly 85 to 90 percent, are in sympathy with the Free Papua cause or at least intensely dislike Indonesians.
As the Indonesian government firmly rejects a one-person, one-vote plebiscite in West Irian, insisting instead on a series of local ‘consultations’ with just over one thousand hand selected tribal leaders (out of an estimated population of eight hundred thousand), conducted throughout this month with between six thousand to ten thousand Indonesian troops spread throughout the territory. Past abuses have stimulated intense anti-Indonesian and pro-independence sentiment at all levels of Irian society, suggesting that “possibly 85 to 90 percent” of the population “are in sympathy with the Free Papua cause.” Moreover recent Indonesian military operations, which have resulted in the deaths of hundreds and possibly thousands of civilians, has stimulated fears and rumours of intended genocide among the Irianese…” (United States State Department Archives)
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British Embassy
On the third floor of the British Embassy in Jakarta political affairs First Secretary, Lawrence Nelson Whitehead sat pondering how he would occupy his spare time, after his wife returned home to England. With the end of her second trimester rapidly approaching, and British Airways’ policy banning pregnant passengers beyond their sixth month, it was time for Emily to depart.
Contemplating her upcoming absence, the MI6 station chief felt some consolation that at least he would not be subjected to his wife’s outlandish cravings. How Emily could devour those heavily-spiced Sumatran dishes was beyond him. He was pleased that at least she would be home with their extended family and on a more acceptable diet than chilli-pepper lung, brain and other disgusting offal dishes she had their houseboy smuggle into their residence from ‘kaki lima’, mobile food vendors that roamed Jakarta’s streets. The resulting reflux she endured worried the diplomat and constantly reminded him of the absence of decent medical facilities or advice. Although there was Doctor Mitchell, a British surgeon and Subud sect convert who had embraced Islam upon taking up residence in the capital, officially he was unlicensed to practice. This left Her Majesty’s Embassy staff reliant upon a former medical missionary the Australians had relocated from Port Moresby. The doctor had been engaged to provide basic care for embassy officials and their families. Whitehead mused the doctor’s services were available only when one was fortunate enough to find the man sober.
The intercom on Whitehead’s desk squawked as a subordinate attempted to communicate. He grabbed the antiquated box with one hand while slapping it with the other.
‘Lawrence?’ the speaker crackled. ‘Can you hear me Lawrence?’ The MI6 chief could hear the male voice cursing; the broken, one-sided conversation ending as the frustrated agent surrendered to the idiosyncrasies of the archaic system. Broken some six years earlier during his predecessor’s time, when embassy staff were preoccupied destroying files before abandoning the building, the system had never been updated. Having completed his training with the Secret Service in 1963, the British and Indonesians were engaged in a secret war known as Konfrontasi, Whitehead’s recollections of the time remained fresh in his mind. The country’s founding president, Sukarno, had declared unofficial war against the British Commonwealth nations of Singapore and Malaysia. British Gurkhas and Australian Special Forces were deployed along common borders with Indonesia. The Republic had been armed extensively by the Soviets with long-range bombers and other sophisticated weaponry. As these TU16 bombers had the capacity to strike Australian capital cities as far south as Melbourne the Royal Air Force positioned two Vulcan bombers in Singapore to counteract the threat. The British ambassador had been instructed to present his government’s message to the recalcitrant Sukarno and, when the president learned that Vulcan bombers were armed with atomic weapons and would fly regular missions over Indonesian airfields, he capitulated. The petulant leader then orchestrated elements of the powerful Partai Komunis Indonesia to demonstrate against the British, with the PKI’s leadership losing control over the unruly mob which proceeded to burn down the embassy and forty eight diplomatic residences. Whitehead recalled that it was during this low point in their relationship that Sukarno had ordered the nationalisation of British properties valued at more than $400 million. The gutted embassy had eventually been restored, but it was not until General Suharto had wrenched power from Sukarno that there were any significant steps taken, towards a rapprochement between the two powers.
‘Bloody intercom is on the blink again,’ the station chief’s senior field agent complained as he swept into the First Secretary’s office, bumping against a side cupboard in the cramped surrounds and knocking a recently depleted bottle of Johnny Walker on its side. ‘Don’t know how we are expected to operate efficiently under these conditions.’
Whitehead softly tapped his front teeth with a pencil. ‘What’s up?’ he asked, amused when the bottle rolled across his office. Jakarta’s buildings floated atop a soft layer of earth cushioned by a water table that rose to within a metre of the surface. When the Intercontinental Hotel had been built on the other side of the Selamat Datang welcome roundabout, the pressure exerted by the eight hundred-room structure caused the British Embassy to rise, and fall lopsided, more than thirty centimetres at the end closest to the hotel.
‘Had a call from Sander,’ the agent commenced, ‘Seems there’s quite a mob gathering outside their embassy.’ “Sander” was Alexander Hoffman, the First Secretary’s Dutch counterpart. Whitehead listened, the possibility of demonstrations at the Netherlands Embassy not unexpected.
‘Send Wilson,’ was all the MI6 chief had to say. The agent nodded and turned without further discussion, returning to the crowded quarters he shared with Wilson, the third member of the MI6 contingent based at the embassy.
Whitehead’s agents operated from a small discrete cell within the embassy, known as “the station”. Equipped with its own highly-secure communications systems and frequently swept for listening devices, the station was only accessible by the agents.
As head of station, traditionally Whitehead would function under the guise of a Foreign and Commercial Office Counsellor and his activities would be declared to Badan Koordinasi Intelijen (BIN), the Indonesian equivalent of the CIA, as much of his activities only involved general liaison. The other officers such as Wilson remained undeclared because they would spend a significant part of their time spying against the host country.
While reflecting on the competency of his two agents, Whitehead slipped into a ruminative mood, reassessing the successes (and failures) of MI6 operations in Indonesia. The British Secret Service maintained some fifty stations around the world and he was aware that Third World stations usually consisted of only one officer and a secretary. The size of a station reflected the importance of the host country in relation to Britain’s interests. Jakarta, due to Indonesia’s evolving pro-Western stance, had been upgraded to a three-man-station with a personal secretary, as President Suharto’s ‘New Order’ fascist regime was, potentially, a major customer for Britain’s weapons industry. London, he knew, was preparing the groundwork in anticipation of a revitalised Asian arms race. Indonesia was prioritised as its armed forces were desperate to replace their antiquated Soviet arsenal with Western product. Also, should the possibility of Indonesia losing West Irian to an independence vote in any way compromise