Sex Offender Treatment Program: Preliminary Description

This report provides a summary of the history of sex offender treatment in Alaska, including the current status of treatment programs offered by the Alaska Department of Corrections, a review of literature on sex offender treatment and recidivism issues, and a summary of the descriptive characteristics of individuals who came in contact with the Hiland Mountain Correctional Center from January 1987 to March 1993.Alaska Department of CorrectionsIntroduction / Sex Offender Treatment in Alaska / Literature Review / Methodology / Results / Conclusion and Recommendations / Bibliograph

Justice Data Base Directory

The Justice Data Base Directory was originally published in 1988 with an introduction, 8 chapters describing Alaska justice agencies and their data holdings, and an index. It was published in looseleaf notebook format for easy updating. Four updates were published in 1989–1992, each update consisting of additional chapters, revised table of contents and index, and updates to existing pages to reflect changes such as agency addresses. Five chapters were added in 1989; five in 1990; four in 1991; and five in 1992, for a total of 27 agencies covered by the Justice Data Base Directory in its final form. For archival purposes, this record includes all five versions of the directory. The 1992 edition is the most complete.The Justice Data Base Directory, first published in 1988 with new chapters added annually through 1992, presents information about the primary databases maintained by Alaska justice agencies and the procedures to be followed for access to the data. Its availability should substantially reduce the work required to identify the sources of data for research and policy development in law, law enforcement, courts, and corrections. The 1992 update to the directory adds five chapters, for a total of 27 Alaska agencies whose justice-related data holdings are described: Alaska Court System; Alaska Judicial Council; Alaska Commission on Judicial Conduct; Alaska Department of Law; Alaska Department of Public Safety (DPS) and three agencies under DPS: Alaska Police Standards Council, Council on Domestic Violence and Sexual Assault (CDSA), and Violent Crimes Compensation Board; Alaska Department of Corrections (DOC) and Parole Board; four agencies of the Alaska Department of Health and Social Services — Bureau of Vital Statistics (Division of Public Health), Epidemiology Section (Division of Public Health), Division of Family and Youth Services, and Office of Alcoholism and Drug Abuse; Alaska Public Defender Agency; Office of Public Advocacy (OPA); Alaska Bar Association; Alaska Justice Statistical Analysis Unit; Alaska Office of Equal Employment Opportunity (Office of the Governor); Alaska Office of the Ombudsman; Alaska Legal Services Corporation; Alaska Public Offices Commission; Alaska State Commission for Human Rights; Alcoholic Beverage Control (ABC) Board; Legislative Research Agency; Legislative Affairs Agency; State Archives and Records Management Services (Alaska Department of Education). Fully indexed.Funded in part by a grant from the Bureau of Justice Statistics.1. Introduction / 2. Alaska Court System / 3. Alaska Department of Law / 4. Alaska Department of Public Safety / 5. Alaska Department of Corrections / 6. Division of Family and Youth Services, Alaska Department of Health and Social Services / 7. Alaska Bar Association / 8. Alaska Judicial Council / 9. Alaska Justice Statistical Analysis Unit / 10. Bureau of Vital Statistics, Division of Public Health, Alaska Department of Health and Social Services / 11. Alaska Office of Equal Employment Opportunity, Office of the Governor / 12. Office of Alcoholism and Drug Abuse, Alaska Department of Health and Social Services / 13. Council on Domestic Violence and Sexual Assault, Alaska Department of Public Safety / 14. Epidemiology Section, Division of Public Health, Alaska Department of Health and Social Services / 15. Violent Crimes Compensation Board, Alaska Department of Public Safety / 16. Alaska Police Standards Council, Alaska Department of Public Safety / 17. Alcoholic Beverage Control Board / 18. Alaska Office of the Ombudsman / 19. State Archives and Records Management Services, Alaska Department of Education / 20. Legislative Research Agency / 21. Legislative Affairs Agency / 22. Alaska State Commission for Human Rights / 23. Parole Board, Alaska Department of Corrections / 24. Alaska Public Offices Commission / 25. Alaska Commission on Judicial Conduct / 26. Alaska Legal Services Corporation / 27. Office of Public Advocacy / 28. Alaska Public Defender Agency / 29. Inde

