Introduction

Tralalero Tralala, Bombardino Crocodilo, Tung Tung Tung Tung Sahur — no, these are not newly discovered animal species, nor are they spells ripped from a rejected Harry Potter draft.

They are the names of some fictional AI-generated characters known as “brain rot” that have flooded the Internet and, somehow, wormed their way into the daily lives of Gen Z, Gen Alpha, and even some millennials.

From Skibidi Toilet to Only in Ohio memes to the ever-repeating Tralalero Tralala, this bizarre wave of content is part of what many now call the “brain rot” phenomenon.

At first, I thought these memes would stay trapped in the Internet’s weird corners. But I was wrong. Walking through the streets of Debrecen, Hungary (yes, a quiet little town far from the chaos of TikTok trends), I came across not one, but two kids chanting “Tralalero Tralala” and “Tung Tung Tung Sahur” like it was their second nature.

That was my wake-up call: the Internet’s absurdities are not just staying online—they are bleeding into real life and becoming a serious concern for how children experience the world.

Origins

It is fascinating – and frankly a little alarming – that over 37,000 people in 2024 voted for “brain rot” to be Oxford’s Word of the Year.

Defined as “the supposed deterioration of a person’s mental or intellectual state, especially viewed as the result of overconsumption of online content”, the term hits harder when you stop laughing and actually think about it.

But how did we end up here?

Decades ago, experts predicted we would have flying cars by 2025. Instead, what we have now are AI-generated images clogging up our online spaces and even leaking into mainstream journalism. Somewhere along the line, we took a wrong turn at Innovation Avenue and ended up in Meme Town.

Historically, the term brain rot is not new—it dates back to 1854, when Henry David Thoreau used it in his book Walden to describe society’s tendency to dumb down complex ideas.

Frankly, it is no surprise the phrase has clawed its way back into popular use, now fuelled by an endless flood of digital content accessible to anyone, anywhere, anytime.

Today, brain rot lives not in dusty old philosophy books but as viral memes, usually in the form of low-quality, AI-generated images combining animals, objects and fruits, all paired with absurd “Italian” names like Frigo Camelo or Ballerina Cappucina.

These memes are often accompanied by generic voice-overs and random Italian music, spreading quickly across social media. Content creators have even upped the ante by adding “backstories” or “lores” to these bizarre characters, with some even placing them in tournament-style brackets with crude animations.

Paradox

While these memes seem harmless, they can carry hidden dangers. Some variations of Tralalero Tralala, for example, have voice-overs that include phrases that can be interpreted as blasphemous (“porco dio e porco Allah”—pig god pig Allah). Meanwhile, Bombardilo Crocodilo have voice-overs that say “bombarda i bambini a Gaza e in Palestina” —bomb the children in Gaza and Palestine.

Such content, while seemingly absurd, can desensitise viewers to sensitive issues, particularly when it involves religious themes.

In an era of unlimited access to information, abundance has produced a poverty of wisdom. Novés called it the “paradox of digital knowing”—the more we consume, the less we truly understand. In this context, brain rot is the clearest proof, as our minds are overloaded with low-value, disposable content, crowding out the meaningful knowledge we actually need.

The real irony? We are not forced into this—we choose it. In a world where millennials, Gen Z and Gen Alpha are pushed into exhausting 9-to-5 routines just to survive, the easiest escape is a mindless scroll through social media. The addiction is pure and simple, and in many cases, it outruns traditional addictions such as drugs.

Some creators have even captured the absurdity: there are sketches where addicts do not beg for cigarettes or drinks but for “just one more scroll”.

Doomscrolling

Social media is now the main reason people use the Internet. This is not speculation; it is a reality backed by usage numbers, with Indonesia ranking the third highest Southeast Asian country in terms of social media consumption.

Platforms such as Facebook, Instagram and TikTok are deliberately engineered to maximise user engagement and screen time, encouraging constant scrolling to keep users trapped in the cycle.

This design has given rise to what is now known as the brain rot behaviour. Doomscrolling – the compulsive, endless consumption of low-value content – has become a daily routine for millions. As screen time increases, so does the grip of brain rot.

Research shows that excessive screen exposure is linked to a decline in the microstructural integrity of the brain’s white matter tracts—areas critical for language development, executive function and emerging literacy. In short, our brains are being physically rewired by our inability to disconnect.

The overconsumption of low-quality content has serious cognitive consequences. As people mindlessly scroll, they struggle to organise information, solve problems and think analytically. Memory and recall begin to fade, and what seemed like harmless entertainment slowly dismantles higher-order cognitive functions.

The effects worsen over time. Chronic exposure to this digital sludge leads to emotional desensitisation, cognitive overload and a negative self-concept. Meanwhile, executive functions – such as memory, planning and decision-making – deteriorate under the weight of constant, meaningless information.

Brain rot is no longer just a metaphor; it is a clinical reality. And yet, we continue to walk straight into it, eyes wide open, phones in hand.

Legal Implications

The presence of brain rot content on the Internet inevitably raises legal concerns, particularly in the areas of content moderation, data privacy and intellectual property.

Content moderation is the most relevant yet least impactful legal issue. While laws target graphic or obscene content, brain rot content does not always fit these categories, making enforcement difficult.

If such content violates basic human rights, like freedom of religion or blasphemy, platforms should consider flagging it as offensive. However, the dilemma lies in whose values the platforms should prioritise—those of the platform or its users?

In terms of data privacy, brain rot content is fuelled by algorithms that exploit user data to maximise engagement. While the European Union has imposed stricter regulations on data collection, elsewhere, countries with weaker laws struggle to control data privacy, as they lack bargaining power with social media companies.

Regarding intellectual property, brain rot characters may present future copyright concerns if they are commercialised. For example, if AI-generated images lead to movies or books, legal questions arise about who holds the rights to these works.

Escaping Brain Rot

Escaping brain rot is not complicated—it is just incredibly difficult. It demands what most people today have in short supply: discipline and self-control. The endless scroll is not just designed to waste your time; it is engineered to hijack your impulses.

Getting out of it is not about finding the perfect productivity app or the right digital detox hack but about choosing to stop feeding the addiction.

Recovering from brain rot naturally starts with cutting down social media use. This means actively limiting screen time, not just talking about it. Some platforms, such as Instagram and TikTok, even offer built-in features that allow users to set daily usage limits.

But let us be honest: if you do not have the willpower to respect those limits, it is like locking the cookie jar and leaving the key next to it. You will override the limit with two taps and a half-hearted apology to yourself. Taking a real break from social media has also been proven effective. Strategies range from scheduling tech-free hours, turning off notifications or – for those who actually want results – deleting the most toxic apps entirely. It sounds extreme, but sometimes extreme measures are the only way to disrupt an addiction engineered to be stronger than your natural defences.

Introduction

Dina: “Betul ke hok Ya cakak tu? Ya betul betul hamba? Dari Ethiopia?” (Is it true what you said? You are really a slave? From Ethiopia?)

Ya: “Ye. Betul, patik dari Mesir. Asal usul patik… pernoh dengor Ethiopia. Tapi patik duduk kat Mesir, dulu pah tu Mesia lama do-oh.”(Yes. I’m from Egypt. I think my roots are from Ethiopia. But I used to stay in Egypt before moving to Malaysia.)

I met Ya about three times in 2006. She called me on the telephone, telling me to hurry, hurry, time was flying past fast, so we had better get cracking. I flew back each time she called and dashed to the kitchen where she always waited.

One time, she wanted to show that she could dance the tango. She sashayed in the room to an imaginary song and said“Kalu patik dok jage umoh ne, patik jadi pelakon kat Amerika tu! Pelakon favourite patik… Marilyn Monroe. Nok dengor cite Ya, Ku Dina? Ingak ye, lepas tu buat pilem Ya.” (If I were not a caretaker of this house, I would have become an actress in America. My favourite actress is… Marilyn Monroe. Do you want to hear about my story, Ku Dina? Just remember to make a movie about me later.)

Ya stood up and acted out a Hindustani film love scene. She pretended she was behind a tree, wooing her lover. I was delighted.

Ya continued. “Patik nok semboh cerita kat Kak Dina. ini lah cite patik. Orang umoh panggil patik, Ya, Mariam, tapi nok senang, panggil patik Ya. Tapi, nama sebenar Ya, Desta. Bonda patik bagi nama tu kak patik. Itu la hok patik boleh ingat masa patik kecik. Desta.” (I want to share my story with you. This is my story. The people in this household call me Ya or Mariam, but it is easier to call me Ya. But my real name is Desta. My mother gave me that name. That is what I can remember from my childhood. Desta.)

Our interviews were recorded and the excerpts would be shared on this platform here from time to time, just like in chapter one of this series.

Whispers of Ya’s Past

There are many truths to Ya’s story. Family members said she was sent to work for Almarhum Sultan Muhammad Syah II and was accepted as part of them later on.

Another family member and the late Ku Ah had heard that Ya’s aunt had persuaded Ya’s parents to allow her to work for a rich Malay family. What we unanimously agreed on was that Almarhum was a pious man, who abdicated the throne in protest against colonial rule.

“Zaman tu, patik banyak kena belajar. Bahasa baru, care idup baru. Mulanya musing sikit. Maklumlah, patik ni orang pasir. Oooofff. Tapi nok kate idup patik susoh dok. Bila patik masuk

keluarge baru, patik tengok dalam umoh, macam istana. Ramainya cucu ketua umoh tu! Ada tukang masok – baik orang dia – dia ajor patik masok, jaga umoh, semua lah! Baik-baik belaka. Lepas kerja, mereka ajok patik main. Macam macam main kita semua. Masok masok, guli guli. Ya masa kecil-kecil di Mekah, main tutup mata, cari orang. Kalau jatuh, jatuhlah! Budak-budak di Mekah bermain macam budak-budak di sini juga.

