An Indonesian Comedy

In early 2026, comedian Pandji Pragiwaksono’s stand-up special Mens Rea had become the most-viewed show on Netflix Indonesia, drawing millions of viewers with its satirical take on the country’s political landscape.

Not long after, however, the youth wings of Nahdlatul Ulama and Muhammadiyah filed police reports against Pandji, accusing him of defamation, blasphemy, and incitement of division among Indonesian citizens.

Pandji’s case is one of many instances whereby comedians find their space for freedom of expression shrinking, especially when their content revolves around political, economic and social issues. It is part and parcel of the broader phenomenon of democratic backsliding in the country.

The use of political satire to convey criticism is not new in Indonesia. From Cak Durasim’s ludruk performances critiquing Japanese colonial rule, Warkop DKI’s embedded political jabs in their films to Jojon’s infamous comparison of Soeharto to monkey, comedians have long used humour as a vehicle for social and political commentary.

However, the persecution of comedians in Indonesia has deep roots. Cak Durasim was arrested and died in prison. Jojon was banned from television. Meanwhile, two Warkop DKI films were prohibited from public screening. All these happened in pre-1998 Indonesia.

In 2024, Indonesia ranked 59th in The Economist Intelligence Unit’s Democracy Index, being identified as a “flawed democracy”. This only goes to show that the task of Reformasi has not ended and only grown more complicated. On the front of free speech, the spectre of defamation and libel continues to haunt critics and comedians alike.

The task is further complicated when pressures come not only from the state but also fellow citizens, as persecution and intimidation like what Pandji is experiencing become a more frequent phenomena.

Vague by Design

The shrinking space for free speech is related to the manners in which the Electronic Information and Transactions Law (ITE Law) and defamation articles in the Criminal Code are applied. Due to the obscure standards and vague descriptions of these two laws, comedians find themselves restricted from freely conveying their materials on stage.

Article 28 verse 2 of the ITE Law, for instance, uses phrases such as “menimbulkan rasa kebencian atau permusuhan” (inciting hatred or hostility) without further explanation as to what constitutes an incitement, leaving the scope broad enough to be interpreted by anyone as they wish.

Similarly, article 27 verse 3 uses phrases such as “memiliki muatan penghinaan dan/atau pencemaran nama baik” (contains material constituting insult and/or defamation) but lacks clarifications on what actions or expressions fall under its scope.

The absence of clear information on what is prohibited and permitted is concerning, as it contradicts the principle of legality, which prohibits arbitrary or vague application of the law.

Negative labelling, in which expressions of dissent are framed as national threats, also discourage comedians to express criticism, as this could be easily interpreted as an act of crime instead of an exercise of civil right.

For example, words like “insult” and “defamation” are thrown around frequently to suppress dissent while words like “’threat” and “criminal act” are used to label individuals or groups who criticise.

This is concerning because the language embedded in the law generates negative interpretations of public expression, casting it as a potential threat.

The deliberately ambiguous terms reflect the state’s anxiety toward criticism, as suppression operates through legal uncertainty, creating enough intimidation to compel comedians into self-censorship.

Self-Censorship as Survival

“I self-censor all the time!” said Indonesian stand-up comedian Sakdiyah Maruf in her 2016 interview. To Sakdiyah, who is frequently stereotyped as a Muslim, Arab-descent Javanese woman, bringing up sociopolitical and religious issues in her materials has never been easy.

Sakdiyah is one of several comedians who have vocally spoken about self-censorship culture within the stand-up community. She has said that self-censorship hurts her because it forces her to suppress her inner voice.

In practice, comedians curate their materials carefully, avoiding direct references to specific individuals or institutions, grounding their content in facts, and relying on figurative language to soften their critique without losing its edge. However, this is not always the case, as some choose directness in pursuit of truth and impact.

Beyond politics and social issues, religion is another subject regarded as particularly sensitive. Comedian and podcaster Arie Kriting reveals in an interview that commenting on how people adapt religious obligations to everyday life is far safer than touching on Islamic orthodoxy, which citizens generally regard as non-negotiable.

He gave an example of praying during Eid, whereby congregants of overflown masjid often use old newspaper to protect their prayer mats while praying on parking lots or the streets. He joked that some end up distracted from the prayer by reading the text on the newspaper.

Here, Arie displays his deliberate and considered selection of which topics to satirise, fully acknowledging comedians’ role as shapers of public discourse.

This is essential not only to avoid accusation of blasphemy but also to navigate the complex social and political sensitivities.

While this strategy may seem like a reasonable way to prevent backlash, self-censorship in general context – especially in a democratic setting – remains problematic, as it exists as a response to measures to quench free speech.

When Citizens Silence Citizens

In 2020, comedian Bintang Emon faced online attacks after joking about the injustice surrounding the verdict on Novel Baswedan’s case, whose face was splashed with hydrochloric acid by two unknown bikers.

Anonymous accounts accused Bintang Emon of substance abuse after his video went viral. Bintang Emon then set his Instagram account private, before making it public again later that night with a test result proving he was free of any substance consumption.

The involvement of netizens and online buzzers in this case demonstrates a concerning deterioration in the state of free speech in Indonesia.

Buzzers, especially, have grown influential due to their sheer numbers and capacity to organise targeted opinion campaign on social media. With the aim of manipulating public opinion, their existence poses a serious challenge to the culture of criticism in Indonesia.

In Bintang Emon’s case, buzzers used disinformation to steer public perception into viewing him as a criminal, discrediting his commentary on Novel’s case.

They exploit the emotional beliefs of social media users, reflecting the nature of post-truth paradigm where personal and emotional messages carry more influence than objective facts in shaping public opinion.

This reinforces the earlier point that expressing critical opinions is treated as criminal offense rather than exercise of free speech. By steering public discourse away from objective facts, buzzers make it difficult for audiences to explore facts and genuine criticism that comedians try to put forward.

Character assassination, like what Bintang Emon experienced, has become normalised given the nature of the accusations buzzers make. Clearly, the anonymity that social media companies provide is a double-edged sword for democratic countries.

While users are entitled to protect their identities and engage online without any obligation to disclose their personal information, anonymity allows coordinated attacks to be launched without any accountability. Further down the road, it has also enabled hate speech and facilitated social division.

Conclusion

Today, comedians are being haunted by restrictive laws, self-censor and intimidation from buzzers, all serving as factors that seek to silence them.

What is happening today suggests that the effort to silence criticism through satire has never truly ceased despite Reformasi. If anything, suppression has become more sophisticated, institutionalised under legal grounds.

The ITE Law has produced a troubling outcome: sensitivity is rewarded while the right to express opinions is undermined. This functions as a political strategy that weakens the quality of Indonesian democracy.

When those who feel offended can more easily wield legal power than those who criticise can find protection, criticism stops being treated as a legitimate concern that demands a response and becomes instead a threat to be neutralised.

In this environment, self-censorship has become both normalised and internalised. While a degree of careful judgment over what to satirise is reasonable and even responsible for comedians who shape public discourse, self-censorship as a survival strategy is a different matter entirely.

It signals that democratic participation has already been compromised, not always by a ban or an arrest, but also by the quiet, cumulative weight of legal and cultural landscapes that have made speaking freely feel too costly to attempt.

Beyond removing and significantly revising the “rubber articles” from restrictive laws, institutional support in the form of legal consultation for comedians must be established and sustained, reducing their vulnerability to “complaints” from those who treat offense as a political weapon.

Four decades ago, Warkop DKI left their audiences with a punchline: “tertawalah sebelum tertawa dilarang” (laugh before laughing is forbidden). Turns out this joke was not a joke but a prophecy.