Highlights of Fifteenth Day Enrollment for the Spring Term 2020

This item contains information on student enrollment. It includes information on such topics as enrollment by campus, credits per student, and enrollment by student demographics

Political power struggles in Aceh

This paper looks at how political power in Aceh is moving away from the old Free Aceh Movement government-in-exile. Introduction Political dynamics within the top ranks of the former rebel Free Aceh Movement (Gerakan Aceh Merdeka, GAM) suggest that a generational transfer of power is underway. The old diaspora elite, led from abroad by Malik Mahmud until the 2005 Helsinki peace agreement, is losing influence. Authority derived from long-term service to the movement and closeness to its late founder, Hasan Tiro, is being replaced by authority derived from control of local resources and political institutions. By this measure, Muzakir Manaf, the former GAM guerrilla commander, who is simultaneously vice-governor, CEO of a business conglomerate and head of the Aceh Party (Partai Aceh), GAM’s main political vehicle for winning local elections, is the most powerful person in Aceh. His willingness to defer to his old political superiors in the struggle appears to be coming to an end. This is particularly apparent in his ongoing rift with Gov. Zaini Abdullah. Distancing itself from the old guard could weaken Partai Aceh in several ways. Its claim to be the party of peace because of its role in the Helsinki pact could lose force with the electorate. There would be fewer positives to balance against its rent-seeking and sometimes thuggish tactics. It could be more prone to splinters, especially as ex-combatants resentful of Muzakir’s authoritarian tendencies opt out or are expelled from the party. It could have less access to top officials in Jakarta, where the main link was between Jusuf Kalla and Malik as a result of the peace process. Partai Aceh strategists close to Muzakir, however, are trying to strengthen the political base through two methods. One is rejuvenation, relying less on ex-combatants for political office since as a group they have performed poorly, and more on younger, better educated cadres. The second is reaching out to conservative clerics by promising to strengthen the role of Islam in everyday life. This may be at odds with the largely secular outlook of many top GAM leaders but it is seen as important to shoring up GAM’s grassroots constituency. Three other factors could affect how the party evolves. One is the political ambition of former governor Irwandi Yusuf, newly reconciled with Muzakir after a bitter electoral fight in 2012. He sees a political partnership with Muzakir under the Partai Aceh banner as the best way of uniting GAM and ensuring that Jakarta delivers on the unfulfilled promises of Helsinki. Muzakir supporters are not so sure. The second is whether national parties continue to eat into Partai Aceh’s strength, as they did in the 2014 election. The new party Nasdem in particular has some popular elected legislators with ambitions to run for executive office; they might be able to capture some district and municipal posts in 2017. Civil society activists are also interested in trying to groom their own cadres to enter the political arena. The third is how Jakarta reacts. Throughout the Yudhoyono administration, the president was personally engaged in trying to keep Partai Aceh and the old guard on side in the interest of strengthening the peace. President Jokowi is likely to be less focused on Aceh, and his conservative security advisers are more likely to favour a weak and divided GAM than one united behind a new generation of leaders. The 2017 election for governor and district heads will be a chance to assess Partai Aceh’s ability to survive the founding generation. Its candidate for governor will likely win. The question is whether the percentage of victory will be more or less than in 2012, when the ticket of Zaini-Muzakir won 54 per cent of the vote after a campaign marked by violence and intimidation. A reconciliation ticket with Muzakir and Irwandi could send those numbers soaring, but few think it will transpire, especially since both want to be governor. A less than 50 per cent performance, even if still secures the governorship, could be a harbinger of a further decline for the party in the 2019 legislative elections

