Protesters gather in front of DPRD Sumut gate entrance in Medan on August 29, 2025. Photo: Wikimedia Commons
In late August 2025, years of frustration against institutional malfeasance culminated in protests, demonstrations, and violence across Indonesia, the world’s third-largest democracy. The week-long turmoil eased only in September, after the scale of the unrest compelled the government and lawmakers to introduce changes, which rights groups and activists say fell short of meaningful reform.
The widespread protests began on August 25, after it was revealed that Indonesian lawmakers had been receiving a monthly housing allowance of Rp 50 million (approximately $3000) over and above their salaries since October 2024. This amount is 10 times the minimum monthly wage in capital city Jakarta and 20 times the minimum wage in economically weaker areas of the country.
In a country with a long history of corruption and authoritarian rule, racked by economic instability and rising costs, the revelation of this exorbitant perk sparked a fresh wave of outrage across the nation. This came at a time when the government was implementing austerity measures, including cuts to education and healthcare.
The public outcry escalated when a 21-year-old food delivery driver, Affan Kurniawan, was run over by a vehicle belonging to the nation’s elite paramilitary police unit at the protest on August 28.
Riot police walking by in Medan, Indonesia, on August 29, 2025. Photo: Wikimedia Commons
Indonesia’s National Police (Polri) Chief General Listyo Sigit Prabowo issued an apology to Kurniawan’s family and assured an investigation into the case. Investigation into the incident was also assured by President Prabowo Subianto, who initially called the protests “treason and terrorism”.
On August 31, following the protests, Subianto announced that the parliament had decided to scrap housing allowance and suspend overseas trips.
The week-long clashes between protesters and police and military led to the death of at least ten people, and 44 others remain missing.
Protestors in Jakarta on August 28, 2025. Photo: Viriya Paramita Singgih/Project Multatuli
Although the tension has eased over the last week, demonstrations continue, primarily led by student groups in Jakarta.
Demands and Government Action
By early September, the “17+8 Demands” campaign gained influence across the protest movement. Compiled using statements from civil organisations and unions, the campaign lists 17 short-term demands such as releasing detainees, freezing lawmakers’ perks, equitable wages, and eight long-term demands to address corruption and induce institutional reform.
However, senior activists who have been voicing concerns for years, have expressed distress on social media, saying that the 17+8 demands lacked consultation with wider civil society.
Meanwhile, the government and the lawmakers have addressed some of these demands, such as detailing parliamentarians’ “take home pay” and beginning the release of political detainees. But significant action is yet to be taken toward many other demands.
On September 9, in a sudden reshuffle of his Cabinet, Subianto replaced five economic and security ministers, including Finance Minister Sri Mulyani Indrawati, former executive director of the International Monetary Fund and managing director of the World Bank. However, the newly appointed Minister of Finance Purbaya Yudhi Sadewa, has made dismissive comments about the “17+8” campaign after he was sworn in.
History of Protests
Over the last two years, there have been many waves of mass protests and demonstrations against controversial moves by Indonesian governments.
In August last year, thousands of people took to the streets after the government attempted to change an election law to favour the dynastic coalition led by former President Joko “Jokowi” Widodo, and current President Subianto.
Former Indonesian president Joko Widodo (left) and then-Defense Minister Prabowo Subianto (right). Photo: Indonesian Ministry of Defense/Wikimedia Commons
In February 2025, student-led ‘Dark Indonesia’ protests took place in Yogyakarta, Jakarta, and Medan. Sporadic protests continued throughout the year over controversial government policies, budget cuts, against the increased re-involvement of the military in civilian matters, economic inequality, the Gaza genocide, government and police corruption, and more.
READ: Indonesia’s New Capital: How Jokowi Uses Extravagant Promises to Lure Investors
Police and military have been accused of using disproportionate force during the latest protests, prompting the United Nations to call for an investigation. Seven officers were detained in relation to Kurniawan’s death and one of them was dishonorably discharged.
Although the situation seems to have abated, the foundational issues causing nationwide tensions haven’t been addressed by Subianto’s government. Subianto, a former special forces commandant, has established 100 new battalions since coming to power less than a year ago in October 2024, with plans for much more.
The new battalions are allegedly to assist in civilian domains like agriculture, husbandry and food security. These battalions, along with the passing of a law allowing armed forces personnel to hold more civilian posts, have signalled a return to Indonesia’s “New Order” era, a dark period of authoritarian rule in Indonesian history led by military dictator Suharto. Subianto is Suharto’s former son-in-law.
However, Prabawo is not the first since Suharto to be accused of undermining Indonesia’s democracy. His predecessor, Joko Widodo—elected in 2014 as a “man of the people”— left behind a tainted legacy of corruption and nepotism.
The epistemicide of Chinese-Indonesians. Illustration: Abdul Malik Amirullah/Project Multatuli
(Trigger Warning: This article may be distressing or triggering for some readers.)
May 1998 was the moment when I began to associate the word “Chinese-Indonesian” with “violence” and “rape”.
At the end of elementary school, it was the first time I was forced to be afraid of my identity both as a woman and as a Chinese-Indonesian, and I was frustrated because I did not understand how I ended up feeling that way. I knew almost nothing about the history of Chinese-Indonesians that led to the May 1998 riots. That ignorance made it even harder for me to understand my own emotions.
My parents also didn’t explain much. “The most important thing is, as a Chinese-Indonesian, you always have to be cautious. You can’t just say whatever you want, especially when it comes to politics,” they said.
For years I carried a pile of unanswered questions in my head. Who am I? Who is my family? What is Chinese-Indonesian? How is it that other holidays are marked with red-letter dates and celebrated festively, except for Chinese New Year? Why must we learn Mandarin in secrecy, while other regional languages can be studied freely? What really happened? Why did being Chinese start to feel wrong?
The turning point came in 2009. After graduating from university, I worked as a journalist for Suara Baru, an internal media of the Chinese-Indonesian Association (INTI) that was formed in 1999.
Even though I only worked there briefly, my time opened many doors for me to learn more deeply about Chinese-Indonesian issues and meet several Chinese-Indonesians who were directly involved in social and political work. Slowly, I began to find answers to the many questions that had haunted me for so long. Those answers were often shocking and heartbreaking.
I began to understand that the history of Chinese-Indonesians in this country is almost inseparable from the history of violence, which has often been systematically orchestrated by those in power since the VOC era. This systematic violence has spanned hundreds of years and is not only physical but also epistemic, taking the forms of neglect, concealment, and even denial of many historical facts, especially the darker parts of history.
I came to realize that the New Order regime carried out a systematic epistemicide against the Chinese-Indonesian community. The state deliberately stripped away knowledge about the history of my own ethnicity, uprooting me and other Chinese-Indonesians from our cultural roots, leaving me confused and struggling to process my own position and feelings.
As a result, I began to understand that the New Order never really died. More than 27 years after Soeharto’s downfall, the state has become increasingly blatant in its efforts to whitewash the past by erasing the violent and painful chapters of history involving the Chinese-Indonesian community.
This became very clear with a statement made by Culture Minister Fadli Zon on June 10, 2025. In an interview with IDN Times about the project to rewrite national history, Fadli referred to the mass rape of May 1998 as a “rumor” that had no proof.
His statement made my stomach turn. My chest tightened. Tears streamed down uncontrollably.
The History of Violence and ‘Disciplining’
“This is insane! How could the riots get out of control?”
My mother said that with panic etched across her face, appalled as scene after scene of apocalyptic brutality flashed endlessly across the television screen in front of us.
Fires raged and smoke filled the air. Physical clashes led to gunfire that killed without hesitation. Clenched fists went up and down as people screamed and scattered in all directions. Buildings and vehicles were covered in ash. Smooth highways turned into battlegrounds clouded with dust.
Unfortunately, we were not watching an action movie. It was real life that pierced straight into the Chinese-Indonesian community in the blink of an eye, leaving behind open wounds that have never fully healed.
Even more unfortunate, this was not the first time that a tragedy like this had happened to Chinese-Indonesians.
A number of historical milestones demonstrate how racism and discrimination against the Chinese-Indonesian community have manifested in their most extreme forms, including acts that amount to literal genocide. These include brutal massacres, rape, mutilations, and live immolations of Chinese-Indonesians.
These events include the 1740 Batavia Massacre; anti-Chinese massacres during the Indonesian National Revolution from 1946 to 1949; violence following the issuance of Presidential Regulation No. 10/1959 prohibiting Chinese-Indonesians from rural trade; the 1965 tragedy; and of course the May 1998 riots that included looting, burglary, and the mass rape of Chinese-Indonesian women.
Chinese-Indonesian citizens participate in the 2014 General Elections in Glodok, Jakarta’s Chinatown and one of the tensest areas during the May 1998 riots. The high fences and iron security bars commonly installed on the windows of Chinese-Indonesian homes and shops since the riots remain a visible manifestation of the community’s lingering trauma. Photo: Ricky Yudhistira/Project Multatuli
These incidents occurred at the national level, but we have yet to fully address the widespread anti-Chinese violence at regional and sub-regional levels, where scale of brutality was no less appalling. For instance, the mass slaughter and rape of members of the Benteng Chinese community in Tangerang in June 1946, and the Mergosono tragedy in Malang in July 1947, which claimed the lives of at least 30 Chinese-Indonesians. In my own hometown, Bandung, several anti-Chinese riots have also occurred, including those on May 10, 1963 and August 5, 1973.
The repeated episodes of violence were made possible by the persistence of stereotypes that can be tracked back centuries like “Chinese-Indonesians are nothing but economic animals who only care about their own interest and benefits” and “Chinese-Indonesians are exclusive”.
During the Dutch colonial rule, Chinese-Indonesians were classified as Eastern Foreigners within the colonial demographic hierarchy. They were assigned the role of distribution intermediaries for daily necessities, serving both the colonial administration and the Malay-descended locals, whom the Dutch labeled as pribumi (a pejorative term that means “native”). This was a dilemmatic position that the Chinese-Indonesian community was compelled to occupy, whether they liked it or not.
Slowly but surely, a majority of Chinese-Indonesians (forcibly) ended up working in commerce and trade, a situation that bred resentment among the so-called pribumi, who came to see them as selfish profiteers.
After Indonesia declared independence, successive regimes carefully preserved these negative sentiments. Leaders appeared to understand how useful it was to deflect attention from their own failures by scapegoating the Chinese-Indonesians, portraying them as the root of the nation’s economic problem. The narrative was simple: “Chinese-Indonesians are greedy, so everything is their fault.”
During Sukarno’s era, the government enacted many discriminatory policies against Chinese-Indonesians that continued colonial legacies. A particularly controversial policy was the Presidential Regulation No. 10/1959, which banned Chinese-Indonesians from running retail businesses in rural areas. The military involvement in the implementation of the regulation led to major unrest that claimed the lives of many Chinese-Indonesians and massive exodus.
The 1965 tragedy, which paved the way for the rise of the New Order regime, also disproportionately targeted Chinese-Indonesians. As a communist state, China was accused of supporting the uprising and, thus, Chinese-Indonesians were automatically suspected of complicity. This logical fallacy led to the arrest and imprisonment of many Chinese-Indonesian figures who had actively contributed to Indonesia’s independence struggle. Ordinary Chinese-Indonesians suffered the most, especially with the closure of schools and constant fear of persecution.
During the New Order regime, the authoritarian president Soeharto reproduced colonial-era discriminatory tactics. He stripped Chinese-Indonesians of their access to and rights within practical politics, while granting privileges to a select few tycoons whom he considered loyal allies. This strategy ensured that all economic resources remained concentrated within the New Order’s circle of power, while Chinese-Indonesians continued to play essential roles in the economy even though they were never fully trusted. Therefore, writer Pramoedya Ananta Toer described the Chinese-Indonesian community as a “minority without political muscle”.
The New Order regime obliterated the history of the Chinese-Indonesian community’s roles and contributions to the nation-building process from various official references, before introducing new narratives that portrayed them as mere “foreign guests”—temporary residents whose rights could be easily revoked. Chinese-Indonesians were consistently constructed as “a problem” that needed to be surveilled and “solved” to avoid being seen as a threat to the country.
From there emerged a number of assimilationist policies that prohibited the use of Chinese names, as well as the Mandarin language and script. Chinese-Indonesians were banned from publicly displaying their religious, spiritual and cultural practices. At the same time, all Chinese-Indonesian media, political and social organizations, as well as Chinese-language schools were disbanded.
These discriminatory policies effectively laid the foundation for long-term racism, uprooting the Chinese-Indonesian identity to its very core and depriving the future generation of knowledge of the ethnic group’s history. The regime deliberately created distance between younger Indonesians and the collective memory of Chinese-Indonesians’ valuable contributions to the nation-building process. Even when some members of the new generations chose to become critical of the regime’s narratives and attempted to uncover the true history of Chinese-Indonesians, trauma and lack of reliable sources caused members of the ethnic group to remain silent.
This fear-based culture and knowledge, instilled by the regime, ended up being affirmed and embraced by generations of Indonesians, even by the Chinese-Indonesians.
In his Master’s thesis for Lund University in 2017, Roy Thaniago explicitly described how the Chinese-Indonesian community was being “disciplined” during the New Order regime through manipulation of media narratives. These narratives were crafted to ensure the community’s total obedience to the authorities to the point where the Chinese-Indonesians willingly disciplined and monitored their own behavior into submission.
In the end, the knowledge and culture that belong to Chinese-Indonesians today are nothing more than a product of state government violence. Centuries of systematic oppression have instilled fear so deeply that it can no longer be seen as just an individual issue. It has turned into a collective problem which has triggered intergenerational trauma.
This explains why my parents repeatedly reminded me that, as someone of Chinese-descent living in Indonesia, I always have to be extra careful. Careful with what I say, careful with how I act—because anything we say or do could backfire and put us in danger, no matter how good our intentions were. Whenever I find myself in a potential conflict with a non-Chinese, my parents always ask me to back down because even if I’m right, Chinese-Indonesians will always be seen as wrong, and will always lose in the end.
My parents also reminded me to study diligently, work hard, and focus on achieving academic and professional achievements—especially because in this country, Chinese-Indonesians are often valued only for their wealth.
Chinese-Indonesians are pressured to be financially generous, even though only a small number of us are truly wealthy. We are also expected to constantly prove our contributions just to be recognized as legitimate members of this country, even though it often feels like running a race with no finish line.
Epistemicide
I grew up in a Chinese-Indonesian family that is still deeply rooted in Chinese culture, yet I never truly experienced what it is like to see Chinese-Indonesian traditions publicly celebrated, let alone embraced in a deep and meaningful way.
Throughout the New Order period, the only major Chinese tradition my family celebrated that left a lasting impression on me was Chinese New Year. Even then, we could only celebrate it in the evening after my father came home from working long hours at a factory, physically exhausted, because Chinese New Year had not yet been recognized as a national holiday.
During that period, my parents also continued to observe several other Chinese-Indonesian traditions in private, but they never made any effort to pass them down to their children.
When I was in elementary school, my parents made an effort to teach me Mandarin themselves. At one point, they even asked me to join a Mandarin “course” held at a Christian church whose congregation was mostly Chinese-Indonesians. Of course, at that time, I didn’t understand why learning Mandarin had to be done discreetly in a church. Unfortunately, since I never use the language in daily interactions, I ended up forgetting much of the Mandarin vocabulary as I grew older.
At first, I didn’t care. But later, I realized that it was all the result of Soeharto’s discriminatory policies, which had a profound impact on me and many other Chinese-Indonesians.
For instance, I haven’t been able to trace my own family’s history because I struggled to understand my parents’ archived documents and letters, most of which were written in traditional Mandarin script. Yet the documents are the closest sources for me to understand my family history as well as the broader context of Chinese-Indonesian history as a whole.
Because my younger siblings and I did not understand Chinese customs, my father made a major decision. In 2007, he and his younger sister (my aunt) decided to exhume their parents’ graves. The bongpai, or gravestone, was destroyed, and the remaining bones were collected and cremated on the spot. They then scattered the ashes into the open sea. In their eyes, this was the best course of action, so that their children and grandchildren would not be burdened with maintaining traditions or tending graves, which can be costly.
For most Chinese families, graves carry far more cultural significance than simply being a final resting place. They are considered sacred, a symbolic tribute of respect for ancestors, a marker of identity, and a site of pilgrimage for future generations. To dismantle a grave is to erase a symbol of identity and lose the opportunity to honor and remember ancestral stories.
The dismantling of the grave is the perfect metaphor for the erasure of Chinese-Indonesian historical footprints, which was part of the epistemicide systematically carried out by the New Order regime.
As explained by Beth Patin, a professor of library and information science, epistemicide is “the killing, silencing, annihilation, or devaluing of a knowledge system”. According to her, epistemicide occurs when epistemic injustices take place persistently and systematically, collectively working as a structured and systemic oppression of particular ways of knowing.
A group of barongsai (lion dance) performers play in front of the Fatahillah Park in Jakarta. Presidential Instruction No. 14/1967 on Chinese Religions, Beliefs, and Traditions once prohibited Chinese-Indonesians from practicing religious and cultural traditions rooted in their ancestral heritage, including barongsai. Even after the instruction was officially revoked by Presidential Decree No. 6/2000, the discriminatory policy has left many young Chinese-Indonesians disconnected from their cultural identity. Photo: Ricky Yudhistira/Project Multatuli
It’s disheartening to see how many Chinese-Indonesians today know next to nothing about the important roles their ancestors once played in politics, society, media, arts, or culture. Even in the sports sector, few are aware that Chinese-Indonesians have contributed not only to badminton but also to soccer.
In August 2024, I had the privilege of discussing this topic with Astrid Reza, a researcher from the Women’s Archive and History Center (RUAS). She said that historical writing about the Chinese-Indonesian community remains rare. As a result, it will take a much longer process for anyone to uncover, layer by layer, the knowledge that was subjected long ago to a form of epistemicide by those in power.
Not to mention those who attempt to uncover the truth about their own history must contend with deeply rooted New Order narratives about Chinese-Indonesians, along with waves of paid social media operatives working to preserve the narratives.
And, just as importantly, some Chinese-Indonesians remain hesitant to learn their own history.
“The New Order not only effectively obliterated the collective memory and knowledge related to Chinese-Indonesians, but also succeeded in killing the awareness of how important that knowledge is,” Astrid said.
“The greatest success [of epistemicide] is when even Chinese-Indonesians themselves become reluctant to learn about their own history. All it takes is silencing two or three generations, and entire bodies of knowledge, even the awareness of the importance of having that knowledge, will disappear.”
Understanding the Trauma of Chinese-Indonesians
Before Culture Minister Fadli Zon dismissed the mass rapes of May 1998 as a “rumor”, several political statements and events had already signaled the continued vulnerability of Chinese-Indonesians.
In 2016, Basuki Tjahaja Purnama, also known as Ahok, who was then serving as the governor of Jakarta, was accused of blasphemy after someone edited his speech quoting a verse from the Quran, uploaded the doctored clip to social media, and spread it with a misleading narrative. Large-scale anti-Chinese protests soon followed. Although the blasphemy charges were never truly proven, Ahok who is both Chinese and Christian, was sentenced to nearly two years.
For many of my Chinese-Indonesian friends, the massive protests instantly triggered bitter memories related to the May 1998 riots. One of them who felt this was Anastasia Satriyo, a Chinese-Indonesian who works as a child and adolescent psychologist.
“It’s as if my body is having a panic attack. I can’t watch the news about [anti-Chinese] issues for too long, just getting the gist of it is enough for me. I’ve realized that watching news related to these issues could cause me to stop functioning. On top of that, I always feel some tightening sensation in my chest every time I hear people shouting anti-Chinese sentiments,” Anastasia said.
“I always wonder, why is there always prejudice against Chinese-Indonesians?”
Anies Baswedan, who succeeded Ahok as governor of Jakarta, seemed to further inflame the situation. In his inauguration speech, he explicitly used the term “pribumi” (a pejorative term meaning “native”) and contrasted it with “non-pribumi“. Historically, these terms were used by the Dutch colonial government to divide the society along ethnic lines.
Anies earned his master’s degree at the University of Maryland and his PhD at Northern Illinois University. Therefore, many people believed he knew exactly the history behind those politicized terms, and it was no coincidence that he chose to use them. It is important to note that the use of “pribumi” and “non-pribumi” had officially been abolished by B.J.Habibie’s administration in 1998.
Eight years after the Ahok incident, Prabowo Subianto came to power. Prabowo, a former son-in-law of Soeharto, is widely believed to be involved in the forced disappearance of several activists in 1998.
It didn’t take long for his regime to reveal its true colors. On October 21, 2024, after being sworn in as Coordinating Minister of Law, Human Rights, Immigration and Correctional Services, Yusril Ihza Mahendra said what happened in May 1998 “was not a gross human rights violation”.
This came despite former President Joko Widodo’s acknowledgment in 2023 of 12 past gross human rights violations, including the 1965 tragedy and the May 1998 riots.
The Kamisan (Thursday) silent protests have persisted for two decades, as victims and families of gross human rights violations—including the 1965 and 1998 tragedies—continue to demand state accountability and justice. And yet, despite multiple regime changes, no legal resolution has been delivered. Instead, the state has opted for non-judicial measures that disregard the victim’s rights and dignity. Photo: Ricky Yudhistira/Project Multatuli
But it didn’t end there. My frustration and that of many other Chinese-Indonesians reached a boiling point when Fadli questioned the truth of the May 1998 mass rapes.
The first thing that came to my mind at that time was Ita Martadinata Haryono, a victim and young activist brutally murdered by those who couldn’t bear the thought of having their vile crimes exposed on the international stage. Ita was killed just before she was scheduled to testify about the mass rape in the United Nations forum.
Fadli’s words were incredibly cruel. He truly spat on the victims, witnesses and volunteers of the May 1998 tragedy, especially the women and Chinese-Indonesian community who, to this day, continue to carry the trauma, both directly and indirectly.