“Patik kerja kuat. Patik buat apa yang disuruh. Semua untuk patik dapat lupakan hidup patik dulu. Oh, Ku Dina. Bila matahari terbit kat kampung patik dulu, macam masuk syurga, cantik. Bila dah petang tu, macam alam lain.”

(During that period, I had to learn a lot. A new language, a new lifestyle. It was a bit confusing. What to do—I am a “sand people” [coming from a desert area]. Oooofff. But I am not saying my life was difficult. When I joined this family, I was surprised by the house—it is like a palace. The family’s head has so many grandchildren! There was this cook – they were nice – they taught us how to cook, look after the house, everything! Everything was fine. After work, they would invite me to join their games. We played all sorts of games. Cooking, marbles. When I was a child in Mecca, we used to play hide and seek. We fell all the time! Children in Mecca play games like the children here do.

I worked really hard. I did everything I was asked to do. I did everything to forget my past life. Oh, Ku Dina. When the sun rose in my old village, it looked like paradise. When the sun set, it was as if you have entered a different realm.”)

Ya was not the only young child to work for the family. Safar, Berserah and one young boy who remains unnamed joined her and they became fast friends. According to my cousin and late grandaunt Ku Ah, Safar had a tragic story.

Beyond Servitude

Safar was walking in the desert alone, aways from her home when she noticed something. Safar saw a comb of bananas, which appeared out of the blue, all yellow and ripe, on the sand. She looked at it curiously. Prior to this, her sister and friends had been taken away by slave traders. Her mother and father cried and called to the gods to get them back.

The bananas enticed Safar. Then, the bananas moved – probably tied to a string – and the young girl followed it. In an instant, a sack was thrown over her head and she was taken away.

In her adult years, she had expressed great regret that she had not stayed home.

Then there is the story Ya whispered to me, of how some of the young boys who had gone out to play in the desert found a trail of flowers not native to their country. Like all young people, curiosity won out and they met their fate.

It was when they arrived in Malaya that they recognised the flower: bunga mawar Melayu (Malay rose). That was the story I was told.

Despite the fact that they had become a part of the family and the local landscape, they were still enslaved people. Their truths and memories would always be disputed and silenced by their masters and their descendants.

In the time we undertook this research project, we have learned one thing: truths were manufactured to protect reputation at the cost of the innocent.

We found documents from the British Archives that reveal the base character of certain personalities, which led to rigorous discussion. Whose truth are we to show in the would-be documentary?

In two emails sent to me by my late cousin Tengku Ismail Su, the songket maker, dated 21 September 2007 and 14 April 2008, he wrote: 

Ya recalled as it was yesterday. “I was playing games with my elder sisters and friends further away my house when a band of Arab slave traders raided our village”. This happened so sudden we were caught by surprised with those noises of gun fire really stunt us which hamper our movement of escaping from the life of slavery. We were rounded up and handcuffed, forced to walk for nearly a week to the nearest coast, were then transferred into a dawf crudely made Arab wooden boat to a slave trading collecting centre near the port of Aden at the tip of Arabian Peninsula.   

I came from a noble tribe my father a handsome and tall, a village chieftain. Our village is somewhere between the border of Ethiopia and Somali the horn of Africa. Being captured and handcuffed is a terrible ordeal for us. We were first auctioned at a slave market and bought by an Arab slave merchant, then taken by camel across vast desert to Jeddah slave market. With my exotic beauty was spotted by the head Nubian eunuch from the household of the Sheriff Hussein. Luck is on my side I and my parents and sisters were bought into this illustrious family the descended of Prophet Muhammad, the Guardian of the two Holy Cities of Mecca and Medina. The slave merchant make a handsome profit from us, it is always a custom for them to take a great care of their newly captured slave from being sexually abused such rape in order to fetch a good price. I was presented as a gift to the ex-Sultan Muhammad who was at that time a state guest of the Sheriff Hussein. Unlike other Nubian slaves bought by your grandmother and Tengku Maimunah directly from trader”

He continued, “Ya traced and managed to find her family again in 1935 during ex-Sultan Muhammad second pilgrimages to Mecca. She was welcome to go back to her family but she prefers to be with her master handsome prince living in Singapore and country palace of Gong Kapas in the back water of Terengganu Sultanate.”

“Mariam or Ya affectionate know in the family quiet passed away at the age of 85 years old in rundown Istana Gong Kapas where her handsome Sultan passed away 50 years ago but her linger as it was yesterday. When ever I saw her story of her life unfold of tragic to romantic love.”

The email above has been replicated verbatim from the email.

Worrying Development

In March 2025, chilling news emerged from the Ngada Regency, East Nusa Tenggara, whereby the regency’s police chief was found to have sexually abused three children, recorded his acts and uploaded the videos to an Australian-based pornography website. The Australian authorities alerted Indonesia’s Ministry of Women’s Empowerment and Child Protection after detecting the illicit footage online.

The perpetrator, AKBP Fajar Widyadharma Lukman Sumaatmaja, was later stripped of his position and charged with sexual and drug abuses.

This revelation underscores three intertwined offences: the physical, sexual violence against minors, the production and the digital dissemination of child sexual abuse material (CSAM).

Though this case did not involve the use of sophisticated technology, it points towards the imperative to criminalise AI‑generated CSAM in Indonesia. A pertinent question is this: to what extent should the law evolve to address artificial child abuse imagery to boost prevention, legal enforcement and child protection?

Despite the gravity of CSAM-related crimes, current charges under the Information and Electronic Transactions Act (ITE Law 1/2024) and Articles 55–56 of the Criminal Code merely carry a maximum penalty of six years’ imprisonment or a fine of up to Rp1bn.

Meanwhile, Article 45(1) of the ITE Law addresses distribution of child pornography; Article 4(1) of the Pornography Law 44/2008 tackles production of pornographic content and; Article 4(2)(c) of the Sexual Violence Law 12/2022 focuses on this very deed.

However, these provisions are applied in isolation, resulting in fragmented sentencing and legal loopholes. Notably, no statute explicitly criminalises synthetic or AI‑generated CSAM, leaving law enforcement ill‑equipped to tackle digitally fabricated child sexual abuse images.

Criminalisation is a Must

Cesare Beccaria, a pioneer in modern criminology, maintains in his magnum opus that the ultimate aim of punishment must be deterrence rather than vengeance. He posits that individuals are rational actors who calculate the potential benefits of wrongdoing against the likelihood and severity of punishment. When sanctions are both certain and prompt, the perceived risk of detection outweighs any criminal gains.

In the context of CSAM, his insights underscore the necessity of a legal framework in which consequences are clearly defined, consistently applied and swiftly enforced—thereby deterring would‑be offenders before any harm occurs.

The production and consumption of CSAM form a self‑reinforcing loop. Perpetrators generate imagery by abusing children, emboldening those who consume CSAM material to commit new offences. There is an imperative to cut off this chain of exploitation. By disrupting the creation, distribution or possession of CSAM, a jurisdiction can suppress the market for such material and protect vulnerable children.

Some International Responses

To make matters worse, recent years have seen an alarming spike in AI‑generated CSAM. The Internet Watch Foundation reported that from October 2023 to July 2024, roughly 3,500 newly produced AI‑generated images depicting child sexual abuse appeared on monitored dark‑web forums. Although the overall volume of content has ebbed, the number of materials classified as criminal has steadily climbed.

These synthetic depictions, though created without direct contact with real children, nonetheless perpetuate exploitative narratives and pose serious challenges to existing legal definitions of abuse.

Article 34 of the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child (UNCRC) obligates each of its 196 state parties to shield minors from all forms of sexual exploitation, including those enabled by novel technologies. As paraphrased from an article by media scholar Sonia Livingstone and her colleagues, the UNCRC’s preventive mandate must be interpreted in light of digital transformations, ensuring that emerging forms of harm – real or simulated – fall within its protective scope.

Thus, criminalising AI‑generated CSAM is aligned with the prevailing international commitment to prevent – rather than merely address – abuses against children.

Despite their artificial origin, AI‑generated CSAM images can cause genuine trauma. The Nepal ChildSafeNet report illustrates how highly realistic, AI‑crafted pictures and videos can trigger deep psychological distress among victims and the broader community, even when no actual child was harmed in their production.

Furthermore, a United Nations Interregional Crime and Justice Research Institute (UNICRI) study reveals      that some generative models are trained on datasets containing illicit material, effectively recycling real‑world abuses into new, synthetic content. This cycle of reproduction exacerbates victimisation, as the constant availability of seemingly authentic imagery can re-traumatise survivors and perpetuate the stigma of abuse.

In response to these evolving threats, the United Kingdom has enacted a legislation criminalising the creation, possession and distribution of AI‑generated CSAM. By erasing the need for law‑enforcement agents and prosecutors to distinguish between real and synthetic content – a task growing ever more difficult as generative algorithms advance – the United Kingdom’s approach fortifies child protection and streamlines judicial processes.

This development serves as an international precedent, demonstrating how preventive criminal law can adapt to encompass new technological modalities.

Indonesia’s Position

Indonesia, which ranked fourth globally and second in ASEAN for CSAM distribution, reported more than 5.5 million cases over the past four years. With 89% of children over the age of five using the internet primarily for social media, according to Indonesia’s Central Statistics Agency (2021), the nation confronts heightened risks of online exploitation.

The Ministry of Communication and Digital Affairs (Komdigi) has already established a digital child‑safety working group, reflecting its commitment to combating CSAM. Yet, to stay ahead of emerging threats –particularly synthetic content – Komdigi must expand its mandate beyond age checks to encompass technology‑driven harms.

First, Komdigi should spearhead a regulation explicitly outlawing AI‑generated CSAM. This might be the quickest solution rather than pushing the House of Representatives (DPR) to formulate and pass a law. By integrating such provisions into the national law, Indonesia would make clear its position on zero tolerance to any depiction of child sexual exploitation, real or artificial.

