Today marks 80 years since Indonesia declared its independence from colonial rule. 80 years since we shouted "Merdeka!" to the world, believing in a free nation where the people could determine their own future.
But as I write this on August, with red-and-white flags fluttering in the wind across the country, a different question haunts me:
Are we truly free?
We were freed from foreign invaders, yes. But now we face a different kind of struggle—one that feels even more painful.
This time, the oppression comes from within. It wears our own flag, speaks our own language, and claims to act in our name.
What's happening in Indonesia right now feels like a slow, controlled collapse into darkness. The phrase "Indonesia Gelap" (Dark Indonesia) is no longer a warning. It is a living reality.
This year, we've seen a chilling acceleration of what I can only describe as state-sanctioned cruelty. From corruption in every direction, to violence, to systemic injustice that mocks the very foundation of this republic.
We've watched the police grow more corrupt and abusive—handling cases only when bribes are paid, even suggesting rape victims marry their rapists, turning police stations into sites of fear rather than refuge.
We've watched the military grow bolder, sliding quietly into civilian roles and reviving memories of the Suharto era, when generals ruled the people with violence and silence.
The past isn't staying in the past.
It is repeating itself.
And just like back then, dissent is being punished. Speak against those in power, and you're branded a traitor, a threat to national unity. Say the truth too loudly, and suddenly—you're under surveillance. Or worse.
Just recently, people discovered that inactive bank accounts—left untouched for three months—could be frozen without notice by a government agency (PPATK). No crime. No court order. Just bureaucracy—cold and unaccountable.
One case became a tragedy: A child lost her chance to save her dying mother because the emergency funds in her account were "inactive."
What kind of nation does this to its people?
Meanwhile, the streets are buzzing with muted protest. Alongside the red‑and‑white national flag, many Indonesians have begun raising the Jolly Roger—the pirate flag— of the Straw Hat crew from One Piece. Not as a joke, nor cosplay. This flag has become a symbol of resistance, a cry demanding real justice and freedom, displayed under our flag as a banner of defiance against a government that increasingly behaves like a disguised tyrant.
How did officials react? A member of the DPR labeled this symbolic act a threat to national unity, insinuating potential rebellion. To them, even peaceful protest is dangerous. To them, those demanding freedom are the ones "dividing the nation." Now asking for freedom is treated like treason. But what kind of unity requires silence? What kind of nation fears its own people speaking truth?
In my view—and shared by others—banning fictional flags simply because they are interpreted as symbols of dissent reveals a profound insecurity. It shows the government is aware of its weak moral legitimacy. If a fictional flag can threaten the country's stability, the real problem lies not in the flag but the fragile trust between people and state.
In the world of One Piece, the World Government is corrupt, oppressive, and authoritarian. It suppresses truth, abuses power, and enforces compliance at the cost of individual freedom. The Straw Hat Pirates—led by Luffy, who wields the Devil Fruit power of Nika, the reincarnation of the mythical Joy Boy destined to liberate the world—stand in direct opposition to that tyranny. Their flag represents dreams, liberation, and the courage to oppose despotism.
Luffy and his crew fight not for power, but for the freedom to live honestly on their own terms, refusing to bow to oppressive rulers. Perhaps that is why so many Indonesians are publicly raising the One Piece flag. Not because they are anime fans, but because they are fed up and disappointed with the existing system.
Gus Dur (the 4th President) once said, "You may raise another flag, but don't raise it higher than the red-and-white." That wisdom speaks volumes now.
Our fictional narrative reflects real politics. The world government in One Piece is corrupt, censoring information, manipulating history, kidnapping dissenters, and maintaining power at any cost. That dystopian model lands with uncanny resonance here, where the state often behaves less like protector and more like a coercive force.
Legally, Indonesian law does allow raising other flags—as long as they do not fly beneath or above the national flag. Article 24 of Indonesia's Flag and Emblem Law (UUD No. 24/2009 Ayat 1), which mandates the flag's supremacy clearly states:
"Setiap orang dilarang mengibarkan Bendera Negara di bawah bendera atau lambang apa pun." (The hoisting of the National Flag under any other banner or insignia is expressly forbidden.)
So symbolically, one may display another flag beside or below the Merah Putih—but not above or replacing it.
One minister, Coordinating Minister for Politics and Law Budi Gunawan (Menko Polkam), warned that flying the Jolly Roger could carry criminal penalties, urging police to detain those who fly it. Yet, according to Indonesian law—specifically Law No. 24 of 2009 and Government Regulation No. 40 of 1958—there is no prohibition on flying a fictional or non‑state flag, as long as the Red‑White flag is not replaced, flown lower, or disrespected. Article 24 of Law Nr. 24/2009 forbids insulting the national flag, flying it below other symbols, or replacing it entirely, but says nothing about fictional emblems being displayed concurrently.
So far, no prosecutions have been widely reported, but the threat alone has clearly struck fear into the public.
Some quarters of government, including MPR(Indonesia's highest constitutional body), labeled the movement "provocative" or even potentially makar—a form of rebellion—urging authorities to act decisively
Therefore, calling this protest treason, or claiming it undermines unity, only highlights a fear of dissent. The real threat is not the fictional flag but the fading legitimacy of those in power.
What kind of unity demands silence? What kind of nation fears symbolic truth?
The controversy has even reached international news outlets. They highlight how a flag from a Japanese manga has been labelled a "national threat." All this because one flag symbolizes freedom while the other's defenders fear it might undermine their authority
This year alone has revealed scandal after scandal:
Corruption in fuel (Pertamax tampered)
• Bribes demanded just to file police reports
• The tax agency looting the public
• Small business owners extorted by officials
• Laws sold to the highest bidder
• Job markets manipulated
• New taxes pushed with absurd reasoning
• Religious intolerance on the rise
•Victims are blamed. Rapists are protected.
•Landlords are paid off to evict families who still owe money on their homes.
•The honest are jailed. The corrupt are rewarded.
•Justice is for sale.
•People who criticize the government face harassment, surveillance, or worse.
And as all of this happens, the government quietly slips through new laws.
The military creeps further into civilian government.
Journalists are threatened. Environmental destruction continues unchecked.
And anyone who dares to speak out is labeled a traitor, a liar, or a foreign puppet.
Earlier this year, someone in power claimed that the mass rapes of 1998 "never happened." That the suffering of ethnic Chinese women—even though they were legally citizens of this country—were targeted, raped, and brutalized, often by police and military personnel. Ethnic Chinese men were murdered in the streets. It was a period of unspeakable terror. This, despite evidence. Despite survivor testimony. Despite our own president at the time acknowledging it.
They want us to forget. To erase.
But how can we heal from something the nation refuses to admit ever happened?
For job markets, authorities recently revealed that around 15,000 job listings circulating online turned out to be scams. People responded hoping for honest work, only to be met with deception instead. Many land in financial traps—losing savings rather than getting hired. This level of fraud signals a deep breakdown in both oversight and compassion.