How can the findings of the Joint Fact-finding Team (TGPF), which clearly confirmed that a series of brutal gang rape took place in public spaces during May 1998, be denied simply because of “lack of evidence”?
Why insist on a legalistic argument which lacks empathy to defend himself? How is it possible to obtain evidence that requires victim testimony when the state offers no assurance of protection for the witnesses and survivors courageous enough to speak out?
That’s why, even though I wasn’t a direct victim, Fadli’s words threw me into emotional turmoil. My stomach turned. My chest tightened. Tears streamed down uncontrollably.
According to psychologist Anastasia, intergenerational trauma often manifests physically. When someone experiences trauma, their body’s DNA responds by activating certain genes and hormones to help the individual cope whether by confronting the threat (fight), escaping it (flight), appeasing it (fawn), or turning stiff, not taking any actions while trying to figure out the safest response (freeze).
It explains why Anastasia felt as if she was having a panic attack during the mass protest against Ahok’s so-called “blasphemy”, and why my chest suddenly tightened when I heard Fadli’s words.
In her practice as a psychologist, Anastasia often encounters subtle cases of intergenerational trauma among young Chinese-Indonesians, which usually manifest in relationship issues with their partners or parents.
“I once worked with a teenager who was confused about why her parents wouldn’t allow her to come home after 9 p.m., even though they lived in Jakarta. When she asked them about it, they simply said, ‘Remember your ethnicity,’” Anastasia said.
“This teenager became angry with her parents, especially since she had been exposed to concepts of human rights, democracy, and more. Her relationship with them turned sour.”
Other subtle forms of intergenerational trauma are also common among Chinese-Indonesians who live in a bubble, preoccupied with money, wealth, power, and lifestyle. Their focus tends to be solely on personal interests. According to Anastasia, this behavior may be an unconscious trauma response shaped by decades of systemic oppression in which Chinese-Indonesians were only allowed to engage in business and economic sectors to survive.
Therefore, Anastasia added, the issue of intergenerational trauma among Chinese-Indonesians cannot be separated from the broader power structures that have always targeted them. It is also deeply influenced by political, social, and cultural factors. This is why understanding their historical roots is crucial for Chinese-Indonesians.
“Awareness of one’s identity has a significant impact on a person’s psychological well-being. This awareness is shaped, among other things, by knowledge about one’s past, be it through family history or national history,” Anastasia said.
“The government’s attempt to uproot knowledge from Chinese-Indonesians is not just an act of epistemicide, but also of mental genocide.”
This means that efforts to heal from intergenerational trauma cannot be done by Chinese-Indonesians alone. They require strong support from the broader society—including fellow Indonesians—and the government.
But how realistic is it to expect support from the government?
After his controversial statement sparked public outrage, Culture Minister Fadli didn’t bother to apologize. On June 16, 2025, he even posted a thread on X, defending his stance, which only made people angrier.
Without acknowledging the TGPF’s findings, Fadli said the people “need to be careful and meticulous” before concluding that mass rape occurred in May 1998 because “it concerns the truth and the nation’s good name”.
This argument once again reminds us of the normalization of impunity toward perpetrators of sexual violence by institutions that prioritize protecting their reputation over delivering justice to victims.
What’s even more horrifying is the state’s blatant effort to whitewash past crimes by continuously manipulating history, while all protests are dismissed as meaningless noise.
Presenting Alternate Narratives
At a time when expecting support from the government is difficult, the rise of alternative sources about Chinese-Indonesians on social media offers a glimpse of hope.
One platform that has consistently promoted understanding of Chinese-Indonesians is Suara Peranakan. Founded in 2020, Suara Peranakan uses Instagram and X to spark discussions about Chinese-Indonesian identity and history, aiming to rebuild awareness within the community. The content it shares includes personal reflections with local perspectives that are rarely heard or represented.
Suara Peranakan covers a wide range of topics, including the hidden histories of Chinese-Indonesians, food and culinary traditions, intercultural communication, traditions and celebrations, the climate crisis, and calls for solidarity with other minority and marginalized groups sidelined by those in power. These topics are compelling because Chinese-Indonesians are no longer viewed as a single entity as they are always connected to the broader picture of global humanity.
“We must always uphold the values of solidarity and humanity because, in the end, you can’t stand alone. During the New Order era, Chinese-Indonesians were consistently labeled as money-oriented. We can break this stereotype by standing in solidarity with economically disadvantaged communities and other oppressed minority groups,” said Randy Mulyanto, a member of Suara Peranakan, in September 2024.
“Still, understanding our own history is essential as a starting point. It’s hard for us to be aware of broader issues if we don’t even know our own identity.”
Astrid Reza, the RUAS researcher, said Chinese-Indonesians could also resist epistemicide by stepping into social spaces that have long been considered difficult or even impossible for them to enter, although this is certainly no easy task.
Astrid cited her own experience of spending several days participating in the 2024 protests against the revision of the Regional Elections Law, which was allegedly aimed at allowing Kaesang Pangarep—former president Joko Widodo’s youngest son—to compete in the gubernatorial election. Astrid wanted to show that Chinese-Indonesians could voice their concerns through a demonstration, an avenue long avoided by the community due to past trauma.
Astrid’s words reminded me of a personal experience from years ago in East Aceh, during a visit for a literacy program.
One day, I ran into a group of elementary school students who were giggling, then yelled at me: “Kafir!”
“Kafir”, often translated as “infidel”, is frequently used in a derogatory way in Indonesia to refer to non-Muslims.
For a moment, I froze. I then decided to approach them and strike up a casual conversation. We talked about light topics, mostly about their daily lives.
These children admitted that they had never seen a single Chinese-Indonesian in their lives. As children of farm laborers, they rarely traveled outside their region due to financial constraints. They only knew that I looked different and assumed I might be a foreigner from Japan, Korea, or China.
After a while, as we grew closer, they started to get curious about Chinese-Indonesians.
“Tell us more about Chinese in Indonesia, please!”
I was immediately moved.
To me, their initial remark stemmed purely from ignorance. And when the official government narratives can’t be relied on, I believe there is nothing wrong with taking the initiative to reach out and share the alternative narratives myself.
Peringatan: Artikel ini bisa memicu trauma.
Epistemisida Tionghoa-Indonesia. Ilustrasi: Abdul Malik Amirullah/Project Multatuli
Mei 1998 adalah momen perdana saya mengasosiasikan “Tionghoa” dengan “kekerasan”, juga “pemerkosaan”.
Saat itu, di akhir jenjang SD, untuk pertama kalinya saya dipaksa merasa takut dengan identitas saya sebagai seorang perempuan sekaligus Tionghoa, dan saya kesal karena tak tahu mengapa bisa demikian. Selain nyaris tidak tahu apa-apa mengenai sejarah Tionghoa yang berujung kerusuhan Mei 1998, saya kesal karena ketidaktahuan tersebut membuat saya kesulitan memproses perasaan saya sendiri.
Orang tua pun tidak banyak menjelaskan. “Pokoknya, sebagai Tionghoa itu kamu mesti selalu waspada. Enggak bisa sembarang omong, apalagi omong politik,” ucap mereka.
Selama bertahun-tahun, setumpuk pertanyaan memenuhi kepala. Siapa saya? Siapa keluarga saya? Tionghoa itu apa? Mengapa hari besar lain bertanggal merah dan dirayakan semarak berhari-hari sementara Imlek tidak? Mengapa belajar Mandarin saja harus sembunyi-sembunyi seolah itu perbuatan ilegal sementara bahasa daerah lainnya tidak? Apa yang sebenarnya terjadi? Mengapa lama-lama muncul perasaan bahwa menjadi Tionghoa itu salah?
Titik baliknya ada di 2009. Setelah lulus kuliah, saya bekerja sebagai jurnalis Suara Baru. Ini adalah media internal Perhimpunan Indonesia Tionghoa (INTI), salah satu asosiasi Tionghoa terbesar di Indonesia yang berdiri pasca-1998.
Meski usia kerja di sana sangat singkat, terbuka pintu bagi saya untuk berkenalan dengan isu-isu Tionghoa secara lebih mendalam sekaligus berjumpa orang-orang Tionghoa yang terjun langsung dalam bidang sosial-politik. Perlahan, saya mulai memperoleh jawaban-jawaban atas segala pertanyaan yang begitu lama menghantui; jawaban-jawaban yang justru mengejutkan dan mencabik hati.
Saya jadi paham bahwa sejarah terkait Tionghoa di negeri ini nyaris tak pernah lepas dari sejarah kekerasan yang biasanya dirancang sistematis oleh para pemegang kekuasaan sejak era VOC. Membentang ratusan tahun, kekerasan sistemik ini bukan cuma perkara fisik tapi juga epistemik dalam bentuk pengabaian, penyembunyian, bahkan penyangkalan rupa-rupa realitas sejarah—terutama sejarah kelam.
Saya jadi paham bahwa rezim Orde Baru sungguh-sungguh menjalankan genosida pengetahuan terkait Tionghoa atau epistemisida secara sistematis. Negara sengaja merenggut pengetahuan mengenai sejarah etnis saya sendiri, mencerabut saya dan teman-teman Tionghoa lainnya dari akar kultural, juga membuat saya gamang memproses posisi dan perasaan saya sendiri.
Dan, saya jadi paham bahwa Orde Baru tak pernah benar-benar mati. Selewat 27 tahun setelah Soeharto turun takhta, negara justru kian gamblang berusaha mencuci dosa dengan menyetip babak-babak sejarah kelam yang sarat kekerasan terhadap komunitas Tionghoa.
Ini tampak jelas dalam pernyataan Menteri Kebudayaan Fadli Zon pada 10 Juni 2025. Dalam sesi wawancara dengan IDN Times terkait proyek penulisan ulang sejarah nasional, Fadli menyebut pemerkosaan massal pada Mei 1998 sebagai “rumor” yang tidak pernah ada buktinya.
Mendengar hal ini, asam lambung saya mendadak naik. Dada sesak seketika. Air mata pun mengalir tak terbendung.
Sejarah Kekerasan dan ‘Pendisiplinan’
“Ini betul-betul gila! Kok bisa rusuh sampai segitunya?”
Mama berujar dengan raut panik, tercekat menyaksikan adegan demi adegan brutal nan apokaliptik yang tak henti hilir-mudik melintasi layar televisi di hadapan kami.
Kobar api dan asap di mana-mana. Bentrok fisik berujung letup peluru tak ragu meminta nyawa. Tangan-tangan terkepal naik-turun silih berganti seiring jerit manusia yang lari berhamburan tak tentu arah. Bangunan dan kendaraan sekejap diselimuti abu. Jalan raya yang mulus jadi medan tempur berlumur debu.
Sayangnya, yang sedang kami tonton bukanlah film laga. Ia adalah realitas yang seketika menghunjam komunitas Tionghoa hingga meninggalkan luka menganga yang sulit kering.
Sayangnya lagi, ini bukan kali pertama tragedi semacam ini menimpa orang Tionghoa di Indonesia.
Ada sejumlah titik sejarah penting yang menunjukkan bagaimana rasisme dan diskriminasi terhadap Tionghoa muncul dalam wujudnya yang paling ekstrem, termasuk genosida dalam pengertian harfiah. Ini termasuk pembantaian keji, pemerkosaan, mutilasi, dan pembakaran Tionghoa hidup-hidup.
Sebut saja genosida Tionghoa di Batavia pada 1740 oleh kolonial Belanda, rangkaian pembantaian sepanjang periode revolusi kemerdekaan 1946-1949, pembantaian Tionghoa menyusul terbitnya Peraturan Pemerintah (PP) No. 10/1959, tragedi 1965, dan—tentunya—kerusuhan Mei 1998 yang diwarnai penjarahan, perampokan, serta pemerkosaan massal terhadap perempuan Tionghoa.
Warga Tionghoa mengikuti pemilihan umum 2014 di Glodok, kawasan Pecinan paling mencekam saat peristiwa kerusuhan Mei 1998 di Jakarta. Pagar tinggi dan teralis besi di setiap jendela rumah dan toko yang ramai dipasang untuk perlindungan diri sejak kerusuhan rasial itu menjadi manifestasi trauma warga Tionghoa yang tidak pernah sembuh. Foto: Ricky Yudhistira/Project Multatuli
Itu baru contoh di tingkat nasional. Belum lagi di tingkat regional dan sub-regional yang skala kekejamannya tak kalah mencengangkan, misalnya tragedi Cina Benteng di Tangerang pada Juni 1946 yang juga diwarnai pembunuhan dan pemerkosaan massal dan tragedi Mergosono di Malang pada Juli 1947 yang mengorbankan setidaknya 30 Tionghoa. Di kota kelahiran saya, Bandung, beragam huru-hara anti-Tionghoa pun pernah terjadi seperti kerusuhan 10 Mei 1963 dan 5 Agustus 1973.
Kekerasan berulang kali terjadi seiring langgengnya stigma-stigma seperti “Tionghoa adalah binatang ekonomi yang hanya memikirkan kepentingan dan keuntungannya sendiri” dan “Tionghoa itu selalu eksklusif”, yang bisa ditelusuri jejaknya hingga ratusan tahun silam.
Di masa kolonial Belanda, Tionghoa diposisikan sebagai Timur Asing dalam strata kependudukan, yang berfungsi sebagai perantara distribusi barang kebutuhan sehari-hari bagi kolonial sekaligus bumiputra. Ini peran dilematis yang mau tak mau mesti dilakoni komunitas Tionghoa saat itu.
Perlahan tapi pasti, sebagian besar Tionghoa (terpaksa) menjalankan hidup dalam bidang ekonomi dan perdagangan, situasi yang lantas melahirkan sentimen negatif di kalangan bumiputra bahwa kelompok ini hanya fokus mengejar keuntungan pribadi dengan menghalalkan segala cara.
Setelah Indonesia merdeka, setiap rezim yang berkuasa dengan telaten memelihara sentimen negatif ini. Para penguasa tampaknya tahu persis bahwa cara paling ampuh untuk mengalihkan perhatian rakyat dari ketidakbecusan mereka mengelola negara adalah mengambinghitamkan komunitas Tionghoa, menunjuk kelompok ini sebagai penyebab utama krisis atau ketimpangan ekonomi. Mudahnya, narasinya seperti ini: “Tionghoa rakus, jadi semuanya salah Tionghoa.”
Sepanjang era Sukarno, aneka kebijakan diskriminatif yang menargetkan Tionghoa hadir melanjutkan warisan kolonial Belanda. Salah satu yang memicu konflik adalah PP No. 10/1959 yang melarang orang Tionghoa berdagang eceran di perdesaan. Pelibatan militer dalam implementasi kebijakan ini berujung rusuh hebat yang memakan banyak korban orang Tionghoa dan memicu gelombang pengungsian besar-besaran.
Tragedi 1965 yang membuka jalan lahirnya Orde Baru pun menumbalkan banyak orang Tionghoa. Tiongkok yang komunis dituding terlibat mendukung pemberontakan sehingga Tionghoa di Indonesia diasumsikan pasti ikut terlibat. Sesat logika ini bahkan membuat banyak tokoh Tionghoa yang berjasa besar memerdekakan Indonesia tetap diciduk dan dibui. Dampak 1965 paling nyata dirasakan para Tionghoa jelata, termasuk karena penutupan sekolah-sekolah dan rasa takut yang senantiasa mengintai.
Selama rezim Orde Baru, presiden otoriter Soeharto mereproduksi taktik kolonial. Ia mengebiri seluruh akses dan hak Tionghoa terhadap politik praktis, tapi melimpahkan hak istimewa pada segelintir cukong yang dianggap sekutu loyal. Strategi ini memastikan ekonomi tetap terkonsentrasi pada lingkaran kekuasaan Orde Baru, sementara masyarakat Tionghoa tetap dalam posisi diperlukan tetapi tidak pernah dipercaya. Karena itu, penulis Pramoedya Ananta Toer menyebut komunitas Tionghoa “minoritas tanpa otot politik”.
Orde Baru melenyapkan sejarah peran dan kontribusi Tionghoa dalam pembangunan bangsa dari berbagai rujukan resmi, lalu menyusun ulang narasi-narasi baru yang membingkai Tionghoa sebagai “tamu asing” yang menumpang hidup di Indonesia dan pantas dikebiri. Tionghoa dikonstruksikan sebagai “masalah”, sehingga perlu diawasi dan dicari jalan keluarnya supaya tidak merugikan Indonesia.
Dari sana, lahirlah serangkaian kebijakan asimilasi yang melarang penggunaan nama Tionghoa serta bahasa dan aksara Mandarin. Kegiatan keagamaan, kepercayaan, dan adat istiadat orang Tionghoa tak bisa ditampilkan di depan umum. Media, organisasi politik dan sosial, serta sekolah Tionghoa pun dibubarkan.
Ini semua terbukti berhasil meletakkan fondasi rasialisme jangka panjang, mencerabut identitas Tionghoa hingga ke akar-akarnya, sekaligus membuat generasi berikutnya buta sejarah. Generasi penerus sengaja dibuat berjarak dengan memori kolektif terkait kontribusi Tionghoa. Kalaupun ada yang memilih kritis dan mencoba membongkar sejarahnya, minimnya referensi yang bisa dipercaya dan trauma membuat orang Tionghoa enggan bersuara.
Budaya dan pengetahuan berbasis rasa takut yang dialami selama bergenerasi-generasi akhirnya diamini dan dirangkul, bahkan oleh orang Tionghoa sendiri.
Dalam tesis masternya untuk Lund University pada 2017, Roy Thaniago gamblang memperlihatkan bagaimana Tionghoa “didisiplinkan” melalui permainan wacana di media massa supaya mereka selalu patuh terhadap kehendak penguasa, sampai-sampai pendisiplinan ini menjadi hal yang diinginkan oleh orang Tionghoa sendiri.
Akhirnya, segenap pengetahuan serta kebudayaan yang dimiliki Tionghoa-Indonesia saat ini tak lain merupakan produk kekerasan dari pemerintah. Penindasan terstruktur yang membuahkan ketakutan selama ratusan tahun bukan lagi masalah individu semata. Ia telah menjelma permasalahan kolektif yang memicu trauma lintas generasi.
Ini cukup menjelaskan mengapa orang tua berkali-kali menasihati saya bahwa hidup sebagai Tionghoa yang tinggal di Indonesia itu mesti selalu ekstra hati-hati. Hati-hati dalam berucap, hati-hati dalam bertindak, karena apa pun yang kami katakan dan lakukan bisa berbalik menjadi bumerang yang membahayakan sekalipun itikadnya baik. Jika berpotensi adu konflik dengan non-Tionghoa, saya selalu diminta mengalah karena sekalipun saya benar, Tionghoa pasti dianggap salah dan akan kalah.
Orang tua juga mengingatkan saya untuk belajar dengan tekun, bekerja keras, dan mencapai prestasi setinggi-tingginya—apalagi nilai Tionghoa di mata banyak orang biasanya terletak pada hartanya.
Tionghoa dituntut rajin memberi, sekalipun faktanya hanya segelintir saja Tionghoa yang super kaya. Tionghoa pun diminta selalu pro-aktif menunjukkan kontribusi mereka agar bisa diakui sebagai bagian dari Indonesia, meski ini bagai lomba lari tanpa garis finis.
Genosida Pengetahuan
Saya tumbuh besar di lingkungan keluarga Tionghoa yang masih sangat totok, tapi tak pernah benar-benar merasakan bagaimana kultur Tionghoa dirayakan, apalagi dimaknai secara mendalam.
Di era Orde Baru, tradisi akbar Tionghoa yang dirayakan keluarga dan membekas dalam benak saya hanyalah Imlek. Itu pun baru bisa kami rayakan jelang petang selepas papa yang buruh pabrik pulang bekerja dalam kondisi lelah karena Imlek belum diakui sebagai hari libur nasional.
Ada beberapa tradisi Tionghoa lain yang masih dijalankan orang tua, tapi mereka tak pernah berusaha menjelaskan kepada anak-anaknya.
Saat saya SD, orang tua memang sempat mengajarkan bahasa Mandarin secara autodidak. Saya pun pernah diminta orang tua mengikuti “kursus” Mandarin di sebuah gereja Kristen yang jemaatnya didominasi Tionghoa. Tentu, saat itu saya belum paham mengapa belajar Mandarin saja harus sembunyi-sembunyi di gereja. Masalahnya, karena tidak pernah digunakan dalam pergaulan, banyak kosakata Mandarin yang akhirnya terlupa begitu saja saat saya beranjak dewasa.
Awalnya, saya tidak ambil pusing. Di kemudian hari, barulah saya sadar bahwa ini semua adalah hasil kebijakan diskriminatif Soeharto yang berdampak begitu dalam bagi saya dan banyak Tionghoa lainnya.
Saya, misalnya, jadi tak mampu menelusuri akar sejarah keluarga sendiri karena kesulitan memahami arsip dokumen dan surat-menyurat orang tua yang kebanyakan ditulis dalam aksara Mandarin tradisional. Padahal, itulah sumber paling dekat untuk memahami sejarah keluarga sekaligus konteks sejarah Tionghoa-Indonesia secara keseluruhan.
Karena saya dan adik-adik tidak mengerti adat istiadat Tionghoa, papa pun mengambil keputusan besar. Pada 2007, papa dan adik perempuannya (tante saya) menggali kembali makam orang tua mereka. Bongpai atau batu nisan dihancurkan, sementara tulang-belulang yang tersisa diangkat dan kemudian dikremasi di tempat. Abunya lantas dilarung ke laut lepas. Di mata mereka, inilah langkah terbaik supaya anak-cucu tak perlu repot di kemudian hari menghidupi tradisi sekaligus mengurus makam yang biayanya tak murah.