Second, Komdigi should pursue partnerships with social media and technology platforms to deploy advanced detection tools. Industry initiatives like the Robust Open Online Safety Tools consortium illustrate how public–private collaboration can accelerate the identification and removal of harmful content at scale.

Finally, Komdigi must convene expert working groups to draft comprehensive, future‑proof regulations. Anticipating the next wave of digital offences, such as deepfake abuse, will ensure that policies remain effective and futureproof as offenders adopt ever more sophisticated means.

Conclusion

Focusing solely on age verification risks neglecting the broader technological landscape in which predators operate. Generative AI not only generates new CSAM but also empowers abusers to evade detection and re-traumatised victims through eerily authentic imagery. By criminalising AI‑generated content, fostering cross‑sector collaborations for rapid removal, and preparing robust, adaptable legislation, Indonesia can strengthen its national duty to protect children and uphold its international commitments in the digital age.

Introduction

Even though Indonesia’s revised military law paves the way for active Tentara Nasional Indonesia (TNI) personnel to occupy certain civilian posts, the number and scope of these posts are limited. TNI has also lost some of the benefits it used to enjoy, as will be explored below.

In fact, concerns expressed by activist groups and students were partly accommodated by the House of Representatives (DPR) lawmakers, rendering the whole argument about the return of dwifungsi as somewhat inaccurate.

Initial Stages

Indeed, the revision process was fast-tracked by DPR’s Commission I (overseeing defence and security) and concluded in less than three weeks. In fact, the bill was last debated in DPR’s 2019-2024 period, though the process stalled and eventually failed.

The renewed interest in the process emerged when new lawmakers were sworn in last October. The discourse once again popped up in mid-February and was immediately included in DPR’s legislative plan, thanks to Deputy House Speaker Sufmi Dasco Ahmad’s machination, a Gerakan Indonesia Raya (Gerindra) politician.

The alarm went off when it was discovered that the revised bill was developed by the government instead of DPR lawmakers, contravening the proper lawmaking process.

Despite this, DPR invited relevant entities to convey their concerns with the bill. Dasco hosted a hearing session with Commission I lawmakers, activist groups and victims of past human rights abuse just hours before a plenary meeting with all DPR factions on 18 March 2025. That session was abrupt and believed to be a follow-up to his earlier meeting with activist groups a day before, in which he promised to accommodate their concerns.

Among the activists’ demands was a request to ensure that TNI personnel committing general crimes be tried in the public instead of the military court, which is closed to members of the public. However, this demand was not included in the revised law, as the section on the military court was outside the revision purview.

The revision process itself was led by Commission I’s Utut Adianto, a senior lawmaker from Partai Demokrasi Indonesia Perjuangan (PDI-P), who chaired the working group. His appointment initially raised hope of a fair and transparent process, as PDI-P is perceived to be outside President Prabowo Subianto’s large coalition. However, as time went on, the PDI-P fraction did not seem to harbour any strong rejection towards the revision; instead, their lawmakers played along and proceeded with the process.

On the other hand, Deputy State Secretary Minister Bambang Eko Suhariyanto and Deputy Defence Minister Donny Ermawan Taufanto (retired vice marshal and marshal from the Air Force, respectively) represented the government’s interest. Their appointment is peculiar yet interesting: the Air Force has been traditionally placed at the margin compared to the Army and the Navy, thanks to ex-president’s Soeharto’s preference as an Army general.

On top of these two is Defence Minister Sjafrie Sjamsoeddin, believed to be the orchestrator of the revision from the government side, who played a critical role behind the scenes. He was in charge of interpreting Prabowo’s interest and wishes on this matter, which was made apparent by his constant calls with his deputy during the revision process, according to a source.

Later, some activist groups, including KontraS, made headlines by breaking into the meeting room where the working group convened for a two-day consignment in Fairmont Hotel on 15 March 2025. This is despite the working group chairman never explicitly declaring the meeting was closed to the public.

Questions in the Revision Process

Objections to the revised law could be traced to the circulating narrative that Prabowo’s administration was planning to make a wholesale accommodation of TNI personnel in civilian posts.

As evidenced during the revision process, this plan, if it existed at all, did not even feature in the debate. The passed law, additionally, only adds several posts that can now be occupied by TNI personnel. These include positions in the fields of disaster relief, anti-terrorism, coast guard, border management and the Attorney General Office (AGO). Proposals to include posts in the maritime and fisheries portfolio were dropped towards the end of the process.

The lawmakers’ chief argument for this was that transboundary issues (e.g. human trafficking, arms trafficking and disturbance in Papua as well as the maritime domain) could only be effectively tackled by the inclusion of TNI personnel within civilian bodies.

These positions will add on to a number of other posts that retired and active personnel are already occupying, such as in political-security affairs, defence, the president’s office, and others.

Meanwhile, to assume the office of civilian posts mentioned above, active TNI personnel are required to resign from service to signify their shift to civilian governance. The ball is thus on the government’s court to ensure that this requirement is properly met. Failure to do so would only elevate the public’s criticism on the matter, which has scrutinised the appointment of Teddy Indra Wijaya as cabinet secretary and Novi Helmy as director of the State Logistics Agency.

On another note, the revised law will also allow TNI personnel to serve longer. The age limit was raised from 53 to 55 for non-commissioned officers and privates as well as from 58 to 62 for middle- and high-rank officers. Furthermore, four-star officers, such as commanders and chiefs of staff, will be allowed to serve until they reach the age of 65.

This new regulation may seem generous, but it is actually done to match the standards applied to other public servants, such as the police, in terms of retirement age.

Unfulfilled Aspirations

The revised law is not all sunshine and roses for TNI—it might actually be displeased with the alterations made to its relationship with the Ministry of Defence.

For example, the previous law regulated TNI to be under the coordination of the Ministry, but the revised one places TNI directly under it, which means closer control will be administered over TNI by the Ministry.

A source from the TNI Headquarters stated that TNI was not invited by the Ministry in formulating this clause and that it would spread discontent among the personnel to be over-dominated by the Ministry.

This new relationship could be viewed as an attempt an increase in civilian control over TNI, as long as the Ministry is still dominated by civilian bureaucrats and technocrats, particularly in its high-ranking offices.

Moreover, the revised law also sets the Ministry to authoritatively design policies on military equipment maintenance. In other words, it would create extra layers of bureaucratic process for TNI to autonomously undertake this process, which could worsen the technical mismatch often experienced by the TNI as the end user of that equipment, according to TNI’s consecutive reports to Commission I over the years.

Another source said that the DPR working group rejected the idea of conferring the Air Force with an investigative power like the one possessed by the police and AGO, owing to its serious implications to the country’s criminal law. This aspiration was borne from the fact that multiple airspace violations by foreign airplanes remain unpunished. Instead, the working group chairman asked the government to consult with other law enforcement bodies before deciding on this matter.

Conclusion

In contrast to the criticism lodged by activists and students, it can be surmised that DPR has undertaken the revision process fairly within reasonable limits, especially since some aspirations of the public were accommodated during the revision process.

The fear over the return of dwifungsi remains overblown at this stage, as TNI is now a direct subject under the civilian government through the Ministry of Defence.

The imperative now is to ensure that the legal basis provided by the revised law could enable DPR lawmakers to supervise the civilian government, especially in its relationship with TNI. This legislative task remains challenging due to a lack of meaningful opposition to provide checks and balances to the ruling coalition.

Introduction

In January 1998 – when the Malaysian government handed over four senior members of the Patani United Liberation Organization (PULO) to Thai law enforcement – few knew what to make of it.

Thailand’s Malay-speaking South was relatively peaceful at the time; armed insurgency had already subsided for some years. The blanket amnesty given to various separatist groups from the late 1980s to early 1990s appeared to have paid off—or so it seemed.

While combatants put down their arms and returned to their villages, many leaders remained abroad, obtaining residency status or citizenship in Northern European countries and Malaysia.

Thailand wrongly assumed that peace had been achieved in this Malay historical homeland known as Patani. So, when Malaysian authorities detained Abdul Rohman Bazo, Haji Daoh Thanam, Haji Mae Yala, and Haji Sama-ae Thanam and handed them over to Thai counterparts in January 1998, Patani residents and members of various Patani liberation groups were dumbstruck.

Four years later, when a new generation of Patani Malay fighters under the command of the Barisan Revolusi Nasional (BRN) resurfaced – carrying out sporadic attacks against police and military outposts in the region – Malaysia realised they had shot themselves in the foot with the handover of the four PULO members.

Rocky Road

The official explanation as to why the Thais were after these PULO leaders was unconvincing. No one believed they were trying to start another standing army, as they were living openly in Malaysia, running legitimate businesses such as a restaurant.

One explanation that made the most sense came from a senior Thai diplomat who said the request for the arrest of the Thanam brothers and their associates was Thailand’s way of testing the waters with Malaysia—to gauge the level of commitment from then-prime minister Dr Mahathir Mohammed to his Thai counterpart, Chuan Leekpai.

At first, as sporadic attacks occurred in mid-2001, the then-government – led by Thaksin Shinawatra – was dismissive, calling the insurgents “sparrow bandits”. Following the 4 January 2004 arms heist, in which BRN combatants made off with more than 350 military weapons from an army battalion in Narathiwat, Bangkok could no longer deny the political underpinnings of these attacks.

Suddenly, there was acknowledgment that a new generation of Patani Malay Muslim separatist combatants had resurfaced.

The first few years were not smooth sailing for the two countries as public accusations and microphone diplomacy took their toll on bilateral relations, with each side accusing the other of not doing enough to quell the insurgency.

Fleeing Villagers

One low point came in August 2005 when 131 Malay Muslim villagers from Narathiwat’s Sungai Padi district crossed the border and took refuge in Kelantan’s mosques following alleged harassment by Thai security forces.