Support for “Islamic State” in Indonesian prisons

This report examines how alliances for and against the "Islamic State" developed among inmates in Indonesian prisons. Introduction A study of networks in Indonesian prisons that support the Islamic State (IS) suggests that relatively simple interventions by prison officials may be able to limit the influence of hardline ideologues. Only a minority of those convicted of terrorism in Indonesia support IS openly, and there is nothing to suggest that their numbers are increasing. If anything, they are declining. The need to understand the dynamics of prison networks is still urgent, however, because pro-IS inmates can constitute key nodes for encouraging or facilitating travel to Syria and because those who support IS generally support the use of violence at home.1 Preventing the growth of IS influence in prisons is therefore a way of reducing the security threat more generally. Indonesian officials are well aware of the problem, and there have been noticeable improvements in supervision of extremist inmates. The challenges are huge, however, and resources are limited. It may be time to take another look at donor assistance in a way that would avoid some of the problems that have plagued past efforts and see if there is a way to encourage local initiatives, locally developed. Indonesia also needs to adopt a law that would make it a crime to travel abroad to join or assist foreign terrorist organisations, although some makeshift solutions are planned that would draw on existing provisions of the Criminal Code. Without such a ban, however, the triangular link between prisons, extremist groups and groups like IS will persist. After the announcement on 29 June 2014 that the organisation called Islamic State of Iraq and Greater Syria (ISIS) had changed its name to Islamic State and declared its leader to be the caliph of all Muslims, ceremonies to pledge loyalty took place in jihadi communities around Indonesia, including in several prisons. The most publicised of these ceremonies took place in Pasir Putih Prison, a “super maximum security” facility on the island of Nusakambangan off the southern coast of Java, where 24 prisoners, including Indonesia’s best known extremist cleric, Abu Bakar Ba’asyir, swore allegiance on 2 July 2014. This report examines the process by which inmates in two prisons in the Nusakambangan complex, Pasir Putih and Kembang Kuning, chose sides after IS was established. For some, choosing for or against was a question of principle, but for many, more personal and pragmatic interests came into the calculus, such as access to extra food. The most militant inmates often have the best supply networks, with donations and contributions coming in on a regular basis through visitors. If that supply dries up, a leader’s hold on his followers can weaken, as Ba’asyir found when his organisation, Jamaah Anshorul Tauhid (JAT), splintered as a result of his oath to IS. When JAT members stopped sending extra provisions, the less ideologically inclined of Ba’asyir’s followers were willing to align with whoever could fill the gap. For many of the extremists, separation from their families and particularly from their children is the hardest part of incarceration, and desire for contact can be a powerful incentive for cooperation. Personal feuds are also important. On the principle of “the enemy of my enemy is my friend”, some inmates joined the IS camp because they had a dispute with someone who was anti-IS. Again, it is critically important for prison officials to try to understand who is on the outs with whom over what, so they can assess the consequences and use it to their advantage. Differences over points of theology and doctrine do of course take place—one of most heated is between takfir mu’ayyan and takfir am, basically whether one brands individuals as nonbelievers (kafir) by virtue of their membership in a group or on the basis of their own misdeeds. The IS supporters are proponents of takfir mu’ayyan and thus see all agents of state, including police and prison officials, as enemies. But while such ideological convictions are deeply held by a few, many in the pro-IS camp have only a weak grasp of doctrine and their decision to join was influenced by more mundane factors. The Nusakambangan case studies show how alliances can change as the result of the arrival of new inmates, a fight, or a change in government policy. Prison officials need to understand the circumstances that can lead to solidarity among inmates in the face of a perceived threat or the break-up of once-solid friendships. And crucially, they need to realise that no matter how well they understand individuals and alliances in prison, everything can change once a prisoner is released