Bagi kebanyakan Tionghoa, makam bukan sekadar situs peristirahatan terakhir. Ia bermakna sakral sebagai wujud penghormatan terhadap leluhur, penanda identitas, juga tujuan ziarah bagi generasi penerus. Pembongkaran makam berarti lenyapnya penanda identitas sekaligus buyarnya kesempatan merayakan kisah-kisah leluhur.
Pembongkaran makam itu adalah metafora paling sempurna dari pembumihangusan jejak sejarah Tionghoa, yang merupakan bagian dari genosida pengetahuan atau epistemisida yang begitu gencar dijalankan rezim Orde Baru.
Seperti yang dijelaskan Beth Patin, profesor ilmu perpustakaan dan informasi, “epistemisida” adalah “pembunuhan, pembungkaman, pemusnahan, atau devaluasi sebuah sistem pengetahuan”. Menurutnya, epistemisida terjadi ketika ketidakadilan epistemik terjadi secara terus-menerus dan sistematis, dan secara kolektif menghasilkan penindasan terstruktur dan sistemik terhadap cara-cara kita untuk mengetahui suatu hal.
Kelompok barongsai tampil di hadapan pengunjung Taman Fatahillah di Jakarta. Instruksi Presiden No 14 tahun 1967 tentang Agama, Kepercayaan, dan Adat Istiadat Cina, melarang warga Tionghoa menyelenggarakan kegiatan agama dan tradisi yang berpusat pada budaya negeri leluhur mereka, termasuk barongsai. Setelah Inpres itu dicabut Keputusan Presiden No. 6 tahun 2000, yang tertinggal adalah banyak generasi muda Tionghoa tercerabut dari identitasnya. Foto: Ricky Yudhistira/Project Multatuli
Sungguh sedih rasanya ketika saya mendapati orang-orang Tionghoa sendiri kini sudah tidak tahu apa-apa mengenai peran penting nenek moyangnya dalam bidang politik, sosial, media, seni, ataupun budaya. Bahkan dalam bidang olahraga yang lebih familier pun tak banyak yang tahu bahwa kontribusi Tionghoa bukan sekadar di bidang badminton, tapi juga sepak bola.
Pada Agustus 2024, saya sempat berbincang soal ini dengan Astrid Reza, peneliti dari Ruang Arsip dan Sejarah Perempuan (RUAS). Ia bilang penulisan sejarah mengenai Tionghoa masih langka. Karena itu, perlu waktu relatif lebih panjang bagi seseorang untuk membuka kembali lapis demi lapis pengetahuan-pengetahuan yang sudah lama digenosida oleh penguasa.
Belum lagi, mereka yang berusaha menggali sejarah mesti bergelut dengan narasi Orde Baru yang telah begitu mendarah daging dan serbuan buzzer di media sosial yang aktif dikerahkan untuk melestarikan narasi tersebut.
Dan, yang tak kalah pentingnya, ada keengganan dari kelompok Tionghoa untuk mempelajari sejarahnya sendiri.
“Orde Baru bukan hanya efektif membunuh memori kolektif dan pengetahuan-pengetahuan tentang Tionghoa, tapi juga membunuh kesadaran tentang pentingnya memiliki pengetahuan itu sendiri,” kata Astrid.
“Keberhasilan paling gemilang [dari epistemisida] adalah ketika justru orang-orang Tionghoa menjadi enggan mencari tahu sejarah mereka sendiri. Hanya perlu membungkam dua hingga tiga generasi, berbagai pengetahuan dan bahkan kesadaran untuk memiliki pengetahuan pun lenyap.”
Memahami Trauma Tionghoa-Indonesia
Sebelum Menteri Kebudayaan Fadli Zon menyatakan pemerkosaan massal Mei 1998 adalah “rumor”, sebenarnya telah muncul sejumlah pernyataan dan peristiwa politik yang menunjukkan posisi Tionghoa-Indonesia masih sangat rentan.
Pada 2016, Basuki Tjahaja Purnama alias Ahok yang saat itu menjabat gubernur Jakarta dituduh menista Islam setelah ada oknum yang memenggal pidatonya yang mengutip ayat Al-Qur’an, mengunggahnya di media sosial, dan menyebarluaskannya dengan narasi menyesatkan. Demonstrasi besar-besaran bernuansa anti-Tionghoa digelar tak lama kemudian. Meski tuduhan menista tak pernah benar-benar terbukti, Ahok yang Tionghoa dan Kristen lantas dipenjara hampir dua tahun.
Bagi banyak teman Tionghoa, demonstrasi besar yang terjadi saat itu sontak memantik memori pahit terkait kerusuhan Mei 1998. Salah satu yang merasakan hal ini adalah Anastasia Satriyo, seorang Tionghoa yang berprofesi sebagai psikolog anak dan remaja.
“Tubuhku seperti mengalami serangan panik. Aku enggak bisa lihat berita kayak gitu terlalu lama, cukup tahu saja. Aku sadar kalau lama-lama menonton berita seperti itu, aku bisa enggak berfungsi. Selain itu, ada sensasi sesak di dada tiap kali mendengar sentimen-sentimen anti-Tionghoa diteriakkan,” ujar Anastasia.
“Saya bertanya-tanya kenapa sih harus selalu ada prasangka terhadap kelompok Tionghoa?”
Anies Baswedan, yang menggantikan Ahok sebagai gubernur Jakarta, lalu seakan memperkeruh suasana. Dalam pidato pelantikannya, Anies terang-terangan menyebut istilah “pribumi” versus “non-pribumi” yang dahulu digunakan Belanda untuk memecah belah masyarakat.
Anies menamatkan pendidikan S2 di University of Maryland dan S3 di Northern Illinois University. Karena itu, banyak orang percaya Anies tahu persis sejarah di balik kata-kata tersebut, dan bukan kebetulan ia memilih menggunakannya. Sebagai catatan, penggunaan istilah “pribumi” dan “non-pribumi” di lingkungan pemerintahan telah resmi dicabut pemerintahan B.J. Habibie pada 1998.
Selang delapan tahun setelah peristiwa Ahok, terbitlah rezim Prabowo Subianto, mantan menantu Soeharto yang diduga ada di belakang penghilangan paksa sejumlah aktivis 1998.
Tak butuh waktu lama bagi rezim ini untuk menampilkan watak aslinya. Pada 21 Oktober 2024, usai dilantik sebagai Menteri Koordinator Bidang Hukum, HAM, Imigrasi, dan Pemasyarakatan, Yusril Ihza Mahendra menyebut apa yang terjadi pada Mei 1998 “bukan merupakan bentuk pelanggaran HAM berat”.
Padahal, pada awal 2023, Presiden Joko Widodo telah mengakui ada 12 pelanggaran HAM berat di masa lalu, termasuk tragedi 1965 dan kerusuhan Mei 1998.
Selama hampir dua dekade aksi Kamisan, korban dan keluarga pelanggaran HAM berat -di antaranya tragedi 1965 dan 1998- terus menuntut keadilan dan pertanggungjawaban negara. Namun, pergantian rezim tak membawa penyelesaian hukum, dan negara justru memilih jalur non-yudisial yang mengabaikan hak serta martabat korban. Foto: Ricky Yudhistira/Project Multatuli
Tak berhenti di situ, frustrasi saya dan banyak Tionghoa lainnya memuncak setelah Fadli mempertanyakan kebenaran pemerkosaan massal pada Mei 1998.
Hal pertama yang tebersit dalam benak saya tentu saja Ita Martadinata Haryono, korban sekaligus aktivis perempuan muda yang dibunuh secara keji oleh mereka yang tak terima laku bejatnya bakal diumbar di altar internasional. Ucapan Fadli luar biasa jahat. Ia benar-benar meludahi para korban, saksi, dan relawan Mei 1998, khususnya perempuan dan komunitas Tionghoa yang secara langsung maupun tak langsung masih terdampak peristiwa tersebut hingga detik ini.
Bagaimana mungkin temuan Tim Gabungan Pencari Fakta (TGPF) yang sudah sedemikian gamblang mengonfirmasi terjadinya gang rape alias pemerkosaan massal di ruang publik secara brutal selama peristiwa Mei 1998 malah disangkal begitu saja dengan alasan minim pembuktian?
Mengapa ngotot menggunakan alasan legal yang nir-empati untuk membela diri? Mana bisa pembuktian yang mensyaratkan pengakuan korban diharapkan terjadi di tengah ketiadaan jaminan perlindungan negara terhadap para saksi dan korban yang berani buka suara?
Karena itu, meski bukan korban langsung, emosi saya bergolak hebat mendengar kata-kata Fadli. Asam lambung saya naik. Dada sesak seketika. Air mata pun mengalir tak terbendung.
Menurut psikolog Anastasia, jejak trauma lintas generasi biasanya memang termanifestasi di tubuh. Ketika seseorang mengalami trauma, DNA tubuh akan merespons dengan mengaktifkan gen dan hormon tertentu untuk membantu individu melewati masa-masa traumatis entah dengan melawan ancaman (fight), menghindari ancaman (flight), meredakan sumber ancaman (fawn), atau malah kaku dan menunggu untuk menentukan respons terbaik (freeze).
Makanya, Anastasia bagai kena serangan panik saat terjadi demonstrasi menentang “penistaan agama” oleh Ahok, dan dada saya sesak mendengar kata-kata Fadli.
Selama berpraktik sebagai psikolog, Anastasia pun kerap menemui kasus-kasus trauma lintas generasi pada level yang lebih subtil di kalangan anak muda Tionghoa, yang umumnya termanifestasi dalam isu hubungan dengan pasangan atau orang tua.
“Pernah ada remaja yang bingung kenapa orang tuanya melarang dia pulang di atas jam sembilan malam, padahal mereka tinggal di Jakarta. Ketika dia bertanya, orang tuanya hanya menjawab singkat, ‘Ingat kamu tuh etnis apa,’” kata Anastasia.
“Remaja ini jadi marah dengan orang tuanya, apalagi ia sudah banyak terpapar dengan konsep-konsep hak asasi manusia, demokrasi, dan lainnya. Relasi dengan orang tuanya jadi buruk.”
Trauma lintas generasi subtil lainnya pun jamak ditemui pada kelompok Tionghoa yang hidup di dalam bubble dan hanya sibuk membahas uang, kekayaan, kekuasaan, dan gaya hidup. Fokusnya hanyalah diri sendiri. Anastasia bilang hal-hal macam ini bisa jadi merupakan bentuk respons trauma yang tak disadari akibat penindasan bertahun-tahun terhadap Tionghoa yang dulunya hanya diizinkan menggeluti bidang bisnis dan ekonomi untuk bertahan hidup.
Karena itu, menurut Anastasia, problem trauma lintas generasi Tionghoa tak bisa dilepaskan begitu saja dari keterkaitannya dengan struktur kekuasaan yang selalu menargetkan Tionghoa. Ini sangat dipengaruhi faktor-faktor politik, sosial, dan budaya. Itu sebabnya amat penting bagi Tionghoa untuk memahami akar sejarahnya sendiri.
“Kesadaran akan identitas sangat memengaruhi kondisi psikologis seseorang. Salah satu sumber untuk membangun kesadaran tersebut berasal dari pengetahuan-pengetahuan akan sejarah masa lalunya, baik sejarah keluarga maupun sejarah nasional,” kata Anastasia.
“Upaya pemerintah mencerabut pengetahuan dari diri Tionghoa bukan saja genosida pengetahuan tetapi juga genosida mental.”
Artinya, upaya pemulihan trauma lintas generasi tidak bisa diselesaikan sendiri oleh Tionghoa. Ia sangat membutuhkan dukungan dari lingkungan, dalam hal ini masyarakat dan pemerintah.
Masalahnya, realistiskah berharap ada dukungan dari pemerintah?
Setelah pernyataannya membuat gaduh, Menteri Kebudayaan Fadli toh tidak meminta maaf. Pada 16 Juni 2025, ia malah membuat utas penyangkalan di media sosial X yang isinya semakin bikin jengkel.
Tanpa menyinggung temuan TGPF, Fadli mengatakan “perlu kehati-hatian dan ketelitian” sebelum menyimpulkan ada pemerkosaan massal pada Mei 1998, karena ini “menyangkut kebenaran dan nama baik bangsa”.
Argumen ini sekali lagi mengingatkan kita pada normalisasi praktik impunitas terhadap para pelaku kekerasan seksual oleh institusi yang lebih memilih nama baiknya ketimbang keadilan pada korban.
Yang lebih mengerikan, upaya negara mencuci dosa dengan memanipulasi sejarah itu terus berjalan dengan begitu gamblang, dan segala protes yang muncul hanya dianggap angin lalu.
Menghadirkan Narasi Alternatif
Di saat sulit berharap pada pemerintah, munculnya sumber-sumber pengetahuan alternatif mengenai Tionghoa di media sosial seakan memberi sepercik harapan.
Salah satu yang konsisten menyebarluaskan pemahaman mengenai Tionghoa adalah Suara Peranakan. Digagas pada 2020, Suara Peranakan memanfaatkan Instagram dan X untuk memantik diskusi mengenai Tionghoa sekaligus membangun kembali kesadaran Tionghoa akan sejarah dan identitasnya. Pengetahuan yang disebarluaskan menyertakan refleksi pribadi, juga perspektif lokal yang selama ini jarang disuarakan.
Suara Peranakan mengusung topik beragam, termasuk sejarah-sejarah Tionghoa yang disembunyikan, pangan dan kuliner, komunikasi antarbudaya, tradisi dan perayaan Tionghoa, ragam Tionghoa non-Jawa, krisis iklim, hingga seruan solidaritas terhadap sesama minoritas dan kelompok marginal yang tersisihkan oleh kekuasaan. Topik-topik ini jadi sangat menarik karena Tionghoa tak lagi disorot sebagai entitas tunggal melainkan selalu terkait dengan gambar besar kemanusiaan global.
“Nilai solidaritas dan kemanusiaan memang harus selalu dibawa karena pada akhirnya lo enggak bisa berdiri sendiri. Di zaman Orde Baru, Tionghoa selalu dicap berorientasi pada uang. Tionghoa bisa mendobrak stereotip tersebut dengan menggalang solidaritas bersama masyarakat yang ekonominya lebih terbatas, juga bersama kelompok minoritas tertindas lainnya,” kata Randy Mulyanto, anggota Suara Peranakan, pada September 2024.
“Tapi, mengenali sejarah sendiri tetap penting sebagai pintu masuk. Sulit bagi kita untuk sadar dengan isu-isu yang lebih luas kalau identitas sendiri saja tidak tahu.”
Astrid Reza, peneliti RUAS, mengatakan Tionghoa juga dapat berupaya melawan genosida pengetahuan dengan menempatkan diri di ruang-ruang yang selama ini jarang atau bahkan dianggap mustahil dimasuki—walau ini tentu tak mudah.
Astrid mencontohkan bagaimana ia terjun berhari-hari dalam demonstrasi menentang revisi Undang-Undang Pilkada yang menjadi kedok untuk menempatkan putra bungsu presiden dalam tampuk kekuasaan di level provinsi—sebuah ancaman serius bagi demokrasi Indonesia. Selain menyuarakan aspirasinya, Astrid ingin memperlihatkan bahwa Tionghoa juga dapat menyampaikan pendapat melalui demonstrasi, ruang yang selama ini banyak dihindari Tionghoa akibat trauma masa lalu.
Pernyataan Astrid melayangkan ingatan saya pada sebuah pengalaman pribadi yang terjadi bertahun-tahun silam di Aceh Timur, ketika saya berkunjung ke sana dalam rangka aktivitas literasi.
Satu hari, saya berpapasan dengan sekelompok anak SD, yang sembari cekikikan kemudian meneriaki saya: “Kafir!”
Sejenak, saya terpaku, sebelum memutuskan menghampiri dan mengajak mereka berbincang santai. Kami mengobrol soal topik-topik ringan saja, utamanya terkait keseharian mereka.
Anak-anak ini mengaku tidak pernah melihat seorang Tionghoa pun sejak mereka lahir. Sebagai anak-anak buruh tani, mereka jarang bepergian ke luar daerah karena keterbatasan biaya. Mereka hanya tahu bahwa saya berbeda tampilan, mengira saya warga negara asing entah dari Jepang, Korea, atau Tiongkok.
Selang beberapa waktu, ketika kedekatan perlahan terjalin, mereka mulai tertarik mengetahui lebih banyak tentang Tionghoa.
“Kak, ceritakan lebih banyak tentang Cina yang tinggal di Indonesia dong!”
Saya sontak terharu.
Bagi saya, celetukan anak-anak itu murni datang dari ketidaktahuan. Dan, saat narasi resmi pemerintah tak bisa diandalkan, saya kira tidak ada salahnya menjemput bola dan menyerukan narasi alternatif.
In Jakarta, Indonesia, for two years, the families of human trafficking victims have waited anxiously for the return of their loved ones, who have been forced into slavery in online scam operations in Myanmar. These families continue to hope the Indonesian government will intervene and rescue them.
“Please, Indonesian government. How much longer will our family remain abandoned?” asked Yanti, the sister of one of the victims still trapped in Myanmar.
Myanmar—along with Cambodia, the Philippines, Laos, and Thailand—has become a Southeast Asian hub for pig butchering scams. This form of long-term financial fraud involves perpetrators building trust with victims, often through fake romantic or friendship relationships, before convincing them to invest in fraudulent schemes.
As of March 2024, Indonesia’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs reported that 30 Indonesian citizens remain trapped in Myanmar.
“We truly understand the families’ concerns, and I will do everything possible to bring them home. However, the problem lies in accessing such a dangerous area. No foreigner has ever managed to enter it,” said Rina Komaria, Head of the Southeast Asia Sub-Directorate at the Directorate for the Protection of Indonesian Citizens, Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
Recruitment Pattern
Friend’s Deception
The COVID-19 pandemic devastated lives, leaving household finances in ruins. Many people were laid off, struggled to find new jobs, and became burdened with debt. This situation made some individuals easy targets for human trafficking syndicates.
These organized crime groups recruit victims through various methods. They post fake job advertisements on social media, posing as trusted institutions. They also exploit their own friends––as happened to Siska and her husband, Tito.
The couple’s nightmare began when Ahong, a friend, visited their home and tricked Tito into becoming a victim of human trafficking. As of August 18, 2024, Tito was still trapped in Myanmar.
“Ahong would eat and drink at our house when he was struggling financially. My husband trusted him. They were close friends—how could my husband think badly of him? And then, he deceived my husband,” Siska said.
In the past, Tito and Ahong worked for the same company. But later, Ahong moved to Thailand. When he found out that Tito had been laid off, he invited him to work at “a tech company” in Thailand, promising a monthly salary of Rp8 million (US$510)—a significant amount compared to Indonesia’s minimum wage of around US$286.
At first, Tito declined because he didn’t have money for travel expenses.
“But Ahong was persistent and even offered to cover the costs,” Siska said.
Siska recalled how Ahong reassured them: “Don’t worry, everything’s safe. There’s nothing strange. I’ll handle everything.”
“So my husband agreed. Our financial situation was bad, and he was stressed about our debts,” Siska explained.
In April 2022, after Ahong arranged the administrative and financial matters, Tito left for Thailand alone. At a Bangkok airport, someone claiming to be from the company—an associate of Ahong—picked him up. Tito stayed in a Bangkok hotel for three days, waiting for another worker, a man from Palembang.
On the third day, a company representative took Tito and the man from Palembang on a long journey through the jungle. When they finally arrived at the company, Tito saw Ahong again.
Soon after, Siska began having trouble contacting her husband—the company had confiscated his phone, allowing Tito to use it only twice a week.
Siska occasionally reached out to Ahong for updates, but over time, her husband told her to stop.
“Don’t contact Ahong anymore. If you do, it’s like killing me. He sold me to the Chinese to work as a scammer,” Siska said, recalling her husband’s words.
“At first, my husband thought he was still in Thailand. Later, he realized he was already in Myanmar,” she added.
Siska never discovered her husband’s exact location, and then Ahong disappeared.
“I’ve lost contact with my husband, and Ahong’s number is no longer active. But I’ve heard that Ahong has returned to Indonesia,” Siska said.
According to a May 2024 report by the United States Institute of Peace (USIP), Chinese criminal networks operating in Myanmar shifted their focus during the COVID-19 pandemic.
Initially, from 2017, these criminal organizations controlled illegal cyber gambling businesses along the Myanmar-Thailand border, with support from the Karen Border Guard Force (BGF), which is affiliated with the Myanmar military. In 2020, the Myanmar government shut down many of these operations in Karen State (now called Kayin State). However, following the military coup in February 2021, these criminal organizations resurfaced and expanded into running pig butchering scams.
During the COVID-19 pandemic, China closed its borders, making it difficult for these networks to recruit workers domestically. As a result, they began targeting workers from other countries, including Indonesia.
“Globally distributed human trafficking networks play a role in this process. Their task is to deliver job seekers to scam centers. And Myanmar-based criminal groups are the ones who pay them,” the USIP report stated.
Satellite images of KK Park, an area that has become a base for cyber fraud, online gambling, and human trafficking operations in the state of Myanmar. (Google Earth)
Broker’s Promises
A panel of judges at the Bekasi District Court found Andri Satria Nugraha and Anita Setia Dewi guilty of human trafficking on February 5, 2024. The judges sentenced each of them to eight years in prison and fined them Rp200 million (US$12,763), with an additional four months in jail if they failed to pay the fine. The court also ordered them to jointly pay Rp600 million (US$38,292) in restitution to the victims, or serve an additional six months in prison if they do not pay.
Andri and Anita recruited and deceived dozens of Indonesians, forcing them to work as cyber scammers in Myanmar. Twenty victims recorded a video testimony about the fraud and torture they endured, which went viral on social media and prompted a response from President Joko Widodo.
