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.

Collaboration between Versa and

Of th

The full report, republished on the Malay Mail, is available below:

The Woman in Pink

On 28 August 2025, social media was awash with pictures and videos of a woman, wearing a pink headscarf, marching steadily against fully armoured police. Behind her were hundreds of protesters, demanding an end to the unfair privileges accorded to the House of Representatives (DPR) members.

Following the wave of riots at the end of August 2025, the colours pink, green and blue painted the social media in filtered photographs.

These colours became the trinity symbol of protests and movements in Indonesia: women, the working class and civil resistance. Among the thousands of protesters, the mothers were taking the forefront in challenging the state’s violence, thus establishing themselves as the manifestation of this trinity symbol.

This is a notable development. After decades of domestication propaganda during the New Order, maternal activism has now occupied the central stage of politics in Indonesia, representing resistance.

A video shows how the woman in pink was casually holding the megaphone, cursing and challenging the riot police, “Come here, yesterday you brought tear gas. Your eyes are blind, who are you defending?”

After delivering the provoking speech, Ana, the woman, constantly reminded other protesters to retreat if the police shot tear gas.

She rose to become one of the most visible

Within the span of two weeks, mothers in Yogyakarta staged another protest by banging pots in public areas while demanding to temporarily stop and evaluate the Makan Bergizi Gratis (Free Nutritious Meal – MBG) programme that has caused food poisoning to thousands of students.

Their demand was clear: for the state as well as food producers to care for the students’ wellbeing and provide healthy meals.

As a movement, Kenduri Suara Ibu Indonesia has grown into an organic and massive discussion that derived from the daily experience of motherhood and “kitchenhood”. Pots and soup ladles did not merely serve as tools but also as instruments of resistance against Prabowo’s bedazzlingly militarised food programme.

Dismantling “State Ibuism”

Women-led resistance campaign brought a distinctive contour to Indonesia’s political dynamic. Historically, such movements were restrained during the New Order, where the regime reduced women’s position and agency to domestic roles, later defined as “State Ibuism” by scholars.

State Ibuism emerged from Soeharto’s own ideology, which framed women’s primary role as housewives, presenting this role as an utmost necessity within the New Order’s patriarchal national development framework. This constituted a form of misogyny-as-nation-building propaganda.

The New Order regime also appointed women to select positions, such as Minister for Women, Minister of S

During the 1950s, Gerakan Wanita Indonesia (Indonesian Women’s Movement – GERWANI) was known internationally for its progressive views. However, it became the unfortunate subject of state suppression, propaganda and eradication, a process that saw the participation of such organisations as Dharma Wanita and Pemberdayaan Kesejahteraan Keluarga (Family Welfare and Empowerment – PKK).

It has been argued that the propaganda against Gerwani was more effective than Joseph Goebbels’ campaign against the Jews during World War II. Women who spoke up against injustice risked being labelled as GERWANI or members of Partai Komunis Indonesia (Communist Party of Indonesia – PKI). It was an antagonisation against outspoken women, a tactic that was also used to justify the horrifying torture these women experienced during incarceration.

Spectre of this propaganda still haunts today. Women activists still experience forms of repression and violence to silence them. However, such have not stopped women, including mothers, from participating in the democratic political process.

This begs the question: what drives them to stage resistance, and why do their voices matter?

Why Mothers Lead

Why does maternal identity become a starting point, even an identity tied to their acts?

Maternal activism could be defined as “a process in which a woman or a group of women use the figure of the mother in order to make claims on behalf of their sons or daughters and demand social change.”

What makes this unique is that it is derived from a shared concern for the wellbeing of others. Maternal compassion works to an extent of caring not only for their son and daughters but also for those vulnerable.

Cases in point include Sumarsih of Aksi Kamisan, Ana of the pink headscarf and the women of the Kartini Kendeng movement, Suara Ibu Peduli as well as those involved in the aforementioned Kenduri Suara Ibu Indonesia.

These mothers have lived the political and economic realities that shaped their relationship with the state, compelling them to draw strength by employing their care for family members and others.

Caring is pivotal in maternal activism, as it serves as a catalyst for broader movements. In a patriarchal setting, mothers occupy the role of primary and traditional caregivers who ensure the needs of family members are fulfilled, particularly in times of crisis.

When these needs are denied, mothers would feel compelled to fight for justice, which requires them to enter the political sphere. This signifies the

From Private Mourning to Public Justice

The New Order’s State Ibuism demanded that the role of mother be limited to traditional caregiver. However, maternal activism moulds the mothers’ experience of oppression into a political identity. These mothers showcase their pain, loss and grief to the streets for everyone to witness. In the process, their display of maternal pain and of mourning wronged victims remind the public that these victims had a name and had a place in that community.

Past cases of maternal activism exemplify this. Suara Ibu Peduli strategically placed domestic caregiving as a “casualty” of the prolonged monetary crisis before Reformasi. Eventually, the movement lent support to the wider demonstrations that demanded Soeharto’s removal from power.

Furthermore, the weekly Aksi Kamisan has emerged as a compassionate sanctuary for victims of human rights violations to fight for justice. Along with other activists,  Sumarsih spends every Thursday in front of the Presidential Palace, holding a black umbrella that symbolises her unwavering faith that the killings of her son Wawan and his friends in the Semanggi I incident would encourage the upholding of rule of law and human rights. In doing so, Sumarsih and other mothers are showcasing their motherhood experience of care, compassion and grief.

Meanwhile, the women of Kartini Kendeng, who endured physical violence and threats from armed forces, buried their feet in cement blocks in front of the Presidential Palace as well. The did this to symbolise how the absence of state protection has led to their exploitation and their alienation from nature.

When care is transported from the private to the public sphere, it no longer remains an individual responsibility—nor is it exclusively placed upon mothers. Instead, care becomes a relational practice that connects private experience and survival to structural issues. In Indonesia’s case, as exemplified above, movements grounded in care underscore the state’s failure to protect those who are most vulnerable.

Bargaining with Patriarchy

Acknowledging the presence of oppression – by patriarchy and state violence – is the first step towards transforming care into empowerment. The marginal position of mothers and care is often overlooked by the system, but this only provides an avenue for activists to outsmart it.

For example, by demanding state intervention over the surging prices of milk during the 1998 crisis, Suara Ibu Peduli set an example of how a focus on domestic needs – rather than an outright criticism of the government – could further their agenda more effectively.

It also protected them. Such a demand allowed them to dodge the accusation that they were calling for Soeharto to step down. Besides, it also cemented their status as influential actors, their position as working-class citizens notwithstanding, during the country’s economic crisis.

Suara Ibu Peduli’s positioning and strategy enabled its activists to actively exercise democratic rights at a time of political turbulence. The strategy felt measured and outspoken in resisting the State Ibuism framing yet still subjective as the movement is derived from the activists’ experience as mothers.

Maternal activism is not merely altruistic traits defined by gendered expectations. Rather, it expands what counts as political. While it highlights mothers’ traditional caregiver role, at the same time, it is also prone to painting women as “hypervisible” citizens in need of protection. In essence, it exploits the domestic labels often ascribed to these women.

In this sense, the state’s positioning of its relationship with mothers is exactly what drives mothers to “bargain with patriarchy” in the first place. State Ibuism constrained women in domestic space. Thus, for these women to enter the public sphere, they have to exploit their traditional role by reclaiming their political rights and shifting what it means to be an ibu, a mother.