Indonesia’s Lamongan network: how East Java, Poso and Syria are linked

A network of extremists in East Java illustrates how support for a local jihadi struggle in Poso, Central Sulawesi is linked to support for the Islamic State of Iraq and Greater Syria (ISIS), now called Islamic State. Understanding that network could lead to more effective counter-extremism programs. Introduction The trajectory of an extremist network in Lamongan, East Java illustrates how support for local jihadi struggles has been transformed into support for ISIS. Better understanding of that process could lead to the development of more targeted counter-extremism programs. Lamongan, a district some 50km west of Surabaya, Indonesia’s second largest city, first came to international attention in 2002 as the home of Bali bombers Amrozi, Mukhlas and Ali Imron and the boarding school their family ran, Pesantren al-Islam. It was in the news again in March 2015 when two sisters-in-law from Lamongan were deported from Turkey with their children after trying to get to ISIS-controlled Syria. One was a widow; the other was trying to join her husband, Siswanto, one of the thousands of foreign fighters in the ISIS army—and a former teacher at al-Islam. One of the most important lessons of the Lamongan network is that pro-ISIS groups in Indonesia have emerged from existing radical networks that have never gone away. They may have morphed, realigned, regrouped and regenerated but they are not new. A second lesson is that it is not possible to understand Indonesian pro-ISIS networks without understanding Poso, the former conflict area in central Sulawesi. Since 2000, extremists have seen it as a secure base (qaedah aminah) and training center with the potential to expand into a community that applies Islamic law. In 2009-2010, there was a short-lived project to transfer that base to Aceh, the only Indonesian province authorised to apply Islamic law. When it failed, with police breaking up a training camp in late February 2010 and eventually arresting more than 100 suspects, Poso again became the refuge of choice, under the leadership of a former combatant named Santoso—the target of a massive police operation as this report went to press—who sought to train recruits for the jihad against enemies of an Islamic state in Indonesia. Lamongan provided some of those recruits. There is more to the Poso story, however. The extremists there were never very strong in terms of numbers or competence. Interest in jihad at home had steadily declined after the strength of radical groups peaked in 1999-2001. But committed ideologues wanted to keep alive the idea of a secure base. They needed to convince themselves that the dozens of often not very impressive men sent to Poso for training would constitute the base for an army of mujahidin that could join the global jihad and lead to the establishment of an Islamic state in Indonesia. The key to this was providing Santoso with an effective media arm, and the Lamongan network did just this, connecting Santoso first with al-Qaeda’s Global Islamic Media Front and then with ISIS. The objective was to create the illusion, both internationally and at home, that the Indonesian effort was bigger and more significant than it really was. The propagandists may have wanted international recognition for Indonesia’s homegrown jihad, but they wanted even more to persuade small-town recruits from other parts of Indonesia that Poso was a war worth fighting. Without international links, what was the attraction? The would-be mujahidin never seemed to realise how dangerous the connection to Poso was, because it was one place that had intense police surveillance. If Indonesia’s extremists had not kept trying to get to Poso, they probably could have avoided many of the crackdowns that followed. But pursuit by police was a factor in pushing several key Lamongan members to leave for Syria. Many wanted to go anyway, but the steady stream of arrests and the information they produced turmed departure into a necessity. This report takes the stories of six individuals and shows how their lives intersected to shape a pro-ISIS network in Lamongan. The six are Siswanto, the religious teacher from al-Islam; his brother-in-law, Sibghotullah, who had worked with Santoso; Dayat, a fugitive from Medan who married into a Lamongan family and became a recruiter for Poso; Arif Tuban and Arif Wicakso no alias Hendro who helped set up Santoso’s media arm; and Salim Mubarok Attamimi, a career mujahid and the only one of the six without direct links to Poso