On May 5, 2023, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, through the Indonesian embassies in Yangon, Myanmar, and Bangkok, Thailand, successfully evacuated them from Myawaddy, Myanmar. Four days later, the National Police’s Directorate of General Crimes (Bareskrim) arrested Andri and Anita at Sayana Apartment, Kota Harapan Indah, Bekasi Regency.
However, some of Andri’s and Anita’s victims remain trapped in Myanmar.
One of them is Pendi. His wife, Mona, is still fighting for her husband’s return to Indonesia.
The restaurant where Pendi worked went bankrupt due to the COVID-19 pandemic, leaving him with no choice but to work odd jobs. Sometimes, he worked as a motorcycle-taxi driver, and other times as a private driver. His income was barely enough to cover daily expenses.
One day, he met Andri Satria Nugraha and Anita Setia Dewi at Summarecon Mall Bekasi. The couple offered Pendi a job at “a technology company” in Thailand, promising a one-year contract with a monthly salary of around Rp10 million to Rp20 million (US$639 to $1,277).
They also promised to cover his flight, meals, accommodation, and other administrative costs. All that was required was proficiency in English and fast typing skills.
“They soon had a Zoom meeting, where Andri and Anita appeared along with eleven other victims. The departure process moved very quickly after my husband met them,” Mona said.
Mona grew suspicious because Andri and Anita never disclosed the name of the company, saying only that it was located in Bangkok.
“But my husband went anyway because he had good intentions—he wanted to provide for the family. So he accepted the offer to go to Thailand,” Mona said.
Andri and Anita arranged the departures in two groups. Pendi and four others—two women and two men—were part of the first group, which left Jakarta in July 2022. The second group departed from another location at a different time. Meanwhile, Andri and Anita stayed behind in Indonesia.
“When he arrived in Thailand, my husband contacted me. Someone from the company, who seemed to be in charge, picked him up. He looked Chinese but spoke with a bit of a Malaysian accent,” Mona said.
The company representative took the victims to a hotel in Bangkok, where they spent the night. The next day, they were driven 500 kilometers to Mae Sot, a city on Thailand’s western border with Myanmar, before crossing the Moei River. None of the victims realized they had been smuggled into Myanmar.
Once there, the company confiscated their passports and forced them to practice speed typing. They also restricted mobile phone use, making it difficult for Mona to contact Pendi.
“Three weeks later, my husband sent me a letter saying he had realized he’d been tricked. He asked me to report it to the Indonesian authorities,” Mona said.
Language Course Center
Yanti remembers Wahyu as an introverted person, determined to achieve his dreams. Ever since graduating from college, her brother had dreamed of working in South Korea. To pursue that goal, he enrolled in Korean language courses at the Korean Language Center Indonesia (KLCI) in Sukabumi—run by Latif Aliyudin.
“My brother took the Korean language test in Jakarta twice before he finally passed and got his certificate,” Yanti said.
With Latif’s help, Wahyu was almost sent to work at a manufacturing company in South Korea, but the plan was postponed due to the COVID-19 pandemic. In the meantime, Wahyu took on odd jobs, with his last position as a part-time teacher, earning Rp600,000 (US$38) per month.
“Then the course reached out again and offered him another opportunity, asking, ‘Do you still want to work in Korea? Departures have reopened,’” Yanti recalled. “My brother agreed because it was his dream.”
KLCI Sukabumi requested Rp20 million (US$1,278) for Wahyu’s departure costs. His family helped pay in installments—first Rp3 million, then Rp5 million—until the full amount was covered. However, Wahyu never went. KLCI said that processing the visa and work permit for South Korea was still complicated.
As an alternative, Latif suggested that Wahyu take a job at “a Korean subsidiary in Thailand.”
“He said it would only be for three months, at most, before my brother could finally go to South Korea. Wahyu agreed because he was unemployed, getting older, and had already paid in full,” Yanti explained.
Latif introduced Wahyu to a man named Ardli Fajar, who arranged accommodation for Wahyu at the City Park Apartment in Cengkareng. In November 2022, Wahyu departed for Thailand.
After Wahyu moved, Yanti found it difficult to stay in touch with him. His phone was often inactive, and her messages would only show a single check mark.
“I tried messaging him, but it would take three or four days—sometimes even a week—before he replied. He said he was healthy. I stayed positive, thinking maybe he was just adjusting to the work there. By December 2022, I still hadn’t heard much from him,” Yanti said.
Months passed, and Yanti completely lost contact with her brother. The family grew increasingly worried, especially as news reports about fraud and human trafficking in Southeast Asia began to surface.
“One day, I sent him some news articles and asked about his location and how he was doing. Two weeks later, he finally replied. But his messages sounded strange, like he was scared,” Yanti recalled.
Wahyu told her that he had been smuggled into Myanmar through Thailand. He wasn’t working at a manufacturing factory but had been forced to work as a cyber scammer—and he wasn’t getting paid.
“Brother, just escape,” Yanti urged.
“I can’t. I’m trapped behind a mountain.”
“Are they torturing you?”
“Yesterday, they electrocuted me,” Wahyu replied. “Don’t tell Mama. I’m afraid she’ll get sick from stress. Just pray for me to stay strong here.”
Satellite images of Taizhang Zone, the latest criminal area controlled by armed groups in Karen State, Myanmar. (Google Earth)
Days in the Camp
In Myanmar, Indonesians forced to work as pig butchering scam operators endure extremely long, inhumane working hours—17 to 20 hours a day with only 30 minutes of rest, without holidays or pay.
The cyber fraud organizations force these enslaved workers to scam 100 people each day, primarily targeting citizens from the United States, Canada, and Australia. If they fail to meet their targets, their working hours are extended, or they face physical punishment. These punishments include standing for hours, running 30 laps around a soccer field while carrying a water-filled gallon, doing hundreds of push-ups, being hit with blunt objects, whipped, or even electrocuted—depending on the severity of their failure.
After being electrocuted by the syndicate, Wahyu’s body was covered in bruises, and he struggled to walk.
“His legs hurt, so he had to walk slowly. But even in that condition, he comforted us,” Yanti said.
Yanti recalled her brother telling her: “Don’t worry about me. I wore layers of clothes—thick ones. So when they electrocuted me, it didn’t feel as bad.”
“But being electrocuted is still being electrocuted—it breaks my heart,” Yanti said.
The victims have lost all choice and control over their lives. The company forces them to keep scamming, even though it goes against their conscience.
Siska recalled her husband Tito saying: “Bu, I can’t stand lying to people. When I look at the photos of the people I’m supposed to scam, I see their children and families. It makes me think of you and the kids at home. That’s when they beat me.”
“So my husband just accepted it when they beat his thighs with iron rods and beams until they bruised. Eventually, they hit him on the head. He wanted to fight back, but he couldn’t,” Siska said.
The Pig Butchering Scam
An illustration of the families of human trafficking victims in Myanmar. (Project M/Aan K. Riyadi)
The pig butchering scam is a type of online investment fraud with two stages.
The first stage, known as “fattening the pig,” involves building trust between the scammer and the target. Scammers use fake identities to approach their targets on social media. In some cases, they steal real people’s identities.
The scammers often pose as glamorous, wealthy individuals—attractive, upper-class men or women—who flaunt luxury goods, enjoy horseback riding, travel the world, and drive Ferraris. They use these personas to lure wealthy targets.
Initially, the scammer is warm and friendly, engaging the target as if they’ve known each other for a long time. Once trust is established, the scammer introduces an investment opportunity, promising high returns through fake cryptocurrency trading platforms set up by the company.
The second stage, “butchering the pig,” begins when the scammer embezzles the target’s money. Once the target has invested large sums, the scammer vanishes, along with the investment platform, leaving the target in financial ruin.
But not all scams go as planned.
If the scammer fails to deceive the target, the criminal groups may extort the scammer’s family. For instance, the company might demand a ransom, promising to release the operator if the family pays.
The syndicate once demanded Rp150 million (US$9,560) each from Mona and Yanti for the release of Pendi and Wahyu. Similarly, they asked Siska for US$10,000 to free Tito. When the families couldn’t pay, the company threatened to sell the victims to other criminal groups.
Siska remembered Tito saying: “They sold me to a new company. They confiscated my phone. I can’t take it anymore. Please prepare US$8,000.”
“My husband called me, crying. He couldn’t endure it any longer. The punishments at the second company were even worse. But where was I supposed to get that kind of money?” Siska said.
Mona also had no choice but to accept that her husband would be sold to another company. On average, victims were sold more than twice.
“I asked my extended family for help, but I couldn’t raise that much money. I reached a point where I knew there was nothing else I could do. If my husband was going to be sold again, I just had to accept it,” Mona said.
“We’re also scared. Even if we pay, there’s no guarantee they’ll come home. If not, we’ll just end up in debt,” Yanti added, thinking of her brother, Wahyu.
But the company doesn’t care whether the families have money or not—they just want payment.
Yanti once told the company she couldn’t afford to pay.
“They told me, ‘If you can’t pay, we’ll take him to an underground prison,’” Yanti said.
“At that point, we didn’t know my brother’s condition. We feared the worst—thinking he might die,” she added.
Demanding Repatriation
Transnational crime has a domino effect. The victims’ families—mostly wives—not only suffer emotionally but also bear the financial burden alone.
Siska works tirelessly to support her family and ensure her two young children get enough nutrition.
“Now I have to work harder than ever. In the morning, I run a laundry service from home,” Siska said. “In the afternoon, I work at a clothing store until 10 p.m. If I’m not too tired, I stay up ironing until dawn.”
Mona is in a similar situation, now working as a domestic worker to support her family. Her and Pendi’s two children had to drop out of college to help with the family’s financial struggles.
“They’re working now. We help each other. I feel guilty that their father’s situation has burdened them, especially at such a young age,” Mona said.
These women have taken on multiple roles as they continue to fight for their families. They’ve appealed to the police, BP2MI, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the National Commission on Human Rights, and even visited the House of Representatives. Several civil society organizations have supported them, yet they still have no clear answers.
“The government keeps asking us to be patient and wait. We don’t know what the obstacles are—we’re just housewives who don’t understand diplomacy,” Mona said.
“The police still haven’t arrested Latif. They’ve summoned him twice. They should bring him in by force,” Yanti added, referring to Latif Aliyudin, the owner of the Korean Language Center Indonesia (KLCI) in Sukabumi.
“My husband even asked me to seek financial help from people in the village. He said, ‘If the government can’t bring me home, we’ll have to prepare the ransom ourselves,’” Siska said.
Exhausted from fighting alone, the women started a joint movement called “Jerat Kerja Paksa” (Forced Labor Trap), a self-help initiative supporting victims and families of modern slavery in Southeast Asia.
They’ve shared their struggles in public forums and, most recently, sent an open letter to President Joko Widodo on June 26—World Day Against Torture—through the State Secretariat. In the letter, they urged Jokowi and his cabinet to address human trafficking urgently.
“No one deserves to be tortured, and no one should have the right to torture others,” the letter stated.
Meanwhile, the Directorate of Protection of Indonesian Citizens at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs said they have not yet been able to rescue the victims.
The Ministry of Foreign Affairs said they have tried several approaches, including seeking assistance from the Myanmar government, approaching the government of the People’s Republic of China (details of which they cannot disclose), and communicating with the Karen Border Guard Force that controls the Karen State.
“The (Myanmar) government can’t reach the victims because their location is too close to the conflict zone,” said Rina Komaria, Head of the Southeast Asia Sub-Directorate of the Directorate of Protection of Indonesian Citizens at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
Myanmar has been engulfed in a prolonged civil war, which intensified after the military staged a coup against the civilian government in February 2021. The conflict has spread across several regions, including Shan, Kachin, Karen, Rakhine and central Myanmar.
“About five to seven people are in the Hpa-An area. It’s extremely remote and close to the heart of the conflict. Not only is it difficult for Indonesians to reach, but even Myanmar authorities struggle to access the area,” Rina added.
Hpa-An is a major city in Karen State, a region that has drawn the attention of international human rights activists due to its role as a hub for transnational criminal operations.
Several areas in Karen State are suspected of being bases for cybercrime, online gambling, illegal casinos, and human trafficking. These include Apollo Park, Yatai New City (Shwe Kokko), Yulong Bay Park, KK Park 1 & 2 (Dongfeng), Dongmei Park and Myawaddy Town.
Satellite images of Dongmei Zone, which has become a hub for cyber fraud, online gambling, illegal casinos, and human trafficking in the Myanmar-Thailand border region. (Google Earth)
According to a report by Justice For Myanmar, these transnational criminal operations are controlled by Chinese criminal networks in collaboration with the Karen Border Guard Force (now the Karen National Army). One of the most prominent figures is Wan Kuok-Koi, also known as Yin Gouju or “Broken Tooth,” a former leader of the 14K Triad criminal group and the main investor in Dongmei Park.
Myanmar’s complex political situation is believed to limit the Indonesian government’s options. The success of repatriating Indonesian citizens relied heavily on establishing communication with local power networks.
“There’s no standard method to extract people from these areas. The complexity comes from the presence of numerous armed groups. And those we attempted to contact don’t have the authority to approach these companies directly,” Rina added.
Besides rescue efforts, Rina said the Indonesian authorities must apply preventive measures.
Rina said the Ministry of Foreign Affairs “always coordinates” with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and “always coordinates” with the Ministry of Communication and Information to remove false recruitment posts from social media. However, she likened the problem to mushrooms: “Cut one, a thousand grow.”
According to the Indonesian Coordinating Ministry for Human Development and Culture (Kemenko PMK), 3,703 Indonesian citizens became victims of human trafficking (TPPO) between 2020 and March 2024, coerced into working as online scam operators.
These individuals were trafficked to Cambodia, followed by the Philippines, Thailand and Myanmar. The victims primarily came from North Sumatra, North Sulawesi, West Kalimantan, Central Java, West Java, DKI Jakarta, East Java, Bali, and Riau.
“Prevention isn’t our main responsibility. Our core work focuses on handling cases and providing services to Indonesian citizens facing problems abroad. If prevention efforts in Indonesia aren’t properly addressed, the Directorate of Protection of Indonesian Citizens will just keep ‘sweeping’ and ‘washing dishes’—because the cases will keep coming,” Rina said.
Outgoing Indonesian president Joko Widodo has sparked a global debate on dynastic politics. Photo: Facebook/President Joko Widodo
This year of elections has been nothing less than politically significant for Asia. There’s been mass protests, governments getting toppled, and new blood replacing legacy politics. But recent events in Indonesia have put a spotlight on a long-standing tradition across the world: Dynastic politics.
In the last few months, Indonesia has seen mass protests centered around its outgoing president, Joko Widodo, who rose to power on the backs of being non-elite and non-legacy in a country where the Yudhoyonos or the Sukarnos ruled the nation. Today, he’s being accused of promoting a political nepo-baby – his eldest son Gibran Rakabuming – who will be inaugurated as the vice president on October 20. The 37-year-old Rakabuming will be Indonesia’s youngest vice president.
Indonesia is not alone. Political families are everywhere: In India, there’s the Nehru-Gandhi family; Thailand has the Shinawatra clan; in the Philippines, it’s the Marcos or the Aquino families; and the US has the Kennedys and the Bush family. The appeal of influential families in politics is rooted in many things, including myth-making, leadership vacuum and local factors such as conflict, economic crisis and so on. But there are strong correlations between political dynasties and stunted economic development and corruption.
Scions of political dynasties in (Left to right) India, Thailand and the Philippines. Photo: Wikimedia Commons
On October 16, Asian Dispatch collaborated with Project Multatuli to host a webinar to find out why, despite the downsides, people continue to vote for political nepobabies. Titled ‘Dynasties and Democracy: Unpacking Indonesia’s Elections and the Future of Political Power in Asia’, the webinar featured Dr. Yoes C. Kenawas, a Post-Doctoral Research Fellow at Universitas Katolik Atma Jaya; Pana Janviroj, the former Executive Director of Asia News Network; and Endy M. Bayuni, the former Editor of the Jakarta Post. Project Multatuli’s Executive Director Evi Mariani moderated the session while Pallavi Pundir, the Editorial Lead at Asian Dispatch, provided the keynote address.
Indonesia is very significant for the world. It is the world’s largest archipelagic nation and with the fourth-largest Muslim population. The country is the driving force behind the hugely successful ASEAN and is of key interest to the US and China for geopolitical reasons. Indonesia also powers the world’s demand for key resources such as nickel.
Since his reelection in 2019, Jokowi – as Widodo is popularly called – has introduced several family members in politics. His eldest son Rakabuming became the mayor of Surakarta last year before being elected as the vice president this year. His youngest son Kaesang Pangarep, who was once a YouTuber and criticised for his lavish lifestyle, is the chairman of the Indonesian Solidarity Party. In 2020, Jokowi’s son-in-law Bobby Nasution became the mayor of Medan. Last year, Anwar Usman, a Chief Constitutional Judge and Widodo’s brother-in-law, was demoted by a judicial panel for lowering the age limit for presidential candidates, which enabled Rakabuming to become Prabowo Subianto’s running mate this year.
Official data, released by the Indonesian Ministry of Home Affairs, documented the rise of nepotism in politics and showed that between 2005 and 2014, 11 percent of candidates for the post of district chief and provincial governor were related by blood or marriage to the district head, legislator, governor, party chairman or president. That figure was 32 percent in 2020.
Here are some highlights from the conversation:
Why do political dynasties exist?
Pana Janviroj cited India as the “prototype of dynasty politics”, where the Gandhi family dug deep roots right from the day it gained independence in 1947. “The Gandhi brand still sells,” he added. “Big businesses supported the Gandhis. It’s a monopoly of politics, which decayed when you saw the rise of the Bharatiya Janata Party. This is not about democracy; it’s about power.”
Pana Janviroj detailed what dynastic politics looks like in Asia.
Pana said that political dynasties start small, at a provincial level. Social media has made it easy for political families to brand themselves, especially for younger nepobabies. “The networking of these people makes it difficult for outsiders and independents to enter politics. This diversity affects the quality of government, whether it’s nepotism or professionalism.”
Despite knowing the ill-effects of political dynasties, how can functioning democracies platform their rule for so long? Endy M. Bayuni asked this question before noting that political families adapt to changing political times. “They were at the top, then democracy came, and they learned the rules of the game and how to beat the system,” Bayuni said. “In the case of Indonesia, they either build a political party or seize control of an old political party. Political parties are not run democratically, not in Indonesia. Power is very much concentrated in the hands of one person, often the chair.”
It is also cultural, Bayuni adds. “We live in patriarchal societies and with so-called Asian values such as deference to authority, to power, and an unwillingness to challenge that power. These political families know that, and once they’re in power, they manipulate it.”
Why do people keep voting for political nepobabies?
Global voting behaviours have shown that people are well aware of political dynasties. Often, the families or their successors openly promote their legacy, highlighting past contributions to the nation and peddling reassurances for the future.
Yoes C Kenawas, who has done extensive surveys documenting voting behaviours in Indonesia, found that people preferred political nepobabies than those candidates who rejected dynastic politics. “This was concerning because it reflects indifference,” he said. “That indifference didn’t just encourage political dynasties but also normalised them.”
Bayuni pointed to the February 2024 elections and noted how Prabowo running with Gibran won by an overwhelming landslide despite media reports of corruption. “People knew, and they still voted for them,” he said. “The same thing happened in the Philippines: Marcos Jr. came back to power – again through democratic elections. In Thailand, the Thaksin family is back in charge.”
“In Indonesia, we built democracy, had democratic elections, and somehow, today, we’re back to where we were 24-25 years ago, with a kind of authoritarianism,” Bayuni said.
Kenawas added that peoples’ vote is also shaped by the political elite and the corrupt processes they install. “[In Indonesia], what we have right now is just procedural democracy without substantive democracy,” said Kenawas.
The past 10 to 15 years has seen an increasing trend of dynastic politics at the subnational level in Indonesia, Kenawas noted, and much of it is due to regulatory policies too.
“One of the reasons why these dynastic politicians keep emerging is because there’s no regulation that prohibits politicians from building political dynasties,” said Kenawas. “Indonesia once introduced an anti-dynasty clause in its local elections law. Unfortunately, the Constitutional Court canceled it in 2015, resulting in an explosion of dynastic politicians at the national level.”
How Jokowi changed the rules of dynastic politics in Indonesia
Kenawas marks the current political developments in Indonesia as exceptional in its history after Jokowi introduced political succession at a national level. Even Suharto – the military dictator who was the longest serving Indonesian president with a term that began in 1968 and ended in 1998 – didn’t have dynastic succession at a national level, he added. The year 1998 is marked by a movement called the Reformasi, which dethroned Suharto and brought in sweeping political, economic and grassroots changes that, among others, detailed ways to eradicate corruption, collusion and nepotism. Jokowi has overturned these efforts.
“Today,” Kenawas remarked, “What we have is the perfect example of nepotism, presented by the president himself, who was touted as the man of the people, someone who came from a non-elite background. For the first time in Indonesia’s history, [a president] has relatives who will compete in the upcoming gubernatorial election. Most importantly, for the first time in the Republic’s history, dynastic succession is taking place at the national level, with his son, Gibran Rakabuming – or Raka – being elected as vice president.”
What is the way forward?
Bayuni said that he’s a believer in democracy despite all the doom and gloom. “But democracy has effective checks and balances between the different branches — executive, legislative, judiciary— with credible and strong law enforcement,” he said. “The regulations have to ensure that these checks and balances are effective.”
Even more important, he added, is the role of the fourth estate, the independent and critical media. “This is to ensure that during elections, voters make informed decisions,” Bayuni added. “This February, the Indonesian media failed to enlighten the public. That’s why Prabowo and Gibran won the election. They had public opinion behind them.”
You can hear the recorded conversation on our YouTube below:
Royani, a resident of Mosolo Village, poses for a photo on her deforested land. No less than 300 of her clove trees were uprooted. Royani is still defending her land from excavation. Image Credit: Project M/Yuli Z.