The emergence of “mothers politics” necessitates acknowledging the agency of Indonesian feminist movement. It is important to not view the activists merely as “mothers”; rather, they should be acknowledged as an intellectual group who pl

Identity is crucial in mothers politics, especially since care is considered an essential currency in their political activism. Understanding the injustices faced by others in their family – both in the past and in the foreseeable future – mothers “inherit” their family members’ struggles and translate them into their own purposes. Their very identity as mothers, thus, becomes political. When expressed in the public sphere, this care for family members g

Introduction

The floods and landslides that ripped through central Sumatra on 26 November 2025 were more than a freak of weather. They became a harsh test of how the Indonesian state functions under pressure.

Driven by relentless rainfall linked to Cyclone Senyar, the disaster struck Aceh, North Sumatra and West Sumatra almost simultaneously, overwhelming local authorities within days.

By mid-December, figures released by the National Disaster Management Agency told a sobering story: more than 1,000 people had died, nearly 200 were still missing and hundreds of thousands had been forced from their homes.

But beyond the numbers lies a landscape of systemic ruin. Tens of thousands of homes were reduced to debris. Roads, bridges and electricity grids—the region’s literal nervous system—snapped, leaving entire districts in a state of primitive isolation for days.

In Aceh Tengah alone, the damage to over 4,000 houses forced 12,000 residents into overcrowded temporary shelters. In the mountainous interior, landslides acted as physical censors, severing access routes so completely that aid could only trickle in via limited air drops or on the backs of volunteers trekking through miles of sludge.

The crisis was not just one of infrastructure but of survival. Prolonged power outages did not just mean dark houses; they meant the death of water supply systems and the paralysis of hospital operations.

Reports emerging from the mud-caked districts described a harrowing reality: families surviving on dwindling food stocks, community kitchens struggling to feed thousands and parents skipping meals so their children could eat.

At the same time, aid convoys remained bogged down miles away. These were not mere peripheral hiccups in a logistics chain; they were the flashing red lights of a systemic breakdown in basic service delivery at the absolute height of a humanitarian emergency.

The Doctrine of “Positive News”

As the sheer scale of the devastation became impossible to ignore, a curious secondary crisis began to emerge: a crisis of narrative.

Rather than a raw, transparent accounting of the gaps in the response, senior government figures started a concerted effort to steer the public gaze. Media outlets were pointedly urged to focus on “positive news”. The underlying subtext was clear: avoid any framing that suggested state institutions were absent, slow or ineffective.

The official rhetoric leaned heavily on the optics of heroism—endless praise for the soldiers, police officers and emergency responders on the front lines. While their effort was undeniably heroic, the political use of that heroism served to shield the upper echelons of power from scrutiny. President Prabowo Subianto, alongside several cabinet ministers, took this further by asserting that Indonesia is a “large and strong” country, fully capable of managing this catastrophe without outside interference or internal doubt.

In this theatre of national resilience, “strength” was redefined. It was no longer a measurable metric of how many people were rescued or how fast the lights came back on; it became a matter of national stature and unshakeable resolve.

In this high-stakes framing, admitting to institutional limits was rebranded as a sign of weakness. Honest criticism was blurred into a form of disloyalty. The priority shifted, almost imperceptibly, from assessing the quality of the response to projecting an aura of unflappable confidence.

The High Cost of Silence

This rhetorical pivot does far more than soothe public anxiety. It fundamentally distorts the way information flows within the state apparatus. Effective disaster governance is not just about moving trucks and helicopters; it is about the “informational metabolism” of the state—the ability to process accurate and often deeply embarrassing data from the disaster zone to the desks of decision-makers.

In an emergency of this magnitude, the most vital failures – the ones that actually cost lives – rarely appear in a polished official briefing. They are found in delayed evacuations, broken supply chains and communities that fall through the cracks of administrative maps.

Independent reporting from disaster zones acts as a decentralised form of situational awareness. It reveals the blind spots that a centralised command structure, often blinded by its own hierarchy, cannot see in real time.

However, in the wake of the Sumatra floods, the “informational infrastructure” began to crack. Journalists in Aceh reported a stifling atmosphere. Stories documenting aid delays, persistent fuel shortages and the continued isolation of villages were suddenly deemed “sensitive”.

Editors, facing the harsh economic reality of declining revenues and a reliance on advertising from state-linked enterprises, opted for self-restraint. In one particularly chilling instance, a video report showing a journalist’s raw, distressed account of starving residents was pulled by the outlet itself. The reason? A vague concern that the footage could be “misused“.

These were not isolated incidents of editorial caution; they were symptoms of a broader trend where crisis narratives are treated as objects of state governance. Across Asia, we see governments becoming hypersensitive to how disasters are framed in an interconnected digital world.

Calls for “unity” and “positivity” function as informal muzzles, encouraging media organisations to narrow the scope of their scrutiny without the need for a single

Resilience Through Critique

From a purely institutional perspective, this obsession with image is a strategic blunder. It weakens the state rather than protecting it. History shows us that effective governments are those that embrace negative feedback to identify failures and pivot policy.

Look at Japan: its high safety standards and world-class crisis coordination were not born from reassuring narratives. They were the hard-won results of decades of relentless, uncomfortable investigative reporting that exposed institutional rot and forced regulatory oversight. Japan became strong because it allowed itself to be seen as weak and then fixed the cause of that weakness.

Indonesia’s floods underscore exactly why this distinction is a matter of life and death. For years, environmentalists and civil society groups have warned that the rampant deforestation, land conversion and abysmal watershed governance in Sumatra have turned seasonal rains into lethal weapons.

When we report on the rising death toll and infrastructure collapse as a direct consequence of these policy failures, we challenge the convenient perception that disasters are “unavoidable natural events”. Without that scrutiny, the structural vulnerabilities remain, ensuring that the next cyclone will produce the same pattern of preventable death.

The implications ripple far beyond our borders. For global investors, insurers and regional partners, a government’s performance during a disaster is a proxy for its overall governance quality. True credibility is not built by pretending everything is fine; it is built by signalling institutional maturity—the willingness to look at a failure, learn from it and adapt.

When official claims of “strength” are contradicted by viral videos of hunger and isolation, trust does not just erode—it vaporises. In that vacuum of trust, rumours and misinformatio

Comfort vs Accuracy

Ultimately, the core trade-off facing the Indonesian leadership is not between criticism and stability. It is a choice between reputational comfort and informational accuracy.

Prioritising symbolic strength might buy a few weeks of political peace, but it creates massive informational blind spots. In a complex emergency, delayed recognition of failure translates directly into delayed intervention, which in turn leads to higher mortality rates. Apparent stability in the headlines often conceals a growing, dangerous fragility within the institutions themselves.

Our democratic reforms after 1998 were supposed to dismantle the machinery of media control. While the formal instruments of the New Order may be gone, the logic of “narrative management” has evolved to survive in a digital, market-driven era.

Media organisations, struggling to stay afloat, find that self-censorship is the most “rational” business decision. This “soft repression” is more insidious than the old ways because it maintains the facade of a free press while hollowing out its ability to hold power accountable.

