Warning: The content of this article may trigger trauma due to explicit accounts and images of violence committed by authorities.
The urge to urinate woke Ryan Syahroni (36), a resident of North Jakarta, from his sleep. On August 31, 2025, at 1:05 a.m. Western Indonesian Time, his brother, Karjono, saw Ryan get up and head to the bathroom as he was about to go to sleep.
It was already Sunday, and hunger in the middle of the night prompted Ryan to go to his friend’s house to eat and chat. After less than two hours, Ryan returned home.
“At home, he (Ryan) went to bed at 8:00 p.m. (August 30). I was about to go to my room to sleep when he woke up at 1:10 a.m. I thought he went to the bathroom to relieve himself. Then, because he was hungry, he went out and met his friend. He went to his friend’s house, ate, and chatted until past 3 a.m., returning home at 3 a.m.,” testified Karjono in the North Jakarta District Court on Thursday, November 20, 2025.
For three nights, Jakarta has been filled with protests and outbursts of anger over the surge in allowances for the House of Representatives (DPR). This was followed by the unempathetic attitude of DPR members, a series of cases and policies that were considered unfair, and the death of Affan Kurniawan, who was run over by a Brimob tactical vehicle on August 28, 2025.
Demonstrations also took place that night in front of the North Jakarta Police Headquarters (Mapolres Jakut). At dawn, as Ryan impatiently swung open the door, a woman in front of his house looked worried. She then asked Ryan to help find her child, who had not yet returned home.
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Ryan knew very well that the city was not doing well. He rushed to find his friend’s child. Before he could reach the demonstration site, Ryan met people who shared his fate; searching for the names in their heads.
However, it was at that point that Ryan’s life was torn apart. He was arrested in a dark public space, the exact location unclear. He was accused of something he didn’t even do: vandalism during a mass action in North Jakarta.
For more than ten days, Ryan disappeared from his family’s reach. Karjono received no news, no notification of detention, no explanation of where his brother was or how he was doing.
“The family only found out 10 days later that he had been detained,” said Karjono.
Those ten days felt like an eternity for Karjono after his younger brother went missing. But the ordeal was not over yet. Karjono had to wait even longer just to see his brother. It took more than a month before Karjono was finally able to visit Ryan.
“Meeting (Ryan) was also difficult. We only met him after more than a month, and even then we had to search for him ourselves at the Police Hospital because when we asked the investigators, they simply replied, ‘We’ll let you know later,’” explained Karjono.
From his meeting with Ryan, Karjono learned the details of how Ryan was arrested and frowned when comparing his brother’s narrative with that of the police. Karjono found discrepancies between Ryan’s story and the investigation report (BAP).
“Ryan was arrested (Sunday, August 31) at 4:15 a.m.”
However, that time was never consistent in the police narrative.
“Meanwhile, the police’s admission of the arrest was between 2 and 4 a.m., and some even said it was at 6 a.m.,” he added.
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It’s not just a matter of time, but also a matter of who made the arrest and how it happened. On paper, the police said the arrest was made by investigators dressed as plainclothes officers. Meanwhile, Ryan claimed he was arrested by figures in full uniform, wearing shields bearing the Brimob insignia.
“In my opinion, there are many inconsistencies. From the start of the arrest, the police said that the investigators who made the arrest were all dressed in plain clothes. Meanwhile, according to Ryan’s statement, he was arrested by someone in full uniform, using a shield with the word Brimob written on it,” said Karjono.
The authorities claim that Ryan was healthy when he was arrested before he panicked and jumped from the pedestrian bridge. Karjono refutes this, saying that his brother did not jump, but was the victim of abuse that left him unconscious.
“Then, they said he was arrested on the JPO in good health, but now he can barely stand. What about his injuries? If the police say he jumped from the JPO because he panicked, (even though) Ryan didn’t jump, he was unconscious due to the abuse,” said Karjono.
Karjono’s voice trailed off when asked about Ryan’s condition. He could smell the stench when greeting his younger brother, let alone hugging him.
“His condition is very worrying. There is already blood leakage and the scar from the flesh removal on his thigh is emitting a foul odor. Because it has been a month and a half, the bandage on this wound has never been changed or checked,” said Karjono.
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Ryan’s medical treatment has been criticized by his family as being delayed. The care provided to Ryan has been unable to keep up with the damage already done to his body, which has been left untreated.
“Three days after the incident, he was immediately taken to the Police Hospital and underwent treatment for almost a month. His family only found out 10 days later that he had been detained,” said Karjono disappointedly.