In response, a popular online movement called #KaburAjaDulu emerged—urging job hunters to temporarily step back, regroup, and approach the market with caution. But the government criticized the movement, claiming it shows a lack of nationalism, as if taking a defensive stance in a rigged system equals betrayal.
Then came Abdul Kadir Karding, Indonesia's Minister of Manpower and Transmigration (P2MI), who suggested that Indonesians consider working overseas to reduce domestic unemployment. Critics argue this is a short-term, emergency mentality, rather than a long-term solution. Karding clarified he didn't mean to force anyone—but many see it as passing responsibility rather than fixing systemic issues at home.
The government's narrative implies that asking for protection or caution is unpatriotic. Yet if job seekers call for reform, they are branded disloyal. Meanwhile, urging the workforce to "run away abroad" hardly feels like a solution—it feels like giving up on improving the country.
Fragile legitimacy is clear when protest is labeled betrayal, and seeking safety labeled a lack of nationalism. The real grief lies not with those who pause or #KaburAjaDulu—but in a system so unstable that people feel forced to flee.
This is why Indonesians are increasingly skeptical—of job listings, of institutional trust, and yes, even of national leadership.
And then comes the absurd tax drive & economic despair. Indonesia's economic headlines are increasingly dominated by outrageous tax proposals and baffling policy ideas. It feels like the government is scrambling desperately for revenue—any excuse to extract from the people—while ignoring systemic fixes. Here are the most absurd examples:
1. School Cafeterias to be Taxed
Jakarta's regional legislature (DPRD) proposed taxing vending stalls and cafeterias in schools. Taxing food in a place meant for children to eat freely? That is morally tone-deaf and shows a lack of vision for real reform.
2. Seizing "Abandoned" Land After Two Years
A draft plan suggests the government can take over land if it's unused for two years. Yet the reality is far murkier: who decides "unused"? What about small farmers, informal settlers, or those held back by bureaucracy? This is government land-grabbing disguised as reform.
3. Taxing Wedding Envelopes
Rumors spread that the government wanted to tax money gifts in wedding envelopes—digital or physical. Even though DJP and the State Secretary officially denied it, the damage was done. The mere suggestion triggered anxiety across communities. The issue showed how desperately the treasury is chasing every potential rupiah.
4. Social Media Tax Surveillance from 2026
The Ministry of Finance plans to start monitoring social media activity and digital data to find undeclared income in 2026. Even if well-intentioned, it's invasive and treats citizens like suspects before proof.
5. VAT (PPN) Still Low? Raise It Anyway
The tax office head publicly said Indonesia's 11% VAT is "still low" and can be raised further. Let that sink in—despite widespread poverty, rising living costs, and lagging service quality, the rhetoric is always "put more tax on it."
6. Taxing Online Sellers on E‑Commerce
Finance Minister Sri Mulyani has hinted at imposing taxes on sellers on platforms like Shopee, Tokopedia, TikTok Shop, and others. Small entrepreneurs and young sellers are on edge; many feel targeted, not supported.
World Bank Warns Indonesia's Tax System Is Among Worst
Indonesia ranks near the bottom for tax administration effectiveness among emerging economies. The World Bank report and user discussions say incomplete compliance, corrupt auditors, and policy gaps wreck possible revenue—yet the government's answer is to tax more, not fix the system.
An then, here's the latest tax "hike" news this month—because apparently the government still thinks we're an endless ATM:
1. Pati: A 250% PBB-P2 Hike Sparks Massive Protests
In Pati, Central Java, Regent Sudewo announced a staggering 250% increase in local property tax (PBB-P2), justifying it by saying the rates hadn't been changed in 14 years. In reality, some even taxed more than 400%. The public reaction was explosive. From August 10–13, 2025, demonstrations swelled, peaking at around 100,000 people on August 13.
What really fanned the flames was Sudewo's arrogant remark: "Five thousand or fifty thousand people can protest—I'm not afraid." That statement spread like wildfire, and his public image collapsed. Under mounting pressure, he apologized and revoked the tax hike. But it was too late. Protesters were no longer just asking for the hike to be cancelled—they wanted him removed from office. DPRD has now formed a special committee to investigate impeachment, with rumors flying that he could be dishonorably dismissed, the other rumors that spread the talk about his 'potential dismissed' It was spread just to calm the anger of the residents.
2. Jombang: Increases Up to 1,202%, but No Mass Demonstrations (I write this on 15 August)
In Jombang, East Java, property tax bills didn't just climb—they skyrocketed. Some residents reported hikes of 1,202% (yes, over twelve times the previous amount). Others faced 800% jumps, like bills shooting from IDR 400,000 to IDR 3.5 million overnight.
Unlike Pati, there was no massive street protest. Many residents chose to file official objections directly with the local tax office, with some cases resolved in just 10 minutes. The local government claims it will make adjustments for those who can prove the new rates are unfair—but that doesn't erase the shock people felt opening those bills.
3. Cirebon: Nearly 1,000% Increase Sends Shockwaves
In Cirebon, West Java, property tax hikes reached nearly 1,000% in certain areas. Community groups, such as the Pelangi Cirebon Association, have been vocal, urging the city to repeal the burdensome regulation. Mayor Effendi Edo has said discussions have been ongoing for over a month, and promised a "more suitable" formula soon. But for many residents already reeling from the cost of living, the damage is done—the trust is gone.
And here's my honest opinion:
Honestly, I don't believe this is just a coincidence. I suspect these regents and local leaders are acting under some kind of instruction from the central government to raise local PBB taxes.
Officially, PBB-P2 is managed by regional governments and has no direct administrative link to the central government. But think about it: how is it that in just a short span of time, different regions across Indonesia are suddenly jacking up property taxes—sometimes by 800%, 1,000%, or more? And this is just the tip of the iceberg. These are the cases that went viral. What about the regions that haven't been exposed yet?
To me, it's deeply suspicious. The pattern is too consistent and too widespread to be pure coincidence. If there's no instruction from the top, then we're looking at a nationwide epidemic of greed—or worse, a coordinated squeeze on citizens under the guise of "local fiscal policy."
Not only does the government use taxes to squeeze the people of Indonesia—this month, a fresh wave of uproars about royalty payments is making headlines too. It's as if the state never runs out of creative ways to extract every last rupiah.
Legendary singer Ari Lasso recently exploded in frustration online: despite having songs that rake in millions of plays, he claims he received only Rp 700,000 in royalties—and the payment was transferred to someone named Mutholah Rizal, a name he doesn't even recognize. It's not just mismanagement—it's outright absurdity. Ari even called on institutions like the KPK (Komisi Pemberantasan Korupsi) – The Corruption Eradication Commission of Indonesia. It's an independent government agency tasked with investigating and prosecuting corruption cases, especially involving high-ranking officials and large-scale corruption.) or Bareskrim (The Criminal Investigation Agency of the Indonesian National Police. It handles major criminal cases, from organized crime to cybercrime, including financial fraud and certain white-collar crimes.) to investigate the Wahana Musik Indonesia (WAMI) for possible corruption or gross negligence.