Deporting these villagers back to Thailand would have been difficult as Malaysia sought to maintain its place in the Muslim world. Moreover, the 131 displaced villagers were not just Muslims; they were fellow Malays who shared the same cultural and linguistic traits as Malays in Malaysia.

At the time of the exodus, death squads were on a killing spree, targeting ethnic Malays at village teashops; the imam from Narathiwat’s Sungai Padi district and a female teacher at an Islamic preschool in the village were shot dead by unknown gunmen.

The atmosphere was tense and a climate of fear enveloped the entire region.

Malaysia did not push the 131 back to the Thai side but refused to recognise or treat them as asylum seekers. There were concerns that more would come. Eventually, the Malaysian government asked the United Nations High Commission on Refugees (UNHCR) to assist these fleeing Patani Malay villagers, thus internationalising the issue.

Thaksin was furious because he never wanted the problem in the far South to be more than a bilateral issue. Putting Patani on an international stage forced Thailand to confront this disturbing aspect of its state-minority relations. This is not to mention its failed assimilation policy that Patani Malays violently rejected because it threatened their ethno-religious identity and historical-cultural narrative.

Eventually, over the years, the issue faded from officials’ memories. Some of the displaced villagers quietly returned to their homes in Narathiwat, while others remained in northern Malaysia as undocumented migrants.

Yet, someone must pay the price. Thaksin was ousted in a coup in October 2006 by an army general who cited his handling of the separatist insurgency as one of the reasons.

Strings of Prime Ministers

The relationship between Malaysia and Thailand during the reign of prime minister Surayud Chulanont was described as cordial and respectful. The former army chief placed great emphasis on the root causes of the conflict. In late 2007, Surayud made a public apology to the people of Patani for the deaths of 87 unarmed protesters in Tak Bai in late 2004.

He reached out to the international community for help to establish a foundation for peace negotiations with the rebels, but his time in office lasted just 16 months. The foundation he laid was largely ignored by the subsequent government of prime minister Samak Sundaravej of the Thaksin-linked People Power Party (PPP).

In March 2012, Thaksin held a quiet meeting in Kelantan with leaders from various Patani Malay separatist organisations, during which he blamed his heavy-handedness on distorted information given to him by the Army. Thaksin thought his direct participation would help improve the situation. He urged all participants to let bygones be bygones and start over.

Two weeks after the meeting, a triple car bomb exploded in the heart of Yala, one of Thailand’s three southernmost border provinces, killing 13 and wounding about 140 civilians. Conflict observers and Thai security officials said the attack was a stern message to Thaksin that nothing in the far south comes easy.

The following year, on 28 February 2013, prime minister Yingluck Shinawatra, Thaksin’s sister, caught everyone by surprise, including the Royal Thai Army, by launching a peace process with a group of exiled old guards claiming to be BRN members. Malaysia was officially designated as the facilitator.

It has been repeatedly pointed out that, due to geographical proximity, Malaysia cannot be seen as an honest broker. Some conspiracy-minded officials in Thailand even suggest that Patani wants to join Malaysia.

However, among security officials, it was generally understood that mainland Southeast Asian borders have a life of their own. At one time or another, buffers and proxies along borders were common among countries in the region while diplomatic relations took their course.

To some BRN members, Malaysia’s opposition to an independent Patani already disqualified them as an honest broker. But this is Southeast Asia, where peace and conflict resolution theories do not align well.

Malaysia took up the mediation role, thinking that Thailand was politically stable. Nevertheless, just over a year after peace negotiations launched, Yingluck was ousted in a coup.

The coup leader, General Prayut Chan-ocha, appointed himself the country’s prime minister and deliberated continuing Yingluck’s peace initiative. After all, the Army had not been consulted and learned about it just days before the official launch in Malaysia. In the end, Prayut relented and allowed the talks to continue.

From the start, Yingluck’s peace initiative wavered between a hoax and a leap of faith. The representatives at the table lacked command and control over the combatants on the ground. But when BRN finally came to the table in January 2020, these old guards from the 2013 talks were immediately sidelined.

Having the real BRN at the table did not mean violence on the ground would end. The new chief negotiator, General Udomchai Thamsarorat, was appointed in October 2018 and immediately sought help from local civil society organisations, hoping they could amplify messages to BRN about the need to talk and reconcile differences.

However, it remained unclear what the Thai side had to offer or what concessions the government was willing to make to the people of Patani. Besides engaging local CSOs, Udomchai also asked Malaysia to bypass BRN negotiators and arrange a meeting for him with top leaders from the BRN military wing. BRN refused.

Decline

Another low point between Thailand and Malaysia came in late 2019 when Bangkok created a back channel with BRN through foreign mediation without informing Malaysia.

There are several reasons as to why Malaysia was uninformed. Firstly, Thailand blamed Malaysia for its failure in bringing BRN’s military leaders to the table. Secondly, Thailand was still not satisfied with talking to the BRN negotiators, even through a proper channel.

Thailand assumed that if it can talk to the military wing, it can (somehow) convince the movement to lay down their arms. Thus, Thailand approached a foreign NGO to establish a back channel with BRN, with the assumption that this could be done without giving any concession to BRN or the Malays of Patani.

In theory, a back channel is supposed to support the main (official) channel. However, in this case, the two tracks continue to compete against one another (the official track with Malaysia as the lead and the back channel with a foreign NGO trying to convince everybody that Malaysia needs to be dumped because it is not an honest broker).

Tensions arising from this competition took their toll on BRN unity. Thus, in early 2022, the BRN central committee decided to end all forms of back channels unless Malaysia is kept in the loop.

Udomchai was replaced by retired National Security Council (NSC) chief General Wallop Raksanoh, who spent the next three years developing a blueprint to serve as the roadmap for the peace process. A commitment from BRN that future negotiations would align with the Thai Constitution was a significant victory for Wallop, but more work remained for the Malaysian mediator to get both sides to agree on the roadmap’s content.

Meanwhile, Thailand held a general election in May 2023 that created a coalition government, with Thaksin’s Pheu Thai Party coming in second but successfully forming a coalition with like-minded partners, including parties from the junta leaders who ousted Yingluck in 2014.

Later, real estate tycoon Srettha Tavisin became prime minister. During his tenure, Malaysia was left pondering when Thailand would appoint a chief negotiator. This was because national security was not an immediate concern of the Srettha administration.

This was demonstrated with Srettha making no reference to the far south (or to Burma) during his speech to the Parliament. His priorities were clear. Firstly, to prioritise the economy as a means to winning back the constituency whom his party had lost after the Faustian deal with the pro-junta/military camp to get Thaksin back to Thailand. Secondly, to deny the Move Forward Party the lead in setting up a government. Thirdly, to make the Pheu Thai Party the overall lead in this coalition of political parties that compromised their stated democratic principles in exchange for a political truce that may not last very long.

Eventually, then-NSC deputy chief Chartchai Bangchuad was appointed as chief negotiator. His stint lasted only a few months, as the Constitutional Court removed Srettha from office in August 2024 following ethical violation charges.

The government of Prime Minister Paetongtarn Shinawatra, much like the one preceding it, showed little concern for the conflict in the far south. Last December, BRN threatened to walk away from talks and withdrew its earlier commitment to operate under the Thai Constitution if Thailand continued to drag its feet on the peace process.

Bangkok refused to yield and insisted that a new negotiating team would be appointed only after BRN curbed violence on the ground. BRN maintained that even the reduction of violence had to be negotiated.

Just before Ramadhan in 2025, the new Malaysian facilitator, Datuk Mohd Rabin Basir, tried to help Thailand secure a ceasefire during the holy month. However, Bangkok found BRN’s demand for international observers to monitor the ceasefire too much to accept. Thailand has always resisted outside intervention, leading to the rejection.

Interestingly, BRN sources had shared with the author that Datuk Mohd Rabin’s appointment to replace Tan Sri Zulkifli Zainal Abidin, the retired chief of the armed forces and a professor at the National Defence University of Malaysia, was perceived as a setback to the peace process. This was because Tan Sri Zulkifli had worked hard to gain BRN’s trust and respect during his appointment as Malaysia’s facilitator.

The recent spike in violence has become the new normal. Targets include Defense Volunteers (DV), locally hired security personnel assigned to the Ministry of Interior’s provincial governors and district chiefs. These DVs have been asked to serve as government informants. BRN has demonstrated that they have no qualms about targeting DVs who spy on them.

In March 2025, Thaksin offered to carry out a direct talk with BRN leaders from the military wing. He suggested Phuket as the venue and offered legal immunity. BRN leaders turned down the offer, as no one was certain about what kind of mandate Thaksin had to be making such an offer.

Observers said Thaksin just wanted photo ops with BRN military leaders. For BRN, the peace process is the start of a very long journey, one that should not be taken lightly, much less used as a photo op for an ageing, former fugitive prime minister who does not seem to know his place.

Conclusion

Despite the challenges, Malaysia plays an important role in attempting to resolve the long-running insurgency in Thailand’s southernmost provinces. The relationship with Thailand has become much calmer compared to the early days of microphone diplomacy.

Both Thailand and BRN see Malaysia’s geographical proximity as beneficial to their logistical and operational needs. Furthermore, ethnic Malays in Malaysia may share similar cultural-religious characteristics with the Malays of Patani, indicating that a great sympathy for the plight of the latter might exist among the former.

But it stops there. Both government and non-government entities in Malaysia know that nurturing this bilateral tie is extremely challenging, as one wrong move could bring down the whole house.

Balancing its relationship with Thailand while maintaining credibility with insurgent groups has not been an easy act to follow for Malaysia. Some in Malaysia say the Malaysian government should do nothing more than facilitate discussion, while others said the proximity makes the country a stakeholder and intervention is extremely necessary. Nevertheless, it is generally agreed that BRN needs all the help it can get from members of the international community and that Malaysia should facilitate the discussion. Getting Thailand to go along with the idea, on the other hand, is like moving a mountain.