Photo caption: The treatment and injuries of Ryan Syahroni (36), who is currently detained at the North Jakarta Police Station Detention Center. (Photo: Special)
Karjono’s disappointment grew even more when he learned that Ryan was forcibly removed from the hospital without any information being provided to the family.
“So, about 10 days before the handover to the prosecution, Ryan was forcibly removed from the hospital.”
For Karjono, the word “forced” was not a metaphor. At that time, Ryan’s body was still in the process of recovery. His medical treatment was interrupted, not because he had been declared recovered, but because the legal process was moving faster than the treatment required.
Based on the results of medical interviews and physical examinations, Ryan complained of a fever lasting approximately seven days, accompanied by pain, swelling, and limited movement in his left leg following surgery on October 20, 2025. Ryan had not had a post-operative wound check-up until the last examination was conducted.
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The physical examination revealed postoperative wounds in the femur region (left thigh) and cruris sinistra (left calf) with wet wounds, a foul odor in the wound area, and swelling in the left leg.
In the health facility’s medical certificate, Ryan was advised to undergo regular check-ups at the hospital to monitor the healing process and prevent recurrent infections.
Ryan should also undergo further surgery due to blood leakage. However, this crucial medical procedure was not carried out because Ryan’s case had been transferred to the Prosecutor’s Office.
“He is still undergoing treatment but has been handed over to the prosecutor’s office. Ryan has undergone three surgeries. The doctor promised he would perform a fourth surgery (due to a leak, but it was not continued) because he was forcibly discharged,” said Karjono.
“There was no notification to the family that Ryan had been handed over to the prosecutor’s office (discharged from the hospital).”
There was no compromise for Ryan, even though the medical procedure schedule had been clearly set and neatly documented in the treatment plan that ultimately never materialized.
“The schedule was for him to be discharged on Wednesday, and the fourth surgery was supposed to take place the following Tuesday.”
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After being discharged from the hospital, Ryan was still held at the police station as a “guest.” He was the only August protester detained at the North Jakarta Police Headquarters, as the others had already been transferred to Cipinang Prison.
At this point, the situation became even more paradoxical. The prosecutor’s office refused to accept him due to his health condition, but the follow-up treatment that was the reason for the refusal was never actually carried out.
“(Ryan) is at the police station because the prosecutor’s office refused to accept him due to his condition,” said Karjono. “The purpose was for further treatment. But to this day, there has been no health examination of Ryan.”
Karjono then went from one office to another, trying to find clarity. However, every door he knocked on was closed to him on the grounds of authority. At the police station, responsibility had already been handed over. At the prosecutor’s office, responsibility had not yet begun.
“I went back and forth to the police station to meet with investigators, but they said it was not their authority. It was not the authority of the police because it had been handed over to the prosecutor’s office. So, I went to the prosecutor’s office and met directly with the prosecutor, who said that Ryan was not under the authority of the prosecutor’s office but under the authority of the court, so Ryan was under court supervision and was a court detainee.”
The explanation Karjono received was confusing. It was as if responsibility could be shifted simply by pointing the finger at another institution.
“What is clear is that the prosecutor’s office has information that Ryan needs further treatment, so he must remain at the police station,” said Karjono with what little patience he had left.
Every path Karjono took seemed to lead to another path, with none of them offering a real solution. Efforts to postpone detention failed due to administrative requirements that were impossible to meet without access to medical care, which had been denied from the outset.
“I have submitted a request for suspension of detention. It was not approved because there were no supporting documents from experts such as doctors or medical personnel. As for the examination, I have been to the police station and everywhere else. The court has the authority to conduct the examination. Currently, Ryan is detained at the police station. The court will come, accompanied by the investigators handling Ryan’s case from the beginning, starting from the arrest. After that, the police health department will conduct a health examination in the cell. If it is necessary to refer him to the hospital, the police will issue a letter. However, the court refuses to handle it,” he complained.
In their status as “wards,” in addition to losing their basic rights to care, the matter of meals has now become a burden for their families, who must come every day.
“At the police station, he doesn’t get any food rations because he’s considered a detainee, so we bring him food every day.”
Ryan’s legal representative, Jericho Mandahari, confirmed that as of the publication of this article, Ryan had not received treatment for his injuries. The convoluted bureaucracy has become a trial that the family must endure.
Now, Ryan’s family, including Karjono, has submitted a request for the family to bring a nurse to the North Jakarta Police Detention Center to at least examine Ryan’s condition.
