When Aceh is Disappointed (Again): Separatism Forever? Quid Pro Quo

Ah yes, the Prophet Mulyono. It’s truly heartwarming to witness modern political fan fiction in action. Next thing we know, someone will claim he split the MRT line with his bare hands or fed an entire village with two boxes of nasi padang and a bottle of Teh Botol, and it turned out that it was just a hoax, in reality, they were pork barrels.

This PSI cadre, Dedy Nur, has clearly confused a statesman with a saint, or perhaps Google Translate rendered ‘popular president’ as ‘divinely appointed messenger.’ No worries — soon we’ll have hadiths about Jokowi's jacket collection and the miracle of riding a folding bike through traffic.

And for the grand finale: a new surah, revealed at a groundbreaking ceremony, titled Surat Beton: Verses of Infrastructure. Maybe we should rename the Cabinet as The Twelve Sahabat, and call Bappenas the “House of Divine Planning.”

Let’s all take a deep breath and remember — the last Prophet is Muhammad ﷺ. The rest? Just campaign season hallucinations dressed in messianic flair. But, hmmm, is Mulyono worthy of being called a statesman? According to my neighbours, he is just a con artist. The swindler shall in time be swindled. A con artist will inevitably end up being conned.

However, there is news that is no less exciting.

In the grand theatre of Indonesian nation-building, Aceh has often played the part of the dutiful but ever-disappointed understudy — forever promised leading roles, yet repeatedly left waiting in the wings. Cast your mind back: once, Indonesia’s founding fathers wooed Aceh with sweet-talking pledges of Islamic autonomy to secure its help in the fight against the Dutch—only to sweep it under North Sumatra’s carpet before the ink was dry on the independence documents .

Later, during the early years of the republic, the Old Order Government’s much-vaunted “special status” for Aceh proved to be as fleeting as a summer breeze, evaporating while Aceh’s plea for Sharia implementation was dismissed with cries that this was a “Pancasila nation” — not a theocracy . And when the gas fields at Arun beckoned, Jakarta siphoned off Aceh’s treasure trove of resources — let us call it “Javanese neocolonial generosity” — whilst trundling in troops to suppress any dissent, leaving locals impoverished and angry.

The New Order period then raised the stakes: Aceh was declared a military operation zone and became the theatre for a brutal counterinsurgency campaign. Villages burned, civilians executed or disappeared — all in the name of national unity — and Aceh became, if you will, the state’s test kitchen for repression.

Of course, the 2004 tsunami delivered an apology in the form of global attention and a peace deal, yet the triumphant reconstruction was undercut by unfulfilled promises: Aceh still cannot fly its own flag, control its own oil, and now finds itself chastised by Sharia police rather than sweet-talked by Jakarta bureaucrats. Even the newly empowered Sharia thugs, equipped with canes and zeal, remind locals that tradition is now enforced with whippings and moral panic .

Thus, the Acehnese have endured a lifetime of rhetorical flourishes, resource plunder, military repression, and moral policing — all while being told they’re part of one big happy family. And yet, the family gestures paused at every turn, delivering pain instead of promises.

And in a stroke of bureaucratic brilliance — or perhaps cartographic comedy — the Ministry of Home Affairs has managed to redraw provincial boundaries with all the finesse of a child doodling on a map with crayons. Kepmendagri No. 300.2.2‑2138/2025 has ignited not just raised eyebrows, but flaming protests from Aceh, whose government and citizens alike now wonder whether their autonomy is printed in disappearing ink.

Naturally, the local government of Aceh, along with its regional parliament and assorted political forces, were less than amused. They’ve accused Jakarta of engaging in that classic pastime: ignoring Aceh’s special autonomy, enshrined in Law No. 11/2006, as though it were merely a decorative trinket gifted post‑conflict but never meant to be taken seriously. The people of Aceh, it seems, were not expecting their islands to be treated like items on a clearance sale — "Four for the price of zero consultation!"

History and culture, too, make their entrance like ignored relatives at a wedding. Acehnese leaders claim the islands are more than just dots on a map — they are ancestral lands, cultural sanctuaries, and economic lifelines. But in Jakarta, such considerations are perhaps secondary to the logistical poetry of "administrative efficiency."

Then there’s the legal fog. Constitutional experts — those tragic romantics of rule-of-law — are whispering that one doesn’t simply shuffle provincial boundaries with a single ministerial decree. A Government Regulation (PP), perhaps? A Parliamentary debate? Public consultation? Alas, such formalities are apparently so last season.