Wahana Musik Indonesia (WAMI) is a collective management organization (CMO) in Indonesia. It operates somewhat like LMKN but specifically focuses on managing and distributing royalties for songwriters, composers, and music publishers who are registered members.
WAMI collects royalties from various sources—radio, TV, public venues, streaming platforms—and is supposed to channel that money to the rightful copyright holders. In theory, it ensures artists get paid when their works are used.
In Mataram, a group of hotels received sudden royalty payment demands from the Lembaga Manajemen Kolektif Nasional (LMKN) [The National Collective Management Organization. It's a state-recognized body that collects and distributes music royalties on behalf of songwriters, composers, and music publishers]—even though they didn't play music. LMKN claimed that TVs in hotel rooms could be used by guests to listen to music, making every hotel liable. Meanwhile, a hotel in Tangerang Selatan pushed back: they use real, live bird chirps to create ambiance—yet LMKN still sent a somasi, as if the birds owed royalties
Somasi is an official written warning or demand letter in Indonesian legal terms. It's usually sent before taking legal action, giving the recipient a formal notice to do something (or stop doing something) within a certain period—otherwise, the sender may proceed to court.
Cafes Must Pay Royalties—even with Spotify or YouTube Premium. UMKM owners are outraged: subscribing to Spotify or YouTube Premium doesn't exempt them from paying royalties when playing music in public. According to copyright law experts and official statements, those services are strictly for personal use. Any commercial playback, even in a café or barbershop, still requires licensing and royalty payments
UMKM stands for Usaha Mikro, Kecil, dan Menengah — Micro, Small, and Medium Enterprises in Indonesia. They cover a huge range of small-scale businesses, from street food stalls and home-based shops to small cafés, workshops, and local online sellers.
The controversy gets even weirder: LMKN claimed that Timnas Indonesia or PSSI [The Football Association of Indonesia. It governs professional and amateur football in Indonesia, including the national teams.] should pay royalties whenever they play national songs such as Indonesia Raya, Tanah Airku, or Indonesia Pusaka. The PSSI fired back: these songs are patriotic and sacral—not commercial products—and their composers didn't expect payment from their own country. PSSI's Secretary-General, Yunus Nusi, outright demanded the rules be scrapped, calling them "noisy, disruptive, and unproductive." Meanwhile, LMKN clarified that Indonesia Raya is actually royalty-free and can be used freely under existing law
The latest controversy that's gone viral: playing music at wedding receptions (kondangan) now requires royalty payments—even if the event is non-commercial. WAMI confirms the rule: a 2% royalty must be paid based on the production cost of the music—including sound system rentals, backline, and performer fees—even if there's no ticketed entry or profit involved.
However, in a contradictory position, the government's legal representative, Prof. Dr. Ahmad M. Ramli, emphasized in a Constitutional Court hearing (dated August 7, 2025) that private, non-commercial use of music—such as at a family wedding—does not constitute a copyright violation and should not trigger royalties Bloomberg Technoz.
So, are weddings royalty-exempt or not? The legal landscape remains murky and contradictory.
Besides that, I think this is most likely being used as a distraction. Not long ago, there were reports about another case of mega corruption: Bank Indonesia (BI), which allegedly involved nearly the entire Commission IX of the DPR (the Indonesian House of Representatives' commission in charge of health, manpower, and population affairs). This isn't a one-off anymore—it's systemic.
Between 1999 and 2004, every member of Commission IX DPR — 52 people — allegedly pocketed cash directly from BI. The total amounted to Rp 21.6 billion, distributed in envelopes and without any receipts. The biggest chunk, Rp 1 billion, went to then-chairman Paskah Suzetta. Others received between Rp 250–300 million.
Testifying in court, Hamka Yandhu (then Sub-Committee head) revealed the funds came via Rusli Simandjuntak and Asnar Ashari from YPPI through Anthony Zeidra Abidin. The payments were justified as for "sosialisasi" or public outreach, but in reality they were bribes.
That court ruling convicted Anthony and Hamka, citing damage to DPR's credibility and betrayal of public trust
Former BI Governor Burhanuddin Abdullah and deputies, including Aulia Pohan, were convicted for misusing funds from YPPI—a foundation meant for banking development. They allegedly diverted Rp 100 billion to bribe DPR members and push for favorable legal amendments to BI oversight.
Fast forward to today: a fresh scandal has erupted involving BI's Corporate Social Responsibility (CSR) funds—but this time, targeting Commission XI DPR (2019–2024 term). Satori from the NasDem Party admitted all members of Commission XI received CSR funds meant for their electoral districts via certain foundations. Heri Gunawan (Gerindra Party) also faced KPK questioning as part of the investigation.
The KPK raided BI and Otoritas Jasa Keuangan (OJK) [Indonesia's Financial Services Authority. It's an independent government agency that regulates and supervises the financial services sector — including banks, insurance companies, capital markets, pension funds, and other non-bank financial institutions. In short, they're supposed to make sure Indonesia's financial system is sound, transparent, and fair] offices, seizing documents and electronics tied to CSR program allocations to investigate misuse.
KPK Chairperson Setyo Budiyanto emphasized that these allegations must be grounded in evidence from the ongoing probe—not rhetoric.
This isn't about a few bad apples. It's a broader structural rot—Bank Indonesia (charged with safeguarding monetary integrity) misusing its resources to curry favor with legislators. In turn, these legislators—across different commissions and eras—rubber-stamp favorable legislation. This cyclical fraud didn't end in the past; it mutated into CSR schemes under the guise of social programs.
The pattern is painfully clear: institutions meant to strengthen governance have become instruments of patronage and corruption. Whether it's direct bribes a decade ago or CSR funds today, the underlying dynamic remains the same—public money as political leverage.
If Indonesia really is "short of money," there's an obvious solution—and it's been sitting in Parliament for over a decade:
The Asset Confiscation Bill (RUU Perampasan Aset), which would allow authorities to seize illicitly acquired wealth without waiting for a criminal conviction, has languished since around 2012. It's never been passed into law.
Experts like Hardjuno warn that the existing legal framework (UU Tipikor) is toothless—corrupt officials can hide assets or delay court decisions, so public funds remain unrecovered. The Deputy Attorney General and KPK have both called for the law's passage, emphasizing it's critical for restoring the state's finances and reclaiming stolen assets.
But political and legal obstacles remain. DPR isn't even treating it as a priority; they delay its discussion until after the new Criminal Procedure Code (RKUHAP) is ratified. The Ministry of Law and Human Rights laments that Indonesia is 17 years late—UNCAC (the UN anti-corruption convention) required this law to be enacted long ago. Critics warn that the delay reflects elite self-interest—no elite politician will push a law that could confiscate their own doubtful gain.
Then why isn't the asset-confiscation law fast-tracked? Maybe the BI–Commission IX scandal explains why.