“Even animals need water. Without water, we will die in vain,” Ratna griped.
The 58-year-old was upset that the water from the local spring water system that flowed into her house was now full of mud. This had become a regular occurrence ever since nickel mining company PT Gema Kreasi Perdana started its operations on Wawonii Island in Konawe Islands Regency in Southeast Sulawesi. The company, the sole owner of a concession permit on the island, is a subsidiary of natural resources conglomerate Harita Group – owned by one of Indonesia’s richest men, Lim Hariyanto Wijaya Sarwono.
Ratna could not hold back her tears. She was angry at the company that had degraded the environment and was disappointed at fellow residents who supported mining on the 706-square-kilometer island.
The mining operation has affected every aspect of her life. She has to wait for hours for the water to be clean enough to be used for bathing and doing her laundry and dishes. Furthermore, she now has to buy drinkable water, which costs her about 50 US cents a gallon.
The impacts of mining on the island’s spring water system possibly started on May 21, 2023. At that time, farmers noticed that the water spring had become increasingly murky, while the pipe used to distribute water from the island’s only water reservoir was cut off. They believed that some people might have purposely cut the water distribution to contain the problem.
Ratna had seen this coming when the nickel company started its operations there.
Those who sold the land said the mining wouldn’t harm us, but now, we’re all looking for clean water. They were fooled by the company. We’re doomed here. —Ratna, lifelong resident of Sukarela Jaya Village, Southeast Wamonii.
The mother of two was never tempted to sell her land, despite being offered hundreds of millions of rupiah. The company’s money could run out in an instant, she said, but the crops could be enjoyed perennially.
“The yield of nutmeg in one year can be tons. We are criticized for refusing good fortune [by selling our land]. Doesn’t the abundance of nutmeg bring good fortune?”
Life had been sufficiently good for Ratna before the nickel miners came. Her plantation allowed her to acquire basic necessities and also save enough money to make an umrah pilgrimage to Mecca in early 2023.
“It’s totally okay to have just enough money to buy food. We must think far ahead. We have a younger generation”. She admitted that she was frustrated at the fact that her complaints had been ignored despite having to face the same problems on a daily basis.
Amid public protests, excavators proceeded to clear the land and dredge the soil. Vehicles carrying nickel ore continued to pass towards the port, which was located only 200 metres or so from Ratna’s house.
It’s only natural that Ratna plans to abstain in the upcoming elections. She feels abandoned by the council members, who are supposed to represent the people. “Our voice means nothing to the council members. When we expressed our opposition to the mining, we were thrown out like animals. We were even attacked with tear gas during our protest in Kendari. I almost died from suffocation.”
They say investors bring prosperity, but in reality they only bring misery. The investors are killing us slowly. There is no justice being served; there is no humanity. It is like living under colonialism. We are colonized by our own country. —Ratna
Fleeing into the Forest
It was 6 in the morning in May 2023 in Sukarela Jaya Village, and Hastati was busy splitting no less than a thousand old coconuts to make copra. Half of the coconuts were harvested from her plantation, and the rest were purchased from her neighbours. The number of coconuts produced in one harvest time, or every three months, is usually around 3,000. Meanwhile, the price of white copra is Rp 7,500 per kg and black copra Rp 6,500 per kg. Apart from coconut meat, Hastati makes a living from selling coconut shell charcoal.
Like other residents who objected to the nickel mining, Hastati was satisfied making a living from the proceeds of her plantation. The 45-year-old was once offered Rp 1 billion to give up the 2-hectare plot of land she inherited from her parents. She was also promised a fully funded umrah and education for her six children, but Hastati never accepted the offer.
“We want to defend our lands, and the rest of Wawonii Island. It’s better for us to be independent like this,” she said. Like Ratna, she emphasised that the company’s money could run out in the blink of an eye, while a well-maintained natural environment could provide a living for many generations.
“When the mountain is completely dredged, the company will leave. What about us, then?”
On Hastati’s land grows nutmeg, cloves, and cashew nuts. Last year, she harvested 50 kg of cloves. The average nutmeg yield was 5 kg. Cashews are the most productive, as the harvest can reach up to 4 tonnes in a year.
Like Ratna, the scarcity of clean water has affected all aspects of her life. Hastati never thought she would go through this difficult time. Before the mining company came, the residents had never lacked clean water as water from the Banda Spring flowed freely into the villages.
“Now we have to go to the river to wash. How can we not be angry?”
As a form of resistance to the mining activities, Hastati refused to accept clean water from the company. It was not just about the water; it was about principles, she said. “Now we have to use river water for cooking.”
Hastati will never forget what happened in 2022, when she and other women stripped off their clothes during a protest against the nickel mining. She also hid in the forest for almost two months. She was afraid of being arrested for ‘obstructing’ the mining operation.
“We were just defending our land, but the police were chasing us as if we were thieves or murderers”.
Hastati, a resident of Sukarela Jaya, dries coconuts to make copra. In the background is heavy equipment belonging to PT Gema Kreasi Perdana, a subsidiary of the Harita Group. Photo: Yuli Z./Project Multatuli
Hastati hid in the forest with eight other residents, including Amlia who refused to sell her land for roads for the mine’s trucks and heavy machinery.
I met Amlia in her farm on May 20, 2023. She said that she hid in the forest after receiving a summons as a “witness” by the Konawe Islands Police.
“The persons summoned by the police were the ones who owned the land. As long as they did not give up the land, they would not be released. We thought it’d be better to run than answering the summons.”
Amlia and others went through difficult times when hiding in the forest. They roamed through the forest during the day and looked for a hut to take shelter when the night came. Some days they did not eat at all.
“Even when we could eat, we did not feel like eating. When we rested, we were still anxious. How could we stay calm? The police were looking for us,” said Amlia.
Like Hastati, Amlia was also promised a large sum of money. Her husband and eldest son were both offered a salary from the corporation, without the need to do any work, but she was not tempted by the offer.
Cassava, chilli, banana, and coconut trees grow near her hut. Heavy rain a few days earlier inundated part of the farm with water that carried red mud sediment. Amlia was sure the mud came from the excavated land in mining areas.
The nickel mining has further affected her daily routine as a farmer. She used to go to the farm at 8 in the morning, but now she has to start one-and-a-half hours earlier since access to the farm is blocked by the company’s haul roads. To reach her farm, Amlia needs to walk two hours from where she can park her motorbike. During harvest season, Amlia and her husband have no choice but to carry 20 to 30 kilograms of produce by foot over the hilly roads.
“Even though it is difficult, we are still trying to do our best. As farmers, our income indeed comes from gardening,” said Amalia who was carrying 20 kg of cassava from her farm to the motorbike.
Amlia, a resident of Sukarela Jaya, shows a coconut tree on her farm that was damaged by mud. Photo: Yuli Z./Project Multatuli
Damaged Water Springs
Just like the other days, Saharia, a resident of Dompo-Dompo Jaya village, woke up early in the morning to prepare her family’s breakfast. But when she turned on the tap to wash the fish, the water turned orange. Luckily, there was some water in the tank left from the rain a few days ago.
The 50-year-old is a single mother of four children. Her family owns 250 square metres of garden planted with coconuts, cashews, nutmeg, and cloves. The coconut flesh was later turned into copra, and the shell into charcoal. Saharia was consumed by anxiety as their garden could be taken over at any time by the corporation.
PT Gema Kreasi Perdana started the production and shipment of nickel ore in August 2022, shortly before the pollution of water springs began to be reported. The two main supply channels of clean water in the Sukarela Jaya and Dompo-Dompo Jaya villages have seemingly been polluted by mud since heavy rainfall hit on May 9, 2023.
Banda Spring, which supplies clean water to five villages in Southeast Wawonii District, has become murky. Photo: Yuli Z./Project Multatuli
On May 19, 2023, I visited the Banda Spring in Southeast Wawonii forest, about an hour walk from Dompo-Dompo Jaya Village. The spring, situated in a karst cave at an altitude of 119 metres above sea level, flows into several tributaries serving as sources of irrigation for residents’ farms and rice fields.
On May 21, the area experienced another round of rain. The water in Sukarela Jaya, Dompo-Dompo Jaya, and Roko-Roko turned dark. Those residing on the seashore were busy cleaning the gutters, removing mud carried by rainwater. Locals said changes in the colour of seawater have always occurred after rain, but never with such dramatic contrast.
When I checked the pipes in the settlement, the water was dark. Less than two hours after the rain, water distribution was cut off. Later, I met some women carrying bundles of clothes on their motorbikes. “I am going to do the laundry,” one woman shouted. “The water (flowing into our houses) is useless,” another chimed in.
I then visited the confluence of Roko-Roko River and Tambusiu-Siu River, which supply water to the Banda Spring. The colour difference between the two rivers was quite striking; Roko-Roko was slightly murky, while Tambusiu-Siu was brown. Roko-Roko is the only stream that is not polluted by the mining activities and can still be used by residents for bathing, washing, and cooking. The mining corporation has apparently distributed clean water to the residents, but some of them have refused it to signify their rejection of mining in Wawonii.
The confluence of Tambusiu-Siu River and Roko-Roko River after a two-hour rainstorm hit the surrounding area. Photo: Yuli Z./Project Multatuli
Saharia is among the local residents who object to nickel mining in the area. As a single parent, she has the dual role of taking care of the household and earning a living. The environmental destruction caused by the mining has only made things more difficult for her. To get clean water, she now has to walk to a river 500 metres away from her house. The scarcity of water has forced the family to reduce the frequency with which they go to the toilet. In Saharia’s house, there are three women who go through their menstrual phase every month.
It is very difficult for us when we’re going through our period . We are required to clean ourselves frequently, but what can we do without water? —Saharia
Until the dry season came in mid-August, clean water had yet to be restored. The water flowing in the pipes still carried mud sediment. Saharia was struck by fear every time she used the contaminated water, but she had no other choice. For drinking and cooking, she sometimes asked for clean water from a neighbour who has a well.
“I’m worried about my family’s health. Our bodies get itchy after having a shower. We really miss the old days when the water was clean,” she said.
Nickel Mining is Getting Under the Skin of Locals
Ristan has been sleep-deprived lately. The 24-year-old mother wakes up almost every night because her beloved baby also is also having difficulty sleeping. Abyan, Ristan’s nine-month-old son, has been suffering from itchy skin for the past four months. Reddish spots first appeared on his calf and ankle, and then spread to the toes and soles of his feet.
“It’s actually getting better lately. Before this, my baby’s feet were full of wounds. Very unsightly,” said Ristan while showing me Abyan’s rough skin.
Skin disease also struck Ristan, her husband, and her parents. Nahati, Ristan’s mother, had very itchy black spots all over her body a while ago. Almost all residents of Mosolo, Sinar Mosolo, and Sinaulu Jaya Villages have experienced similar ailments.
“The reddish spots felt itchy at first, and when we started to scratch they’d turn hot or even bleeding. I tried to treat it by drinking a herbal decoction,” Nahati said.
The water consumed by Ristan’s family comes from a source approximately 500 metres from a nickel mining site.
Sixty-five-year-old Nahati has resided in Mosolo since she was 5, but she only experienced the skin condition recently. The water used to turn murky after days of heavy rain. Today, however, the water changes colour after even the briefest rain shower.
Another Mosolo resident, Tika, also complained of itching. An, her one-year-old infant, was no different. The skin on his toes peeled off, and there were black scars on his legs. The mother and son ended up seeing a doctor in the city of Kendari last August.
“The doctor said there wasn’t any problem with the food we eat. He just said it might be due to the weather,” Tika said, adding that her family solely relied on spring water.
Wa Muita lives in Sinaulu Jaya Village with her five family members, three of whom are women. She has had skin ailments for the past year – ever since a nickel mine started operating nearby. She has tried a variety of medications to no avail. The water she uses for the household’s needs has been getting murky recently, and it gets darker anytime it rains.
“I have used a lot of medications, yet the itching persists. Perhaps it’s due to the polluted water we regularly consume. There’s no doubt that we are angry. It’s never been like this before”.
Left: Abyan’s skin is red and itchy. The nine-month-old baby boy has suffered from the skin disease for around four months since the water his family used was allegedly contaminated with mud from nickel mining. Right: A Sinaulu Jaya resident shows her skin rash. Photos: Yuli Z./Project Multatuli
Jumriati, a 24-year-old resident of Sinaulu Jaya, said she was worried about her family’s health due to their regular consumption of the polluted water.
“I hope the government will pay attention to our complaints and not let the community be affected by mining’s destructive impacts. The company is profiting at the expense of our lives,” she said.
Lahadi, a caretaker of the water reservoir in Sinaulu Jaya, confirmed that the water quality had deteriorated since the nickel mining company started excavating land in 2020.
“We cannot be sure whether the pollution is due to the company’s activities. But one thing’s for sure, every time it rains for at least a day, the spring brings lumps of mud into the reservoir,” said Lahadi. “I’m not making up stories. You can ask anyone living near the mining site; the ecosystem has been disrupted.”
A local environmental official in the Konawe Islands, Hasnawati, denied claims that the water in Sinaulu Jaya had been polluted. Water consumed by the community still met the quality standards set by the Environment and Forestry Ministry, she said in a statement, adding that tests had been carried out on the Pamsimas Sukarela Jaya and Pamsimas Dompo-Dompo Jaya Springs.
“The water sample was examined in an accredited laboratory (in Kolaka Regency), and the result shows that the water meets the regulatory standards of the Environment and Forestry Ministry,” she said.
However, she did not provide the test results before this article was completed. “Those are kept by my staff,” said Hasnawati.
Muhammad Jamil, an activist with the environmental group Mining Advocacy Network (JATAM), said skin ailments were common in nickel mining areas. Similar diseases could also be found in the Pomalaa District of Kolaka Regency and Tinanggea District in South Konawe Regency.
“As far as I know, the problem has been studied by a number of universities,” he said.
Research conducted by La Maga, Ahyar Ismail, and Faroby Falatehan from IPB University in Bogor (2017) found that Tinanggea residents experienced skin disease after using water contaminated by material from nickel mining sites. In addition to the skin conditions, residents also suffered from respiratory problems, as they were exposed to dust raised up by the mining. Such air pollution affected those within a three-kilometre radius of nickel mining sites, the study found.
Defending the Land
“I was devastated watching the clove trees being ripped down. It was like seeing your own children murdered,” said Wa Muita, a 43-year-old resident of Sinaulu Jaya, as she recalled the events of August 10, 2023.
A day before, residents received reports that their plantations on Mosolo hill, two hours away from their settlement, had been cleared by PT Gema Kreasi Perdana. Amiri, Wa Muita’s husband, rushed to check his plantation in the middle of the night and found that 40 of his clove trees had been toppled. Apart from that, the corporation also tore down dozens of pepper trees and cashew trees that were about to bear fruit.
Wa Muita and some 20 other farmers came by the next day. They were saddened to see the 18-year-old clove trees that had long been the source of their livelihood destroyed just like that.
“I was speechless, tears streaming down my face,” said Wa Muita.
Shortly after, hundreds of residents gathered at the plantation area. They confronted the company for trespassing, but the company claimed that it had acquired the land through other parties. Wa Muita and Amiri stressed that they had never sold their land, let alone received money from the supposed transaction. The situation quickly spiralled out of hand as members of both conflicting parties threatened each other – some with sharp weapons.
“Every time I go to the farm, I always talk to the clove trees. ‘Please bear fruit soon. We care for you like our own children. And you are the ones paying for your siblings’ school fees’,” she said.
Wa Muita has two children who are attending college; another one is in high school, and the youngest of all is in elementary school. Their tuition fees have been covered by the sale of cloves. In 2019, the family harvested a ton of cloves. The price of one kilogram of cloves in Southeast Wawonii is roughly Rp 130,000. The 40 clove trees uprooted by PT Gema Kreasi Perdana were immensely precious to Wa Muita.
Despite everything the company had put her through, Wa Muita only asked PT Gema Kreasi Perdana to stop clearing the land.
“We accept what they’ve done to us and hope the company still has some conscience. We have further requested the person who sold the land without our authorization to refund the company’s money”.
“Without this land we don’t know what to do. This is our sole source of income,” she emphasised.
Despite encountering such fierce rejection, the company has continued to clear residents’ land, said Wa Muita, forcing her and other farmers to maintain guard of their respective fields for months.
“We didn’t even have time to take care of ourselves from February to May. We did not shower, and only ate whatever was available”.
Wa Muita (front left) together with residents of Sinaulu Jaya and Mosolo stand guard at their plantations to prevent further encroachment by PT Gema Kreasi Perdana. Photo: Yuli Z./Project Multatuli
Before the trespassing incident, Wa Muita visited her field twice a week. Now she’s forced to go there more often to guard her land.
I don’t know what to say. I feel devastated. Why are there such evil people? We desperately care for the land, and they come and violate it just like that.. On top of that, they have also threatened to evict us. I hope the media, or anybody really, can help us to stop the destruction of our mother nature. —Wa Muita
Pitted Against Each Other
Not only does has mining had environmental impacts, it’s also triggered family conflicts: parents and children have come to despise each other; siblings have become enemies; and partners have split up.
For instance, Sanawiahas been estranged from her parents for over three years. The family conflict started when one of Sanawia’s brothers, with their father’s permission, sold their parents’ land in 2019.
The land sale was sealed as Sanawia protested against the mining at the Konawe Islands Council Office. It was only while on her way back home that Sanawia heard her parents’ land had been sold to the mining company.
“I could only cry. The company quickly cleared the land. Since then I haven’t been to visit my parents,” said the 45-year-old woman who has four siblings, three of whom support the mining activities. Sanawia said that, among her siblings, she used to be the closest to her parents — but not anymore.
She did not know exactly how much of her parents’ land was being sold. What she knows is that the field could usually produce 3,000 coconuts each harvest season. The mother of two wants to fix her relationship with her parents and siblings, but only under one condition. “Our relationship can be repaired as soon as the mining operation stops,” Sanawia insisted.
Aba, not his real name, said his daughter was abandoned by her husband while she was pregnant with their second child. His son-in-law had offered him money provided by the company in compensation for Aba’s land, which was used for PT Gema Kreasi Perdana’s haul roads.
Aba had previously been taken to the police station for defending his land. So he was enraged when his son-in-law made a deal with the company without his consent. He refused the money and demanded it be returned to the company.
When the couple was about to build a house, Aba’s son-in-law asked his wife to take out a loan, but she refused. That was when the son-in-law brought up Aba’s refusal to accept compensation from the mining company. The quarrel escalated into domestic violence.
“One night, my daughter came to me, crying. Her right eye was bruised. I tried to reconcile the couple, and they did get back together. But, after a few days, when my daughter was looking for mussels in the sea, her husband ran away and has not yet returned,” Aba explained.
Now, his daughter and two grandchildren live with him. “I will never accept the company’s money. I’m already old, it’s true, but I’m thinking about the future of my grandchildren,” Aba stated.
Both Sanawia and Aba reside in Roko-Roko, and in this village, social divisions caused by the mining company are no longer a secret. A number of people I met expressed reluctance to engage with anybody from the opposing ‘camp’.
A Legal Battle against Mining Activities
Wawonii Island, which covers an area of 706 square kilometres is categorised as a small island, based on Law No. 27/2007 on the Protection of Coastal Areas and Small Islands. Thus, as mandated by the law, mining activities cannot be carried out on the island.
Several civil society groups noted that at least 2,214 people living in the villages of Dompo-Dompo Jaya, Sukarela Jaya, Roko-Roko, Bahaba, and Teporoko were affected by PT Gema Kreasi Perdana’s nickel mining. For the record, PT Gema Kreasi Perdana obtained a nickel mining permit in 2007. By the end of 2019, the subsidiary of Harita Group secured a mining operation permit (IUP) on an area of 850.9 hectares, around 83 percent of which was forest area lent by the state under a forest area utilisation permit (IPPKH) scheme. It was also granted permission to build a port in the Wawonii Strait.
The development, according to a coalition of civil society groups, has harmed the aquatic ecosystem, including mangroves and coral reefs, on and around Wawonii Island. The murky water resulting from mining activities has made it difficult for fishermen to catch fish. The port also keeps fish away from the shoreline. The thick dust generated by the transportation of nickel ore has also damaged residents’ respiratory systems, the coalition emphasised.
Even though the law prohibits mining on the small island, the local government has issued a regional planning regulation (Perda No. 2/2021) that covers the Konawe Islands and carves out an exemption for mining on Wawonii.
Wawonii residents, represented by the Denny Indrayana Law Firm, have filed a judicial review of the regulation. On December 22, 2022, the Supreme Court granted their request.
Through decision No. 57 P/HUM/2022, the Supreme Court states that Wawonii Island is a “small island… which is vulnerable and very limited, therefore requires special protection. All activities that are not intended to support the ecosystem… including but not limited to mining are categorised as abnormally dangerous activities… which must be prohibited… as they will threaten the lives of all living creatures on the island”.
The Supreme Court also mentions that the special planning regulation “…ignores the wishes of the community as conveyed by a huge demonstration on March 6, 2019, against the mining activities”. The court further ordered the Konawe Islands Regent, as well as the Regional Legislative Council, to revise the regulation.
However, president director of PT Gema Kreasi Perdana Rasnius Pasaribu, through his attorney Asmansyah & Partners, submitted a judicial review to the Constitutional Court to challenge a number of articles in the law about the protection of coastal areas and small islands. The articles, number 23 paragraph 2 and 25 letter k, ban mineral mining activities in such areas.
The company’s lawyer argued that the Supreme Court interpreted the two articles as an “unconditional prohibition” on mineral activities in areas classified as small islands, despite the fact that the company “possesses a valid permit” and is therefore “threatened to cease its activities and potentially suffer constitutional and economic losses”.
