Introduction
Raja Ampat has long stood as a symbol of Indonesia’s eastern promise, renowned for its breathtaking marine biodiversity and vibrant cultural heritage. It is a place of global ecological importance and national pride.
Today, however, it finds itself at a decisive crossroads, caught between the imperatives of nature conservation and the push for resource extraction—essentially a dialectic between preserving tradition and embracing transformation.
At the heart of this tension is Gag Island, where a nickel mining project is taking shape. The project raises difficult questions—not only about environmental stewardship but also about the role that political and religious institutions play in defending the public interest.
Mining, in itself, is not inherently unethical. Indonesia’s economy has long leaned on natural resource extraction, and industrial development is frequently seen as a driver of national progress. Yet, the real concern lies not merely in the act of mining but in how it is being legitimised, by whom and at what cost.
A particularly controversial figure in this narrative is KH Ahmad Fahrur Rozi, a senior cleric in Nahdlatul Ulama, who also holds a commissioner position at PT Gag Nikel. His public remarks downplaying the project’s environmental risks – and suggesting that local opposition may be tied to separatist interests – have sparked intense public debate.
What makes this moment especially complex is the intersection of religious authority, state power and corporate interest. When religious leaders take on official roles in extractive enterprises, it raises questions that go far beyond personal choices, as it calls into question the evolving role of religion itself in Indonesia’s democratic framework.
This is not to suggest that Nahdlatul Ulama has forsaken its principles. Historically, the organisation has stood as a vital force for social justice, pluralism and grassroots advocacy. Nevertheless, this episode demands a deep reflection: how can an organisation so rooted in moral tradition navigate its growing entanglement with power?
Entanglement
This is not a sudden development. In 2024, Nahdlatul Ulama accepted a mining concession from the government, which was presented as a form of “affirmative action” for religious organisations. It marked a structural shift in Nahdlatul Ulama’s public role: from a guardian of the moral commons to a stakeholder in extractive capitalism.
These concessions are not gifts. They are instruments of co-optation. While in a way it empowers Nahdlatul Ulama, the state does so by bringing the civil society to its fold.
This issue does not exist in a vacuum. Across the globe, religious institutions are increasingly drawn into public policy debates, especially in areas where development is contested.
In Indonesia, this often takes the form of strategic alliances between the state and major religious organisations to manage policy implementation, promote social cohesion, and retain political legitimacy—particularly in remote regions like Papua and eastern Indonesia.
The concern here is not simply that Nahdlatul Ulama is politically active, but whether it can participate in these processes without losing its prophetic voice—that moral imperative to speak truth to power.
Nahdlatul Ulama’s role in the Gag Island controversy lays bare both the potential and the peril of institutional proximity to the state.
Figures like KH Ahmad Fahrur Rozi argue that participation allows for ethical oversight, that being “inside the system” offers a chance to ensure corporate actors remain accountable. This is a reasonable argument, especially in a political culture where those excluded from formal power are often sidelined completely.
At the national level, Nahdlatul Ulama has also shown genuine concern for environmental ethics drawn from Islamic teachings. Initiatives like fiqh lingkungan (the Islamic jurisprudence on the environment) have emerged from within its circles, promoting sustainable living, anti-waste norms and the theological duty to protect all creations (khalifah fil-ardh). These efforts provide a moral foundation for deeper engagement with environmental issues.
But contradictions surface when institutional behaviour appears to undercut these values. The presence of Nahdlatul Ulama leaders within corporate entities – especially when decisions seem unexamined or opaque – raises concerns about transparency and integrity.
It is not the involvement itself that alarms many observers but the apparent lack of critical debate or clear ethical boundaries. For those who have long seen Nahdlatul Ulama as a voice of conscience, the silence or defensiveness from within is deeply unsettling.
Prescriptions
To rebuild trust and clarity, Nahdlatul Ulama needs to revisit its own systems of internal accountability. A practical step forward would be to reactivate and empower bahtsul masail—the organisation’s traditional deliberative forums.
