The Burn Method
What was behind the mass protests in Indonesia this year, and how did they change the country? From Jakarta, a report on an unfinished Reformasi
Affan Kurniawan was only trying to cross the street when a police vehicle ran him over. A 21-year-old motorcycle taxi driver, he was making his way through protests in downtown Jakarta, Indonesia, in order to deliver the food that someone had ordered on a phone application a few minutes earlier, when the cops rammed into the crowd. He was caught beneath the tires and left behind as they sped away; his violent death was recorded on another phone, and the video quickly spread across the largest country in Southeast Asia.
“When I saw it, I stopped and cried by the side of the road,” said Raffi, 20, a university student and fellow gig worker. He was resting between shifts, idly scrolling Instagram, he told me, when he saw the video of what happened to Affan. “Maybe he became an online motorcycle taxi driver, like my older brother, because he couldn’t find decent work, which is a consequence of government policies that don’t favor the people.” That night, August 28, Raffi decided to join the protests.
After Affan Kurniawan’s death, a set of small, loosely coordinated demonstrations against bonuses for Congresspersons and immiseration for workers swelled into a much larger and even more diverse movement. Affan’s death provided the spark that ignited a powder keg. In the days that followed, protests erupted across more than 100 locations in 36 of Indonesia’s 38 provinces. In the city of Makassar, Sulawesi, a city council building burned to the ground, and three civil servants died inside.
Thus the Indonesian protests of August and September – the largest in the country since the end of the Suharto dictatorship in 1998 – followed the same script as many unexpected explosive mobilizations in the era of social media. A visible act of state repression or police brutality transforms a small movement into something much larger and qualitatively different. Unpredictable mass protests shaped much of the history of the 2010s, and have rocked places like Nepal, Kenya, Madagascar, Serbia, and Morocco over the last few months.
In Indonesia, had that powder keg been primed by months, or even years, of simmering public anger? Or was it called into being much more quickly, by a spectacular and shocking death that took place amid elite in-fighting and tone-deaf politicians badly failing to read the national mood? Participants in the protests, scholars and activists say that to understand the events of the last few months, it is important to understand the state of Indonesian politics well before October 24, 2024 – the date that Prabowo Subianto, the son-in-law of former dictator Suharto, took office as president. More difficult to answer is the question of how the movement has changed the country.
Unlike in Nepal or Madagascar, where a rapid-fire increase in protest intensity led to the removal of the executive, the Indonesian demonstrations did not lead to structural change. Prabowo survived, simply reshuffling his cabinet in ways that serve his interests well, and the government arrested more than 6,000 protesters. Meanwhile, a new generation is energized and eager to pressure the government from below, and is desperately looking around for the tools to do so.
The dictatorship that began with the 1965-1966 mass murder of approximately one million leftists and citizens accused of being leftists ended with the 1998 “Reformasi” uprising. Indonesia became a democracy, though it remained a poor country with a powerful military. Then, in 2014, the election of former furniture dealer Joko “Jokowi” Widodo electrified progressives and democrats. As the first president since Suharto’s downfall who came from outside the pre-existing political or military elite, he was hailed as the “true son of Reformasi.”
Soon, it became clear that he was constrained by the power of the old elites; or, at least, that he was willing to make peace with them when it served his interests. While in power, he enjoyed solid approval ratings, and Indonesia experienced modest growth. But the shape of the society remained the same; and just as it had for centuries, economic expansion depended upon the extraction and export of raw materials and low wages for Indonesian workers.
After Jokowi’s easy re-election in 2019, students and citizens protested a package of laws they said fostered corruption and curtailed individual liberties. One month later, he shocked his base by appointing Prabowo Subianto, his longtime rival, as defense minister. Prabowo has been widely accused of crimes against humanity, committed both against the people of East Timor and the students pushing for “Reformasi.” But wider support for his government remained solid to the end, even as Jokowi engineered a shocking legal change that allowed his son, Gibran Rakabuming Raka, to run as Prabowo’s vice-presidential candidate in 2024. Tens of thousands protested, but it worked. With the two dynasties united, Prabowo had a clear path to power.
