The tranquil communities in this resource-rich part of Sulawesi were once places where villagers cultivated rice on their fertile agricultural land, worked on plantations, and maintained seaweed cultivation, all while understanding the vital role of the forest and ecology in sustaining life.
But everything changed with the arrival of large-scale mining industrialization in the region. The promises of a global green economy swallowed up their once peaceful way of life. Development is far from flawless.
This is a brief reflection from a peace scholar/researcher on a field research journey to one of the world’s largest nickel mining industrial parks in Indonesia.
Picture 1. A nickel smelter in Indonesia.
Nickel mining in Indonesia has surged in response to the booming demand for batteries that power electric vehicles (EVs) over the past decade. Today, China as the largest EV batteries producer, through a close economic partnership with Indonesia, have bolstered Indonesia as the world’s top producer of the metal. However, the promise of greening the global economy through EVs has not been without any backlash. Local communities in Indonesia face numerous challenges, including cheap labor exploitation, land grabbing, and widespread environmental destruction.
For instance, Sulawesi island, with a population of approximately 20 million people, is rich in nickel resources, making it a global hotspot for nickel mining as the demand for EVs has skyrocketed. Yet, despite its abundant natural wealth, the region continues to grapple with poverty.
Furthermore, data from the National Disaster Management Agency of Indonesia shows that Central Sulawesi has experienced 384 floods between 2002 and April 2023. Notably, the nickel-rich province faced the highest number of floods during the years 2020 to 2022, coinciding with the influx of billions of dollars in Chinese investments for building nickel smelters in the region. In 2023 alone, Central Sulawesi has already endured 11 floods.
Our journey to Sulawesi island from Jakarta, the capital of Indonesia, was anything but easy. We caught a 2 a.m. flight, only to transit at an overcrowded airport in Makassar, the capital of South Sulawesi province. Delays were almost inevitable. In the early hours of the morning, we boarded a small plane bound for our field research site. With only three daily flights, missing it wasn't an option.
Picture 2. Dr. Hui Li (left) from University of Hong Kong, Dr. May Farid (center) from University of San Diego, Tri Indah Oktavianti (right) from University of San Diego, at Morowali Airport.
Our team consisted of three women researchers and scholars. I was particularly grateful for the opportunity to collaborate on this field research with Dr. May Farid, a professor from the Kroc School, where I am currently studying, and Prof. Hui Li from University of Hong Kong.
With her extensive experience conducting field research across multiple countries, Dr. Farid guided me in navigating the demanding schedule of interviews and travel between cities to engage with local communities. Field research is undoubtedly challenging, but as Dr. Farid emphasized, its essence lies in building conversations, listening, and learning from the people we meet.
Upon arriving at our research location (which we cannot disclose for security reasons), we immediately felt the sting of the polluted air—it was harsh on our eyes and irritated our noses. We couldn’t help but wonder how much worse it would affect our respiratory systems if we stayed longer.
Despite this, we were warmly welcomed by the villagers at a small local café, which also served as their informal meeting spot. Their hospitality was unmatched as they greeted us with cold drinks and enthusiasm. But behind their bright eyes and warm smiles, their stories shattered our hearts. They spoke of lost lands, air pollution, deteriorating water quality, and deforestation. They couldn’t even begin to describe the decline in health and quality of life—it was too overwhelming for three visitors to grasp all the injustices in a single conversation.
The villagers were hopeful that our visit would spark change, no matter how small. Despite our efforts to explain our research purposes, I later discovered they believed we were journalists or policymakers, urging us to deliver their message to President Joko Widodo.
Picture 3. A nickel smelter located just a few meters from residential houses, Indonesia.
Yet, as I listened to their stories, I realized how much our roles as scholars can unintentionally mirror the very systems we aim to critique.
This experience serves as a reminder: when engaging with grassroots communities, we must set aside our academic titles and speak their language. They are not merely subjects of our interviews; they are people we need to learn from.
I came to this remote location with the knowledge that both local and central governments are complicit in the disastrous management of mining industries. They've not only permitted companies to operate without proper environmental assessments but have also turned a blind eye to repression and land grabbing by large corporations. All of this is justified by promises that foreign direct investment will bring jobs and economic benefits to this underdeveloped region.
However, one villager told me this: "The government is a parent, it should always stand by its people, protect its children. Unfortunately, it often sides with big businesses and corporations, which leaves us feeling betrayed. Yet, like dutiful children, we should not rebel against our parents."
While I often say I'm interested in decoloniality, I struggled to comprehend how these communities could still place their faith in a government that has oppressed and marginalized them. I found myself asking, "I understand if they’re angry, but why don’t they seem angry enough?".
But this is a major slap to me as a scholar and a researcher: I had been viewing them merely as subjects of my expectations—expectations of how the world should ideally be. I failed to recognize their agency and their full capacity as humans to decide what is best for themselves. I didn’t place myself on the same level as them.
There is this common pattern that we, as academics, often heavily focus on the relevance of our research topic, yet we often fail to engage meaningfully with the real grand challenges faced by the Global South. In the end, we tend to promise changes or offer solutions that are lacking with contextual relevance to the issue.
For me, as an Indonesian scholar expecting a higher education degree from the US, this field research is not just a brief journey back home. But this field-research serves as an aide-memoire for me not to perpetuate systemic violence through my very privileged position in academia.
This experience also serves as a constant reminder that the academic world is, indeed, elite. So yes, it is important to reflect and to criticize our stands as part of this elite community.
Among many lessons learned from this field research in Indonesia, peace scholars should learn how not to commodify the conflicts of the Global South into an exclusive product of peace studies knowledge–to serve the Global North communities. Global South is not just a place to extract data. There is a critical need for a paradigm shift in how we, as peace scholars, must stand against the creation of knowledge in the Global North that will likely be paywalled behind institutions, ultimately failing to serve the very communities it was intended to help.
As peace studies of the Global North have grown rapidly in response to violence in the Global South, peace scholars must take into account the legacy of the colonial-capitalist-extractive system.
Not only that academic work must transcend the ivory tower and genuinely serve the communities it studies, peace scholars particularly should start thinking how to decolonize the research field and ensure that our work contributes not just to academic discourse, but to the actual betterment of the lives we study.