Introduction

The financial scandal surrounding eFishery, one of Indonesia’s prominent agritech startups, has sent shockwaves through the nation’s investment landscape. Once hailed as a unicorn disrupting aquaculture, eFishery’s fall from grace in early 2025 was swift, thrusting it into domestic and international spotlights for all the wrong reasons.

An internal investigation uncovered large-scale fraud, exposing gaping discrepancies between the company’s published reports and reality. This incident not only tarnished the once-celebrated reputation but also raised pressing questions about the integrity and sustainability of Indonesia’s burgeoning tech sector.

Given the fraud’s sheer scale and public exposure, eFishery’s case offers hard lessons for future startup founders, investors, employees and policymakers alike. This report examines its impact on Indonesia’s business landscape and whether it could dim the country’s allure as a destination for foreign direct investment (FDI).

What Happened?

Founded in 2013, eFishery set out to revolutionise Indonesia’s aquaculture industry with innovative smart fish-feeding technology. Starting with automated feeders, it grew into an end-to-end platform offering feed, financing, and market access to fish and shrimp farmers.

By mid-2023, the company had raised more than US$294m from 28 institutional investors – including Softbank, 42XFund, Temasek, 500 Global and Northstar Group – achieving a US$1.4b valuation and the coveted “unicorn” status.

The unravelling began in December 2024 when a whistleblower alerted a board member to accounting irregularities. A subsequent investigation by FTI Consulting revealed a web of deceit, with eFishery’s top management having inflated revenues from US$157m to US$752m and reported a US$16m profit against an actual US$35m loss for the first nine months of 2024.

Signs of fraud could be traced all the way back to 2018, with the company maintaining dual financial reports – one for internal use, another for investors – while claiming 400,000 operational fish feeders against a true count of 24,000.

A fictional network of companies facilitated “round-tripping” funds through forged invoices and contracts, deceiving auditors from PricewaterhouseCoopers (PwC) and Grant Thornton. In mid-December, investors ousted founder-CEO Gibran Huzaifah and co-founder-CPO Chrisna Aditya, installing interim leadership.

Too Noble to Fail

This elaborate deception did not occur in a vacuum—investors played a role too. What makes eFishery’s case unique is how the company is positioned – or positioned itself – in the grand narratives surrounding tech startups.

eFishery’s fraud hid behind a compelling mission: empowering marginalised fish farmers and boosting micro, small and medium enterprises (MSMEs). This narrative resonated deeply with Indonesian stakeholders, casting the company as a socially driven innovator.

This feel-good social mission was further hyped by eFishery’s public narratives conveyed during the onset of tech winter in 2022. During that challenging period that also affected other companies, many Indonesian tech startups underwent extreme downsizing and struggled to secure funding.

Surprisingly, eFishery stood out and seemed to be weathering the storm well.

It was able to secure Series C funding worth US$90m. Furthermore, the company brought forth the narrative that it contributes to 1.5% of total aquaculture GDP in 2022, prompting one of its key investors to say that the company was more profitable than GoJek, an Indonesian decacorn.

Later in 2025, the same investor changed his tone and called the eFishery situation “embarrassing”.

This blend of noble intent and apparent success made eFishery a poster child for tech startups, but it only amplified the shock when the scandal broke. eFishery’s financial scandal extinguished the dreams of many of its innocent employees who just want to work for a company with commendable socioeconomic missions, at least on paper.

What the Investors Missed

Early warning signs – like rapid scaling and outrageous revenue projections – are often dismissed amid Indonesia’s tech boom. Yet, fraud is hardly a rarity in business—its nature and scale varies widely.

One of our sources, a former global banker with insider knowledge on eFishery’s case, told us that he knows at least two other major Indonesian startups that have manipulated accounts. What makes the eFishery case particularly concerning is that, according to various reports, its investors had adhered to standard due diligence protocols yet still failed to detect the fraud.

At least four firms reportedly have conducted financial audits and due diligence on eFishery: PwC, Grant Thornton, EY and KPMG. PwC later denied such report. Investors also engaged six surveyor firms to validate eFishery’s market position. Additionally, Kroll was tasked with conducting background checks on the company’s executives.

Yet, despite extensive research and investigations, the fraud went undetected. eFishery’s investors reportedly interviewed former CFO and found no red flags. However, the departure of a key executive responsible for overseeing cash flow should have raised concerns—at the very least, a yellow flag.

It appears that the investors primarily focused on verifying numbers, figures and data found in company documents. While they did attempt to assess its market position by hiring survey firms, they failed to investigate whether eFishery had actually produced almost half a million fish feeder machines.

The investors likely understand the importance of thorough due diligence—not just financial, but also reputational and on-the-ground investigations. However, these procedures are often overlooked because they are considered time-consuming and expensive. Moreover, fund managers often operate under tight deadlines, making deep scrutiny difficult.

Nevertheless, the outcome of these instances of oversight is significant.

The magnitude of eFishery’s deception highlights the need for enhanced scrutiny on tech startups. Worse, it suggests that standard due diligence practices may not be sufficient for Indonesian businesses, especially in high-growth sectors like tech. A more investigative, forensic approach – one that includes independent verification of production claims, supply chain audits and anonymous employee interviews – may be necessary to truly assess risks.

Damage

Notably, this scandal is not an isolated case; similar failures, such as those of Theranos and WeWork, have occurred elsewhere in the globe. These incidents underscore the need for investors to balance optimism with scepticism, ensuring that due diligence processes are robust and comprehensive.

eFishery’s collapse, however, hit hard and wide. Employees uninvolved in the fraud activities face job insecurity and market stigma—social media posts already suggest some employers shun ex-staff from recent layoffs. Meanwhile, investors appear incompetent, creditors worry about repayment, and farmers grapple with disrupted orders and loans.

For risk-averse investors, the eFishery debacle serves as a stark reminder of the importance of stringent due diligence. Traditional investors may adopt more rigorous evaluation processes, incorporating investigative methods and reputational due diligence – usually employed alongside financial and legal due diligence – to uncover potential risks that may be hidden underneath piles of the company’s documents.

Conversely, while venture capitalists are accustomed to the high-risk nature of startup investments, the eFishery incident may prompt a reevaluation of risk assessment frameworks.

Moving forward, it is best that tech startups are also subjected to thorough operational audits, such as via site visits and employee interviews to determine a company’s procedures, processes, and management practices. These on-the-ground due diligence should be conducted openly or discreetly.

An example for the latter is to covertly investigate how many trucks or cargo vehicles come and go from a company’s site to determine its activities. A case from 2016 supports this. Then, a Singapore-listed company was caught red-handed attempting to mislead potential investors by falsely asserting that its FnB products were widely available in China—claims that were easily debunked by visiting retail outlets in key cities in the mainland.

The real victim, however, is Indonesia’s business ecosystem and economy, particularly pertaining to FDI. The erosion of trust caused by eFishery’s misconduct may deter foreign investors, especially major banking institutions, from considering Indonesia as a destination country due to heightened concerns over risk management. This scepticism could lead to a more cautious approach towards investing in Indonesia as a whole, not just its tech sector.

Moreover, this could weaken investor confidence beyond the tech industry, which could slow down mergers and acquisitions (M&A) as well as business partnership. This is because foreign investors would prioritise risk management and governance, which could hinder Indonesia’s efforts to attract FDI in higher value-added industries beyond raw materials.

Therefore, eFishery’s scandal would likely lead to a slowdown in investment activities as investors require more thorough due diligence encompassing financial, legal, operational and reputational aspects. This heightened scrutiny could extend decision-making timelines and increase transaction costs.

In addition, it might also cast a shadow over tech-centric business models, leading to increased scepticism and potentially hindering the growth as well as adoption of technological innovations. Tech startups might find themselves in a more difficult situation to secure funding, which could push them to come up with new buzzwords and “strategies” in an attempt to make themselves look credible in front of investors. Alternatively, they may need to go the “anti-startup” route, i.e. developing a more disciplined and accountable approach to its business model as well as adopting a more prudent approach to using investors’ money.

Fraud is Here to Stay

Despite the uproar, there is a potential that not many changes will take place when the dust finally settles.

While venture capitalists might take a pause and hold back, other investors might quickly put aside their concerns and explore the next new opportunities. The root cause of eFishery’s fraud is investors’ expectation of ultrafast and accelerated growth, which is a common phenomenon in the tech startup scene. Bear in mind that this is the industry that attracts moneyed individuals with such jingoism as “growth hacking” or “blitzscaling”.

So long as the expectation for an unrealistic growth pace rules the game, the eFishery debacle is unlikely to be the last of its kind.

Venture capitalists have an advantage over others because this is their playing field. They know the funding game and inherent risks attached to tech startups such as eFishery. Those who parked their money under eFishery would not have bet all their money on this one company, as they understand the importance of portfolio diversification. As such, it is difficult to believe that all of these big names acted so surprised in unison after the news broke.

Meanwhile, the reputation of the founders is tarnished. They have become a subject of ridicule in social media and discussed as a case study of a company-gone-wrong in MBA classes. They are also engulfed in legal suits.

The people, on the other hand, would eventually move on. Given Indonesians’ forgiving nature and tendency to forget history, eFishery’s  case would likely be forgotten soon, especially by those who were not directly impacted. The case might be different for the company’s employees, beneficiaries and MSMEs attached as part of its supply-chain ecosystem.

If there is one thing that we could learn from eFishery’s case, it is that history tends to repeat itself and we always struggle to learn from it to avoid a recurrence in the future. Just as past financial crises were fuelled by speculation, overvaluation and reckless risk-taking, we also see overvaluation, overspeculation, and overreliance on debts and external capital in eFishery’s case.