In this age of climate crisis, the Sumatra floods will not be an anomaly; they will be the blueprint for the future. States across Asia will face immense pressure to demonstrate competence under the glare of global scrutiny. The hallmark of a truly effective government in the 21st century will be its ability to absorb criticism, process uncomfortable information and adjust its trajectory in real time.

After all, criticism should not be perceived as an instrument of rejection; rather, it is an expression of betterment and hope.

The debate sparked by the tragedy in Sumatra is not a niche argument about media ethics or “journalistic sensitivity”. It is a fundamental question about the future of the Indonesian state. Against this backdrop, thus, are we willing to move beyond declarations of greatn

Introduction

Late in the afternoon of 29September 2025, in Sidoarjo, East Java, a four-storey prayer hall of the Islamic boarding school (pesantren) Al-Asy’ary Al-Khoziny collapsed under its own weight, trapping 171 individuals under the rubble.

The pesantren is operated by a foundation under the umbrella of Nahdlatul Ulama, Indonesia’s largest Islamic mass organisation. It is one of the oldest pesantren in East Java, founded in the 1920s.

The tragedy immediately made international headlines, putting under scrutiny why and how the building – still under construction at the time – had suffered structural failure. Most experts now agree that haphazard building method

The prayer hall’s foundation had been laid only to withstand the weight of a one-storey-structure before someone in charge decided to tempt fate by adding three more. In fact, the concrete for the fourth floor had just been poured in the morning prior to the building’s collapse. 

By the time evacuation attempts had officially ended on the 7 October, 104 out of the 172 trapped had been rescued, while the remaining 67 were declared dead from impact.

Most importantly, the widespread exposure of the tragedy and the highly charged emotions it produced unravelled a series of events that laid bare the visible cracks in Nahdlatul Ulama’s veneer, calling into doubt its hard-earned reputation for tolerance and moderation.

On the Defensive

As the search and rescue attempts were going on at Al Khoziny, an outpouring of grief and criticism flooded Indonesian social media. Appalled and distressed people were asking how and why the collapse had taken place.

Some pointed out that the construction of the new floors at Al Khoziny had lacked a building permit, leading to the revelation that most pesantren in Indonesia are built without any permit at all.

Many shared anecdotes about what life was like inside the pesantren: how students were mobilised to carry out construction work as part of their voluntary work for their school and how a culture of excessive subservience prevalent at the pesantren had been an enabling factor in the tragedy.

Then came the barrage of social media reels showing santri in obsequious postures, crawling on their knees as they filed past their kyai or religious teachers.

Some netizens openly remarked on the “anachronistic” and “feudal” nature of the traditions practised behind closed doors at more than 40,000 pesantren in Indonesia.

More damning still, others suggested that traditions in some pesantren, such as reverence for religious relics, were not in line with Qur’anic teachings.

Nevertheless, the Islamic institution is not without its defenders. After all, pesantren alumni likely number tens of millions in the country.

Many countered the criticisms by reasoning that it was normal for the students to perform community work, including construction, because their school fees were uncommonly low.

Mahfud MD, former Coordinating Minister for Political and Security Affairs, who is also a pesantren graduate, acknowledged there was “negligence” in the construction method at Al Khoziny. However, he also fairly asserted that those who had never been to a pesantren might not be best placed to understand its traditions.

In his podcast, he said pesantren operated on the simplicity and gotong royong (communal solidarity) principles, hence the community-based construction work.  

“The kyai (of

But the stream of criticism against pesantren nationwide continued.

National television network Trans7 aired on 13 October 2025 a sensational programme on the traditions of pesantren, entitled, “Santri have to squa

The programme provoked the wrath of NU sympathisers, which in turn led to the online movement of the hashtag #BOIKOTTRANS7, eventually eliciting a public apology by the station. 

Worse still, at a rally conducted in front of Trans7 headquarters in Jakarta, Muhammad Ainul Yakin Simatupang, Jakarta’s general chairman of GP Ansor (Nahdlatul Ulama’s youth organisation), threatened to “slit the throats” of those in TransTV’s employ for producing a programme which “denigrated NU ulama”.

In another instance, a YouTuber who goes by the name Stevans Young put out a tongue-in-cheek video in which he portrayed a dim-witted student with no knowledge of the outside world blindly obeying his teacher. The parody was interpreted by many as a jibe against the pesantren culture.

His video came to the attention of Banser, a paramilitary group under the auspices of GP Ansor. Its Jember members promptly paid Revaldo a home visit. They subsequently managed to extract a somewhat reluctant public apology from the Youtuber.

Public Reactions  

Since there are 143 million social media users in Indonesia, making up 50.2% of the country’s total population, online sentiments have come to represent a pertinent gauge into public perceptions of trending issues.

DroneEmprit – an Indonesian big data and AI-based analytical system of the Internet – monitored public reactions online as the Al Khoziny incident and its fallout unfolded. It made some noteworthy observations.

Carried out between 6 and 19 October 2025, its data mining process encompassed 16,477 online media articles, 71,638 social media mentions and 35,831 sample chats.

Following the Al Khoziny tragedy, analysis of online media content about the pesantren culture was mostly positive, at 74%. However, a corresponding analysis of social media content produced the exact opposite result.

As many as 62% of Indonesian netizens reacted negatively to the pesantren culture as opposed to 23% positive, with the rest being neutral.

DroneEmprit maintained that the Al Khoziny tragedy opened up a Pandora’s box for pesantren and, by extension, Nahdlatul Ulama.

“Feodalisme” (feudalism) became a buzzword in online debates about pesantren as netizens criticised what they saw as ongoing feudal practices not in line with the times.

The tragedy, it observed, also had become a gateway for social critique of hitherto sensitive issues, such as the perception that sexual abuse is becoming a more frequent phenomenon in these institutions.

There was also an overwhelming sentiment that there were double standards in the way the nahdliyin (those identifying with Nahdlatul Ulama) responded to criticism against suggestions of negligence as an overwhelming factor in the Al Khoziny tragedy.

However, the upside for Nahdlatul Ulama remains that Indonesians in general were not against the pesantren as an institution. The public also largely took Nahdlatul Ulama’s side on the Trans7 controversy, as most people regarded the TV programme as a specious smear campaign.

Yet, despite all these, the fallout of the Al Khoziny incident is essentially a telltale sign of a potential shift for the vision of Islam in Indonesia and what it means for Nahdlatul Ulama at an existential level.

Reputation

Nahdlatul Ulama is reputed to be Indonesia’s – and indeed the world’s – largest Islamic organisation, although estimated figures of its membership vary. Based on a 2023 poll by Lembaga Survei Indonesia (LSI), 56.9% of Indonesians are affiliated with Nahdlatul Ulama, a significant jump from the 2010 figure (at 47%). Figures at the Ministry of Religious Affairs put the number of Nahdlatul Ulama members in 2019 to be around 91.2 million across Indonesia.

Judging by the public reaction to the Al Khoziny case, there appears to be a widespread desire to see institutional as well as practical reforms within the pesantren. Many of the victims’ family members have professed to be “traumatised” by the tragedy and insisted that a thorough investigation be carried out.

The case has also rendered the pesantren tradition as a focus of criticism and derision by Indonesian Muslims who do not associate with Nahdlatul Ulama, especially on social media.

If their frustrations with the institution of pesantren remain unaddressed, it will not be improbable that prospective santri parents may find themselves reluctant to send their children to Nadhlatul Ulama-affiliated pesantren.

