Yogi, a graduate student and young writer, never imagined that publishing an opinion piece could put his life in danger.
The title was striking: “A General in a Civilian Office: Where is the Meritocracy in the Civil Service?” The article didn’t use abusive language, didn’t incite hate or violence, didn’t even mention names directly. It merely asked the right question at the wrong time: why are ex-military men being handed civilian roles without clear merit?
But after his article on Detik.com touched a nerve: mentioning a former member of the notorious Tim Mawar, he was targeted.
Within hours, he was physically attacked. Twice. First, he was sideswiped by two unidentified men on a motorcycle after dropping his child off at school. Later that day, another pair followed him and kicked him off his bike.
He had no enemies. No history of conflict. Just words on a screen. Yet the response was violence.
Shaken and terrified, he sought protection from the Press Council and begged for his article to be taken down. He cried, not out of weakness, but out of fear, fear for himself, for his wife, for his small children.
This is not a case of journalistic recklessness. This is a citizen punished for speaking up.
And he is not alone.
Long before the attack on Yogi, Indonesia has witnessed a disturbing escalation in threats and violence against journalists, writers and artists. This surge underscores a broader pattern of intimidation aimed at silencing critical voices within the country.
According to the Alliance of Independent Journalists (AJI), there have been at least 22 cases of violence against journalists in the first three months of 2025 alone. This alarming frequency highlights a growing culture of impunity, where perpetrators often escape justice, and victims are left without recourse.
Indonesia is no longer just unsafe for journalists. It is unsafe for students, mothers, artists, laborers, indigenous people, and everyday citizens. It is unsafe for critical minds.
It is unsafe for activists opposing mining on ancestral land, for academics questioning the validity of Joko Widodo’s school certificates, for students protesting government policy, for whistleblowers, for women demanding justice, for artists daring to dissent.
A student at the Bandung Institute of Technology (ITB) in West Java was recently arrested for a meme mocking the intimacy of Prabowo and Jokowi. His face looked shocked in the police photo, as if she still couldn’t believe that humour could be a crime.
What year is this again? You would think we were back in 1995, not 2025.
This violence and intimidation are not random. It is part of a system.
A system where military and police impunity and brutality are rewarded. Where state violence is invisible yet constant. Where the façade of democracy masks the normalization of fear.
Let’s be honest: Prabowo Subianto didn’t seize power by force. He won an election. But this is a man once banned from entering the US for human rights violations. A man linked to Tim Mawar and the forced disappearance of student activists. A man who never faced trial, and never apologized.
And yet, he became acceptable. Mainstream. Electable.
Why?
Because Indonesian democracy no longer serves truth or justice. It serves spectacle, simulation, and control. The media no longer investigates; it celebrates. Political parties no longer represent the people; they merge into power. The public no longer votes with information; they vote with emotion, misinformation, and fear.
Elections no longer prevent tyranny; they legitimize it.
What we witnessed in 2024 was not democratic maturity. It was the triumph of techno-populism, of algorithmic manipulation, of historical amnesia.
To borrow Baudrillard, we are living in a simulacrum of civilian rule. The form is democratic, the content is command.
The military didn’t return to power by coup. It returned dressed in a suit, waving a ballot, smiling for TikTok.
We forget too easily in Indonesia. We forget the names of the students who disappeared. We forget the disappearances, the censorship, the exiles, the crackdowns. We forget that democracy is not only about voting—it is about accountability, memory, and rights.
And when we forget, authoritarianism doesn’t need tanks or generals. It only needs elections and silence.
We’ve seen this movie before. Suharto’s New Order began with promises of stability and discipline. It ended with bloodshed, looted state coffers, and mass graves. Reformasi was meant to end the military’s grip on power. Today, that legacy is being dismantled not with guns, but with legal decrees, polite press releases, and patriotic jingles.
It’s like watching someone burn down your house quietly and methodically while smiling and offering you tea.
Yogi’s story is a warning. But it is also a call.
Today, they silence a writer. Tomorrow, they silence us all.
We cannot normalize fear. We cannot accept democracy without justice. We cannot allow elections to excuse brutality.
We must remember, unite, resist, and rebuild. We must demand full civilian supremacy over the military. We must defend all citizens who speak out. We must restore a culture of truth, accountability, and historical memory. We must challenge the legitimacy of a government built on fear, silence, and simulation.
Until then, we must say it clearly: Indonesia is no longer safe. And democracy—twisted, hollowed, and weaponized—helped make it this way.
This is not the Indonesia we fought for after 1998. It is not the republic promised in our Constitution. And it must not be the future we accept.
Omong-Omong Media’s editorial is also published in The Jakarta Post every Monday.