So long as these remain the practices in the business, we can expect similar cases to happen in the future.

Aftermath

In the short term, eFishery’s collapse would ripple through Indonesia’s tech sector, making funding – already scarce – even harder to secure. The fallout may also affect non-tech industries seeking foreign partnership, M&A or investment due to diminished trust. Additionally, the traditional tech mantra of “move fast, break things” might face greater scrutiny, with businesses promoting this approach viewed with scepticism.

Yet, this fallout opens doors for change. The eFishery’s debacle presents a multitude of opportunities, not only for the betterment of investment in the tech sector but also for new businesses to thrive and Indonesia’s chance to increase its reputation as a trustworthy FDI destination. The case could pave the way for the rise of firms specialising in business investigation – equipped with local knowledge and strong on-the-ground investigative skills – to strengthen investors’ due diligence process.

Ironically, the smallest victim might be the fishery sector itself, which eFishery tried to disrupt in the first place. While eFishery’s collapse is significant, it is unlikely to disrupt the overall farmed fish supply. eFishery is just a small fish in a big pond of Indonesia’s giant aquaculture industry, one of the largest in the world that employs more than six million people.

The case also presents opportunities for less popular players with integrity in the aquaculture sector to rise and fill the gap left by eFishery. Several startups are also engaged in the fishery sector, some of which have developed breakthrough aquaculture technologies such as an inland farming system for highly commercial saltwater fish like grouper.

We are aware of another fishery startup that competed with eFishery for a contract to supply fish to one of the country’s largest mining companies. Its approach to technology development and deployment is more conventional (focusing on hardware development rather than software) with less emphasis on digital tech.

With the lessons provided by eFishery’s case, these players can establish and execute a more feasible and balanced business model while still empowering local aquaculture farmers across the archipelago. Through the case, eFishery – inadvertently – might also provide a valuable experience and knowledge for their honest, hard-working employees who might even take up the mantle left by their employers and start their own high-impact, social-driven startups that continue to empower marginalised communities in Indonesia.

Looking up and beyond, this case can serve as an inflection point for Indonesia to seriously build a reputation as a trustworthy FDI destination. Starting in tech, particularly in tech investment, policymakers and stakeholders in this sector should utilise this momentum to create a healthier tech ecosystem, one that is grounded in governance and sustainable growth, not just hype and made-up numbers.

Introduction

On 22 January 2025, Nahdlatul Ulama (NU) and Muhammadiyah took part in a discussion on the revision of the Minerals and Coal Mining (Minerba) Law organised by Indonesia’s House of Representatives (DPR). This was a follow-up effort after both organisations decided to accept mining concessions from the government.

Their inclusion in the revision discussion signifies their shared approach to mining management and the participation of religious organisations.

On paper, the revision of the Minerba Law is intended to improve people’s welfare through equitable distribution of welfare founded upon the principle of economic justice. NU’s and Muhammadiyyah’s participation in the mining industry could also boost their organisational independence.

At first, the government’s offer of mining concessions could be perceived as a strategic move to address the CSOs’ frequent requests for funding to ministries and agencies.

However, critics argue that the organisations’ involvement would remove them from their grassroots bases while simultaneously detaining them in the elites’ political dynamics. Furthermore, by accepting mining concessions from the state, it could be posited that both NU and Muhammadiyah might have given up their independence as CSOs.

What this means is that both organisations have become integral components of the state – thus serving the interest of the government of the day.

The granting of mining permits to the two was finalised through the issuance of Government Regulation Number 25 of 2024. This new regulation allows NU and Muhammadiyah to establish mining companies or business entities under their wings. The two, however, have relatively different ways of managing their concessions.  

NU’s chairman, Yahya Cholil Staquf, mentioned that his institution had received a Special Mining License Area of around 25,000 to 26,000 hectares in East Kalimantan. NU has also formed a company engaged in mining, namely PT Berkah Usaha Muamalah Nusantara.

Meanwhile, Muhammadiyah obtained a coal mine in South Kalimantan, formerly managed by the Adaro group.

Regardless, the concession offers mark the shift in the relationship between these two CSOs and the state.

Shifting Dynamics

Signs of this changing relationship started to emerge during former president Joko “Jokowi” Widodo’s second term.

At the 34^th NU Muktamar (Congress) on 22 December 2021, Jokowi announced his offering of mining concessions to NU. This was not Jokowi’s only manoeuvre in the event – he also tilted the Congress to favour the election of Yahya Cholil Staquf, his close ally, as chairman of NU’s executive council over Said Aqil Siradj.

Similarly, Muhammadiyah has been offered mining concessions and management rights, though there is no evidence that any such offer was placed during its congress.

President Prabowo Subianto has also continued Jokowi’s tactic of bringing the two CSOs into the state’s fold. Like Jokowi, he has appointed elite NU and Muhammadiyah figures to important positions within the government structure. Such a tactic ensures that his administration receives solid support from Indonesia’s two largest CSOs.

These include the appointments of NU’s Secretary General Saifullah Yusuf (Minister of Social Affairs), NU’s Rais Syuriah Prof KH Nassruddin Umar (Minister of Religious Affairs) and General Leader of the Muslimat NU Arifah Choiri Fauzi (Minister of Women’s Empowerment and Child Protection).

Meanwhile, Prabowo also appointed Muhammadiyah’s Secretary General Abdul Mu’ti and former chairman of the Muhammadiyah Student Association Raja Juli Antoni as Minister of Primary and Secondary Education and Minister of Forestry, respectively.

All of these appointments are on top of numerous state supports, such as programmes that support universities affiliated with the two CSOs. The recent passing of the revised Minerba Law has also resulted in additional state backing.

For example, the state has assisted NU in the creation of 250 NU-owned enterprises and engaged NU to provide Makan Bergizi Gratis (Free Nutritious Meal) – Prabowo’s flagship programme – to students studying under NU’s pesantren. The state has also cooperated with Muhammadiyah in the MBG programme as well as in such areas as migrant workers, education and social affairs.

Convergence and Divergence

In general, the distance between the state and CSOs should not be underestimated. The political positions and attitudes of CSOs are closely related to the prevailing political dynamics shaped by the state. CSOs, thus, could either support or oppose government policies or programmes, depending on the nature of their relationship.

In the political context, NU and Muhammadiyah play an active role in influencing policy discourse from both outside and inside DPR.

Examples include their shared rejection of the Pancasila Ideology Direction Bill in 2020 and their simultaneous push for the government to pass the Sexual Violence Bill in 2022. These examples also illustrate the alignment of both organisations on national and social issues.

They have also diverged on particular issues. Muhammadiyah, for example, rejected the government’s move to revise the Corruption Eradication Commission (KPK) Law in 2019, while an NU element supported it.

This division is more apparent in the controversy surrounding the Constitutional Court’s (MK) decision to reduce the age limit for presidential and vice-presidential candidates. Following the verdict, a number of professors, rectors and students of Universitas Muhammadiyah Yogyakarta (UMY) voiced their opposition, stating their concern that the state’s institutions have failed to perform their functions.  However, their position was contradicted by the organisation’s leadership, suggesting that Muhammadiyah is also not united on this issue. In contrast, NU tended to remain silent on the subject, indicating that the CSO has aligned itself with the state’s interest.

Nuances such as these gave birth to the narrative that the two organisations have been “bribed” with the mining concessions in exchange for dialling down their criticism of the government.

Meanwhile, in practical politics, many NU cadres dabble as members of various political parties, though most are concentrated as members of Partai Kebangkitan Bangsa (PKB). The same dynamics can be observed between Muhammadiyah and Partai Amanat Nasional (PAN).

This is not a strange phenomenon in Indonesia’s political landscape, especially considering both PKB and PAN could trace their roots all the way back to NU and Muhammadiyah, respectively.

Both organisations also allow their cadres to partake in political campaigns or join national campaign teams (tim sukses) supporting contesting candidates.

CSOs No More?

Observing these examples above, several key points can be inferred. Firstly, both NU and Muhammadiyah were rather fluid in their relationship with the government – they can swing from being staunch oppositions (the Pancasila Bill) to ardent supporters (the Sexual Violence Bill). Secondly, NU and Muhammadiyah could channel their aspirations through their associated political parties in order to keep their distance from the government.

Despite these instances of divergence and opposition to the government, both groups display their convergence once again in their acceptance of the mining concession offer. This ensures that NU and Muhammadiyah have access to lucrative economic opportunities that could fund their activities while also retaining their seats in Indonesia’s elite political game. However, it should be underlined that it would also increase their dependence on the state and weaken their position as CSOs.

With two of Indonesia’s largest CSOs now orbiting around the state’s gravitational field, power will be increasingly centralised on the state and diminish the spirits of political reform and decentralisation spurred by reformasi.

The question now is this: with both organisations having accepted the concessions, do they still have the capacity to represent and channel the voice of the grassroots communities they claim to represent?

Conclusion

Since the beginning of reformasi, both CSOs have had complex experiences ranging from opposing to partnering with the government. Recently, however, there are instances showing that the state aims to influence the activities and orientation of the two organisations. The mining concession offer is just one such strategy employed by the state to secure the support and non-opposition from the two groups.

When that is achieved, then the state would not only obtain the loyalty of NU and Muhammadiyah but potentially also the associated political parties despite the distance that exists between the CSOs and the parties. As a result, CSOs are no longer considered independent and seem to have been successfully weakened through a process of political resource distribution that is entirely state-centred.

Introduction

Indonesia is gradually becoming an ageing society. According to the latest data, the number of elderly citizens in Indonesia has reached 31 million people, or about 11.04% of the total population.

This number is predicted to increase by around 20% by 2045, while by 2050 elderly citizens might number 70 million or 21.2% of the total population.

A rapidly ageing population carries bad luck in terms of national economic performance.