Over time, this might gravely affect the organisation’s own system of regeneration, which heavily depends on its patronage over its numerous pesantren.

Safeguarding Legacy

As the predominant force of Islam in Indonesia, Nahdlatul Ulama is anything but simple or uniform, encompassing diverse traditions across the archipelago.

Its broad umbrella and respect for all the unique traditions within itself have always been its unifying factors. For many years, Nahdlatul Ulama’s vision for Islam remained dynamic and nameless, changing with the times.

Nahdlatul Ulama became a more progressive, tolerant and inclusive social force under the leadership of Abdurrahman Wahid between 1984 and 1999. Gus Dur, as he was popularly known, went on to become the fourth Indonesian president.

As the grandson of one of Nahdlatul Ulama’s founders, Hasyim Asy’ari, Gus Dur was known to promote the idea of Islam as the protector of minority groups and did his utmost to foster ecumenical ties with other faiths, a legacy which continues today, if to a lesser degree.

Gus Dur’s informal and egalitarian approach as president also lent Nahdlatul Ulama its “democratic” credential. Under his guidance, the organisation also became the vanguard against religious extremism in Indonesia.  

As such, Nahdlatul Ulama made itself an indispensable partner in the government’s struggle against religious extremism, the culmination of which took place in 2015 when Nahdlatul Ulama came up with the term “Islam Nusantara” in its 33rd Congress in Jombang. It is defined as a fountain of universal blessings for Muslims and non-Muslims alike; one that is moderate, tolerant and inclusive.

However, with heightened public scrutiny on pesantren practices triggered by the Al Khoziny incident, especially those deemed anachronistic, Nahdlatul Ulama’s badge of modern and progressive Islam is inevitably called into question.

Future Endeavours

Questions now must be asked whether – in order to adapt – Nahdlatul Ulama must necessarily abandon its age-old traditions. The answer is it may not have to, although presentational changes seem unavoidable if Nahdlatul Ulama wishes to retain its progressive, tolerant and moving-with-the-times public image cultivated in the last two decades.

Negative public sentiments, as DroneEmprit findings show, are directed towards the lack of accountability and “feudal” infallibility attributed to pesantren practices and leaders, not the actual institution.

While the Trans7 controversy suggests that pesantren still finds great support among Indonesians, modern sensibilities have compelled them to rethink some of the practices within the institution.

The intransigence displayed by Nahdlatul Ulama-affiliated bodies like GP Ansor and Banser in the face of criticism proved to be counterproductive and self-harming for NU as it went against its image of being democratic and anti-reactionary.

Rather than relying on hard power to defend itself against Trans7, Banser could have filed a complaint against the station with Dewan Pers (Press Board) over the content of its programme.

This would have been more in line with Indonesian legal procedure in dealing with errant media outlets. It would also have shown that a Nahdlatul Ulama affiliate supported the rule of law, rather than resorting to brute force.

However, there are signs that NU is listening and learning. In the aftermath of the Al Khoziny tragedy, the school agreed to a police investigation into what had caused the collapse.

On the criticism against the practice of mobilising students to carry out construction work, for in

One germane plan would be to carry out vocational training in construction for pesantren students as part of their permanent curriculum. This will modernise the pesantren’s approach to education, enhancing it with practical studies without having to abolish community work participation by students.

Imbuing the pesantren curriculum with vocational training would definitely broaden its appeal. This could dispel the workforce perception that pesantren alumni typically lack the practical skills compatible with Indonesia’s industrial sector.

Vocational training can even be expanded to include agricultural, horticultural and culinary training, aligning its curriculum with President Prabowo Subianto’s policy push in those areas.

The Indonesian government, having promised funds to rebuild the collapsed wing of Al Khoziny, is patently eager to be of further assistance, something pesantren schools all over the country should capitalise on.

For example, the Ministry of Public Works recently held a six-day training scheme in construction techniques for 105 santri as part of its outreach to pesantren. The ministry has also rolled out similar training schemes for 2,500 students in 2025.

The biggest question for Nahdlatul Ulama, however, is how to police what is essentially a loose confederation of its affiliated organisations with the aim of presenting a coherent united front on most issues. For decades, each arm of the organisation has operated with a certain degree of autonomy. Yet, each arm of this vast organisation is undeniably a reflection of the whole.

A case in point is the recent Elham Yahya Luqman (Gus Elham) controversy, which revolves around the abuse of privileges by a religious teacher.

Gus Elham is a 24-year-old preacher from Kediri, East Java, who runs his own pesantren. As his honorific “Gus” indicates, he is the son of an established kyai and is part of Nahdlatul Ulama’s “religious blue bloodline” clans.

Elham came to notoriety when video clips showing him kissing underage girls in his congregation surfaced on social media. Drawing public outrage, he has since apologised publicly, though he maintained that it was a misunderstanding.

Sensing another public relations catastrophe, Nahdlatul Ulama’s Rais Aam Miftachul Akhyar, its highest-ranking spiritual leader, issued a condemnation of Elham’s conduct, calling it “grossly inappropriate and unbecoming” in a preacher, and even asked the authorities to “take commensurate measures according to the law”.

In Elham’s case, NU has once again shown its innate willingness to adapt to modern sensibilities and a reality dominated by raucous public opinions and the rule of social media in Indonesia.

The Al Khoziny tragedy has, in fact, become the necessary push for introspection and prospective growth of Nahdlatul Ulama to address issues of the day and modern challenges to its age-old traditions.

As Nahdlatul Ulama evolves with modernity, its survival will increasingly depend on whether it is capable of walking the tightrope between the traditions that make it unique and its ability to explain them in terms acceptable to the younger generations of Indonesians.

Days of Anti-Violence

Every year, from 25 November to 10 December, the 16 Days of Activism against Gender-Based Violence campaign turns the world orange as a symbol of unity and solidarity. This global campaign has been ongoing for 34 years, with a main message encouraging victims of gender-based violence to speak up.

On one hand, this campaign has achieved much by breaking up longstanding silences on the subject and turning private suffering into a matter of public concern. On the other hand, despite decades of campaigning, the problem persists, with an estimated one in three women globally has experienced gender-based violence.

Domestic violence remains the most pervasive form of gender-based harm, firmly rooted in the social and political life of countries across different levels of development. It occurs despite existing campaigns to end it and amid a structured legal framework to prevent it in many countries.

For instance, in Indonesia and Japan, legal frameworks to combat domestic violence have existed for more than two decades, but statistics show that not much has improved.

In Indonesia, the National Commission on Violence against Women recorded the ever-rising report of domestic violence, reaching hundreds of thousands of cases every year. Meanwhile, Japan’s Cabinet Office surveys reveal a trend of stagnation, with one in three women experiencing abuse from an intimate partner at least once in her lifetime.

These concerning pictures demonstrate not a gap of knowledge but the lack of capacity to bridge between awareness and governance.

Global campaigns like the 16 Days of Activism have urged us to listen to survivors’ narratives, but these have not yet forced governments to examine how effective their systems respond. Decades of such campaigns have successfully convinced women to report, yet failed to ensure that when they do, there is a structure that is ready to respond with care and competence.

The result is a chain of disappointment; survivors may come forward, but they might grow disappointed because the system erected to protect them is caught in red tape or, worse, unprepared.