After the transition to democracy it became legal, at least on paper, to organize the citizenry and pressure the state from below. But after 30 years of scorched-earth policies, Indonesia is bereft of any significant left-wing political force. None survived the dictatorship, and efforts to launch a new Labor Party have been complicated by a difficult political environment. It has usually fallen to foreign-backed liberal NGOs, weak unions, and loose student confederations to push back against elites.
To secure the votes to win the 2024 election, Prabowo relied on a savvy social media campaign that portrayed Prabowo as a “cuddly grandpa,” rather than a ruthless general who married into the family of one of the most murderous dictators of the 20th century. Something very similar had happened two years earlier in the Philippines, when TikTok influencers were enlisted to launder the reputation of Bongbong, the son of dictator Ferdinand Marcos, so he could be elected president (with self-interested support from the new family dynasty in that country, the Duterte clan).
But Prabowo has not governed with cute memes: His growth strategy has relied on budget cuts and capital-intensive commodities, leaving workers jobless or forcing them to flee to the informal sector. In February, anti-austerity protests with the slogan “Indonesia Gelap” – that is, Dark Indonesia – erupted across the country. Prabowo brushed off the demonstrations: “Indonesia is bright. You are the dark one!” This further enraged protesters. But Prabowo, a popular elected leader with solid support in the police and the military, faced no organized force capable of challenging institutional power.
In early August, residents of Pati, Central Java, began planning a street protest against a rapid hike in property taxes. In response, the local regent said: “Who wants to protest? Go ahead. Don’t stop at 5,000, bring 50,000 people if you like.” This was a mistake.
Farmers, fishermen, and other locals came out in force. Without help from established NGOs or student groups, an estimated 100,000 protesters forced the government to revoke the tax hike and investigate the local regent. One banner hoisted high over Pati went viral: “Pati: Where the Revolution Begins.”
Later that month, the government confirmed the approval of a new housing allowance for members of Parliament. They would each receive 50 million rupiah, or about $3,000 per month. The minimum wage in Indonesia is two million ($129) per month. Messages spread on social media and WhatsApp urging people to take to the streets on August 25. But it was not just established organizations that thought some of these calls were suspicious – they had no clear origin, and they called for the abolition of the House of Representatives. In the context of the Indonesian system, weakening the legislature would only make Prabowo stronger.
Citizens did pour into the streets, even if they felt that elites may have been trying to control events for their own benefit. Among them was filmmaker Adhito “Dhito” Harinugroho, a veteran of Reformasi-era protests, who immediately felt that something was off. First, there were no clear or unified demands. Second, the traffic appeared to have been deliberately engineered to funnel crowds into specific areas—where clashes later broke out, allegedly involving paid agents provocateurs. But as limited and strange as this opportunity was, he found earnest citizens using it to direct frustration at the government and police. “We were all angry,” he told me. “If the government is afraid of elite manipulation, then they shouldn’t be passing bizarre laws in the first place. That way, there would be no protests to exploit.”
Demonstrations continued over the next few days, with established organizations adding more concrete demands, until August 28, the day Affan died. That night, gig worker associations gathered outside police headquarters demanding justice, and demonstrations spiraled out of control. The next day, Prabowo broke his silence, urging the public to trust his administration and accusing foreign actors of trying to sow division in the country. This did not work.
Irwansyah, a lecturer in politics at the University of Indonesia who also lived through the days of Reformasi, joined his students in a protest outside police headquarters. Like Dhito, he couldn’t quite understand what was happening. “We were just sitting, waiting for our food order, when suddenly an armored vehicle opened fire on us,” he said. “It was bizarre. What was the point?”
To this day, it remains unclear who was behind calls for the August 25 demonstration. Later, a Tempo magazine investigation revealed that some impetus for the protests may have arisen from power struggles within the government, and that members of the military may have attempted to provoke chaos after August 28.