BI corruption involved massive bribes and political collusion—state funds allegedly used to influence nearly all members of Commission IX DPR. Passing a law to confiscate corrupt assets would expose those involved and possibly threaten powerful figures across current and past commissions. Delaying the bill = protecting vested interests. The law has been conveniently sidelined—never made a priority in Prolegnas, always waiting on other reforms, and bogged down in technicalities.
In short, If Indonesia really is short on cash, the solution was sitting in Parliament all along. A law empowering us to seize looted assets—without weak justifications like "only convicted assets allowed"—could be enforced today. But it's never convenient for the system. Because such a law would sweep up those who benefit—from shady bureaucrats to partisan legislators.
In other words: the law exists more in theory than in practice because those in power benefit from keeping it shelved. The BI–Commission IX mega scandal is exactly the kind of expose that should have ignited mass outrage—and a law to snatch back their ill-gotten gains. Instead? Dead in the water.
The other case that gone viral:
Bank Account Freezes by PPATK
PPATK claimed the crackdown was to prevent misuse of idle accounts for money laundering, online gambling, nomination schemes, or drug and corruption syndicates. They argued freezing these accounts would protect both depositors and national financial integrity. But the execution left millions unprepared. Anyone unused for just three months—especially rural communities, overseas workers, elderly savers—found their accounts blocked literally at random, even if they had no wrongdoing.
People discovered their savings inaccessible at ATMs or apps. No alerts, no prior notice. Some accounts drained by inactivity fees or closed by banks without consent. Reactivation procedures required paperwork, branch visits, and processing times of up to 20 working days. Small traders couldn't pay suppliers. Students couldn't access tuition. Elderly users and overseas workers were stranded.
One tragic reported case: a mother died because her child couldn't access funds for emergency medical care. The freeze was automatic, with no warning.
Even KSPSI (Indonesia's largest labor union) called out the policy, slamming it as "sontoloyo logic"—like seizing millions of innocent "kitchen knives" just to catch a few criminals. Some parliament members demanded PPATK explain its criteria, stressing that mass punishment without public communication undermines confidence in banking and governance.
By mid‑2025, over 28,000 accounts had been frozen. Some reports suggest up to 1 million flagged accounts linked to suspected fraud. Over 150,000 nominee accounts (identities of owners not clear or used by others) had been flagged. Over 10 million social assistance accounts inactive for years held unused funds totaling Rp 2.1 trillion.
People began withdrawing cash en masse, terrified their bank-held money could vanish next. Savings meant for emergencies became inaccessible. Trust shattered. Now PPATK is considering reversing the policy because of public outrage.
All of that became a viral joke—and a sarcastic poem turned meme—that:
"Dimana bumi dipijak, di situ aku dipajak." (Wherever I stand, there I get taxed.)
But that joke is no longer funny. It hits too close to reality.
Policies like school taxes, wedding gift taxes, instant data surveillance—these are not reforms. They are opportunistic revenue grabs to fill gaps caused by mismanagement and corruption.
The medium class and small traders are worst hit—they pay tax after tax while services remain broken. Meanwhile, kleptocratic corruption siphons off the money. It feels like the government is inventing new taxes just to fatten its wallet, rather than invest in real solutions for education, health, and economic fairness.
When justice is for sale, mthe honest are jailed, while the corrupt are rewarded. Not just in whispers—but in open courtrooms, headlines, and political pardons.
Take the case of Tom Lembong, former trade minister. He was sentenced to 4.5 years in prison for alleged corruption over sugar import permits, accused of causing state losses of Rp 500 billion-plus—even though no evidence showed he personally benefited. Many believe the prosecution was politically motivated—given he had joined the opposition and criticized the government. Only for him to be pardoned and fully acquitted by the president's clemency weeks later. People rallied with #JusticeForTomLembong, arguing the system had failed him—but rewarded the powerful behind closed doors.
Meanwhile, consider the Nikita Mirzani case. She submitted flash disks to the court, claiming they contained records suggesting Reza Gladys had bribed the prosecutor and panel judge. She asked for them to be examined—but the court refused to play the recordings. Instead, after that hearing ended, a prosecutor forced her to wear a detainee vest and handcuffed her, escorting her to prison before she could speak to the press. She remains detained while evidence she insists on presenting is ignored.
Look around, and you see many more examples: ministers with serious graft allegations serving lenient sentences; enforcement officials receiving soft treatment; journalists and activists jailed. Meanwhile, the system pardons cronies—even before verdicts stick—just before Independence Day, under the banner of "national unity."
Observers say it's not just selective justice—it's justice employed as a political tool. The honest, brave, or critical voices are silenced. The well-connected or compliant are embraced.
When judges convict without evidence of personal gain, or when courts release high-profile figures with pardons, and when whistleblowers like Nikita are punished, what message does that send?
That justice can be bought. That truth can be suppressed. That legality can be wielded as an instrument of power.
It is deeply frightening—for people who still believe that law, ethics, and accountability should have meaning.
Even our foundational values—Pancasila, the five principles meant to define this nation—are being violated every day.
For those unfamiliar, Pancasila (from Sanskrit pañca "five" + śīla "principles") is the official philosophical foundation of Indonesia, enshrined in the nation's constitution as the guiding ideology for governance, society, and national identity.
It is built on five core principles:
Belief in the One and Only God
(Ketuhanan Yang Maha Esa)Recognizes Indonesia as a religious but pluralistic nation.
•Guarantees freedom of worship for six official religions (Islam, Christianity, Catholicism, Hinduism, Buddhism, Confucianism).
•Emphasizes tolerance and interfaith harmony. Just and Civilized Humanity
(Kemanusiaan yang Adil dan Beradab)Stresses human dignity, equality, and social justice.
•Rejects discrimination, colonialism, and exploitation.
•Promotes compassion and respect for human rights. The Unity of Indonesia
(Persatuan Indonesia)Celebrates national unity amid ethnic/cultural diversity.
•Opposes separatism and sectarianism.
•Symbolized by the national motto: Bhinneka Tunggal Ika ("Unity in Diversity"). Democracy Guided by Inner Wisdom in Deliberation Among Representatives
(Kerakyatan yang Dipimpin oleh Hikmat Kebijaksanaan dalam Permusyawaratan/Perwakilan)Endorses consensus-based decision-making (musyawarah mufakat).
•Rejects partisan conflict or majority tyranny.
•Balances popular participation with leadership wisdom. Social Justice for All Indonesians
(Keadilan Sosial bagi Seluruh Rakyat Indonesia)Calls for equitable wealth distribution and welfare.
•Condemns poverty, corruption, and economic monopolies.
•Inspired by socialist principles tailored to Indonesian values.
Where is the justice?
Where is the civility, the wisdom, the unity?
But what happens when none of those principles are honored by those in power?
What happens when justice is bought, unity is weaponized, and social equality is only a myth?