As of 2019, only one in eight elderly individuals received a regular pension in Indonesia – usually former civil servants and retired military personnel. Fast forward to 2024, this figure further declined to one in 20.

The low coverage of pensions in the social protection system for elderly citizens has caused many of them to continue working in low-paying jobs.

In August 2024, the head of the National Population and Family Planning Agency, Hasto Wardoyo, revealed that the peak season of demographic dividend in the nation, which was heavily tipped to come to fruition in 2030, has in fact passed. Consequently, the window of opportunity for Indonesia to elevate its status into the developed country category is getting smaller.

There have been a few talks about the probability of a second demographic dividend if elderly citizens were able to acquire a substantial amount of savings. The hope is that this would provide further boosts to the economic growth by 2045.

Beyond Jakarta, governments at regional levels are also expected to facilitate this objective through the implementation of Presidential Regulation Number 88 of 2021 on National Strategy of Elderliness. This document establishes five priorities to achieve the welfare of all elderly citizens, which are social protection, health improvement, development of elderly-friendly public spaces, enhancement of civic institutions and elderly rights compliance.

Therefore, the government at all levels, including subnational governments, is encouraged to take measurable and necessary steps to anticipate the potential for demographic disaster.

It is crucial to ensure the social security protection of the elderly people. In order to achieve that, Indonesia’s subnational governments (SNGs) – such as governors, mayors and regents – must play a more proactive role.

Gaps

Since reformasi, decentralisation has become a fundamental principle in the nation’s governance system and bureaucratic reform.

An important consideration is the often-forgotten obligation of numerous SNGs to take good care of their elderly residents. By exercising regional autonomy powers, these SNGs have most of the necessary tools to distribute annual revenues to improve the prosperity of the elderly citizens.

That additional income could mean life or death to many of them, particularly those who have lived under the poverty line for years.

Available data support this. Two provinces with the highest number of the elderly, the Special Region of Yogyakarta (17% of the national elderly population) and East Java (14.4% of the national elderly population), are each showing a staggering statistical fact. Just 10.2% of the elderly in Yogyakarta and 3.6% in East Java regularly receive pension funds.

This paints a bleak picture of the state of welfare of the elderly citizens. If Indonesia sincerely aims to put an end to the probability of demographic disaster once and for all, this shortfall must be dealt with as soon as possible.

It is true that those respective regions have already made some effort over the years. Yogyakarta currently has 40 community-based social welfare bodies which provide monthly empowerment programmes for the elderly, combined with a social security programme for senior citizens who happen to be excluded from any other government’s aid.

However, the so-called social security programme is insufficient, only catering to around 8000 poor senior citizens with each individual receiving Rp300,000 (US$18.08) per month. This figure is far below the real numbers of the elderly in the entire province.

East Java has implemented a similar social security programme since 2019. Every intended recipient receives around Rp2m (US$120.7) per year, with an estimated total of recipients approximately around 50,000 people.

Nevertheless, those programmes are simply not enough. A robust ageing policy requires the government to reach as many older agents as possible, facilitated by the presence of a comprehensive and systematic database.

Unfortunately, this is another classic problem in Indonesia’s bureaucratic system. Multiple state institutions store different data that could complicate the policymaking process, despite the presence of an integrated data-management service called the One Data Initiative. The integration process has been relatively slow.

To overcome those obstacles, SNGs must begin to take over the policy initiative. If every SNG has become fully aware of the incoming threat of demographic disaster, it would not be difficult to decipher which actions must be undertaken.

Paradigm Switch

Last year I conducted research in Jakarta, Surabaya and Medan, which are among the regions with the highest budgets. My study found that all three regions had more than enough fiscal capability to finance an innovative policy called minimum income guarantee for the elderly.

This is a fresh form of an almost-universal (or categorical) basic income-based policy that only excludes former civil servants and retired military/police personnel because they already receive a monthly pension from the state.

As a way of transforming this policy idea into an executable programme, the executive branch alone is insufficient. It is necessary to conduct some measured and systematic political lobbying towards the legislative branch as well. The designated goal here is that each of the city’s and/or special region’s parliamentary bodies would support the policy implementation by passing a specific regional law to complement the executive branch’s policy design.

In order to reduce the probability rate of political resistance, it is necessary to ensure the budget allocated must not surpass 16% of annual revenue realisation in each municipal/metropolitan area.

This calculation is based on a comparative assessment concerning mandatory spending on education (minimum allocation of 20%) and health sectors (10%).

If the minimum income guarantee policy budget exceeds the funding portion on education, this situation will trigger a considerable risk in terms of public perception. People would see that the government is prioritising elderly citizens over children, a narrative that would bring significant political resistance, especially from various members of local parliament.

Moreover, the issue of welfare and prosperity has always been intertwined with the quality of health service. A growing discourse about eliminating mandatory spending in the health sector from every subnational budget across Indonesia has a bigger chance to disrupt the improving level of health quality of elderly citizens.

In political terms, this minimum income guarantee for the elderly could be framed as something that would be able to bridge the gap to some extent.

The numbers look positive. By calculating and analysing Jakarta’s annual revenue in regions in the past five years, I arrived at the estimation that by 2032, its expected actual revenue would have reached a point of Rp100t (US$6.49b). By 2035, the amount would increase to Rp110t (US$7.14b).

This is more than enough to finance the aforementioned programme for the elderly.

Accelerating Poverty Reduction

The potential of this minimum income programme, which could facilitate the elderly group’s ascent above the poverty line, is a subject worth discussing.

By 2032, Jakarta’s expected actual revenue would have reached a point of Rp100t (US$5.93b). By 2035, we predict that the amount would have been at Rp110t (US$6.53b) and the number of Jakarta’s elderly residents would reach 1,640,000. Thus, it is quite realistic that every eligible individual, in today’s calculation, gets Rp10.66m (US$633.30) a year (15.9% of its estimated overall actual revenue that year) or Rp889,000 (US$52.79) a month.

If we compare the money to the Jakarta’s poverty line as of September 2024 (Rp846,085 or US$50.24/capita/month), the income alone would have enabled eligible recipients to get themselves above the poverty line.

In the case of Surabaya, the projected annual actual revenue by 2032 would be at least Rp13.8t (US$895.42m). Three years later, the city’s revenue realisation would likely reach Rp15.2t (US$986.26m), whereby approximately 530,000 Surabaya elderly residents could be included in the recipient list of the programme.

Therefore, any eligible person in Surabaya could get as much as Rp4.5m (US$292) a year or Rp375,000 (US$24.33) a month (15.7% of Surabaya’s expected overall actual revenue that year). Considering the city’s poverty line stood at Rp565,284 or US$34.08 per capita per month as of September 2024, this income would equal 61.9% of that threshold.

Medan could attain approximately Rp8.3t (US$539.82m) in terms of actual revenue realisation by 2032. By 2035, the city’s actual revenue might reach Rp9.1t (US$591.63m). Concurrently, around 465,000 elderly residents would be able to receive the minimum income. The distributed nominals would be at Rp3.12m (US$202.44) a year or Rp260,000 (US$16.87) per month (15.9% of the city’s expected actual revenue that year).

Medan’s poverty line, on the other hand, stood at Rp674,427 or US$40.67 per capita per month as of September 2024. The amount received by each eligible resident would equal up to 40.03% of that point.

We can observe that Jakarta has the fiscal capability to lift all poor elderly out of its regional poverty line, while Surabaya and Medan could offer substantial coverage for eligible participants who live below their respective provincial poverty lines.

President Prabowo Subianto is elderly himself. At 73, he has everything at his disposal to implement a robust and effective ageing policy. However, the probability of this happening is still distant. His landmark programme at this moment is the free nutritious meal, reflecting a mainstream way of thinking of almost exclusively maximising productive-age population.

So far, the country has not updated its outlook by considering the impact of those elderly citizens who are highly educated, technologically literate, financially independent and accustomed to thinking innovatively on the future growth of Indonesia’s economy.

Prabowo’s administration could address this problem by considering two things. Firstly, it must acknowledge that the elderly population has equal rights with the productive-age population. Secondly, it must acknowledge that the elderly’s welfare is key to maximising the demographic bonus.

Though it might seem contradictory at first, the elderly population is a national development asset who can still contribute to the economy if the state knows which policy could support and stimulate them.

Funds allocated for the minimum income guarantee programme would be difficult to embezzle because prospective recipients are only required to show a national ID card to ensure they are truly residents of the area. After that, funds are transferred directly to the recipient’s account periodically.

Conclusion

Unfortunately, at this stage, the elderly’s welfare remains overlooked. In terms of demographic dividend, their potential contribution is also ignored.

Though an error, there is still some time to rectify this fallacy. A reform in the national outlook, which connects aspects of health, economic empowerment and elderly citizens’ intellectual contribution – while being fully supported by SNGs – must be undertaken before the demographic bonus window is completely closed.

Failing to do this would only elevate the state and regions’ fiscal burden to provide health financing and social security for the elderly. Every SNG in Indonesia could improve the elderly’s welfare and help deliver the long-awaited social justice for them.

Partnered Content

PEDIXS Centre (Peace, Dialogue & Xenophobia Studies Centre), in collaboration with stratsea and PASRU, will be organising a forum with the Iqbal Centre for Critical Muslim Studies of the University of Leeds on the 24th of April 2025.

On their visit to Malaysia and IIUM, we hope to explore avenues of cooperation and collaboration between the Iqbal Centre at the University of Leeds and AHAS KIRKHS to facilitate international intellectual and engagement partnership and efforts that promote tahwhidic epistemology and ummatic excellence especially in ongoing discourses on decoloniality, Islamophobia and counter-narratives relevant to Malaysia and the broader Muslim World.

The forum will be conducted physically at Al-Tabari Meeting Room (Lvl 3, HS Building), IIUM on Thursday, 24th April 2025 from 11:30 AM – 1:00 PM. Click here to register for the forum.