The company said it had invested a total of Rp 37.5 billion and 77,300 US dollars since 2007, in addition to distributing more than Rp 70 billion in compensation for 568 hectares of land affected by mining activities.
The application was submitted on March 28, 2023, and the Constitutional Court arranged several hearings in May, August, and September. The next stage is the verdict hearing.
Civil society groups have called on the Constitutional Court to reject the judicial review in order to safeguard small islands from the grip of a destructive mining industry.
“If the judicial review is granted, mining activities will be legalised in all coastal areas and small islands in Indonesia, not only on Wawonii Island,” Wildan Siregar from environment watchdog Trend Asia warned. “Both ecological damage and social conflicts due to mining will become far more widespread” he added.
An bird’s-eye view of several villages in Southeast Wawonii District. The mining activities of PT Gema Kreasi Perdana have allegedly polluted the sea. Photo: Benaya Ryamizard Harobu/Project Multatuli
While the company filed a judicial review at the Constitutional Court, the Southeast Sulawesi Provincial Council officially removed the allocation of land for mining on Wawonii Island. The Regional Regulation Draft (Raperda) concerning the 2023-2043 Spatial Planning of Southeast Sulawesi designates Wawonii Island as an integrated fishery region.
Fajar Ishak, head of the Council’s special committee (Pansus) on the Spatial Planning bill, explained that revocation of land for mining in the Konawe Islands Regency was eliminated to comply with the Supreme Court’s decision.
“The Supreme Court’s decision was issued towards the end of 2022 (and became effective this year). Therefore, we cannot ignore it. As a consequence, we decided to declare Wawonii Island as an integrated fishery area. There will be no more mining there,” said Fajar on August 29,2023.
“This is a False Allegation”
PT Gema Kreasi Perdana spokesperson Alexander Lieman denied the accusations that the company had caused environmental damage. According to him, the company has taken preventive measures to prevent air pollution such as routinely monitoring the air quality and regularly watering the roads.
“We are taking such measures as part of our commitment to protect the environment, especially Wawonii Island,” said Lieman. “In fact, we even provided compensation for residents whose plantations were affected by mining activities.”
Regarding the murky water, Lieman claimed the water on Wawonii Island had always been like that, even before the company commenced its operations. He noted that every time it rained, the water turned dark.
“Our mining activities do not pollute the river (…) We strongly reject these baseless accusations. You can validate this with the local administration as well as the Environmental Agency”.
Murky water flowing from a resident’s pipeline on May 21, 2023. Photo: Yuli Z./Project Multatuli
Lieman said the corporation actually helped the communities to access clean water by dispatching water trucks to villages, setting up a special team to find alternative sources of clean water, digging wells, and cleaning the communities’ water tanks.
“The river is clear again, and the residents can easily access clean water for their daily needs”.
Lieman’s statement does not correspond to the facts on the ground. The water flowing in Dompo-Dompo Jaya, Sukarela Jaya, and Roko-Roko villages continues to carry mud. The water was still dark by August 18, 2023, even though there had not been heavy rain for quite some time.
Royani, warga Desa Mosolo, berpose di lahan miliknya yang telah gundul. Sebanyak 300 pohon cengkihnya ditumbangkan. Royani masih mempertahankan lahannya agar perusahaan tidak melakukan penggalian. Photo: Yuli Z./Project Multatuli
“Hewan pun membutuhkan air. Kalau tidak ada air, mati konyol kita,” Ratna merutuk.
Ratna kesal. Pipa yang saban hari mengalirkan air bersih ke rumahnya kini membawa sedimentasi lumpur. Ratna meyakini lumpur itu mengandung tanah bekas galian nikel PT Gema Kreasi Perdana, anak perusahaan Harita Group, pemilik tunggal izin konsesi di Pulau Wawonii, Kabupaten Konawe Kepulauan. Sebab, air yang digunakan selama ini tak pernah sekeruh itu walau di musim hujan.
Ratna menangis. Hatinya teriris. Ia marah bercampur kecewa. Marah kepada perusahaan yang dianggapnya semena-mena. Kecewa kepada siapa saja yang mendukung beroperasinya perusahaan tambang di pulau yang luasnya hanya 706 km² itu.
Hari-hari berikutnya, Ratna harus menunggu berjam-jam hingga air cukup jernih agar bisa digunakan mandi dan mencuci pakaian dan perabotan dapur. Untuk keperluan memasak, Ratna terpaksa membeli air yang harganya Rp8.000 per galon. Kondisi air belum pulih saat Wawonii Tenggara kembali diguyur hujan pada 21 Mei 2023, menyebabkan sumber mata air kian keruh.
Beberapa jam setelahnya, pipa yang mengalirkan air dari satu-satunya bak penampungan yang digunakan warga selama ini terputus. Warga menduga ada “oknum” yang sengaja memutus pipa agar masalah air tercemar tidak tersebar luas.
Ratna sudah menduga hal ini jauh sebelumnya. Tak heran ia mati-matian menolak masuknya tambang.
“Kata mereka yang jual lahan, aktivitas tambang tidak ada dampaknya. Sekarang sama-sama kita cari air bersih. Mereka dikasih bodo-bodo perusahaan.”
“Hancur kami di sini,” suaranya meninggi.
Ibu dua anak ini sudah 58 tahun menetap di Desa Sukarela Jaya, Kecamatan Wawonii Tenggara. Sejak lahir, berumah tangga, dan sekarang memiliki cucu. Walau hidupnya tak berjalan mulus-mulus saja, ia masih mampu memenuhi kebutuhan hidup dan bertahan sampai hari ini. Apalagi sekadar mendapatkan air bersih.
“Kami perjuangkan pulau ini karena di sini kami lahir. Di sini tumpah darah kami.”
Pulau Wawonii telah menyediakan segala yang dibutuhkan. Tanaman jambu mete, pala, cengkih, dan kelapa, cukup untuk menopang hidupnya. Ratna tak pernah tergiur lahannya ditawari uang ratusan juta rupiah. Uang dari perusahaan bisa habis dalam sekejap, katanya, tapi hasil perkebunan bisa dinikmati terus-menerus.
“Setahun hasil pala bisa berton-ton. Kita dibilang tolak rezeki. Lantas, ini bukan rezeki?”
Lagi pula, tanpa hadirnya tambang, Ratna merasakan hidupnya telah berkecukupan. Hasil perkebunan memungkinkannya menabung dan membeli berbagai keperluan hidup. Hasil kebun itu juga telah membawanya umrah pada awal tahun 2023.
“Biar tidak ada uang, kita masih bisa makan. Kita punya pemikiran jangan cuma sejengkal. Harus berpikir jauh ke depan. Kita punya anak cucu.”
Ratna beranjak ke halaman rumah. Di sana, biji dan bunga pala dijemur di bawah terik matahari. Ditatapnya biji-biji pala yang tak lama lagi menjadi rupiah.
Ratna berkata telah bosan menyampaikan keresahan hatinya. Suaranya hanya dianggap angin lalu oleh para pengambil kebijakan. Padahal, tambahnya, “perempuan yang dirugikan karena kami memasak dan mengurus dapur.”
Di tengah berbagai penolakan dan gejolak yang terjadi, eksavator perusahaan terus menggunduli lahan dan mengeruk tanahnya. Kendaraan-kendaraan pengangkut ore nikel tetap lalu lalang menuju pelabuhan, yang letaknya hanya 200-an meter dari rumahnya.
Ratna bertekad tak akan menyalurkan hak pilihnya pada pemilu di tingkat lokal nanti. Ia kadung kecewa. Merasa ditinggalkan anggota dewan yang seharusnya menjadi penyambung suaranya. Merasa tak dipedulikan kepala daerahnya.
“Saya akan golput. Hanya suara kami yang dibutuhkan. Kita demo di DPR, diusir seperti binatang. Dibentak-bentak. Kita demo di Kendari, dihantam dengan gas air mata. Saya hampir mati karena sesak napas.”
“Katanya, mendatangkan investor untuk kesejahteraan, tapi malah menyengsarakan. Mematikan secara halus.”
“Sekarang tidak ada keadilan. Tidak ada perikemanusiaan. Kayak penjajahan Belanda kita dibikin. Penjajahnya negara sendiri.”
Bersembunyi di Hutan
Pukul 6 pagi pada pertengahan Mei 2023 di Desa Sukarela Jaya, Hastati sibuk membelah buah kelapa tua untuk dijadikan kopra. Totalnya 1.000 buah. Sebagian kelapa itu milik sendiri yang baru saja dipanen, sebagian lain dibeli dari warga sekitar. Saat itu harga kopra putih Rp7.500/kg dan kopra hitam Rp6.500/kg. Dalam satu kali panen, setiap tiga bulan, kelapa yang dihasilkan biasanya mencapai 3.000 buah. Selain daging kelapa, Hastati mendapatkan keuntungan ekonomi dari tempurung kelapa yang dibakar menjadi arang.
Hastati, 45 tahun, adalah ibu enam anak. Seperti warga lain yang menolak tambang, Hastati merasa sudah cukup atas hasil perkebunannya. Ia berkata pernah ditawari uang Rp1 miliar agar mau melepas tanah seluas 2 ha warisan orang tua. Ia juga bercerita ditawari umrah gratis berkali-kali, bantuan biaya pendidikan untuk anak-anaknya, dan pernah diajak bekerja di tambang.
“Tapi saya tolak. Kita mau mempertahankan lahan dan Pulau Wawonii. Lebih baik kita berdikari begini.”
Uang dari perusahaan, katanya, bisa habis dalam sekejap. Namun, lahan yang dimilikinya, selama tidak dirusak, bisa memberikan kehidupan hingga generasi mendatang.
“Kalau sudah habis gunung, perusahaan pulang. Sedangkan kita?”
Di lahannya tumbuh pala, cengkih, dan jambu mete. Baru setahun terakhir Hastati mulai membuat kopra. Pohon pala dan cengkih baru belajar berbuah. Tahun lalu, ia memanen 50 kg cengkih. Sementara pala sekali panen rata-rata 5 kg. Jambu mete menjadi tanaman andalannya. Setahun bisa menghasilkan 3-4 ton.
Hastati tinggal bersama suami dan empat anak dan seorang cucu. Sulitnya mendapatkan air bersih menghantam seluruh kehidupannya, tak cuma mempengaruhi ekonomi rumah tangga. Hastati tak pernah menyangka akan melalui fase ini. Sejak dulu, ia tak pernah kesulitan mendapatkan air bersih. Sumur di Roko-Roko rata-rata sudah ditutup lebih dari satu dekade sejak air dari mata air Banda mengalir lancar ke kampung.
“Dulu kita senang air mengalir ke rumah. Sekarang harus ke sungai untuk mencuci. Bagaimana kita tidak mau marah?”
Sebagai bentuk penolakan tambang, Hastati menolak menerima bantuan air dari perusahaan. Ini bukan hanya tentang air. Ini tentang prinsip, katanya. “Sekarang terpaksa pakai air kali untuk memasak.”
Hastati tak pernah lupa kejadian tahun 2022. Saat itu ia bersama ibu-ibu lain nekat melepas baju dalam aksi menolak tambang nikel. Ia juga pernah bersembunyi di hutan selama nyaris dua bulan. Ia takut ditangkap lantaran dianggap menghalangi pertambangan.
“Saya jengkel kepada perusahaan. Kita mempertahankan lahan malah dicari-cari polisi. Padahal kita tidak membunuh atau mencuri.”
Hastati, warga Sukarela Jaya, menjemur kelapa untuk dijadikan kopra dengan latar belakang alat berat PT Gema Kreasi Perdana, anak usaha Harita Group. Photo: Yuli Z./Project Multatuli
Hastati bersembunyi di hutan bersama delapan warga lain. Di antara mereka ada Amlia yang menolak menjual lahannya untuk dijadikan jalan hauling atau jalan akses kegiatan pertambangan.
Saya menemui Amlia di kebunnya pada 20 Mei 2023. Ia berkisah bersembunyi di hutan lantaran takut ditahan polisi setelah menerima surat panggilan sebagai “saksi” oleh Kepolisian Resor Konawe Kepulauan.
“Kalau tidak dikasih lahannya, kita tidak dilepas di kantor polisi. Yang dipanggil ke polisi yang punya lahan. Kita bingung kenapa dipanggil. Lebih baik kita lari. Tidak usah kita hadiri panggilan polisi itu.”
Selama persembunyian itu, mereka melewati hari-hari cukup berat. Siang berpencar di hutan, malam mencari gubuk untuk berlindung. Dalam sehari, kadang tidak makan apa pun. Pernah mereka terpaksa makan singkong rebus basi.
“Biarpun makan, kita tidak rasa makan. Begitu juga kita duduk. Tidak tenang. Mau tenang bagaimana? Kita lari hampir dua bulan. Kita dicari-cari petugas polisi,” tutur Amlia.
Amlia juga pernah diiming-imingi gaji untuk anak pertama dan suaminya tanpa perlu bekerja oleh pihak perusahaan.
“Saya ditawari terserah mau berapa. Kalau mau, anak dikasih kuliah sambil kerja di kantor. Bapak dapat gaji biar tidak kerja. Anak yang paling tua juga dapat gaji biar tidak kerja.”
Tak jauh dari gubuknya, tumbuh pohon singkong berusia dua bulan dan tanaman lain seperti cabai, pisang, dan kelapa. Hujan deras beberapa hari sebelumnya menyebabkan sebagian lahan itu terendam air yang membawa sedimentasi lumpur merah setinggi pinggang orang dewasa. Amlia menduga tanah merah itu mengandung bekas galian nikel.
Kini Amlia dan suaminya harus berjalan kaki sejauh 2 km dari tempat memarkir sepeda motor mereka setiap kali ke kebun. Rute yang biasa dilalui telah menjadi jalan hauling PT Gema Kreasi Perdana. Saat masih bisa menggunakan sepeda motor, mereka biasanya ke kebun pukul 8 pagi. Sekarang paling telat berangkat pukul 6.30. Dari semula hanya setengah jam naik motor, sekarang mereka harus berjalan kaki selama dua jam untuk tiba di kebun.
Hasil panen pun dipikul dengan berjalan kaki melewati jalanan berbukit. Saat musim panen jambu, Amlia dan suaminya terpaksa mengangkut jambu seberat 20-30 kg dengan berjalan kaki.
“Walau sulit, kita berusaha tembus. Namanya petani. Pendapatan kita dari berkebun,” kata Amlia, yang membopong singkong seberat 20 kg dari kebun menuju parkiran motor sejauh 2 km dengan berjalan kaki.
Amlia, warga Sukarela Jaya, memperlihatkan tanaman kelapa di kebunnya yang rusak terendam air berlumpur. Photo: Yuli Z./Project Multatuli
Merusak Mata Air
Saharia, warga Desa Dompo-Dompo Jaya, seperti biasa bangun pagi hari untuk menyiapkan sarapan. Saat memutar keran untuk mencuci ikan, air yang keluar berwarna oranye. Ia terpaksa memasak dan mencuci bahan makanan menggunakan air hujan yang ditampung dari atap rumah beberapa hari sebelumnya.
Saharia, 50 tahun, adalah ibu tunggal empat anak. Keluarga ini memiliki kebun seluas 250 m² yang ditanami kelapa, jambu mete, pala, dan cengkih. Saharia mengolah kelapa yang buahnya dijadikan kopra dan tempurungnya dijadikan arang, dibantu ketiga anaknya. Salah satu anaknya saat ini mencari nafkah di perantauan.
Saat ini Saharia cemas kebun mereka bisa diserobot sewaktu-waktu oleh perusahaan.
PT Gema Kreasi Perdana, anak usaha Harita Group, melakukan produksi dan pengapalan ore nikel pada Agustus 2022. Lokasi penggalian korporasi berada di beberapa desa di Kecamatan Wawonii Tenggara, yang diduga telah mencemari sumber mata air. Pamsimas (program penyediaan air minum dan sanitasi berbasis masyarakat) Sukarela Jaya dan Pamsimas Dompo-Dompo Jaya, keduanya menyuplai air bersih untuk dua desa tersebut, mengalirkan air berlumpur sejak hujan deras pada 9 Mei 2023.
Mata air Banda tampak sangat keruh. Mata air ini menyuplai kebutuhan warga di lima desa di Kecamatan Wawonii Tenggara tapi tak bisa lagi digunakan. Photo: Yuli Z./Project Multatuli
Pada 19 Mei 2023, saya mendatangi mata air Banda di hutan Wawonii Tenggara, sekitar satu jam berjalan kaki dari Desa Dompo-Dompo Jaya. Mata air di dalam gua karst dengan ketinggian 119 mdpl ini mengalir ke beberapa anak sungai sebagai sumber pengairan kebun dan pertanian warga.
Pada 21 Mei, Wawonii Tenggara kembali diguyur hujan. Kawasan perairan di Desa Sukarela Jaya, Dompo-Dompo Jaya, dan Roko-Roko berubah warna cukup pekat. Di tengah hujan, warga yang tinggal di tepian laut membersihkan selokan, menghalau material lumpur yang terbawa air hujan. Menurut warga setempat, perubahan warna air laut kerap terjadi saat hujan, tapi tidak separah itu.
Saya memeriksa pipa di rumah warga. Airnya cokelat pekat. Tak sampai dua jam setelah hujan berhenti, aliran air di rumah-rumah warga terhenti. Dalam perjalanan, saya bertemu seorang wanita yang membawa bundel cucian di atas sepeda motor. Ia berteriak, “Saya mau pergi bilas cucian.” Perempuan lain menimpali, “Air ini sudah tidak ada gunanya.”
Saya mendatangi lokasi pertemuan sungai Roko-Roko dan Tambusiu-siu yang mengalirkan mata air Banda. Gradasi warna mencolok antara keduanya. Sungai Roko-Roko hanya sedikit keruh, sedangkan Tambusiu-siu berwarna kecokelatan. Sungai Roko-Roko adalah satu-satunya yang tidak tercemar dan masih digunakan warga Desa Roko-Roko, Sukarela Jaya, dan desa sekitar untuk keperluan mandi, mencuci, dan memasak. Perusahaan membagikan air bersih tapi sebagian warga menolak sebagai sikap penolakan atas aktivitas tambang di Wawonii.
Pertemuan dua sungai, yakni sungai Tambusiu-siu (berwarna oranye) dan sungai Roko-Roko usai hujan selama kurang lebih dua jam mengguyur daerah itu. Photo: Yuli Z./Project Multatuli
Saharia termasuk warga yang menolak tambang. Sebagai ibu tunggal, ia mengemban peran ganda mengurusi rumah dan mencari nafkah. Ia harus ke sungai berjarak 500 meter untuk mendapatkan air bersih, selain mengandalkan air hujan. Ia dan keluarganya terpaksa mengurangi frekuensi mandi karena merasa tak nyaman menggunakan air kotor. Belum lagi anggota keluarga perempuan yang setiap bulan harus melalui fase menstruasi. Di rumahnya, ada tiga perempuan.
“Kita pusing tidak ada air begini,” keluhnya. “Pada masa-masa datang bulan itu berat sekali. Karena harus sering bersih-bersih. Sekarang mau apa? Kita tahan-tahan mi.”
Sampai pertengahan Agustus 2023, air bersih belum juga pulih. Padahal sudah memasuki musim kemarau. Walau tak begitu keruh, air masih berlumpur. Selain itu, saluran air kerap kali macet. Sejak terputus pada Mei, air kembali mengalir pada awal Agustus.
Perasaan takut menghantui Saharia setiap kali menggunakan air yang diduga kuat tercemar itu. Tapi tak ada pilihan lain. Untuk kebutuhan minum, ia kadang mengambil air di sumur warga lain yang berjarak 100 meter dari rumahnya, dengan menggunakan gerobak pasir untuk mengangkut air.
“Saya khawatir soal kesehatan. Biasanya habis mandi kita gatal-gatal. Tapi mau bagaimana lagi? Kita butuh mandi. Saya rindu kehidupan yang dulu,” katanya.
Diserang Gatal-Gatal
Sudah lama tidur Ristan tak nyenyak. Nyaris setiap malam ibu muda berumur 24 ini terbangun dan menyaksikan bayi kesayangannya kesulitan tidur. Abyan, anak lelakinya, diserang gatal-gatal sejak berusia lima bulan. Mulanya pada area betis dan pergelangan kaki muncul bintik-bintik kecil, lambat laun menyebar hingga ke jari dan telapak kaki. Sekarang usia Abyan sembilan bulan.
“Ini sudah lumayan membaik. Awalnya parah sekali. Penuh luka. Jorok,” ujar Ristan memperlihatkan kaki Abyan seperti parutan.
Penyakit itu juga menyerang Ristan, suaminya, dan kedua orang tuanya. Tubuh Nahati, ibu Ristan, berbintik hitam dan terasa gatal sekitar enam bulan lalu. Penyakit ini dialami hampir semua warga di tiga desa meliputi Mosolo, Sinar Mosolo, dan Sinaulu Jaya.
“Awalnya gatal di semua badan. Saat digaruk terasa panas. Bahkan sampai berdarah. Saya pusing. Kadang digaruk pakai sikat. Saya obati dengan meminum rebusan daun,” kata Nahati.
Sumber air yang digunakan Ristan sekeluarga berjarak kurang lebih 500 meter dari lokasi penambangan nikel.
Nahati bermukim di Mosolo sejak umur lima tahun. Sepanjang usianya yang sekarang 65 tahun, ia berkata belum pernah mengalami penyakit gatal-gatal seperti saat ini. Dulu, air menjadi keruh hanya jika hujan deras berhari-hari. Tak seperti sekarang. Air berubah warna walau hujan sebentar. Kini keluarga ini terpaksa menggunakan air kotor. Tak ada sumber air lain. Agar bisa digunakan, air harus didiamkan sampai cukup jernih.