The following section draws on data collected from Surabaya, Indonesia and Sapporo, Japan. Evidence from these two cities suggests that the persistence of domestic violence cannot be explained solely from cultural or legal aspects. The political dimension also plays an important role here, as the issue lies in how the care service towards victims is moulded by the relationship between civil society and government.

In this modern age, the question is no longer about whether victims would gather the courage to speak up. The real challenge is whether those in power have learnt to listen and build a system that responds with responsibility and steady care.

Lessons from Two Cities

Comparative insights from Surabaya and Sapporo help map this institutional landscape in concrete ways. Although the two cities operate within different administrative traditions, their experiences point to a similar structural logic.

In Surabaya, the government unit that handles women’s protection has established a long partnership with a feminist organisation with extensive experience in crisis support. The collaboration grows out of daily interactions built on trust and steady commitment.

Counsellors often pick up late-night calls, accompany survivors to hospitals, sit with them while filing police reports and offer the kind of calm emotional support that helps them move through moments that can feel heavy or even retraumatising.

Their responsiveness demonstrates how intuition, speed and relational trust fill the gaps left by rigid bureaucracy. However, the same qualities expose the fragility of the system. When emotional labour becomes the main infrastructure of care, the system depends on individuals rather than institutions. Funding change, leadership changes or personnel burnout can disrupt support networks.

Interviewed government officials expressed sincere empathy, but their actions remained bound by administrative verification and procedural standard. The paradox is clear: care requires improvisation, while bureaucracy demands rigid formality. At some point, these different logics create tension that civil society organisations must negotiate daily.

Sapporo, on the other hand, presents a different style of collaboration that leans on formal structures. The city works through official contracts with several women’s organisations, c

On the surface, this arrangement looks appealing because it creates predictability and outlines clear procedures within the system. Shelters, hotlines and counselling centres have predictable workflows, where coordination across departments follows established rules.

However, social workers interviewed described a workload dominated by paperwork, reporting and compliance with procedural requirements; this reduces the time they spend in direct contact with survivors. In this sense, emotional labour becomes measurable data rather than lived engagement.

Red Tape

Data, reports and paperwork are parts of how institutions define performance. When the state governs care through indicators that prioritise documentation, it privileges administrative order over emotional quality. When it values consistency above relational engagement, it shapes how care is practised. The result seems to be stability that risks losing its human compassion.

Negotiating bureaucracy and compassion can be described as “governing intimacy”. The phrase points to the carefully managed closeness that forms between the state and feminist organisations. Governments turn to civil society for empathy, adaptability and the ability to interpret complex situations. Civil society, in turn, leans towards the state for legitimacy, funding and formal authority.

This mutual reliance requires deliberate boundary setting to ensure the relationship remains productive without collapsing into overdependence. If organisations stand too far from the state, coordination becomes slow and fragmented. If they stand too close, bureaucratic logic threatens to erode their independence and critical voice.

Governance intimacy demonstrates that care is not a neutral action, yet it is inhere

Feminist groups often carry the toughest emotional work, yet they still get only small recognition and not much proper support from the institutions that depend on them. Their contributions become invisible layers that sustain the system while remaining undervalued.

This dynamic shows that domestic violence governance is not simply about service delivery. It is a contest over responsibility, authority and the meaning of empathy within public institutions. Surabaya and Sapporo reveal that different administrative traditions can produce similar vulnerabilities because both rely on the emotional and intellectual labour of feminist actors to cover structural weaknesses.

From Awareness to Accountability

The 16 Days of Activism offers a moment to reconsider where the weaknesses of the current response lie.

Awareness, of course, still matters, but it no longer defines the edge of the movement. The priority has shifted towards demanding governments fully understand their responsibilities.

This is because when domestic violence is treated as a question of governance, institutional capacity becomes the main target of reform. This shift requires clear commitments and practical steps that strengthen how institutions work, rather than relying on symbolic gestures.

Governments need to acknowledge feminist organisations as partners in governing domestic violence rather than as mere service providers. These organisations understand how survivors think and feel, and they are often experienced in navigating the legal, medical and social blocks that emanate as byproducts of bureaucracy. Their insights should inform policy design, budget allocation and institutional protocols.

Meanwhile, stable funding arrangements could reduce personnel burnout. Clear roles can protect their autonomy. Inclusion in policymaking projects the state’s respect for their expertise and acknowledgement of the political nature of care.

Institutional empathy also needs to be cultivated intentionally. Bureaucrats, police officers and frontline staff should receive training in emotional competence, trauma awareness, and survivor-centred communication. This is not about asking officials to be “warm” in a sentimental sense but about equipping them with the capacity to respond without causing additional harm.

Sensitivity becomes a professional skill that enhances the effectiveness of procedure, while institutions that combine clarity with compassion earn trust more easily and improve case outcomes.

Reforming how institutions measure success is equally important since counting reports cannot capture survivor safety. A rising number of cases may signal increased trust, or it may reflect institutional failure. Metrics need to capture elements such as response speed, the quality of coordination, survivor satisfaction and the accuracy of referrals. These measures offer a clearer picture of how institutions actually work and guide policymakers toward areas that require improvement.

Strength

The relatio

By following that shift in paradigm and action, the 16 Days of Activism can serve as a moment more for reflection than symbolic unity. The colour orange can keep its place as a sign of shared commitment, while at the same time hinting at something deeper, which is the need to shape institutions that listen and treat care as something the public sector must carry, while also being decisive in taking actions.

Violence keeps happening not only because survivors hold back their stories, but also because many institutions still struggle to respond with the level of skill and human feeling that the situation really needs. It is indeed a global issue that needs global effort to tackle.

Acknowledgment: This article draws on research supported by the Japan-Related Research Grant from The Sumitomo Foundation (Fiscal Year 2024)

stratsea is proud to announce our latest collaboration with Versa!

Developed by Versa, in collaboration with stratsea, this report provides a data-driven look at Malaysians’ emotional wellbeing, help-seeking behaviour and the emerging role of technology in shaping the future of mental health care.

Briefly, this first report show a recent internal survey of 1,500 Ve

The full report, republished on the Malay Mail, is available below:

Prelude

In a 2014 interview with The Malaysian Insider, cultural activist Eddin Khoo of PUSAKA said that the Malays would go mad without their culture.

“Culture and sanity go together; any society that has no culture has no sense of self, and any society that has no sense of self has no soul and hence i

Sometime in late August this year, a video of a Kuda Kepang performance went viral on social media and instant messaging apps such as WhatsApp. The reactions were swift and intense.

For some God-fearing Malays, the performance confirmed long-standing views that many traditional Malay arts are heretical, base or remnants of an uneducated working-class culture.

There were also Malays who kept silent, feeling that the practice was neither right nor wrong, but they may be lacking the knowledge and language of culture and religion.

Then there were other Malays, including cultural enthusiasts like me, who viewed the episode with bemusement—aware that dismantling a traditional healing practi

This essay is the writer’s thoughts on how the Kuda Kepang performance is not just about religious orthodoxy but also a people’s anxiety about urbanisation, economics and the erosion of the Malay identity.

Controversy, Yet Again

Immediately, the Johor Islamic Religious Department (JAINJ) and the police were instructed to probe and take action on the performance believed to contain non-Islamic practices in Parit Raja, Batu Pahat.