The latest recommendation from the hospital dated the 29th suggested that a re-examination be conducted. However, because the process involves many procedural stages, starting with submitting a letter to the judge, then to the prosecutor’s office, then to the police, and finally to the hospital, it has not yet been possible to carry it out. Therefore, yesterday the family, represented by Mr. Karjono, submitted a request for the family to bring a nurse to the police station to conduct an examination and health check on Mr. Ryan,” explained Jericho.
Meanwhile, Ryan’s physical condition continued to deteriorate. Pain became his constant companion behind bars.
“He’s in so much pain he can’t move. He even has to sleep on the floor because of his injuries,” Karjono said sadly.
In the end, the family’s hopes have dwindled drastically. Karjono no longer speaks of grand, abstract notions of justice; he now only wants the opportunity for his brother to receive medical treatment and save his life to be fulfilled.
“His hope for now (at least) is that his detention can be suspended so he can receive treatment—that’s the only thing he wants right now,” Karjono concluded.
The story of Ryan Syahroni and the victims of arrests in Tanjung Priok is not unique. It is part of a pattern that began early in the year. The year 2025 has indeed turned into a season of arrests that continues without pause, without transition. There has been no shift from repression to reform.
Konde.co recorded that throughout 2025, at least 7,677 people were arrested and 42 people were forcibly disappeared in one year. The data was compiled from field monitoring and documentation collected by KontraS, YLBHI, Polri, AMAN, Satya Bumi, Amnesty International, Human Rights Watch, and analysis of news reports by Konde.co.
The largest cluster came from demonstrations and civil actions. Throughout 2025, 7,148 people were arrested and 34 others were forcibly disappeared in the context of protests. During this season of arrests, mothers never knew when their children would return home, or if it was even possible for them to return. Activists and civilian women were also targeted in cyber hunts.
The Season of Hunting Protesters and Activists from Land to Air
On the morning of December 30, 2025, at the Medaeng Class I Detention Center in Surabaya, it was not yet fully light when the news spread. There, a 21-year-old orphaned young man died around six in the morning. His name was Alfarisi bin Rikosen.
He was not a convict. Alfarisi had never been found guilty by a court of law. His legal status was still that of a defendant, someone who, in principle, should have been protected by the presumption of innocence. However, it was precisely during this phase that his life ended.
In its official release, the KontraS Federation clearly frames this death as a failure of the state. This statement is important because from the outset, KontraS has not spoken solely about personal grief, but about the power relations between the state and citizens whose freedom has been taken away.
“Alfarisi’s death while in the custody of the state reaffirms the poor conditions of detention in Indonesia and the state’s failure to fulfill its obligation to protect the right to life and ensure humane treatment for everyone who is deprived of their liberty,” wrote the KontraS Federation in a press release on Tuesday, December 30, 2025.
Alfarisi is from Sampang, Madura. As an orphan, he lived with his older brother in a small rented room in the densely populated area of Dupak Masigit in Surabaya. Their livelihood depended on a simple coffee shop they ran on the terrace of their residence. There was no social safety net, no economic capital, and no extended family to protect him when he faced the law. Poor, young, and marginalized, he became the easiest target to be dragged away, detained, and forgotten.
When Alfarisi was arrested on September 9, 2025, at his own residence, the legal process moved quickly, in stark contrast to the slow pace of protecting his rights. He was charged under Article 1 Paragraph (1) of Emergency Law Number 12 of 1951, in conjunction with Articles 55 and 56 of the Criminal Code, relating to the possession of or involvement with firearms, ammunition, or explosives, articles that carry heavy penalties and have historically been linked to the context of national security.
Detention followed detention. From the Surabaya Police Headquarters, he was transferred to the Medaeng Detention Center. The case file continued to progress, but Alfarisi’s body grew weaker and slowly collapsed.
During his detention, Alfarisi’s weight dropped dramatically, estimated at 30 to 40 kilograms. According to KontraS, this figure is concrete evidence of the unacceptable living conditions in detention, including psychological pressure, inadequate food, absent or delayed health services, and an environment that is not conducive to recovery.
Such a drastic physical decline would be impossible in a space that meets humanitarian standards. In the context of international human rights law, Alfarisi’s body should have been the full responsibility of the state from the first day he was detained.
KontraS explicitly links this situation to violations of the United Nations Standard Minimum Rules for the Treatment of Prisoners (Nelson Mandela Rules), which require states to guarantee the physical and mental health of all prisoners without discrimination.