Religious intolerance is rising. Critics of power are silenced. The poor are pushed further down while those at the top grow richer off their suffering. Everything that violates Pancasila is happening right before our eyes—and yet it is those who speak the truth who are punished.
All of this unfolds under the leadership of a president who was once a military general. He is not just a man from the armed forces. He is Suharto's son-in-law—yes, that Suharto, the dictator who ruled with fear and iron for over three decades. Our current president, Prabowo Subianto, once held the rank of Lieutenant General before being discharged from the military. His name is tied to numerous human rights abuse cases. It was serious enough that several countries once barred him from entry. And now, he stands at the top of a so-called democracy.
Originally, I wanted this to be a festive update. Something lighthearted to celebrate Indonesia's Independence Day. Maybe a special "dedicated chapter" full of warmth, laughter, and national pride. I imagined writing about the excitement of 17 August events—the sack races, the panjat pinang competitions, the parades, the street festivals that stretch from neighborhood RT (Rukun Tetangga) or you can say "Neighborhood Association" or maybe "Community Unit" levels to national televised ceremonies. A day filled with music, games, and red-and-white flags fluttering in the breeze.
But when I sat down to write, that festive feeling never came.
Because how can I celebrate when the country I love feels like it's crumbling?
And then came my long list of rants and ramblings about what's happening in Indonesia right now. Maybe it's not as extreme as what we saw in the US under Trump—policies like ICE, mass deportations, the normalization of cruelty, and the persecution of journalists. I still remember how some people compared Alcatraz to Auschwitz because of how dehumanizing things became.
What do you expect when a felon becomes the leader of a nation?
I sympathize deeply with those affected, because, in a strange and painful way, it mirrors what's starting to happen here. It feels like I'm watching the possible future of my own country play out elsewhere. And the truth is, our current president isn't a good man either.
Look, I'm not saying Prabowo and Trump are exactly the same, but to me, they are alarmingly similar. From what I've seen in the media, they seem very close. So close that there are even rumors of Prabowo selling private data of Indonesian citizens to the US. I don't know if that's true, but the fact that such rumors even exist says a lot. Something about it all just feels… off.
Eighty years of independence.
That number keeps echoing in my head.
And I ask myself—what are we really free from?
Foreign invaders, yes. But what about the fear, the corruption, the disillusionment, the betrayal by our own people?
This is why today doesn't feel like a celebration.
Because our fight is not over. We are still fighting for the kind of independence that means something.
Independence of thought. Independence of truth. Independence from fear.
As painful as it is to say this:
It is harder to fight your own people than to fight a foreign invader.
Because this betrayal comes from those who were meant to protect you.
Today, on August 17, we say we are free.
But in truth, we are still fighting for that freedom.
And maybe that fight is the most patriotic thing we can do.
Because love for one's country isn't about obedience.
It's about wanting better, demanding better, and never giving up—no matter how dark things get.
Dirgahayu Indonesia.
May we one day become a nation worthy of the word merdeka.
And until that day arrives, we will keep fighting—not just to honor our history, but to take control of our future.
And I need to say something else.
Maybe this entire rant, this emotionally charged chapter, comes from something deeper. I do not consider myself someone who is overflowing with nationalism. I am not a politician. I am not even someone with much power. I am just a shut-in, unemployed translator who spends her time translating webnovels from Chinese to English.
But even so, when I look at the condition of my homeland—ibu pertiwi—how can I stay silent? How can I pretend everything is fine?
To be honest, I feel scared.
Scared for myself. Scared for this country. Scared for the future.
And maybe, somewhere deep inside, I am hoping that someone out there is reading this.
That someone will stumble across this chapter and realize: Indonesia is not fine.
Maybe, if enough people read this, if it somehow spreads far enough, the world will notice.
Maybe, just maybe, the international community will put pressure on our government to care about its people again.
And if not, at least I said something.
But at the very least, thank you for reading this long-ass, messy, emotional chapter. Sorry if it's not what you expected. I really did want it to be about celebration. But this is what came Today marks 80 years since Indonesia declared its independence from colonial rule. 80 years since we shouted "Merdeka!" to the world, believing in a free nation where the people could determine their own future.
But as I write this on August, with red-and-white flags fluttering in the wind across the country, a different question haunts me:
Are we truly free?
We were freed from foreign invaders, yes. But now we face a different kind of struggle—one that feels even more painful.
This time, the oppression comes from within. It wears our own flag, speaks our own language, and claims to act in our name.
What's happening in Indonesia right now feels like a slow, controlled collapse into darkness. The phrase "Indonesia Gelap" (Dark Indonesia) is no longer a warning. It is a living reality.
This year, we've seen a chilling acceleration of what I can only describe as state-sanctioned cruelty. From corruption in every direction, to violence, to systemic injustice that mocks the very foundation of this republic.
We've watched the police grow more corrupt and abusive—handling cases only when bribes are paid, even suggesting rape victims marry their rapists, turning police stations into sites of fear rather than refuge.
We've watched the military grow bolder, sliding quietly into civilian roles and reviving memories of the Suharto era, when generals ruled the people with violence and silence.
The past isn't staying in the past.
It is repeating itself.
And just like back then, dissent is being punished. Speak against those in power, and you're branded a traitor, a threat to national unity. Say the truth too loudly, and suddenly—you're under surveillance. Or worse.
Just recently, people discovered that inactive bank accounts—left untouched for three months—could be frozen without notice by a government agency (PPATK). No crime. No court order. Just bureaucracy—cold and unaccountable.
One case became a tragedy: A child lost her chance to save her dying mother because the emergency funds in her account were "inactive."
What kind of nation does this to its people?
Meanwhile, the streets are buzzing with muted protest. Alongside the red‑and‑white national flag, many Indonesians have begun raising the Jolly Roger—the pirate flag of the Straw Hat crew from One Piece. Not as a joke, nor cosplay. This flag has become a symbol of resistance, a cry demanding real justice and freedom, displayed under our flag as a banner of defiance against a government that increasingly behaves like a disguised tyrant.
How did officials react? A member of the DPR labeled this symbolic act a threat to national unity, insinuating potential rebellion. To them, even peaceful protest is dangerous. To them, those demanding freedom are the ones "dividing the nation." Now asking for freedom is treated like treason. But what kind of unity requires silence? What kind of nation fears its own people speaking truth?
In my view—and shared by others—banning fictional flags simply because they are interpreted as symbols of dissent reveals a profound insecurity. It shows the government is aware of its weak moral legitimacy. If a fictional flag can threaten the country's stability, the real problem lies not in the flag but the fragile trust between people and state.
In the world of One Piece, the World Government is corrupt, oppressive, and authoritarian. It suppresses truth, abuses power, and enforces compliance at the cost of individual freedom. The Straw Hat Pirates—led by Luffy, who wields the Devil Fruit power of Nika, the reincarnation of the mythical Joy Boy destined to liberate the world—stand in direct opposition to that tyranny. Their flag represents dreams, liberation, and the courage to oppose despotism.