A few days later, JAINJ announced that they would draft guidelines that ensure no syncretic elements would be engendered in cultural performances, sports and Malay martial arts, or silat. Many Malays concurred with the authorities: the traditional art of Kuda Kepang should be abolished, as it involves a communion with the spirit world through trances.

In the last 20 years, there have been more calls by Muslim preachers and communities to monitor the “unIslamic” practices that Kuda Kepang seemingly embodies and practices.

This is not a new thing. Carol Laderman, Teren Sevea and KM Endicott have noted the increasing influence of Islam in rural Malay communities back in the early 20th century, where more and more bomoh (shamans), pawang (masters), and dukun (witch doctors) had to adjust their healing practices to something more palatable to the religious community. The alternative was to move away somewhere else. However, even with such an unsavoury prospect, the practice of Malay magic was still open. What was performed in Johor recently was not dissimilar to earlier practices of Malay magic. However, the backlash was more potent owing to its stark contras

Magical Performance

But what is a Kuda Kepang performance really about?

It is a hobbyhorse trance dance introduced by Javanese immigrants to Singapore (and Johor) that has been localised by local Malay practitioners and become a unique expression of the Malay identity.

Kuda Kepang, which has its roots in Java, Indonesia, is a colourful, sensual and fascinating performance to observe.

It is more than the popular folklore of seeing men eating glass and falling into trances; it is about a celebration of and an ode to the saints of Java – the Wali Songo – who came to spread Islam in the island’s interiors. The public gets to see the performances at weddings, special performances brought in by cultural groups such as Pusaka and when the community sees fit to hold them.

The performance incorporates trance in its performance. It serves many functions, such as entertainment, an expression of camaraderie as well as a cleansing ritual.

On the latter, indeed, Kuda Kepang “was performed to cleanse the village of evil spirits. It is an effort to engage the spirits, both malevolent and benevolent, to acknowledge their presence in an attempt to rationalize the interaction of the real and the nether existence. Also, it is to exhibit the prowess of the shaman to interact with a different level of mystical existence. When performing as a ritual for thanksgiving or to exorcise evil spirits or negative energy from the village, the dance involves the invocation of spirits from the nether world, thus focusing on its mystical and metaphysical aspects. As such, the trance aspect of the dance becomes the integral focal point and core element of the performance.”

The trance part of the performance agitates the public: does this not mean involving the spirits and allowing them to take possession of the body, which is all wrong in the name of Islam? That it has been said that performers ingest drugs and other substances to get into this state is another no-no.

My goal is not to expound on the rights and wrongs, or discuss Islamic jurisprudence (fiqh) as well as the policing of Kuda Kepang. I am more curious about how this will (and has) impact the Malays of this country.

The Urban Myth of Home

When IMAN Research started publishing its findings in the Malaysian media sometime around late 2023, many corporate-type Malays – and also Islamic-thinking Malays – asked why the Ordinary Malay turned to traditional performing arts and healing practices.

According to them, these practices were based on khurafat (superstitions), old-fashioned, unscientific and rather provincial. All these probably encouraged them to assume why the average Malay was poor and backwards.

In 2024, 79.2% of Malaysia’s total population lived in urban areas and cities. This figure is expected to increase, as people from rural areas migrate to urban areas due to employment opportunities and as the economy continues to shift from agriculture to industry and services.

The urbanisation rate in Malaysia had increased from 28.4% in 1970 to 75.1% in 2020, contributed by natural population, migration and demarcation.

Malays were also more likely to migrate to urban areas than Indians and Chinese. “Over the period of 1991 to 2020, the migration rate of Malay ethnic was the highest except in the early 1990’s [sic] and 2001. According to Peng (2012), large numbers of Malays moving to the more developed areas were due to the implementation of the New Economic Policy (NEP) which aimed at restructuring society to eliminate the identification of race with location and occupation, and the creation of a Bumiputera Commercial and Industrial Community.”

Many Malays came from somewhere, i.e. kampung (villages). For young professionals and working-class Malays, entering the concrete jungle that is Kuala Lumpur – where very few relatives and friends from their homes are – is a jarring experience.

Even if they had fantasised about moving to the city in pursuit of wealth and work, the Klang Valley is almost a different country. It heaves with people from all around the world – expatriates, refugees, migrant workers – and opportunities abound, but it is still very unsettling for the newborn urban settler.

So, what do they do? They turn to traditions they practised at home to find comfort and solace as they endeavour to belong in their new homes, which is not easy due to competition with migrant workers and those who come from other rural areas as well.

Vanishing Magic

The move

One example would be the angkat rumah (house lifting) tradition, where family members, friends and members of the village would literally carry the house to a new location. The reasons for doing so are many, but in most cases, it is a much-beloved home of a family who want the house they grew up in in the new area they reside in now.

Just like angkat rumah, Malay performing arts or healing traditions are a source of comfort as well, though whether the people believe the spell (jampi) works or not is another question altogether.

The more modern family, who is first-generation urban, look at former rituals as old fashioned, the more they link them to hardship and poverty; thus, their association with kampung. Meanwhile, the older generation living in rural areas bewail the loss of a heritage.

Let us not go far. In The Malay Settlement: A Vanishing World?, the authors remarked on how modernisation caused a loss of Malay carpentry skills in Malay settlements and that artisans would lose these skills in the local Malay community, which will result in the loss of their cultural identity.

“The concept of culture has shaped the Malays’ minds and souls, influenced by religious interests, culture, and traditions. According to Kling (2000), these factors have shaped the Malays’ character and identity. Urbanisation has destroyed the Malay community’s cultural wealth.”

Reflections

Is it bad? To believe and follow syncretic beliefs?

I personally find Malay magic (or, quite honestly, any variant of it, whether Thai, Indian, Chinese or others) to be colourful and fascinating. While as a Muslim I am to acquiesce to Muslim healing rituals, such orthodoxy is too minimalist of healing for me. No limes, no incens

These “tools” have roles to play in he

The Malay community is increasingly becoming more polarised: it is not just economics and class but also clashing religious ideologies—urbane Islam, Wahhabi vs Sufism etc., which could constitute another essay altogether.

If we go back to the topic above, the policing and “restructuring” of Kuda Kepang and other Malay performing arts – all done in order to incorporate Islamic practices and obliterate syncretic rituals – will be one of the channels that may just destroy the Malay identity.

After all, Kuda Kepang and its other siblings are about “communal psychic therapy rather than the healing of individual illness. This is the healing of the angin (vibes) rather than any physiological or psychosomatic illness.”

And it is also about a community, and village, be it in a rural or urban area. And yes, a country.

Editor’s Note

This essay is a critical analysis of the themes and issues that transpired in Indonesia’s cinematic phenomenon Sore: Istri dari Masa Depan (Sore: Wife from the Future; “Sore” pronounced as “So – Ray”), a romantic drama that touched the hearts of millions of Indonesians and earned eight nominations at Festival Film Indonesia 2025.

For a greater immersion into this piece, readers are advised to watch the film beforehand.

In short, Sore tells the story of the eponymous woman (Sheila Dara) who gains the capability to travel to and repeat a specific portion of her husband’s (Dion Wiyoko) past life in Croatia (before he even met her). She does this in an effort to change his destructive behaviours (such as excessive drinking and sedentary lifestyle) and pessimistic worldview, which would eventually lead to his death by heart attack in the future.