Meanwhile, on the streets and coasts of Aceh, fishers and villagers are wondering if they need passports to access waters they've navigated for generations. Identity politics, always lurking in the wings, now steps forward under the spotlight — because nothing stirs a province with a history like Aceh’s quite like the scent of centralised overreach.

It appears that the true motive behind the sweeping transfer of those four Acehnese isles is not tourism nor administrative trivialities—but the tantalising gleam of hydrocarbons. The islands sit amidst offshore zones rich in oil and gas, embedded within the famed Andaman and Singkil-Meulaboh blocks that promise reservoirs of epic proportion.

The Ministry of Energy and Mineral Resources has described the Andaman I, II, and III blocks — extending off Aceh’s shores — as potential global game-changers, each possibly harbouring six trillion cubic feet of gas. In addition, the Meulaboh and Singkil offshore areas, directly linked to these islands, reveal estimated reserves of 800 million barrels of oil with 4.8 TCF gas, and 1.4 billion barrels with 8.6 TCF respectively. Moreover, historical data show that Pulau Panjang’s structure once yielded tens of thousands of cubic metres of oil and millions of cubic feet of gas during its heyday.

Which leads us to the comfortable smile on North Sumatra’s governor. By acquiring these islands, the provincial government gains not only territorial prestige but also a potential stake in lucrative upstream resource licensing and revenue streams. Offshore exploration contracts are often parceled out by provincial jurisdictions in collaboration with national regulators. The governor stands to oversee or influence bidding rounds, local allocations, and possibly signature bonuses and production-sharing agreements—a delicious entree for any ambitious regional leader.

In short, this transfer creates a geopolitical windfall: North Sumatra could sit at the front of the queue for oil and gas exploitation, while Aceh is left looking skyward and empty-handed. For the governor, it's not just about the maps—it’s about access, authority, and abundance. 

Sumatra Utara, of course, is all smiles. Tapanuli Tengah is rolling out the welcome mat for its newly gifted archipelago, while some local leaders have the decency to at least hope it doesn’t cause too much trouble. How thoughtful.

The Home Affairs Minister’s decree—Kepmendagri No. 300.2.2‑2138 of 25 April 2025—identifies and administerially transfers four small islands from Aceh to North Sumatra. Per official records, they are: Pulau Panjang, Pulau Lipan, Pulau Mangkir Besar (also known as Mangkir Gadang), and Pulau Mangkir Kecil (Mangkir Ketek).

But one wonders—does the Minister’s pen hold the legal might to redraw provincial boundaries so lightly? Politically and legally, such border shifts tend to demand far more than a single decree: a Presidential Regulation (Perpres) at the very least, or even a revision to the governing law (such as UU 11/2006 on Aceh’s special autonomy), and ideally consultation or approval from Parliament. Yet, we observe none of these. The decree ought to be buttressed by a Perpres and alignment with the MoU Helsinki (2005) and the 1956 reference map, which were agreed upon to uphold Aceh’s territorial integrity .

Politically, this raises serious questions. Aceh’s government insists it holds compelling evidence—dating back to 1965 documents, 1992 boundary agreements, plus visible infrastructure on the islands—that these territories belong to Aceh. Moreover, Acehnese leaders argue this decree conflicts with both the special autonomy law and the spirit of the Helsinki Accords.

Meanwhile, North Sumatra’s governor defends the decree as rooted in geospatial data, field surveys, and multilateral meetings—and signals openness to collaborative governance over the islands’ resources.

So, as it stands: the decree identifies and transfers the four islands, but legally and politically, the matter appears far from settled. Without higher‑level decrees, legislative backing, or judicial review, the action seems more administratively expedient than constitutionally robust. The matter may ultimately land in a State Administrative Court (PTUN) or require active Presidential and Parliamentary engagement—perhaps even a re‑negotiation under the autonomy laws Aceh holds dear.

Scholars and observers are calling for clarification — some even daring to suggest dialogue. Others speak of constitutional review, or perhaps even the need for, heaven forbid, mediation. But until then, the four islands float in limbo, somewhere between a bureaucrat’s folder and Aceh’s collective indignation.

Moreover, the Governor will be Mulyono's son-in-law. There is a scent of Dynasty Politic, Quid pro quo and collusion. Corruption? No need to ask!

[Bahasa]