The current status of the Papuan pro-independence movement

Examines the aims, capacity, leadership and activities of both the armed units of the Free Papua Organisation (Organisasi Papua Merdeka, OPM) and the various political groupings supporting independence in Papua and abroad. Executive summary Indonesia’s approach to the independence movement in Papua has been to try to crush it, repress it, persuade it, co-opt it, divide it, dilute it or smother it in a process called development. Nothing has worked, and it has proved impossible to eradicate. It is too powerful an idea, backed by too much history and too many differences with the rest of Indonesia. The best policy the Indonesian government could adopt now would be the equivalent of “do no harm”, taking measures that will avoid further radicalisation. The most urgent is to invest in better policing. At the same time, the movement itself, generically known as the Free Papua Organisation (Organisasi Papua Merdeka, OPM) has been so resistant to unification, so riven by clan and personal interests, that to this day, it has never constituted a serious threat, militarily or politically, to the Indonesian state. It consists of three elements: a disparate group of armed units, each with limited territorial control, that does not answer to a single commander; several groups inside Papua that through demonstrations and protests give expression to a much more widespread sense of injustice and resentment; and a small group of leaders based abroad, in the Pacific, Europe and the U.S., who try to raise awareness of Papuan issues with a view toward generating international support for independence. The political fronts have never been able to direct the armed units, and the armed units themselves have generally tended to work out a wary co-existence with local governments, headed by directly elected Papuans. The conflict is of such low intensity that the government can easily live with it. The guerrillas have never done enough damage for the government to seriously consider negotiations, and many parties have an interest in sustaining the low-level threat. Faced with this situation, the political groups have adopted different tactics. The largest, most radical, and most dynamic, the West Papua National Committee (Komite Nasional Papua Barat, KNPB) has consciously tried to follow what it sees as the lessons of East Timor: provoke violence on the part of security forces and hope that international outrage over human rights violations resulting will change international reluctance to intervene, much as a massacre in East Timor in 1991 changed the political dynamics there. Any repressive action by the Indonesian government thus plays directly into the KNPB’s hands. (As one KNPB leader said, “That’s exactly what we want, lots of police abuses against us.”) Others would prefer to follow the Aceh model: press the Indonesian government for negotiations, mediated by an international third party. But the conditions in Aceh that produced a peace agreement in 2005, ending a three-decade insurgency, were vastly different to those in Papua, and Indonesian agreement to an outside mediator is unthinkable. The diaspora elites have only rarely managed to overcome longstanding divisions that date back to the early 1970s, but determination to become a member of the Melanesian Spearhead Group, an association of Pacific nations, gave them a clear short-term goal, resulting in the formation of the United Liberation Movement for West Papua (ULMWP) in December 2014 (and eventual observer status, not membership, in 2015). The unity may be temporary, but for the moment it has given a new confidence to the movement; whether it can set other equally practical short-term goals and deliver remains to be seen. The same could be said of the Indonesian government. President Jokowi has made a point of trying to show he cares about Papua by making repeated visits, releasing a few political prisoners and promising to free more, and committing the central government to several major development projects. But the president and his advisers need to understand that these steps, however welcome, will not necessarily translate into support for the government. More roads, schools and houses, while desirable on their own terms, will not make pro-independence sentiment disappear. In the face of an emboldened and at least temporarily united political movement, the government also needs to understand some of the drivers of radicalisation and avoid exacerbating them. They include ineffective policing, where a frequent default response to any sign of trouble is to open fire; impunity for security forces, which fuels the sense of injustice; and a practice of undermining local customary institutions if they are suspected of pro-independence sympathies. Ultimately, Jakarta needs to learn to live with an independence movement that may be best managed by not trying to destroy it

The expanding role of the Indonesian military

The Indonesian military appears to be taking advantage of a weak president and unpopular police to try and regain some of the internal security functions that it lost as part of the country’s democratisation process. Introduction Since Indonesia’s President Joko Widodo (Jokowi) took office in October 2014, the actions of the police have triggered widespread public condemnation, with much less attention to the role of the Indonesian military (Tentara Nasional Indonesia, TNI). Both institutions seem to be testing the political waters to see how far they can push their authority in the face of a weak president with little experience in security affairs. The TNI, in particular, seems to be having some success, with its commander, Gen. Moeldoko, as the driving force. The imbroglio beginning in January 2015 surrounding Jokowi’s nomination of a police chief known for his unusual wealth led public confidence in the police as an institution to sink to new lows. Police efforts to weaken the respected Anti-Corruption Commission (Komisi Pemberantasan Korupsi, KPK) sank them further in public esteem. As daily revelations made the police look worse and worse, some voices in civil society and the local media began raising concerns that the military was exploiting both the poor image of the police and the president’s need for a reliable ally to press forward with its own interests. In particular, the TNI was interested in regaining some of the internal security functions ceded to police as part of the democratisation process that began following former President Soeharto’s resignation in 1998. The actions that triggered concerns included: Signing many Memoranda of Understanding (MoU) between civilian agencies (ministries and state enterprises) and the TNI for the provision of security services; Involvement of the TNI in government development programs, such as food self-sufficiency, especially in remote areas; Demand by the military for a greater role in counter-terrorism operations, especially in Poso; Perceived efforts to exclude the police from national security policy-making; Dubious military arrests of criminal suspects in a manner designed to embarrass or intimidate police; Pushing for a contentious national security bill to be reinserted on the legislative agenda; Delaying the clarification of “grey areas” between the military and police; and Expanding military commands. There is no suggestion that the TNI is intent on returning to the centre of the political stage. While often contemptuous of civilian leaders, senior TNI officers know that their legitimacy depends on full commitment to the democratic system. But there does seem to be a sense that various political factors have combined to give the TNI a new opening to address many accumulated frustrations and resentments. Many of these resentments are directed against the police, whom the army in particular sees as having not only usurped some of its functions but also its opportunities for rent-seeking. Some are related to the army trying to preserve its position under a presidency that is focused on maritime issues, and the priority that implies for the navy and the air force. All are occurring under a president who shares the military’s “can do” mentality but who relies heavily on military rather than civilian advisers on security matters and appears to see little danger in allowing the TNI to regain some of the powers it lost in Indonesia’s reform process