Luffy and his crew fight not for power, but for the freedom to live honestly on their own terms, refusing to bow to oppressive rulers. Perhaps that is why so many Indonesians are publicly raising the One Piece flag. Not because they are anime fans, but because they are fed up and disappointed with the existing system.
Gus Dur (the 4th President) once said, "You may raise another flag, but don't raise it higher than the red-and-white." That wisdom speaks volumes now.
Our fictional narrative reflects real politics. The world government in One Piece is corrupt, censoring information, manipulating history, kidnapping dissenters, and maintaining power at any cost. That dystopian model lands with uncanny resonance here, where the state often behaves less like protector and more like a coercive force.
Legally, Indonesian law does allow raising other flags—as long as they do not fly beneath or above the national flag. Article 24 of Indonesia's Flag and Emblem Law (UUD No. 24/2009 Ayat 1), which mandates the flag's supremacy clearly states:
"Setiap orang dilarang mengibarkan Bendera Negara di bawah bendera atau lambang apa pun." (The hoisting of the National Flag under any other banner or insignia is expressly forbidden.)
So symbolically, one may display another flag beside or below the Merah Putih—but not above or replacing it.
One minister, Coordinating Minister for Politics and Law Budi Gunawan (Menko Polkam), warned that flying the Jolly Roger could carry criminal penalties, urging police to detain those who fly it. Yet, according to Indonesian law—specifically Law No. 24 of 2009 and Government Regulation No. 40 of 1958—there is no prohibition on flying a fictional or non‑state flag, as long as the Red‑White flag is not replaced, flown lower, or disrespected. Article 24 of Law Nr. 24/2009 forbids insulting the national flag, flying it below other symbols, or replacing it entirely, but says nothing about fictional emblems being displayed concurrently.
Some quarters of government, including MPR (Indonesia's highest constitutional body), labeled the movement "provocative" or even potentially makar—a form of rebellion—urging authorities to act decisively
Therefore, calling this protest treason, or claiming it undermines unity, only highlights a fear of dissent. The real threat is not the fictional flag but the fading legitimacy of those in power.
In fact, recent developments show real coercion:
Mural removal by authorities: A One Piece mural in Sragen (depicting Shirohige's Jolly Roger) was forcibly erased under military supervision, sparking outrage over erasure of youth expression.
Street artworks obliterated in Surabaya: Mural and street-painted logos were cleaned up by Pemkot and Bakesbangpol officials, despite being non-violent expressions of protest
Police "sweeping" actions: In Jakarta, police and Satpol PP began monitoring and removing One Piece flags, following government signals—despite no legal basis for such enforcement in many regions
Amnesty International Indonesia condemned these acts of razia (sweeping) and suppression. The director, Usman Hamid, called the state's response "very excessive" and pointed out that peaceful symbolic protest is constitutionally protected.
During a formal police press conference, a spokesperson attempted to justify the escalations, but critics say the explanations were convoluted and offered no clarity—more like verbal obfuscation than accountability. The event was widely criticized as lacking substance and failing to address the real issue.
It feels like the government is prohibiting public opinion and expression—even though those rights are guaranteed by the Constitution. Specifically, Article 28E(3) UUD 1945 states:
"Every person has the right to unconditionally express thoughts and attitudes in writing and oral according to their conscience."
Yet systematic pressure and intimidation—whether through military oversight, police presence, or bureaucratic warnings—create a chilling effect. It may not always involve overt violence, but the intimidation is real.
As civilians, we know the police are officially "armed forces under the law" capable of arresting or detaining. So how can ordinary people feel safe to speak freely?
In my opinion the Jolly Roger can also being treated like an "umbul-umbul". An umbul-umbul is a traditional decorative banner used in Indonesian village festivals and Independence Day celebrations—bright, symbolic, part of everyday cultural life. If those are allowed widely, even fanciful or controversial umbul‑umbul designs, why is a One Piece flag singled out? Especially when many extremist or violent group flags remain tolerated.
The Jolly Roger trend isn't a coordinated violent movement. It's symbolic—akin to raising umbul-umbul. But because it expresses dissent, it's subject to disproportionate crackdown.
In short, government officials label the One Piece flag as divisive or even treasonous—but selectively tolerate more troubling symbols. Pressure from military, police, and local authorities escalates into erasure and intimidation. Press explanations lack transparency. Constitutional rights to express dissent peacefully are real—but only if you're not criticizing power.
If a fictional symbol of freedom can be declared illegal, then it's not the flag that's unstable—it's the legitimacy of the regime that's unraveling.
The controversy has even reached international news outlets. They highlight how a flag from a Japanese manga has been labelled a "national threat." All this because one flag symbolizes freedom while the other's defenders fear it might undermine their authority
This year alone has revealed scandal after scandal:
Corruption in fuel (Pertamax tampered)
• Bribes demanded just to file police reports
• The tax agency looting the public
• Small business owners extorted by officials
• Laws sold to the highest bidder
• Job markets manipulated
• New taxes pushed with absurd reasoning
• Religious intolerance on the rise
•Victims are blamed. Rapists are protected.
•Landlords are paid off to evict families who still owe money on their homes.
•The honest are jailed. The corrupt are rewarded.
•Justice is for sale.
•People who criticize the government face harassment, surveillance, or worse.
And as all of this happens, the government quietly slips through new laws.
The military creeps further into civilian government.
Journalists are threatened. Environmental destruction continues unchecked.
And anyone who dares to speak out is labeled a traitor, a liar, or a foreign puppet.
Earlier this year, someone in power claimed that the mass rapes of 1998 "never happened." That the suffering of ethnic Chinese women—even though they were legally citizens of this country—were targeted, raped, and brutalized, often by police and military personnel. Ethnic Chinese men were murdered in the streets. It was a period of unspeakable terror This, despite evidence. Despite survivor testimony. Despite our own president at the time acknowledging it.
They want us to forget. To erase.
But how can we heal from something the nation refuses to admit ever happened?
For job markets, authorities recently revealed that around 15,000 job listings circulating online turned out to be scams. People responded hoping for honest work, only to be met with deception instead. Many land in financial traps—losing savings rather than getting hired. This level of fraud signals a deep breakdown in both oversight and compassion.
In response, a popular online movement called #KaburAjaDulu emerged—urging job hunters to temporarily step back, regroup, and approach the market with caution. But the government criticized the movement, claiming it shows a lack of nationalism, as if taking a defensive stance in a rigged system equals betrayal.
Then came Abdul Kadir Karding, Indonesia's Minister of Manpower and Transmigration (P2MI), who suggested that Indonesians consider working overseas to reduce domestic unemployment. Critics argue this is a short-term, emergency mentality, rather than a long-term solution. Karding clarified he didn't mean to force anyone—but many see it as passing responsibility rather than fixing systemic issues at home.
The government's narrative implies that asking for protection or caution is unpatriotic. Yet if job seekers call for reform, they are branded disloyal. Meanwhile, urging the workforce to "run away abroad" hardly feels like a solution—it feels like giving up on improving the country.