Di Desa Mosolo, nasib Tika pun sama. Ibu dua anak berusia 24 tahun ini mengeluhkan gatal-gatal. Kondisi tubuh An, anak Tika berusia 1 tahun, mirip dengan Abyan. Kulit jari-jari kakinya terkelupas. Pada punggung kaki ada bekas luka-luka berbentuk melingkar kehitaman. Awal Agustus 2023, Tika memeriksakan diri dan anaknya ke dokter di Kota Kendari.
“Kata dokter, tidak ada masalah dengan susunya. Hanya dibilang mungkin pengaruh cuaca. Semua keponakan juga gatal-gatal. Saya sendiri gatal-gatal sejak bulan lalu.”
“Kita tidak pakai sumur bor. Hanya mengharapkan air dari mata air,” kata Tika.
Di Desa Sinaulu Jaya, Wa Muita tinggal bersama lima anggota keluarga, tiga di antaranya perempuan. Ia mengalami gatal-gatal dalam setahun terakhir. Ini rentang saat perusahaan tambang melakukan penggalian nikel. Penyakit gatal-gatal yang dideritanya tak kunjung sembuh, sementara kebutuhan air rumah tangga pun berwarna cokelat saat hujan deras pada Mei 2023.
“Kita pakai mandi, mencuci, memasak. Pokoknya kebutuhan sehari-hari. Di sini sungainya jauh. Kalau musim hujan, pasti merah juga.”
Wa Muita menderita gatal-gatal di beberapa bagian tubuhnya. Ia telah mencoba berbagai obat salep. Pernah berobat di puskesmas dan diberikan obat. Tak ada perubahan.
“Sudah berapa tablet kita minum, masih gatal-gatal. Mungkin karena air yang dipakai masih kotor. Jelas kita marah. Sebelumnya tidak pernah begini.”
“Awalnya muncul bintik-bintik merah. Kalau digaruk semakin gatal. Kita garuk sampai berdarah. Bahkan celana dalam kita berdarah-darah.”
Kiri: Kaki Abyan, bayi di Desa Sinaulu Jaya, yang menderita gatal-gatal sejak usia lima bulan.
Kanan: Lengan penderita gatal-gatal di Desa Sinaulu Jaya. Photos: Yuli Z./Project Multatuli
Jumriati, warga Sinaulu Jaya berusia 24 tahun, khawatir sistem reproduksinya terganggu. Selain itu ia takut jika pertumbuhan anaknya berusia tiga tahun terganggu akibat terus-terusan mengonsumsi air tidak layak pakai.
“Harapannya, pemerintah bisa perhatikan keluhan kita di sini. Perhatikan masyarakatnya. Jangan biarkan masyarakat terdampak pencemaran tambang. Mereka raup keuntungan tapi kehidupan kami dikorbankan.”
Lahadi, penjaga penampungan air warga Sinaulu Jaya, membenarkan air mulai keruh dan kemerahan sejak perusahaan mengebor pada 2020. “Kita tidak bisa mendeteksi apakah pencemaran itu akibat aktivitas perusahaan atau bukan. Akan tetapi, ketika hujan selama satu hari, mata air mengalirkan gumpalan lumpur ke tempat penampungan,” katanya.
“Kita bicara begini bukan mengarang. Ada yang punya lahan di situ dan dia tahu persis bahwa lahan di sekitar itu telah dieksploitasi.”
Terkait dugaan pencemaran air, Kepala Bidang Penataan Peningkatan Kapasitas Lingkungan Dinas Lingkungan Hidup Konawe Kepulauan, Hasnawati mengatakan air yang digunakan warga Roko-Roko masih sesuai baku mutu berdasarkan Peraturan Menteri Lingkungan Hidup dan Kehutanan. Pengujian dilakukan pada mata air Pamsimas Sukarela Jaya dan Pamsimas Dompo-Dompo Jaya.
“Untuk hasil lab yang kami lakukan dan diperiksa di laboratorium terakreditasi (laboratorium Kabupaten Kolaka), hasilnya masih sesuai baku mutu sesuai Permen LHK. Untuk sungai Mosolo, kami pantau sebagai bahan laporan ke KLHK,” katanya.
Hasnawati belum memperlihatkan hasil uji lab tersebut sampai artikel ini dirilis. “Ada sama staf saya,” katanya.
Muhammad Jamil dari Jaringan Advokasi Tambang (JATAM), organisasi masyarakat sipil yang melakukan riset tentang gurita bisnis tambang nikel Harita Group, induk PT Gema Kreasi Perdana, berkata kasus gatal-gatal dan penyakit kulit lainnya umum ditemukan di daerah tambang nikel. Di Sulawesi Tenggara, hal sama terjadi di Kecamatan Pomalaa, Kabupaten Kolaka, dan Kecamatan Tinanggea, Kabupaten Konawe Selatan.
“Setahu kami hal itu sudah diriset oleh kampus,” kata Jamil.
Penelitian La Maga, Ahyar Ismail, dan Faroby Falatehan dari Institut Pertanian Bogor (2017) di Tinanggea menemukan warga setempat menderita penyakit kulit akibat menggunakan air bercampur material tanah dari lokasi tambang nikel. Penyakit kulit umumnya diderita petani saat pengolahan lahan. Selain penyakit kulit, warga mengalami penyakit batuk akibat debu aktivitas penambangan maupun pengangkutan material nikel dari lokasi penambangan ke pelabuhan. Radius pencemaran udara ini sampai 3 km dari lokasi tambang nikel.
Mempertahankan Lahan
“Perasaan saya hancur melihat pohon cengkih tumbang. Seperti melihat anak sendiri dibunuh,” kata Wa Muita, 43 tahun, warga Desa Sinaulu Jaya, mengenang peristiwa 10 Agustus 2023.
Sehari sebelumnya, warga desa menerima laporan bahwa kebun mereka yang terletak di bukit Mosolo, berjarak dua jam perjalanan, diterobos PT Gema Kreasi Perdana.
Sehari sebelumnya, Wa Muita dan suaminya, Amiri, menerima laporan bahwa kebun mereka yang berjarak dua jam perjalanan, diterobos pihak PT Gema Kreasi Perdana. Amiri bergegas mengecek kondisi kebun pada pukul 12 malam dan mendapati 40 pohon cengkih yang sedang berbuah telah rata tanah. Selain cengkih, perusahaan merobohkan 20 pohon merica yang baru belajar berbuah dan puluhan pohon jambu mete yang diperkirakan berbuah pada Oktober nanti. Saat ini harga merica Rp65 ribu/kg.
Wa Muita menyusul keesokan harinya pukul 6 pagi bersama 20-an warga. Mereka melihat pohon-pohon cengkih berumur 18 tahun yang sudah jadi tumpuan ekonomi keluarga itu hancur seketika.
“Saya kehabisan kata-kata. Cuma air mata yang keluar,” kata Wa Muita.
Tak lama kemudian, ratusan warga memenuhi kebun Wa Muita. Warga mempertanyakan alasan penerobosan lahan. Namun, perusahaan berdalih telah membeli lahan itu melalui orang lain. Wa Muita dan Amiri menegaskan tidak pernah menjual lahan apalagi menerima uang hasil penjualan lahan itu. Situasi menjadi tidak terkendali. Warga dan pihak perusahaan hampir saling menyerang dengan senjata tajam.
“Setiap ke kebun saya tidak pernah lupa berbicara ke cengkih, ‘Tolong berbuah. Kita rawat kalian seperti anak sendiri. Kalian yang biayai saudara yang sekolah,” tutur Wa Muita.
Wa Muita memiliki dua anak yang sedang kuliah; satu anak sekolah menengah atas; dan satu anak sekolah dasar. Biaya pendidikan empat anak itu bergantung pada cengkih. Pada 2019, hasil panen cengkih keluarga ini mencapai 1 ton. Harga pasar cengkih di Wawonii Tenggara saat ini Rp130 ribu/kg. Bagi Wa Muita, 40 pohon cengkih yang ditumbangkan itu sangat berharga.
Menahan diri dan berbesar hati, Wa Muita dan Amiri meminta PT Gema Kreasi Perdana tidak memperluas penyerobotan. Ada total 200 pohon cengkih di kebun mereka dan 120 pohon di antaranya telah berbuah.
“Kami ikhlas. Semoga perusahaan mau menyisakan sedikit hati nuraninya. Kami sudah meminta orang yang menjual lahan tanpa sepengetahuan kami untuk mengembalikan uang perusahaan.”
“Kami mau harap apa? Mau cari lagi di mana? Tidak ada. Ini lahan kami satu-satunya. Gaji kami hanya dari kebun,” kata Wa Muita.
Wa Muita pernah mempertahankan lahannya dengan berjaga di kebun selama empat bulan.
“Kadang mandi empat hari sekali. Hanya harapkan air hujan selama berjaga dari bulan Februari sampai Mei. Makan apa adanya. Saya berjaga dengan suami dan orang Mosolo lainnya.”
“Kita berjaga terus jangan sampai ada penerobosan. Ternyata, setelah kita turun dari kebun, pihak perusahaan lirik sudah tidak ada orang, perusahaan garap.”
Wa Muita (kiri depan ) bersama warga Sinaulu Jaya dan Mosolo berjaga di kebun untuk mencegah penerobosan lahan oleh pihak perusahaan. Photo: Yuli Z./Project Multatuli
Sebelum kehadiran tambang nikel, Wa Muita biasanya ke kebun dua kali seminggu. Kini ia terpaksa lebih sering ke kebun. Bergantian dengan warga lain untuk memantau situasi.
“Saya tidak tahu mau bilang apa. Ini sadis buat saya. Ngeri. Hancur perasaanku. Kenapa ada orang sejahat itu menerobos saya punya lahan? Mati-matian kita jaga, rawat, perjuangkan. Ujung-ujungnya diterobos. Setelah itu kita masih diancam juga mau digusur.”
“Saya berharap sama media atau siapa pun, tolong hentikan yang merusak ini.”
“Kami Dibuat Terpecah Belah”
Belum cukup dengan dampak lingkungan yang ditimbulkan tambang nikel, warga dibuat terpecah belah. Konflik tak cuma antara warga dan korporasi, tetapi merasuk ke konflik keluarga: antar-tetangga saling bermusuhan; orang tua dan anak saling membenci; sesama saudara tak lagi saling menyapa; suami dan istri bahkan sampai bercerai.
Situasi itu dialami Sanawia yang sudah tiga tahun tak bertegur sapa dengan kedua orang tuanya. Konflik bermula saat salah satu saudara Sanawia menjual lahan warisan orang tua. Tindakan itu didukung sang ayah.
Tanah itu dijual saat Sanawia sedang demonstrasi menolak tambang di kantor DPRD Konawe Kepulauan pada 2019. Di perjalanan pulang, Sanawia mendengar kabar lahan orang tuanya telah dijual kakaknya.
“Saya hanya bisa menangis. Lahan yang dijual itu sudah diratakan. Sampai sekarang saya tidak pernah lagi ke rumah orang tua.”
Sanawia tak tahu pasti berapa luas lahan yang dijual, tapi kebun itu bisa menghasilkan 3.000 buah kelapa sekali panen.
Sanawia memiliki lima saudara, tiga di antaranya pendukung tambang. Saat orang tuanya sakit, ia enggan menjenguk. “Dulunya saya paling dekat dengan orang tua, sekarang tidak lagi.”
Ibu dua anak berusia 45 tahun ini ingin memperbaiki hubungan dengan orang tua dan saudara-saudaranya, tapi “hubungan kita bisa diperbaiki asalkan tambang pergi,” tambahnya.
Aba, bukan nama sebenarnya, pria paruh baya, menyaksikan kesedihan putrinya ditinggal suami saat mengandung anak kedua. Menantunya menawarkan uang dari perusahaan sebagai ganti rugi lahan milik Aba yang dijadikan jalan hauling PT Gema Kreasi Perdana.
Aba pernah dibawa ke kantor polisi demi mempertahankan lahan. Karena itu, ia marah saat menantunya menyodorkan uang ganti rugi tanpa persetujuannya. Ia menolak uang tersebut dan minta dikembalikan ke perusahaan.
Saat hendak membangun rumah, si menantu meminta putri Aba mengutang. Putrinya menolak. Saat itulah si menantu mengungkit-ungkit soal uang ganti rugi lahan yang pernah ditolak Aba. Cekcok suami-istri ini berujung kekerasan dalam rumah tangga.
“Anak saya datang malam hari sambil menangis. Mata kanannya lebam. Saya berusaha mendamaikan. Sempat berbaikan. Tapi beberapa hari setelahnya, saat anak saya mencari kerang di laut, suaminya pergi dari rumah dan tidak pernah kembali sampai hari ini,” kata Aba.
Kini putri dan kedua cucunya tinggal bersamanya. “Saya tidak akan pernah menerima uang perusahaan. Saya memang sudah tua, tapi saya memikirkan masa depan cucu-cucu saya,” kata Aba.
Sanawia dan Aba adalah warga Desa Roko-Roko. Dan di desa ini, perpecahan warga akibat kehadiran tambang bukan rahasia lagi. Beberapa orang yang saya temui mengaku enggan bersosialisasi dengan siapa pun yang tidak sekubu, bahkan sekadar bertegur sapa.
“Situasi sosial di Wawonii Tenggara seperti api dalam sekam,” kata Erwin Suraya dari Koalisi Rakyat untuk Keadilan Perikanan (KIARA), dalam diskusi publik mengenai kehancuran ekosistem Pulau Wawonii, belum lama ini.
Gugatan Hukum
Pulau Wawonii seluas 706 km² termasuk dalam kategori pulau-pulau kecil sesuai Undang-undang No. 27 Tahun 2007 tentang Perlindungan Wilayah Pesisir dan Pulau-Pulau Kecil. Pulau kecil adalah pulau dengan luas lebih kecil atau sama dengan 2.000 km². Dengan demikian, sebagaimana diamanatkan undang-undang tersebut, aktivitas pertambangan tidak boleh dilakukan di Pulau Wawonii.
Ada 2.214 jiwa penduduk yang tinggal di Desa Dompo-Dompo Jaya (441 jiwa), Sukarela Jaya (550 jiwa), Roko-Roko (582 jiwa), Bahaba (160 jiwa), dan Teporoko (481 jiwa) yang terdampak penambangan nikel PT Gema Kreasi Perdana, sebut kelompok masyarakat sipil terdiri atas Yayasan Lembaga Bantuan Hukum Indonesia (YLBHI), JATAM, KIARA, Trend Asia, dan LBH Makassar.
PT Gema Kreasi Perdana mendapatkan izin eksplorasi bahan galian nikel dan mineral pengikut sejak 2007. Pada akhir tahun 2019, anak usaha Harita Group ini mengantongi izin usaha pertambangan (IUP) operasi produksi seluas 850,9 ha. Seluas 707,10 ha konsesi perusahaan merupakan izin pinjam pakai kawasan hutan (IPPKH). Perusahaan mendapatkan wilayah izin area proyek seluas 192,4 ha serta pembangunan terminal khusus di perairan Selat Wawonii seluas 13,3 ha.
Menurut kelompok masyarakat sipil, pengerukan tambang nikel hingga pembuatan dermaga untuk tambang dengan menimbun perairan di Wawonii telah merusak ekosistem mangrove, terumbu karang, dan perairan. Keruhnya sungai menyebabkan warga semakin sulit mendapatkan ikan. Dermaga perusahaan juga menyebabkan ikan menjauh. Aktivitas pengangkutan ore nikel yang menghasilkan debu tebal mengganggu pernapasan warga, sebut koalisi.
Koalisi menaksir korporasi telah melakukan pengapalan ore nikel lebih dari 100 kali untuk diolah di fasilitas pemurnian atau smelter milik Harita Group di Pulau Obi, Provinsi Maluku Utara. Harita Group, berkantor pusat di Jakarta, merupakan perusahaan raksasa di sektor sumber daya alam, mulai dari bisnis pertambangan nikel, bauksit, batu bara, perkebunan sawit, perkapalan, dan perkayuan. Perusahaan ini dimiliki keluarga Lim Hariyanto Wijaya Sarwono.
Sekalipun sudah dilindungi undang-undang, Peraturan Daerah No. 2 Tahun 2021 tentang RTRW Konawe Kepulauan 2021-2041 menetapkan alokasi ruang untuk kegiatan pertambangan di Konawe Kepulauan, Pulau Wawonii.
Warga Wawonii, yang diwakili firma hukum Denny Indrayana, mengajukan uji materiil perda tersebut. Pada 22 Desember 2022, Mahkamah Agung mengabulkan permohonan warga.
Dalam putusan No. 57 P/HUM/2022, Mahkamah Agung menyebutkan Pulau Wawonii merupakan “pulau kecil … yang rentan dan sangat terbatas sehingga membutuhkan perlindungan khusus. Segala kegiatan yang tidak ditujukan untuk menunjang kehidupan ekosistem … termasuk namun tidak terbatas pada kegiatan pertambangan dikategorikan sebagai abnormally dangerous activity … yang harus dilarang … karena akan mengancam kehidupan seluruh makhluk hidup.”
Mahkamah Agung juga menyebut Perda RTRW tersebut “… mengabaikan aspirasi masyarakat … melalui demo besar-besaran pada 6 Maret 2019 … menolak kegiatan usaha pertambangan.” Mahkamah memerintahkan Bupati dan DPRD Konawe Kepulauan merevisi Perda RTRW tersebut.
Namun, PT Gema Kreasi Perdana, diwakili direktur utamanya Rasnius Pasaribu lewat kuasa hukum Asmansyah & Partners, mengajukan judicial review ke Mahkamah Konstitusi atas UU Perlindungan Wilayah Pesisir dan Pulau-Pulau Kecil, sebagai respons atas putusan Mahkamah Agung. Pokok gugatannya adalah pasal 23 ayat 2 dan pasal 35 huruf k dalam undang-undang tersebut, yang intinya melarang aktivitas penambangan mineral.
Pengacara perusahaan menilai Mahkamah Agung menafsirkan kedua pasal itu sebagai “larangan tanpa syarat” atas kegiatan penambangan mineral di wilayah yang tergolong Pulau Kecil padahal perusahaan “telah memiliki izin yang sah” sehingga “terancam harus menghentikan kegiatannya dan berpotensi mengalami kerugian konstitusional dan ekonomi.”
Perusahaan, dalam surat permohonan ke Mahkamah Konstitusi, menyebut telah mengeluarkan total investasi Rp37,5 miliar dan 77,3 ribu dolar AS sejak 2007, selain telah menyalurkan lebih dari Rp70 miliar atas pembayaran “pembebasan tanam tumbuh kepada masyarakat” sebagai “ganti untung” atas tanaman yang terdampak pertambangan pada lahan seluas 568 ha.
Perusahaan mengajukan permohonan perkara itu pada 28 Maret 2023. Berkas permohonannya pun sudah direvisi dan disidangkan pada 9 Mei. Mahkamah sudah menggelar sidang untuk perkara nomor 35/PUU-XXI/2023 itu pada 31 Agustus. Sidang berikutnya dijadwalkan pada 12 September. Tahapan selanjutnya adalah sidang putusan.
Koalisi masyarakat sipil berpendapat Mahkamah Konstitusi seharusnya menolak judicial review yang diajukan PT Gema Kreasi Perdana untuk menyelamatkan pulau-pulau kecil di seluruh Indonesia dari cengkraman industri pertambangan.
“Jika dikabulkan, aktivitas tambang tak cuma dilegalkan di Pulau Wawonii, tapi seluruh wilayah pesisir dan pulau-pulau kecil di Indonesia,” Wildan Siregar dari Trend Asia mengingatkan. “Kerusakan ekologis hingga konflik sosial akibat perusahaan tambang yang tidak menaati Undang-Undang No. 27 Tahun 2007 akan semakin masif.”
Tampak atas beberapa desa di Kecamatan Wawonii Tenggara. Laut yang keruh tersebut diduga tercemar galian nikel PT Gema Kreasi Perdana. Photo: Benaya Ryamizard Harobu/Project Multatuli
Sementara perusahaan menggugat ke Mahkamah Konstitusi, DPRD Sulawesi Tenggara resmi menghapus alokasi ruang tambang di Pulau Wawonii. Dalam Rancangan Peraturan Daerah (Raperda) Rencana Tata Ruang Wilayah (RTRW) Sulawesi Tenggara 2023-2043, Pulau Wawonii Kabupaten Konawe Kepulauan ditetapkan sebagai kawasan perikanan terpadu.
Ketua Pansus RTRW DPRD Sultra, Fajar Ishak, mengatakan keputusan untuk meniadakan ruang aktivitas pertambangan di Konawe Kepulauan berdasarkan putusan Mahkamah Agung.
Putusan MA meminta Pemda Konawe Kepulauan untuk merevisi pasal alokasi tambang dalam RTRW kabupaten karena bertentangan dengan Undang-Undang Pengelolaan Wilayah Pesisir dan Pulau-Pulau Kecil.
“Keputusan (Mahkamah Agung) itu lahir di penghujung tahun 2022, maka kita tidak boleh membantah itu, sehingga kita tetap mempertahankan Pulau Wawonii menjadi kawasan perikanan terpadu dan tidak ada kawasan tambang di sana,” ujar Fajar Ishak dalam pembahasan revisi RTRW yang yang digelar di Hotel Claro Kendari pada 29 Agustus 2023.
Bantah Tudingan Pencemaran
Humas PT Gema Kreasi Perdana, Alexander Lieman, membantah perusahaan menyebabkan pencemaran lingkungan. Soal tuduhan polusi udara, katanya, perusahaan telah melakukan langkah preventif dengan cara memantau kualitas udara dan kebisingan secara rutin dua kali setahun, melakukan penyiraman jalan secara berkala, serta pengaturan kecepatan kendaraan operasional.