By August 31, rumors were spreading that the government would impose martial law. On social media, calls emerged urging protesters to disperse, rather than give the government a pretext for such an action. By September 1, the situation had stabilized, with protests continuing at several locations. This time, several banners appeared bearing a new slogan: “17+8 People’s Demands.”
Where did these demands come from? Who had risen to speak for the people? In post-Reformasi (and, post-true-son-of-Reformasi) Indonesia, who attempted to assert leadership of the mass movement?
Turns out it was some Instagram influencers. The day before, as rumors of martial law began to spread, several of them had cobbled together some of the demands circulating on social media and incorporated some of the analysis being offered by major NGOs. As a class, Indonesia’s influencers usually stay out of politics; for breaking their usual silence, they garnered praise. The list spread rapidly, though few on the streets actually knew what it contained. “When I looked closer, even the demand to dismiss the police chief wasn’t there,” Dhito told me. “But that was one of the loudest calls we heard on the ground.” On September 4, the influencers submitted the demands to parliament, and two lawmakers pledged to review them. More than generating any concrete changes, the presentation of their demands led to accusations that the influencers had stolen the spotlight, and given the government an excuse to simply move on.
Everything indicates that many Indonesians have been fired up by the protests. Is there a now a movement to join, or must they wait for another unexpected wave of riots that may or may not have been inadvertently spurred by elite scheming? In Nepal, and Madagascar, it is far from clear that all protesters are glad their explosion grew large and fast enough to bring down governments. Here in Indonesia, were the goals of this protest wave clear?
Irwansyah thinks they were not; the lack of coherent demands, and the lack of clear leadership, led to widespread confusion. But what else was possible?
Olle Törnquist, a professor of political science at the University of Oslo, argues that the victories of 1998 created a web of elite political parties entangled with pre-existing economic relations. Other heroes of that era turned to populist, religious, and ethnically driven shortcuts to mobilize mass support.
Meanwhile, their friends in the NGO sector compete over funding, focus on single issues, and remain focused on Indonesia’s bit cities. “The attempts to build popularly based organisations such as trade unions and parties with roots in different ideas and interests and firm local presence are scattered and weak,” he wrote,” and they “are not very popular among middle class activists and foreign donors.”
The NGOs, the unions, and the student groups all have their own limitations, their own members admit. The NGOs are dependent on donor funding and agendas, and their approach is highly technocratic. Most labor associations focus narrowly on short-term member concerns. This has left protest movements in Indonesia dependent on students. But the universities are making it harder to organize, and leadership is tied to the academic calendar—each new school year brings new leaders, and with them, shifting agendas.
“That’s what makes it hard for students to mobilize today. That’s why Indonesia really needs a strong grassroots movement built by the people themselves,” Attan Zayid Sulthan, the head of the University of Indonesia’s student executive board, told me.
Amalinda Savirani, a professor of politics and governance at Gadjah Mada University in Yogyakarta, said Indonesia already has many small, vocal, citizen-led initiatives addressing local issues across the country. “Numerous initiatives have begun to emerge, even if they may not have formal names — and let’s not forget, grassroots movements like the one in Pati are also beginning to gain momentum,” said the professor, who has written several papers on organizing.
Irwansyah said that these movements need to engage directly with communities, setting up posts in villages to listen to people’s concerns. “This isn’t about ideology or party, but that’s exactly how the Indonesian Communist Party (PKI) built such a strong base in the 1960s—by starting from the grassroots. That’s where real strength begins, and today it can be amplified through digital power,” Irwansyah said.
Both Irwansyah and Amalinda remain optimistic. “Since August, the sense of solidarity has definitely grown stronger — especially as the government keeps giving us reasons to be angry,” said Anggita, 20, one of many students who continue to protest. On October 6th, she spoke to me about that feeling, just outside the Parliament building. “In a way, this anger nurtures the people’s movement.”
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