Fragile legitimacy is clear when protest is labeled betrayal, and seeking safety labeled a lack of nationalism. The real grief lies not with those who pause or #KaburAjaDulu—but in a system so unstable that people feel forced to flee.
This is why Indonesians are increasingly skeptical—of job listings, of institutional trust, and yes, even of national leadership.
And then comes the absurd tax drive & economic despair. Indonesia's economic headlines are increasingly dominated by outrageous tax proposals and baffling policy ideas. It feels like the government is scrambling desperately for revenue—any excuse to extract from the people—while ignoring systemic fixes. Here are the most absurd examples:
School Cafeterias to be Taxed
Jakarta's regional legislature (DPRD) proposed taxing vending stalls and cafeterias in schools. Taxing food in a place meant for children to eat freely? That is morally tone-deaf and shows a lack of vision for real reform.
Seizing "Abandoned" Land After Two Years
A draft plan suggests the government can take over land if it's unused for two years. Yet the reality is far murkier: who decides "unused"? What about small farmers, informal settlers, or those held back by bureaucracy? This is government land-grabbing disguised as reform.
Taxing Wedding Envelopes
Rumors spread that the government wanted to tax money gifts in wedding envelopes—digital or physical. Even though DJP and the State Secretary officially denied it, the damage was done. The mere suggestion triggered anxiety across communities. The issue showed how desperately the treasury is chasing every potential rupiah.
Social Media Tax Surveillance from 2026
The Ministry of Finance plans to start monitoring social media activity and digital data to find undeclared income in 2026. Even if well-intentioned, it's invasive and treats citizens like suspects before proof.
VAT (PPN) Still Low? Raise It Anyway
The tax office head publicly said Indonesia's 11% VAT is "still low" and can be raised further. Let that sink in—despite widespread poverty, rising living costs, and lagging service quality, the rhetoric is always "put more tax on it."
Taxing Online Sellers on E‑Commerce
Finance Minister Sri Mulyani has hinted at imposing taxes on sellers on platforms like Shopee, Tokopedia, TikTok Shop, and others. Small entrepreneurs and young sellers are on edge; many feel targeted, not supported.
World Bank Warns Indonesia's Tax System Is Among Worst
Indonesia ranks near the bottom for tax administration effectiveness among emerging economies. The World Bank report and user discussions say incomplete compliance, corrupt auditors, and policy gaps wreck possible revenue—yet the government's answer is to tax more, not fix the system.
Bank Account Freezes by PPATK
PPATK claimed the crackdown was to prevent misuse of idle accounts for money laundering, online gambling, nomination schemes, or drug and corruption syndicates. They argued freezing these accounts would protect both depositors and national financial integrity. But the execution left millions unprepared. Anyone unused for just three months—especially rural communities, overseas workers, elderly savers—found their accounts blocked literally at random, even if they had no wrongdoing.
People discovered their savings inaccessible at ATMs or apps. No alerts, no prior notice. Some accounts drained by inactivity fees or closed by banks without consent. Reactivation procedures required paperwork, branch visits, and processing times of up to 20 working days. Small traders couldn't pay suppliers. Students couldn't access tuition. Elderly users and overseas workers were stranded.
One tragic reported case: a mother died because her child couldn't access funds for emergency medical care. The freeze was automatic, with no warning.
Even KSPSI (Indonesia's largest labor union) called out the policy, slamming it as "sontoloyo logic"—like seizing millions of innocent "kitchen knives" just to catch a few criminals. Some parliament members demanded PPATK explain its criteria, stressing that mass punishment without public communication undermines confidence in banking and governance.
By mid‑2025, over 28,000 accounts had been frozen. Some reports suggest up to 1 million flagged accounts linked to suspected fraud. Over 150,000 nominee accounts (identities of owners not clear or used by others) had been flagged. Over 10 million social assistance accounts inactive for years held unused funds totaling Rp 2.1 trillion.
People began withdrawing cash en masse, terrified their bank-held money could vanish next. Savings meant for emergencies became inaccessible. Trust shattered. Now PPATK considers reversing the policy because of public outrage.
All of that become a viral joke—and a sarcastic poem turned meme—that:
"Dimana bumi dipijak, di situ aku dipajak." (Wherever I stand, there I get taxed.)
But that joke is no longer funny. It hits too close to reality.
Policies like school taxes, wedding gift taxes, instant data surveillance—these are not reforms. They are opportunistic revenue grabs to fill gaps caused by mismanagement and corruption.
The medium class and small traders are worst hit—they pay tax after tax while services remain broken. Meanwhile, kleptocratic corruption siphons off the money. It feels like the government is inventing new taxes just to fatten its wallet, rather than invest in real solutions for education, health, and economic fairness.
When justice is for sale, mthe honest are jailed, while the corrupt are rewarded. Not just in whispers—but in open courtrooms, headlines, and political pardons.
Take the case of Tom Lembong, former trade minister. He was sentenced to 4.5 years in prison for alleged corruption over sugar import permits, accused of causing state losses of Rp 500 billion-plus—even though no evidence showed he personally benefited. Many believe the prosecution was politically motivated—given he had joined the opposition and criticized the government. Only for him to be pardoned and fully acquitted by the president's clemency weeks later. People rallied with #JusticeForTomLembong, arguing the system had failed him—but rewarded the powerful behind closed doors.
Meanwhile, consider the case of Nikita Mirzani. She submitted flash drives to the court, claiming they contained recordings that pointed to bribery involving Reza Gladys, the prosecutor, and even members of the judicial panel. She respectfully requested that the court play the recordings. But the judges refused. They didn't even review the contents. Instead, after the hearing concluded, a prosecutor abruptly forced her to wear a detainee vest and handcuffed her on the spot, escorting her straight to prison before she could speak to the press.
She remains detained. The evidence she insisted on presenting? Still ignored.
Much has been said about her attitude—but courtroom demeanor should never be the sole basis for determining someone's custody status. Especially not when the defendant is submitting evidence that implicates prosecutors and judges in serious misconduct. If the accused comes forward, asking for evidence of bribery to be heard and verified, then the real question is not about her tone or attitude—it's about the courage and integrity of the judicial system itself.
When judges dismiss such evidence without consideration, and casually send the defendant back to detention without even reviewing the material, that's no longer about courtroom etiquette. That's silencing the pursuit of truth.
A courtroom is not a stage for dominance or humiliation. It's supposed to be a place where justice is served, fairly and fearlessly. If the court refuses to even listen to evidence of corruption, where is the justice in that?
Don't deflect scrutiny by blaming the defendant's tone, when the system itself is deaf and blind to the rot within.
And more importantly, the prosecutor had no right to forcefully detain her in that manner. Forcing someone to wear a detainee vest and handcuffing them before a proper ruling not only violates the presumption of innocence but also breaches basic human rights. If physical coercion was involved, it could constitute a criminal offense under Article 351 of the Indonesian Penal Code (KUHP) regarding assault, or Article 421 if it involved abuse of authority.