Sore, thus, exists in a time loop, making the movie similar in structure to others such as Edge of Tomorrow, Groundhog Day or Netflix’s Russian Doll series. Every time Sore beli

Morbidly, for the reset to take place, she has to die, assumingly from a brain haemorrhage. Worse, Sore’ husband will have no recollection of who Sore is every time the cycle begins anew, which means Sore’s journey is one of solitude that requires a lot of strength.

Part I: SPACE

When someone attempts to deceive time, the most effective way of doing so is by manipulating space. I suspect that this very strategy crossed Sore’s mind when she came across a page in Jonathan’s diary that read, “The North Pole, the only part of the earth without a time zone.”

Building on this premise, I am interested in analysing the journey of Sore, Jonathan’s wife from t

Furthermore, I view the entire spatial representation throughout Sore: Istri dari Masa Depan, Indonesia’s submission for the 98th Academy Awards’ Best International Feature Film, as inseparable from the classification of space proposed by Henri Lefebvre, a prolific Marxist philosopher and sociologist, over three decades ago.

In his famous book, Lefebvre states that space is not a simple geometric concept. It is constituted by both cultural and social elements.

According to him, space is divided into three categories: spatial practice—the material actions and activities that constitute a specific space; representations of space—how that space is imagined or felt in formal or informal knowledge, and; representational space—how it is subjectively experienced by people who inhabit it through signs, symbols, and associated images.

At first glance, the space we see appears singular, and it is Sore who undergoes repetition within it. This seemingly identical space then takes on a different meaning each time Sore alters certain details.

Her interpretation of the elements she encounters in each cycle of repetition generates a new understanding of the space’s existence; thus begins the phase of spatial practice. In other words, she transforms the very nature of the space through which she “travels”.

Sore attempts to instil a teetotal lifestyle in a past version of her husband. When this effort fails, she turns to Carlo, Jonathan’s manager. When this also fails and all avenues are exhausted, she chooses to withdraw from Jonathan’s life for a time—until, eventually, yet another version of her husband happens to cross paths with her.

The wife’s struggle to manipulate the space of her husband’s past unfolds on two simultaneous fronts: on one hand, she aims to change the character of the man she loves; on the other, she strives to evade the eventuality of Time itself—at least until her plan bears fruit.

Ironically, the profound realisation that comes to Sore midway through the story – that her efforts to change her husband are in vain – does not arise from within herself but from an external force. Frustrated by a lack of progress, Sore abandons her quest and seeks a job at a bridal tailor shop in Zagreb. This is where she finds her realisation in the form of Marko, her new employer and an unexpected individual who appears just as she is about to give up.

At t

Part II: FATHER

Watching Sore: Istri dari Masa Depan is, essentially, watching Jonathan. We come to know all of his bad habits, his pessimism, his love of photography and details about his beloved mother. We even learn about his older sister’s identity, his

But what do we actually know about the wife? Who are her parents? Is she an only child? Why has she never been in a relationship before? What are her aspirations? How have her flaws shaped the person we come to know in the movie?

As a future husband, Jonathan is also potentially a father-to-be. That status likely intimidates him, as he has no reference for what it means to be a good father. His biological father simply walked away, leaving him trapped in a negative space—one that ultimately led to an unchecked dependence on alcohol and cigarettes.

Jonathan’s lack of self-confidence results in the traditional paternal role – typically the one holding the main authority within a family – being taken over by his partners: first by Elsa, his past girlfriend, then by Sore, his future wife.

Women, in this story, bloom as father figures to Jonathan. Yet, the image that emerges from both of these women is not that of an authoritative figure but an authoritarian one.

Authoritarian actions, in the form of the women’s controlling behaviour, inevitably provoke rebellion—thus, Jonathan’s secret smoking activity gains a sense of justification. This has forced Sore to repeat the cycle again and again endlessly, which also means she dies a thousand times to restart Jonathan’s rehabilitation process.

However, Sore, having been awakened by Marko’s authoritative words, begins to shift this dynamic. Instead of continuing with her effort to control Jonathan, she tries tackling the root cause of Jonathan’s bad habit, which is Jonathan’s damaged relationship with his father. She tries to nudge Jonathan to reconcile with his father.

Unfortunately, Time finally catches up with Sore and forbids her from intervening any further. She is powerless to resist until she utters the final, resonant line: “I am Sore, your wife forever.” At this point, I would argue that Sore consciously assumes the role of the father figure in its entirety, in a bid to conquer Time itself.

What happens next? Sore transforms into a ubiquitous being. She exists everywhere—occupying the deepest corners of Jonathan’s soul and instilling in him a longing for something. Her apparition-like presence even shows up in Jonathan’s photo of a sunset over a beach, reminding the audience that she does not truly perish but just disappears.

Her ever-present nature, in turn, creates a kind of representations of space, serving as a force that gently encourages her husband to face and resolve his issues, one by one. She ceases her effort to change Jonathan through control and instilling fear; instead, she finds success in transforming Jonathan through acceptance and love. Indeed, she succeeds; Jonathan eventually visits his father’s house and leaves a note containing words of forgiveness.

We cannot ignore the fact that Yandy Laurens, the film’s director, was both raised in and lives out the values of a Christian upbringing. The abstract longing Jonathan experiences seems less directed towards a future life partner and more intensely orientated towards an authoritative figure—specifically, a good father.

The metaphors presented in the movie become increasingly difficult to dismiss: omnipresence, the father figure, the master of space and time, and, of course, unconditional love—do these not echo the core tenets of Christianity?

The wife from the future has “died”. The figure that appears on screen now is that of a father. Does this figure still take the form of a woman? Perhaps we will never truly know.

Part III: RESURRECTION

Jonathan’s future has been laid out with striking clarity. Within eight years from the period depicted in the movie – a time which never truly progresses but remains frozen due to the endless repetitions orchestrated by Sore – he will surely die.

Sore’s future, however, is far more complex and potentially invites an extended debate. The way I see it, as outlined earlier: she is dead.

Thus, at this point, something extraordinary has just begun. Something that, to me, holds a level of allure surpassing even the stunning orchestral sequence in the film’s third act.

We shall steer clear of discussions surrounding déjà-vu or jamais-vu. What is more important is that Jonathan and Sore are resurrected into versions of themselves that meet – either for the first time or once again (depending on how one chooses to look at it) – in the third act. Both are definitely reborn as different versions of themselves.

From one angle, their reunion might be seen as a metaphysical closure, where unresolved longing finds temporary resolution. From another point of view, it could be viewed as a genuine event within a newly formed reality, bor

We have to remember as well that Time has been overcome by the expression of unconditional love previously offered by Sore. Were it not so, this new timeline could never h

In this new timeline, the new version of Jonathan, overwhelmed by an intense longing, comes to realise that human beings can change through the experience of being loved. That declaration resonates with the version of Sore who, perhaps, at some point in her own life story, underwent a similar experience.

Their fateful handshake at Jonathan’s gallery subsequently unifies all the diverging timelines into a singular line. Past, present and future merge into one. The resurrected Jonathan and Sore finally arrive at a shared subjective experience. Their embrace in the movie’s closing scene, as well as the emotional weight of that final moment, serves as an undeniable manifestation of representational space.

Two souls, shaped and reshaped by grief and unconditional love, finally meeting at the same point of understanding. Whether this meeting occurs in the realm of the real, the symbolic or the liminal space in between is ultimately left to the eye of the beholder.