“Berbagai program ini kami jalankan sebagai bentuk komitmen terhadap ketentuan yang berlaku di bidang lingkungan hidup dan untuk menjaga kelestarian lingkungan Pulau Wawonii,” katanya.
“Bahkan sebagai bentuk iktikad baik kami terhadap masyarakat setempat yang menggarap lahan di wilayah Izin Pinjam Pakai Kawasan Hutan (IPPKH) kami, telah kami berikan ganti untung tanam tumbuh,” katanya.
Lieman berkata perusahaan tidak menyebabkan pencemaran air. Sebelum ada kegiatan pertambangan, setiap curah hujan tinggi melanda Pulau Wawonii maka menyebabkan air sungai keruh.
“Kegiatan pertambangan kami tidak menyebabkan pencemaran sungai di sekitar areal pertambangan.”
Lieman juga menampik tuduhan pencemaran air warga Mosolo. Katanya, air keruh pada bulan Mei hanya terjadi di dua desa, yakni Sukarela Jaya dan dan Dompo-Dompo Jaya.
“Kami tegaskan tuduhan ini salah. Boleh dikonfirmasi ke pemerintah desa dan Dinas Lingkungan Hidup setempat.”
Air yang mengalir melalui pipa warga pada 21 Mei 2023. Photo: Yuli Z./Project Multatuli
Lieman menyebut perusahaan justru membantu masyarakat memenuhi kebutuhan air bersih, antara lain mendistribusikan air bersih dengan water truck ke desa-desa yang terdampak kekeruhan air sungai, menurunkan tim untuk mencari alternatif sumber air bersih, membersihkan bak penampungan air bersih warga, serta membuat sumur bor dan sumur cincin.
“Saat ini keadaan sungai sudah jernih kembali dan masyarakat sudah bebas mendapatkan air bersih untuk memenuhi kebutuhan sehari-hari.”
Pernyataan Lieman tak sesuai fakta lapangan. Air yang mengalir di Desa Dompo-Dompo Jaya, Sukarela Jaya, dan Roko-Roko masih mengandung lumpur. Pada 18 Agustus 2023, air masih berwarna cokelat pekat padahal sudah cukup lama tak terjadi hujan deras.
When it comes to feminist movements, are some women more equal than others? Are the brave voices we hear those of a privileged few? And do they really represent the diverse realities of all women? With the emergence of various waves of feminism across Asia, feminist movements have created quite a ripple by making significant progress. However, many have also been criticised for lacking inclusivity.
Today’s illustration for ‘Double Take’ – in which this journalist probes deeper into the socio-political events in Asia from an intersectional gendered lens – looks into this question of intersectionality when it comes to radical movements such as feminism.
Illustration: Sharanya Eshwar
The illustration above is based on actual events from last month in India, after protests broke out across the country against the brutal sexual assault of a doctor in the eastern Indian city of Kolkata.
In Mumbai – one of the world’s most expensive cities – one such protest took place at an upscale neighbourhood called Powai. Upper-class women took to the streets to demand safety for women. However, when women from a slum neighbourhood, comprising of historically marginalised and oppressed communities – the Dalits (outside the Indian caste hierarchy) and Adivasis (indigenous people) – joined them, the women from Powai told them they weren’t welcome to take part in “an exclusive protest only for residents of the Hiranandani complex (a posh residential building in Powai).”
The incident underscores how women of oppressed communities often find their struggles sidelined even though they face disproportionately more violence with little access to justice. Their experiences are deemed “different,” highlighting a divide in how feminist activism engages with caste-based oppression.
We’ve seen similar examples, such as in South Korea, where the ‘Escape the Corset’ campaign and the 4B movement advocate for women to fight against oppressive patriarchal norms, but has been criticised for not directly addressing the systemic and institutional barriers that perpetuate gender inequality in their society. This disproportionately impacts rural and economically disadvantaged women, potentially excluding them from the movement’s discourse and benefits.
In another instance, the annual Aurat March (which translates to “Women’s March”) in Pakistan aims to advance women’s rights but has drawn backlash for its controversial slogans that overshadow discussions on inclusivity and intersectionality.
In Myanmar, there are questions around whether the Rohingya women, who are further marginalised because of their identity, are ever a part of feminist efforts or discourse. In Indonesia the feminist movement’s elitist tendencies continue to exist and ostracise marginalised women.
There is a dire need for feminists to engage at a grassroots level to counter conservative movements and avoid remaining a minority confined to the middle class.
While feminism in Asia is increasingly aware of the need for intersectionality, there is still much work to be done to ensure that the voices of all women, regardless of caste, ethnicity, sexuality, education, sexual orientation, location or class, are heard and represented. The challenge is to eliminate further marginalisation of women based on other identities. As the famous civil rights icon Fannie Lou Hamer said, “Nobody’s free until everybody’s free.”
Residents visit Nusantara Zero Point in East Kalimantan. (Project Multatuli)
Whenever President Joko “Jokowi” Widodo asks the Indonesian Chamber of Commerce and Industry (Kadin) to splash the cash for his latest ambitious development project, they say yes.
On Oct. 18, 2022, Kadin presented hundreds of businesspeople before President Jokowi at the Djakarta Theater. At the event, Jokowi hawked the new capital, making comments like “What more do you want?” and “You don’t need to question anything else”. Indonesian netizens disparagingly likened the performance to local TV presenter Feni Rose, who regularly urges her viewers to buy real estate as soon as possible, using the catchphrase “Senin harga naik” (the price will go up on Monday).
In the case of the new capital, the price really did go up on Monday. One of the businessmen Jokowi pressed for investment at the Kadin forum was Budiarsa Sastrawinata, the managing director of property conglomerate Ciputra Group as well as the chairman of Kadin’s new capital city working group.
Before Jokowi announced the new capital city, Ciputra already had 870 hectares of reserve land in East Kalimantan. Once it was announced, property developers like Ciputra immediately raised the price, as was done by Agung Podomoro Land for the Borneo Bay City Apartment in Balikpapan, one of the cities closest to the new capital, from RpRp700 million to RpRp1 billion per unit.
The reciprocal relationship between the government and Kadin has a long history. It reached its peak when the Jokowi administration proposed the controversial Job Creation Law. The all-encompassing “omnibus” piece of legislation revised 82 laws with more than 1,000 articles in one fell swoop, in a move that many experts and activists said disproportionately favored business elites while weakening protections for workers. Then-chairman of Kadin was involved as the head of the Omnibus Law Task Force. He is now the Indonesian ambassador to the United States.
Throughout Jokowi’s tenure as President, Kadin has provided the connections the former furniture businessman has needed to reach domestic and foreign investors. In return, Jokowi has given Kadin a prominent seat at the table, and the most recent manifestation of this symbiotic relationship is the planned national capital of Nusantara in East Kalimantan.
Our research shows that President Jokowi has involved at least two organizations outside the government, Kadin and Real Estate Indonesia (REI), in the lobbying of potential investors abroad.
The government claims that 300 foreign and domestic investors are interested in putting money in the new capital city. Out of these, according to Trend Asia research, at least 85 foreign investors are affiliated with Group of 20 and Group of Seven countries. The potential investors have been lobbied by the President and even business entities in various forums. This does not include lobbying from the Capital City Authority at international economic forums.
But despite Jokowi’s full court press, few foreign investors have made any firm commitments to put money in the new capital. In fact, several, including Madrid World Capital of Construction, Engineering, and Architecture (MWCC), the France Development Agency (AFD), and Softbank, have announced the withdrawal of their interest.
MWCC questioned the potential of developing the capital’s buffer zones for the general public to live in, while the AFD withdrew after considering the results of an investment feasibility assessment.
The capital’s apparently dubious business potential has also confused a number of Japanese entrepreneurs. During one tour with the Investment Ministry of the site of the planned capital, media reported that one Japanese businessman who asked not to be named said it was hard to imagine what they would be investing in, given that the site was still essentially a jungle.
Conflicts of Interest Abound
What the investors really want, but may be reluctant to say, is reassurance that the new capital will not be scuppered midway over a change in administration or policy direction. Jokowi, after all, is nearing the end of his second and, at least according to the current constitution, final term.
At the tail end of 2021, Jokowi sent a letter to the House of Representatives requesting the start of deliberations on a draft bill that would enshrine the new capital city into law. Delivered by State Secretary Pratikno and National Development Planning Agency head Suharso Monoarfa, who is also the chairman of the United Development Party (PPP), the letter was received directly by House Speaker Puan Maharani, the daughter of Indonesian Democratic Party of Struggle (PDI-P) matriarch Megawati.
The House duly formed a committee on Dec. 7, 2021. Then, just 42 days later, the House passed Law No. 3/2022 on the state capital, and President Jokowi signed it the next month. It was a swift legislative process for a megaproject that would require Rp466 trillion to complete. For comparison, a draft bill to outlaw sexual harassment and other forms of sexual violence was stuck in the House for six years before finally passing in April 2022.
The swift deliberation process was largely the work of the House’s State Capital Committee, which, perhaps unsurprisingly, included a number of businessmen.
Sugiono, a committee member from the Gerindra Party, is the director of three coal mining companies: PT Nusantara Wahau Coal, PT Nusantara Santan Coal, and PT Kaltim Nusantara Coal in East Kutai Regency, East Kalimantan.
The three companies have a concession area of 44,830 ha, according to data from the Energy and Mineral Resources Ministry. Some 99.9 percent of the shares in the three companies are owned by PT Nusantara Energindo Coal, of which Defense Minister and Gerindra Party chair Prabowo Subianto owns 40 percent. The complement is owned by PT Ithaca Resources, reported to be affiliated with the Salim Group.
Gerardus Budisatrio Djiwandono, another committee member from Gerindra, is a commissioner of PT Karunia Tidar Abadi. The company is working with PT Aega Prima, one of the largest tin mining license holders in Bangka Belitung province, to operate suction dredge barges Arsari I, II, and III.
Meanwhile, the chair of the committee, Ahmad Doli Kurnia of the Golkar Party, is the main commissioner and holder of 20 percent of the shares of PT Citra Insani Garda Semesta, a company that provides human resources in the security sector, such as security guards, according to data from the Law and Human Rights Ministry.
In the same vein, more than half of all sitting House members have business backgrounds.
Potential conflicts of interest abound in the president-appointed Capital City Authority. Jokowi chose the head of the Sinar Mas property corporation, Dhony Rahajoe, as deputy of the authority, and BSD City in Tangerang, one of Sinar Mas’ “independent city” properties, was used as a reference for the new capital by the committee and the National Development Planning Agency.But BSD City is private, raising the possibility that the new capital will be a private, elite city that exacerbates social segregation and inequality in East Kalimantan.
Overlapping Concessions, Forest Destruction
The capital megaproject may allow coal companies to escape responsibility for the environmental damage they have inflicted by abandoning mining pits after gaining huge profits.
There are 29,000 hectares of mining pits around the site of the new capital, according to the Environment and Forestry Ministry. Twelve of the mining pits are owned by a coal company affiliated with Coordinating Maritime Affairs and Investment Minister Luhut Binsar Pandjaitan. Environment and Forestry Minister Siti Nurbaya has claimed the mining pits will be restored through large-scale tree planting by developing a seed nursery worth Rp 215 billion.
Such efforts, aimed at “improving” the environment of the new capital, could allow coal companies to dodge the responsibility of cleaning up their own mining pits, putting the financial burden on taxpayers instead.
A sign marks the border of a state industrial plantation forest containing eucalyptus trees. (Project Multatuli)
About 51 percent of the land at the site of the planned capital is currently in the hands of corporations, including forestry businesses, in the form of forest concession rights, industrial plantation forests, oil palm plantations, and mines.
Touted by the Jokowi administration as a “forest city” to-be, the site has 4,789 ha of conservation area and protected forest area that has been exploited through permits for industrial plantation forests, mining, and oil palm plantations.
More than 39,000 hectares are also subject to concession conflicts, which include overlapping forest and land use permits, according to research by Forest Watch Indonesia. These overlapping concessions are dominated by mining corporations and industrial plantation forests, as well as oil palm plantation companies.
In the 2018-2021 period, Forest Watch Indonesia found, 18,000 ha in the new capital area had been deforested.
A map of forest cover and deforestation from 2018 to 2021 in the capital area. Graphic: Forest Watch Indonesia
Capital For Sale
The projected cost of developing the capital is nearly Rp466 trillion, and the megaproject needs funding for its initial phase of development.
According to Jokowi administration estimates, about 80 percent, or Rp376 trillion, of the funds for the capital will come from the private sector, as well as cooperation between the government and business entities. Only 19 percent, or Rp 89.4 trillion, of the capital development funds will come from the state budget.
The Jokowi administration and its partners are still hunting for investors. Perhaps prompted by investor pullouts, the president has piled on incentive after incentive to attract funds for the new capital.
The incentives include a “relaxed” permit application process, 30-year tax holidays, 350 percent tax deductions, the right to build for 80 years (normally only 30 years) and extendable by up to another 80 years (normally only 20 years).
All this for a move that experts say will have no significant impact on national economic growth.
According to documents presented by the Institute For Development of Economics and Finance (Indef) and economists from Padjadjaran University at a House hearing, the new capital is expected to increase East Kalimantan’s GDP by 0.27 percent in the short term and 0.26 percent in the long term and increase the national GDP by only 0.2 percent.
Warning signs mark the border of the Central Government Area of the planned new capital. People living in this area are to be relocated. (Project Multatuli)
Meanwhile, according to Trend Asia research, Jokowi’s pet megaproject has already cost taxpayers Rp 8.42 trillion from 2017 to 2022 and is expected to cost a further Rp 48.18 trillion by 2024 for the construction of basic infrastructure and government, education, health, and security facilities.
At the Kadin event on Oct. 18, 2022, President Jokowi said moving the capital would create “economic justice”. However, the new capital project lacks interest from investors, which has driven Jokowi to offer increasingly lavish incentives that disproportionately benefit business elites, and the site of the new capital is entangled in overlapping corporate concessions that are destroying conservation areas and protected forests.
Jokowi says he wants economic equality, but in reality, only a few elites will likely benefit from the project. He aspires to have a new, green capital, but the project appears set to give coal corporations a golden opportunity to dodge their obligations to reclaim mining pits. Jokowi promises that the new capital will not strain the state budget, but it has already cost taxpayers tens of trillions of rupiah.
The new capital is another example of the consolidation of paternalistic authorities with controversial conglomerates, taking advantage of the support of powerful figures with a foot in both politics and business who are riddled with conflicting interests. The capital megaproject that President Jokowi calls “the future of Indonesia” is simply camouflage for the future interests of the nation’s oligarchs.
The conventional wisdom is that Indonesia is suffering a democratic decline because of the authoritarian tendencies of its leaders and the illiberalism of its people. To quote Australian political scientist Marcus Mietzner, outgoing President Joko “Jokowi” Widodo “pushed the limits of democratic norms and even overstepped them”, and the people have been fine with that.
This view represents the common thinking among progressives within Indonesia’s political class. Muslim scholar Sukidi’s recent commentary in Tempo magazine, for example, satirized Jokowi as Pinokio Jawa, or Javanese Pinokio. Long before that, The Jakarta Post, Indonesia’s largest English daily, had dubbed Jokowi “little Soeharto”, a reference to the New Order autocrat who ruled over Indonesia between 1967 and 1998.
That thinking is not totally groundless. Jokowi has been accused of weaponizing law enforcement institutions to intimidate his political enemies, co-opting judicial institutions to build his political dynasty, and mobilizing state resources to guarantee the victory of his children in regional and national elections. He is also believed to have recently orchestrated a plot to prevent the Indonesian Democratic Party of Struggle (PDI-P) and former presidential candidate Anies Baswedan from contesting the Jakarta gubernatorial election – a race both figures have previously won. Such a power play would clearly be aimed at ensuring that Jokowi’s alliance with his former election rival, Prabowo Subianto, would go unchallenged for years to come.
The problem is that this view tends to frame Jokowi as the sole architect of our political malady, and implies that removing him would be a sufficient remedy. That’s just lazy analysis. The reality is that his rise to power was enabled by different social forces, who have capitalized on his presidency to further their political and economic interests. His enablers, alas, are not confined to a group of coal industry oligarchs who spent billions of rupiah to finance his election campaigns and were later given strategic positions in the Cabinet to create public policies that serve their private interests.
It is high time to acknowledge the elephant in the room: many Indonesian intellectuals are complicit in decimating Indonesian democracy. I define intellectuals broadly to include academics, journalists, activists and religious leaders. Many of these figures have turned a blind eye to, if not directly abetted, Jokowi’s illiberal policies under the pretext of defending pluralism — a crusade against Islamism — and championing technocratism.
A pluralist, technocratic leader
Truth be told, Jokowi was always the favorite of Indonesian intellectuals. This is not only because he was seen, at least initially, as a political outsider with no links to the New Order’s oligarchy, but because he accommodated the dominant ideologies of the urban, educated middle class, particularly those claiming to be defenders of Indonesian pluralism.
It is worth noting that those critical of Jokowi today were in fact once his ardent supporters. At best, their criticisms of Jokowi are too late and too little, as exemplified by the joint statements issued by university professors just a few weeks before the February presidential and legislative elections, sparking speculation they were acting at the behest of Jokowi’s oligarchic rivals. Whatever the case, their criticism smacks of hypocrisy. Many Indonesian intellectuals in fact knew Jokowi had authoritarian tendencies, but they looked the other way when his illiberal policies worked in their favor. They were not only silent but also actively supported Jokowi’s illiberal policies towards Islamist groups.
This was visible during Jokowi’s first term in office, when he was facing an Islamist opposition empowered by his oligarchic rivals. The period was marked not only by the incarceration of then Jakarta governor Basuki “Ahok” Tjahaja Purnama for blasphemy, but also the arrests of dozens of political dissidents on dubious and politically motivated charges, ranging from pornography to treason. Jokowi’s illiberalism culminated with the banning of two Islamic groups — Hizbut Tahrir Indonesia (HTI) and the Islam Defenders Front (FPI) — and the alleged extra-judicial killing of FPI members.
Nahdlatul Ulama (NU) and Muhammadiyah are two key organizations underpinning Jokowi’s illiberal pluralism. While these large Muslim groups are not monolithic, their elite members are overwhelmingly supportive of the President. There is no doubt that both organizations have long served as a bastion of religious moderation in the country, but the implication of their Faustian bargain with Jokowi is clear: their whole campaign against religious intolerance to protect minority groups and preserve diversity was more often than not just a ruse to justify his illiberal policies, which in fact were created mainly to protect the political and economic interests of the oligarchy.
Many Indonesian intellectuals were also supportive of Jokowi’s legislative initiatives that critics said had illiberal tendencies, such as the 2020 Jobs Creation Law. The campaign supporting the controversial law was backed not only by paid cybertroopers, but also academics, including political researchers, who framed it as a technocratic remedy to the COVID-19 economic crisis and a technocratic recipe for turning Indonesia into a developed country.
They defended the law even after it was clear that it was passed without meaningful public consultation, and that it contained illiberal provisions. Regardless of whether they were paid to express their support for the highly problematic law, this shows how the very notion of technocratic leadership could easily be co-opted to disregard democratic norms.
Jokowi’s ‘sorcerers’
Jokowi is a product of the political consultancy industry that boomed during the 2012 Jakarta election. Throughout his presidency, he has relied on political and PR consultants to engineer his persona as a “technocratic populist”. He regularly hired several polling agencies who provided him with statistical data that he could use to not only calibrate his policies, but also to justify his illiberalism. This was most apparent when pollsters suddenly released political surveys that challenged unflattering narratives about his policies on social media.
They are the “sorcerers” who enabled Jokowi’s autocratic machinations.
Several pollsters, such as Indo Barometer and Cyrus Network, have openly expressed their partisanship, if not business dealings, with the President. It is likely that the President, or at least his close allies, have hired many other pollsters too. It is no secret that pollsters who are commissioned to conduct surveys (usually by political parties/politicians) are motivated by profit; this is money they can then use to fund their own surveys. The problem is that they are not always transparent about which surveys were paid for by the powers that be, even if it is clear the survey results serve the interests of the powerful.
It is clear, however, that surveys which have found that Jokowi was highly popular and the public were mostly supportive of, or at least nonchalant about, his authoritarian tendencies have been used to justify unconstitutional proposals, such as extending his term, and normalize his cawe-cawe (meddling) in the judicial system and the internal affairs of political parties.
The pollsters should have known that poll results shape public opinions. It is baffling, for instance, that a high-profile pollster like Indikator Politik Indonesia decided to release opinion polls claiming that the majority of Indonesians were fine with the Constitutional Court’s ruling to pave the way for Jokowi’s son, Gibran Rakabuming Raka, to run for vice president alongside Prabowo. This polling was released when it was clear the ruling was flawed on so many levels, and that there was, for a moment, a certain level of public pushback against it.
The survey results practically shut down any discussion about the ruling, as it portrayed those critical of the court’s ruling — the more progressive intellectuals — as detached and elitist.
Intellectuals of the oligarchy?
In the grand scheme of things, the Jokowi phenomenon is nothing but a symptom of a long-standing asymmetric power structure within Indonesian civil society in which a weak middle class, from which most intellectuals originate, is too dependent on the oligarchic elite to advance their own progressive visions. The result is a reproduction of a system of power where the politically and economically powerful have co-opted public intellectuals to sustain and even strengthen their power.
It is no surprise that after defending the NU’s decision to accept coal mining concessions from the Jokowi government, Muslim scholar Ulil Abshar Abdalla posted a long social media screed downplaying concerns about democratic regression under Jokowi. In a clear attack on the idea of democracy as defined by “foreign observers”, he said that what Indonesia needed was “political order” to achieve prosperity, and not political bickering among political parties.
And that is how democracy dies in Indonesia, not with a bang but with the sophistry of a group of intellectuals too weak to countervail the power of the oligarchy.