Beyond criminal liability, such conduct clearly violates the Human Rights Law (UU HAM) and the ethical code of prosecutors. A defendant, no matter how controversial, must be treated with dignity and afforded their legal rights. Justice is not justice if it is delivered through fear, silence, or selective enforcement.
Look around, and you see many more examples: ministers with serious graft allegations serving lenient sentences; enforcement officials receiving soft treatment; journalists and activists jailed. Meanwhile, the system pardons cronies—even before verdicts stick—just before Independence Day, under the banner of "national unity."
Observers say it's not just selective justice—it's justice employed as a political tool. The honest, brave, or critical voice are silenced. The well-connected or compliant are embraced.
When judges convict without evidence of personal gain, or when courts release high-profile figures with pardons, and when whistleblowers like Nikita are punished, what message does that send?
That justice can be bought. That truth can be suppressed. That legality can be wielded as an instrument of power.
It is deeply frightening—for people who still believe that law, ethics, and accountability should have meaning.
Even our foundational values—Pancasila, the five principles meant to define this nation—are being violated every day.
For those unfamiliar, Pancasila (from Sanskrit pañca "five" + śīla "principles") is the official philosophical foundation of Indonesia, enshrined in the nation's constitution as the guiding ideology for governance, society, and national identity.
It is built on five core principles:
Belief in the One and Only God
(Ketuhanan Yang Maha Esa)Recognizes Indonesia as a religious but pluralistic nation.
•Guarantees freedom of worship for six official religions (Islam, Christianity, Catholicism, Hinduism, Buddhism, Confucianism).
•Emphasizes tolerance and interfaith harmony. Just and Civilized Humanity
(Kemanusiaan yang Adil dan Beradab)Stresses human dignity, equality, and social justice.
•Rejects discrimination, colonialism, and exploitation.
•Promotes compassion and respect for human rights. The Unity of Indonesia
(Persatuan Indonesia)Celebrates national unity amid ethnic/cultural diversity.
•Opposes separatism and sectarianism.
•Symbolized by the national motto: Bhinneka Tunggal Ika ("Unity in Diversity"). Democracy Guided by Inner Wisdom in Deliberation Among Representatives
(Kerakyatan yang Dipimpin oleh Hikmat Kebijaksanaan dalam Permusyawaratan/Perwakilan)Endorses consensus-based decision-making (musyawarah mufakat).
•Rejects partisan conflict or majority tyranny.
•Balances popular participation with leadership wisdom. Social Justice for All Indonesians
(Keadilan Sosial bagi Seluruh Rakyat Indonesia)Calls for equitable wealth distribution and welfare.
•Condemns poverty, corruption, and economic monopolies.
•Inspired by socialist principles tailored to Indonesian values.
Where is the justice?
Where is the civility, the wisdom, the unity?
But what happens when none of those principles are honored by those in power?
What happens when justice is bought, unity is weaponized, and social equality is only a myth?
Religious intolerance is rising. Critics of power are silenced. The poor are pushed further down while those at the top grow richer off their suffering. Everything that violates Pancasila is happening right before our eyes—and yet it is those who speak the truth who are punished.
All of this unfolds under the leadership of a president who was once a military general. He is not just a man from the armed forces. He is Suharto's son-in-law—yes, that Suharto, the dictator who ruled with fear and iron for over three decades. Our current president, Prabowo Subianto, was once held the rank of Lieutenant General before being discharged from the military. His name is tied to numerous human rights abuse cases. It was serious enough that several countries once barred him from entry. And now, he stands at the top of a so-called democracy.
Originally, I wanted this to be a festive update. Something lighthearted to celebrate Indonesia's Independence Day. Maybe a special "dedicated chapter" full of warmth, laughter, and national pride. I imagined writing about the excitement of 17 August events—the "sack races", the panjat pinang competitions, the parades, the street festivals that stretch from neighborhood RT (Rukun Tetangga) or you can say "Neighborhood Association" or maybe "Community Unit" levels to national televised ceremonies. A day filled with music, games, and red-and-white flags fluttering in the breeze.
But when I sat down to write, that festive feeling never came.
Because how can I celebrate when the country I love feels like it's crumbling?
And then came my long list of rants and ramblings about what's happening in Indonesia right now. Maybe it's not as extreme as what we saw in the US under Trump—policies like ICE, mass deportations, the normalization of cruelty, and the persecution of journalists. I still remember how some people compared Alcatraz to Auschwitz because of how dehumanizing things became.
What do you expect when a felon becomes the leader of a nation?
I sympathize deeply with those affected, because, in a strange and painful way, it mirrors what's starting to happen here. It feels like I'm watching the possible future of my own country play out elsewhere. And the truth is, our current president isn't a good man either.
Look, I'm not saying Prabowo and Trump are exactly the same, but to me, they are alarmingly similar. From what I've seen in the media, they seem very close. So close that there are even rumors of Prabowo selling private data of Indonesian citizens to the US. I don't know if that's true, but the fact that such rumors even exist says a lot. Something about it all just feels… off.
Eighty years of independence.
That number keeps echoing in my head.
And I ask myself—what are we really free from?
Foreign invaders, yes. But what about the fear, the corruption, the disillusionment, the betrayal by our own people?
This is why today doesn't feel like a celebration.
Because our fight is not over. We are still fighting for the kind of independence that means something.
Independence of thought. Independence of truth. Independence from fear.
As painful as it is to say this:
It is harder to fight your own people than to fight a foreign invader.
Because this betrayal comes from those who were meant to protect you.
Today, on August 17, we say we are free.
But in truth, we are still fighting for that freedom.
And maybe that fight is the most patriotic thing we can do.
Because love for one's country isn't about obedience.
It's about wanting better, demanding better, and never giving up—no matter how dark things get.
Dirgahayu Indonesia.
May we one day become a nation worthy of the word merdeka.
And until that day arrives, we will keep fighting—not just to honor our history, but to take control of our future.
And I need to say something else.
Maybe this entire rant, this emotionally charged chapter, comes from something deeper. I do not consider myself someone who is overflowing with nationalism. I am not a politician. I am not even someone with much power. I am just a shut-in, unemployed translator who spends her time translating webnovels from Chinese to English.
But even so, when I look at the condition of my homeland—ibu pertiwi—how can I stay silent? How can I pretend everything is fine?
To be honest, I feel scared.
Scared for myself. Scared for this country. Scared for the future.
And maybe, somewhere deep inside, I am hoping that someone out there is reading this.
That someone will stumble across this chapter and realize: Indonesia is not fine.
Maybe, if enough people read this, if it somehow spreads far enough, the world will notice.
Maybe, just maybe, the international community will put pressure on our government to care about its people again.
And if not, at least I said something.
But at the very least, thank you for reading this long-ass, messy, emotional chapter. Sorry if it's not what you expected. I really did want it to be about celebration. But this is what came out instead.
—Reiya