For participants outside of KL, Malaysia, the forum will be livestreamed on PASRU’s youtube channel.

Slave Trade

Before we begin Ya’s story, we need to tell you that Ya and her friends are not the type of slaves that we have known.

For many of us, slavery belonged to the White, Western world, especially in America, where Africans were taken from their homes to work on American and Caribbean plantations. The story we wish to tell is not Alex Haley’s Roots: The Saga of An American Family.

However, the transatlantic slave trade has dominated public imagination, knowledge and even academia. Slavery, in all its varieties and forms, has been in existence since antiquity. It seems perplexing, but, ever since, something has always compelled human beings to take each other into forced captivity. It has been a human practice since time immemorial.

This is not an attempt to justify it—nor is it necessary to provide moral justification for this abhorrent practice. To us, it is important to unpack and understand the nuances of how slavery was different in different contexts.

A loaded term, “slavery” carries so much weight and has many definitions, depending on time period, geography and perspective.

In colonial times, the Portuguese had the honour of being the first modern human traffickers, trading in hundreds of thousands of humans from the west coast of Africa for their plantations and colonies in the New World.

Such a history has not been easy to face, and Portugal has, for the most part, avoided acknowledging its “pioneering role” in establishing and participating in the transatlantic slave trade that lasted for about four centuries. Only in 2021 did Portugal install a public monument called the Memorial-Homage to the Victims of Slavery.

The lucrative trade soon saw the participation of the British, the Dutch and the Spanish. Local agents were also involved, bartering their own people for profit.Indeed, even before the arrival of Europeans, there was already an African slave trade.

For centuries, small kingdoms and large empires existed in West and Central Africa, divided along cultural and ethnic lines. Frequent conflicts led to captives who became part of the local trade system, which formed the basis for the transatlantic slave trade.

War for Profit, Profit from War

The grand ancient civilisations of Egypt, Mesopotamia, Rome, Greece and Persia had slave classes. Slaves were usually taken from enemy nations, lower classes, rural areas or even kidnapped from different lands. Some were taken to pay off debts, but most were trafficked into forced labour.

From these ancient times, Roman gladiators who were often slaves come to mind—glamorous (and glistening) fighters combatting for entertainment, their freedom and, ultimately, to return home. In reality, however, many slaves – and their families – lived, worked and died in captivity, some under hard circumstances working in construction or hard labour.

Slavery is complex—Ya and friends came to work as house servants and then were absorbed into the Malay families who took them in, eventually becoming one of them.

Ya, in fact, settled in the royal household of Sultan Muhammad II of Terengganu. She and her friends were known to be Muslims, and when they moved to Terengganu, in some ways, they masuk Melayu.

The Arab-Muslim slave trade has long been in existence, especially from Africa. Black Africans were the earliest type of slave known to Arabs. One of them, Bilal, who became the first muezzin, was an Abyssinian who was owned and freed by Abu Bakr, Prophet Muhammad’s father-in-law.

With the advent of Islam came the Arab conquests, which saw the spread of the Muslim-Arab armies to different parts of the region, from Persia to North Africa. Once they conquered the Sahara, Arab merchants bought Black Africans to be traded.

While Islam taught tolerance and the importance of knowing each other despite differences of clan and skin colour, Arabs subjugated Black Africans into slavery anyway.

Africans who were brought into slavery were sometimes bought, taken or born into it. Some were born out of unions between African mothers and Arab fathers. Some were given their freedom but mostly became Arabised and were converted to Islam. They emulated Arab language and culture and, while being subject to prejudice by elite Arabs, did contribute to medieval Islamic society.

The locals in Terengganu called Ya and her friends hamba habshi, possibly because they came from Madinah and Mecca. The Metropolitan Museum of Art explained that “… Habshi is the Arabic term for Abyssian, a nationality known today as Ethiopian. This term is used to describe the Africans who came to live in India, arriving as merchants and fishermen as well as slaves. Sidi (‘my lord’) is another Arabic term to identify the same group, but connotes an elevated status.”

Ya did tell me that her origins were from Ethiopia, which coincides with the definition above. However, she was seen as a local Meccan, as her family had settled in Mecca.

At that time, they were regarded as locals but of African origin. Identity was fluid before and now: people move to seek work and some fortune and integrate into the local landscape. (Another question that we will address in the future: what is truth and memory?)

We were told that her aunt had spoken to her parents about a good future and brought her to meet the new family. She stayed with the family and their descendants until the end of her life.

At least, that was what we were told.

—

When I first met Ya in 1996, at the entrance of the house she lived in, she had a cloth/towel on her head. Many years later, my third cousin Ku Mei and third aunt – the now deceased Tengku Halipah, whom we called Bonda Ku Ah – told me that when hamba habshi arrived in Terengganu, they took to the cloth and various versions of the selendang because they felt embarrassed by their hair. It had nothing to do with religion. I was told that one or two of them resorted to hanging durian fruit from their hair in a bid to straighten it.

Most of them took to living quietly and in the shadows, even if they were popular with the locals, because they knew they looked different. Their skin was darker. They were tall too. Ya and another lived with their adoptive families, while the others lived and worked in the royal fortress—Dalam Kota Istana Maziah.

The cursory Malay(sian) reader may find this as positive ammunition for populism: Ya and friends had assimilated into this new, strange society, where Islam and Malayness were upheld, but when the team and I heard this, it broke our hearts. They were so young then – they had not even reached puberty when they reached Singapore and Terengganu – and had to figure  out assimilation as well as acculturation on their own. That they had this awareness of how different they were from the new country they lived and died in is heartbreaking.

When we met in 2006, Ya asked me if I was the writer-granddaughter of my grandparents, and whether I knew who she really was. When I offered that I thought she was a tall Indian woman, she laughed.

“Patik dulu… hamba. hamba habshi.  Pelawok budok ni sunggoh. Patik bukang orang India. Dari Mesir! Afrika!” Ya remarked. (I was… hamba. Hamba habshi. You are such a joker! I’m not Indian. I’m from Egypt! Africa!”).

What struck me when we conversed were two things: she spoke fluently in the Terengganu dialect and in Bahasa Istana (the palace language). I then called out for my mother, who had entered the kitchen, and motioned for her to join us.

While my mother spoke to the other inhabitants of the house, Ya and I stayed in the back. I was entranced by her: she was tall, lanky and most animated. She told me I had to write a film about her life—she loved films and wanted to be an actress. She made me promise in the back of the kitchen – an amanah – to tell her story to the world.

She stood up, waving her arms in the air, with her sleeves rolled back to her elbows. Her arms were the colour of dark chocolate and the skin was almost parchment-like, with deep creases I fancied as details of life. Age. I was struck by the fairness of her palms and said so. She smiled and said it was because she took wudhu (ablution) all the time.

“Ye lah. Patik kuak semayang. Ni kalu ambik wuduk sokmo, kulit ceroh. Same dengan selawat. Baca banyok banyok kali pah tu usap muka. [Ber]seri.” (Of course. I pray all the time. This is what happens if you always take ablution: your skin will shine. Same with reciting salawat. Do that a lot and then rub your face. It would glow).

This is how Ya sounded. This is a snippet from an hour-long audio.

Enslavement in Malay Society

Understanding the lives of slaves within the royal household encompasses several key elements. Firstly, it requires contextualising the practice of slavery within the Malay world, considering its religious, cultural and class dimensions. Secondly, tracing the movement of slaves from their places of origin to their destinations is essential for gaining insight into their experiences. Finally, it is important to consider the nuances of their lives within the domestic sphere, where strong familial ties often played a significant role.

In the Malay world, slavery was practiced, but its definition and concept differ from Western understanding. Slavery in Southeast Asia (including in the Malay world) is fascinating to observe. This is because of the interaction between various concepts of slavery, such as Islam, Hinduism, Chinese, European and local beliefs.

The institution of slavery was a societal practice that had been observed in the region since the time of the Malacca Sultanate. Slaves symbolised the influence and wealth of a nobleman during that era. The more slaves a nobleman owned, the higher his status in society and the stronger his economic position.

For example, Tun Mutahir owned so many slaves that he himself did not recognise the slaves he acquired. This indicates the vast wealth he obtained, surpassing even the wealth of Sultan Mahmud Syah of Malacca. Occupying the lowest stratum of society, they could not act according to their own desires because they were controlled by rules and orders determined by their owners (masters).

However, slavery in the context of the Malay world is not solely seen in terms of economics and slaves as property. Practices resembling slavery in the Malay world are more focused on the concept of indebtedness.

The concept of indebtedness in the Malay world extends beyond monetary debt. According to Gullick, the concept of indebtedness in the Malay world encompasses economic interests. “It is clear… that debt-bondage, although in the form of an economic institution, was in substance a very mixed complex of several elements. The Chief acquired and retained bondsmen as a means of augmenting his power and prestige. The bondsman might expect the creditor to provide him with a wife….”

For Malay royalty and aristocrats, the institution of slavery played a role in contributing labour to the economy and granting status to their masters.

Slaves can be divided into three main groups: hamba raja (royal slaves), hamba hutang (debt-slaves) and hamba abdi (abdi slaves).

Originally, hamba raja were disobedient individuals such as prisoners of war or convicts who committed crimes but were successfully apprehended and later pardoned by the raja. The status of hamba raja is higher compared to other slaves. This group receives special legal status compared to other slaves. Fasal Ke-lapan dalam Undang-undang Melaka states that the law for killing hamba raja should be reverted back to the killer.

They receive protection from the government and are also known as biduanda, dayang-dayang, beti-beti, and perwara (female slaves). Hamba raja and their descendants perpetually served their royal masters.

There is more, but we will continue in the next few chapters of this story.

The GKC Collective is seeking funds for the Malaysia leg of research. Please contact us at gongkapaspictures@gmail.com