The Sulu archipelago and the Philippine Peace Process

This paper examines the factors behind the reluctance of the ruling elites in the Sulu islands, in the Philippines, to join a region that will be dominated by the Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF) from central Mindanao. Introduction The plebiscite on a new law to overhaul autonomy arrangements in the southern Philippines—if and when it happens—will be a crucial test of support for the Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF) outside of its stronghold in central Mindanao. Ruling politicians in the ethnically and geographically separate Sulu archipelago are wary of the MILF and the peace agreements it negotiated. President Benigno Aquino III had assumed he could lean on them to rally their constituents to vote in favour. Now weakened by a botched counter-terrorism operation in January 2015, the president is struggling to implement the peace agreements he hoped would be his legacy. Political interests within Muslim Mindanao will determine the outcome of the plebiscite, with much hinging on the stance of one man: Sakur Tan. Congress must pass the Bangsamoro Basic Law (BBL) to implement the peace agreements. Its key provisions relate to the core territory, a plebiscite to determine the wish of residents to opt in or out, transitional arrangements, the adoption of a parliamentary system of government, powers over local governments; and fiscal autonomy. The new region, to be called “the Bangsamoro” will replace the existing Autonomous Region of Muslim Mindanao (ARMM). This should be the stronger, more powerful and better funded regional government the MILF and the rival Moro National Liberation Front (MNLF) have always wanted. Before the counter-terrorism operation in Mamasapano, there was a risk that three of the five provinces in ARMM—Basilan, Sulu and Tawi-Tawi, which make up the Sulu archipelago—might opt out, as ruling families worried that their power bases could be undercut. The Aquino government had a strategy to deal with this likely opposition. It counted on the desire of the provincial governors, all professing allegiance to the ruling Liberal Party, to stay in the good graces of a popular president. If that failed, the president could use stronger pressure tactics. After the Mamasapano operation ended in the deaths of 44 police, mostly at the hands of the MILF, as well as 17 MILF fighters and several civilians, President Aquino’s support seemed to collapse. Congress suspended for several weeks its deliberations on the BBL, which it had been set to pass in February, and criticisms of the bill suddenly had more traction. In the best case scenario, Congress will still pass a modified version by June 2015, with the plebiscite to follow soon after. If the plebiscite does go forward, the MILF and the Aquino government need a better strategy for the islands. The MILF is hoping that grassroots support will overcome possible elite opposition, but it has no base in the Sulu archipelago, where sympathy for the MNLF is widespread and its supporters are loath to see ARMM dismantled. Ethnic pride is another factor. Even as the MILF emphasises the umbrella Bangsamoro identity, the Tausug of the archipelago worry about being swamped by the Maguindanao and Maranao that dominate the MILF stronghold of central Mindanao. Many Tausug feel that their issues, including the irredentist claim to Sabah, will be ignored in an MILF-led government. While Congress deliberates, the MILF and President Aquino and his advisers should shore up support for the BBL in the islands, regardless of what stance the provincial governors eventually take. The MILF should continue reaching out directly to the MNLF in Sulu to ensure they are part of discussions with the Philippine government. The MILF, the Aquino government and civil society groups need to prepare tailored outreach campaigns to address concerns raised about the BBL in specific constituencies. The Aquino government should build a wider alliance of elites in the island provinces by emphasising the advantages of the new parliamentary system, which has broad appeal across the Bangsamoro. And finally, the MILF should assess carefully whether and how to cut a deal with Sakur Tan to allay his concerns about joining the Bangsamoro. This paper examines political dynamics in the Sulu archipelago leading up to and after the Mamasapano incident. It looks at the complex interests of the different stakeholders and the resistance to change. It also assesses where and why the peace agreements have gained support in the islands, and what this means for the plebiscite, should it happen before President Aquino leaves office. It is based on a visit to the Philippines in March 2015 and extensive interviews in Cotabato City, Zamboanga City and Manila