United by unconditional love, they shall, in time, be parted by, well, perhaps only Time has the ability to tell. After all, as with many things in life, it all depends on where you stand in terms of space and time.

Conclusion: Sweeping the Awards?

This piece is published just before Festival Film Indonesia 2025 that will be held on 20 November 2025.

In the lead-up to such an important event, I think it is worth taking a closer look at Sore: Istri dari Masa Depan and the journey it has had so far.

As mentioned, the film picked up eight nominations at Indonesia’s version of the Oscars, all of them fall under the main categories: Best Feature Film, Best Director, Best Adapted Screenplay, Best Cinematography, Best Editing, Best Actress, Best Actor and Best Original Song.

I am not a prognosticator or an awards pundit. But from where I stand, several of these categories feature contenders who are equally strong, or, at the very least, on a comparable level in terms of quality. I simply believe that this movie should, and will, take home the awards it genuinely deserves from among the categories it has been nominated in. Anyone who has seen it will almost immediately grasp what I am getting at, unless, of course, you happened to doze off in the cinema or found it unbearably dull.

“Maybe you Should go back to the Kitchen Where you Belong, lil sis.”

This was one of the many sexist remarks I encountered as an academic in both professional and public settings. It disregarded my perspectives on socio-political issues but instead put me down based on my gender and the stereotypes associated with it.

Though some may dismiss such comments as harmless, it is essential to consider the potential implications for the receiver of these comments and, if not careful, how they may lead to something more nefarious. When I was an aspiring academic many years ago, I once received a comment which threatened rape.

Ironically, this comment was delivered in a light tone akin to being playful during an academic discussion with a supposedly learned individual.

While eager to learn and make meaningful contributions to public disco

Unfortunately, my experience is not unique.

Concerning Global Trend

Globally, countless women have faced similar situations. Data revealed that 38% of women had personally experienced online violence, and of this group, 65% reported exposure to hate speech, including derogatory remarks targeting their gender.

In the Asia-Pacific region, the situation is equally concerning. 60% of women parliamentarians surveyed said they had been targeted by hate speech, disinformation, image-based abuse or doxxing.

The data underscores a grim reality: gender-based discrimination and online harassment continue to thrive, even among women who hold positions of authority.

Sexist remarks are bad enough for their discriminatory or stereotypical nature. However, the impact

For example, the “joke” of rape trivialises one of the most horrible crimes that can be committed towards a woman into something “acceptable.”

In addition to the risk to one’s personal security, sexist hate speech also results in adverse psychological effects. They undervalue and objectify women, sometimes to the point of ruining their reputation. This erodes their self-esteem and pushes women to withdraw from the spaces where their voices are most needed.

A qualitative Universiti Putra Malaysia (UPM) study by Farah Mursyieda explores male and female victims’ experiences of hate speech within political discourse. It was presented at the recent Gender Outlook Forum and supported the above concerns.

1. Both men and women were attacked based on identity factors, but women were more likely to face gendered and sexualised hate speech, including threats of rape.

2. Women shared that their experiences with hate speech left a heavy emotional toll on them, while men often minimised the impact.

3. As a result of receiving hate speech, most of the women limited their self-expression or reduced engagement in public discourse.

While hate speech affects everyone, its gendered dimensions are significant. The UPM study found that female victims often experienced anger and shame, with some internalising the hatred.

Public shaming, often couched in moral judgment, has led some women to believe they “deserved” such comments for daring to speak. Others reported regretting being born female. The most severe cases involved rape threats, which were something male participants in the study did not encounter.

This culture of intimidation has caused many women to step back from public life or avoid discussing “sensitive” topics altogether. Personally, young female academics and professionals have confided in me about their fears of expressing their opinions, even in closed meetings.

Some have even turned down invitations to speak at public events because they are afraid of being subjected to hostile verbal attacks. Regardless of the industry, such fear limits women’s professional growth and silences important perspectives. And while institutional efforts to empower women have expanded in recent years, the persistence of sexist hate speech threatens to undermine those gains.

Eventually, self-censorship compounds gender inequities, as women are already underrepresented in political and leadership spaces.

The experiences of M

One female politician shared her experience as a target of online abuse in political spaces. Notably, she believed that the constant hostility against female politicians risks normalising gender discrimination and discouraging women from joining the public service altogether.

Politics can be a contentious topic, and its discourse can trigger criticism. This is normal in a democratic society, but we must continue to treat everyone with respect, even when we disagree with certain policies or their implementation. Resorting to abuse, vulgar remarks, slander, and threats of violence should never be allowed in the name of democracy or “constructive” criticism.

The experiences of Malaysian female politicians extend beyond the arena of politics, as some women may be deterred from taking on decision-making roles where they must articulate and defend their positions. This is attributed to the fear of being the subject of online abuse which adds yet another obstacle to women’s advancement.

Returning Women Their Voices

Governments worldwide have introduced laws, policies and programmes to advance women’s participation in public life. Within ASEAN, these initiatives align with the ASEAN Community Vision 2045, which champions the empowerment of women in different fields.

ASEAN has seen marked improvement in women’s access to education, reproductive health and employment opportunities—progress that Malaysia’s Deputy Foreign Minister, Mohamad Bin Haji Alamin, highlighted at the Institute of Diplomacy & Foreign Relations (IDFR)’s recent Forum on ASEAN: Shaping a More Inclusive and Sustainable Future.

Malaysia, too, has made progress. The country’s female labour force participation rose in the last five decades, alongside a narrowing gender pay gap. In the recent Budget 2026 announcement, Prime Minister Anwar Ibrahim revealed that as of 1 October  2025, 45% of public-listed companies have met the target of having at least 30% female directors on their boards.

But progress in policy must be matched by a cultural and systemic response to hate. Protecting everyone from hate speech must continue to be a priority. Governments, social media platforms and tech companies are working together to identify, monitor and address such abuse. This will ensure that victims receive adequate support and that perpetrators face appropriate legal consequences.

Victims of hate speech have several avenues to report incidents of online abuse. They may report directly to social media platform providers, and/or lodge a complaint with the Malaysian Communications and Multimedia Commission (MCMC), requesting that the offensive content be removed.

They can also choose to make a police report, as the offensive comment received may breach laws such as Section 233 of the Communications and Multimedia Act (CMA). If the conduct falls within the definition of sexual harassment, victims may also lodge a complaint with the Tribunal for Anti-Sexual Harassment–a more accessible and expeditious means for victims to seek redress against their perpetrators.

While legal frameworks help to moderate harmful content and mitigate its impact, our individual roles are just as crucial. Reporting these incidents would provide some protection to the victims and hold the offenders to account.  Ultimately,

Harmful “Harmless Jokes”

While sexist remarks are frequently brushed off as humour, consistent exposure to such comments, particularly those containing threats or violent language, has a detrimental effect. This abuse can significantly lower one’s self-concept and suppress a person’s willingness to express themselves.

It took me more than a decade after the rape threat to finally regain my voice and

My personal experience, alongside the shared experiences of others, serves as a reminder that hate speech, whether wrapped in humour or hostility, is never harmless. When we see someone being vilified or attacked regardless of gender, we have a moral responsibility to speak up. If we remain silent, hatred prevails and violence may follow. And that is a realisation that we as a society need to wake up to.