Alfarisi’s family last visited him on December 24, 2025. They were not informed of any serious medical conditions. There was no warning that his life was in danger. Six days later, he died.
According to his cellmate, Alfarisi experienced seizures before his death. This detail is crucial because it indicates an acute condition that was not treated. However, until his death, there was never any official explanation about his illness, diagnosis, or medical treatment.
From a human rights perspective, every death in custody automatically gives rise to legal responsibility on the part of the state. The state cannot hide behind administrative procedures or technicalities.
KontraS insists that the investigation into Alfarisi’s death must be conducted swiftly, independently, impartially, and transparently. Without this, his death will become just another number in a long list of prisoner deaths that are never properly investigated.
More worryingly, KontraS refuses to view Alfarisi’s death as an isolated incident. Patterns of death and violence against prisoners are part of a recurring pattern , especially against those arrested in the context of politics and freedom of expression.
Alfarisi’s body was returned to Sampang, Madura, and buried in a public cemetery. The legal process against him ended with his death. There was no court verdict, no sentence, no opportunity to defend himself until the end.
What happened to Ryan, Alfarisi, and the string of lives hanging between life and death as defendants after being hunted down in open spaces and cyberspace in the context of demonstrations is considered a disaster that has been allowed to fester. Konde.co, in an interview with Dimas Bagus Arya, Coordinator of KontraS, mapped this disaster in a vicious cycle: violence → criminalization → impunity → escalation of violence.
The year 2025 began with a declaration of a state of emergency. From the outset, the state’s view of its citizens shifted from subjects of democracy to objects of law and order. The streets became a space under surveillance, social media turned into a hunting ground, and the law was used solely to silence criticism. KontraS records show that 401 people were arrested in the first half of 2025.
Based on KontraS’s analysis, this year cannot be understood as a series of separate events, but rather as a long chain of interconnected events that form a pattern of mass criminalization working on a large scale. Arrests were made not to resolve cases, but to create a deterrent effect. It is at this point that scale becomes important as a measure of power.
Dimas Bagus Arya explains that throughout the year, KontraS found that the number of arrests could no longer be interpreted as a momentary excess or procedural error.
“We found that there were 4,291 arbitrary arrests throughout 2025. Arrests are still being carried out arbitrarily and indiscriminately by the police,” explained Dimas.
According to Konde.co’s monitoring, this number is even higher, reaching 7,148 people arrested during 2025. The August protests marked the peak, with the police stating that 6,719 people had been arrested by early October, including 26 people as a result of cyber investigations. Meanwhile, Konde.co recorded at least 27 other people arrested by December 2025.
Dimas believes that the arrests were not based on careful investigation. They were carried out with a sweeping logic, eliminating the boundaries between those who committed the acts, those who observed them, and those who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.
For the authorities, the crowd itself had become a threat. Therefore, according to Dimas, this practice cannot be separated from the blind nature that is legalized by the command structure.
A crowd of online motorcycle taxi drivers in the Senen area of Central Jakarta, heading to the Kwitang Mobile Brigade Headquarters to stage a demonstration (August 29). (Photo: Luthfi Maulana Adhari/Konde.co)
“Arrests in open spaces, apart from those that are indiscriminate in nature, meaning that there is no verification prior to arrest by the police, and the police always use discretion as an excuse when making direct arrests or conducting sting operations.”
“So discretion is subjective in nature, it is a subjective assessment, and the police are indeed given the authority to make quick decisions when the situation is no longer conducive. But again, the use of discretion must have a threshold, it must have a limit—what kind of discretion then guarantees that there will be no abuse of authority,” explained Dimas.
More specifically, according to Dimas, direct arrests or sting operations (OTT) are not always carried out legally and proportionally. In many cases, the authorities abuse their power by arresting individuals or groups who have no direct connection to the actions or acts that are used as grounds for arrest.
“In the context of direct arrests, overt arrest patterns or OTTs often also abuse authority. They also target groups or individuals who are not directly related to the actions,” he said.
In such situations, the law no longer functions as a arbiter of justice, but rather as a flexible tool. Vaguely defined articles become the main weapon, especially Article 160 of the Criminal Code on incitement. This article allows the state to expand the scope of criminalization from the streets to private and digital spaces, from mass shouting to social media posts.
Dimas said that the majority of cases no longer require physical presence at the scene of the action. Simply expressing oneself in a way that is considered disruptive is enough to get someone caught up in the legal system.
“The last time I checked, there were around 957 people in Indonesia who were charged and detained, the majority of whom were charged under Article 160 of the Criminal Code, which concerns incitement,” said Dimas.