These bodies, if used effectively, can foster meaningful dialogue on pressing issues like ecological justice, corporate partnerships and the ethical use of religious authority. Coupled with greater transparency around leadership decisions, this could go a long way in reinforcing Nahdlatul Ulama’s credibility.
Another essential direction is to amplify the voices of Nahdlatul Ulama’s younger and academic branches. Organisations such as Gerakan Pemuda Ansor (GP Ansor) and Lembaga Kajian dan Pengembangan Sumber Daya Manusia (the Institution of the Human Resources Development and Studies – Lakpesdam) have a strong track record in public advocacy and critical engagement.
Strengthening their role in environmental discourse – whether around mining, deforestation or indigenous rights – can help decentralise Nahdlatul Ulama’s moral authority and renew its relevance. Change often begins from within, and Nahdlatul Ulama’s historical strength has been its capacity to adapt while staying anchored in core ethical commitments.
It is also worth considering whether Nahdlatul Ulama can serve as an honest broker between the industry, the state and the people. Rather than becoming a partisan ally to any single interest, Nahdlatul Ulama could reclaim its role as a wasit—a principled mediator that listens carefully and seeks fair, informed resolutions.
This would require creating a distance between its spiritual leaders and the operational roles within extractive industries. Distance does not have to mean disengagement—ethics-based mediation is a form of engagement in its own right.
Realignment
Nahdlatul Ulama is now at a critical juncture. If it continues on a path of selective endorsement or strategic silence, it risks alienating its base and undermining the moral authority it has spent generations building.
The danger here is not only reputational but also foundational. Religious organisations do not draw power from bureaucratic reach—they draw it from trust. When that trust begins to erode, institutional resilience becomes dangerously thin.
That said, there is still time for reflection and course correction. The controversy around Gag Island has already stirred meaningful debate across Nahdlatul Ulama-affiliated communities—from pesantren scholars to civil society actors. These conversations, though not always visible in national media, are pushing for a realignment of Nahdlatul Ulama’s moral compass with justice and sustainability.
If the national leadership is willing to listen, this could become a moment of renewal rather than decline.
Should NU fail to adapt, however, the long-term consequences could be severe. Its moral capital – once seen as a stabilising force in the Indonesian democracy – risks becoming a transactional asset, valued more for access and influence than for ethical leadership.
This shift could deepen public cynicism, not only towards Nahdlatul Ulama but also the role of religion in civic life. When spiritual institutions are perceived as merely echoing political or corporate agendas, their prophetic power dissipates.
But if Nahdlatul Ulama can rise to meet this challenge – by reassessing its internal governance, clearly delineating the line between religious service and commercial interest, and empowering the next generation – it could reaffirm its role as a moral cornerstone of the republic. The Gag Island affair, contentious as it is, presents an opportunity: not to retreat, but to realign.
Ultimately, the question is not whether Nahdlatul Ulama has stumbled but whether it has the institutional courage to confront the implications of that stumble.
This moment should not be dismissed as a minor controversy or a communications failure. It is a mirror, reflecting the deeper entanglements between faith, state and capital. If Nahdlatul Ulama looks away – if it treats this as a passing storm rather than a call for self-examination – its decline will not be triggered by outside forces but from within.
In this regard, Nahdlatul Ulama must decide: will it continue as a facilitator of state legitimacy, or will it reassert itself as an independent ethical force rooted in the lived experience of its followers? For Nahdlatul Ulama to retain its leadership, the choice seems clear.
If it chooses the former, it may not collapse overnight but will slowly lose its relevance over time. The faithful will quietly drift elsewhere, towards smaller, more grounded communities that are less entangled in bureaucracy and financial opportunities.
All of this is to say that the crisis in Raja Ampat is not just about the fate of an island. It is about the future of Islam in Indonesia. Will it serve the state or the people? Will it speak from the margins or manage from the centre?
A faith that becomes indistinguishable from the interests of the state may survive as an institution, but it will have forfeited its soul.