According to Dimas, this entire series of events constitutes a deliberate and systematic form of legal violence. The law is being applied in an impartial manner, politicized to subdue critical citizens, and directed toward producing obedience rather than justice.
“This is an attempt at coercion and politicization of the law, because once again the law is considered or used as a tool to control or manage the obedience of citizens who do not align with the orientation of the state.”
Arrests carried out in this manner are often accompanied by darker practices involving the loss of information. Families are not notified, access to lawyers is restricted, and the whereabouts of victims remain unknown for days or even weeks. Under international human rights law, this situation can no longer be described as merely problematic arrests. It falls into the category of short-term enforced disappearance.
Dimas emphasized that duration is not the main determining factor. What matters is the loss of legal guarantees and information. According to KontraS records, there were 34 cases of short-term enforced disappearances during the August 2025 demonstrations.
“Arbitrary arrests over a long period of time without informing the family or the public by the police also become victims of enforced disappearance in the short term or in the short term,” he said.
What often escapes public attention is who the victims are. The state often frames the issue as if only protesters are missing. However, according to KontraS, the typology is much broader and random, and it is this strategy that actually increases fear.
“The typology of victims who experience forced disappearances is not all protesters.”
On the streets, violence has become a recurring sight. The authorities are present with full equipment and a broad mandate to use force. There are no longer any serious attempts at de-escalation. Water cannons and tear gas are used as an initial response, rather than a last resort.
Dimas sees that this is not a matter of individual officers, but rather an institutionalized pattern. He explains that the use of force is no longer proportional, but rather tends to be indiscriminate, as if public spaces were battlefields.
“The police’s approach to handling demonstrations remains the same. This means excessive use of force, both physical force and the use of crowd control weapons, such as water cannons and tear gas, which are also excessive and used indiscriminately,” he said.
Criminalization also targets activists and human rights defenders who carry out advocacy, support, and critical knowledge production. The authorities view advocacy work as a threat to security, rather than as part of the constitutional rights of citizens.
Delpedro Marhaen, Muzaffar Salim, Khariq Anhar, Syahdan Husein, Wawan Hermawan, Saiful Amin, Shelfin Bima Prakosa, Muhammad “Paul” Fakhrurrozi, Adetya Pramandira, Fathul Munif, Alif, and Tomy Wiria are just a few of the activists who were arrested after the August 2025 protests on charges of incitement.
KontraS believes that advocacy is perceived by the authorities as a crime. Social media posts are used as evidence, even though the context is the dissemination of information and legal assistance. The law is not used to protect citizens’ rights, but rather to suppress criticism and restrict the work of civil society.
“The arrests of Delpedro and Muzaffar Salim, for example, yes, these two people are respectively the director and staff member of Lokataru, they are considered to have committed incitement with evidence in the form of Lokataru’s posts about legal advocacy,” said Dimas.
Repression then spread systematically to the digital space. The authorities no longer waited for physical action, but actively monitored, tracked, and took action against online activities. Social media was treated as a field of conflict, and its administrators became targets of enforcement through planned cyber patrols.
“The hunt for social media administrators. So the pattern of hunting or cyber patrols is also carried out by the police to hunt down or arrest social media activists.”
“Khariq Anhar is the social media administrator for Mahasiswa Menggugat, an alliance of student protesters. Syahdan Hussein is the social media administrator for Gejayan Memanggil,” he explained.
Even legal aid spaces are constructed as threats. The state has excessively broadened the definition of incitement, to the point that legal aid posts are accused of triggering riots. This demonstrates a systematic attempt to delegitimize legal advocacy work.
“The legal aid post is considered a means of inciting people to carry out actions that the police view as arson, destruction of facilities, looting, and rioting.”
As additional context, this pattern of criminalization does not only affect activists and human rights defenders, but also those who carry out humanitarian functions. The authorities treat acts of assistance as a threat to security. One such case occurred during the arrest of paramedics at the 2025 Labor Day rally. J, a female student who is also a paralegal, was one of the victims.
“The police also arrested paramedics. Imagine, paramedics are actually entitled to protection in the context of such situations because they are only providing medical assistance to protesters,”
Fear is not a side effect, but the goal. A repressive atmosphere is created to silence public participation and prevent large-scale social mobilization.
“There is an aura of fear or an atmosphere of fear created by the state today, especially by the security forces, namely the police, to send a message of silencing.”
“Anyone who wants to stage a large demonstration or incite others to stage a large-scale protest must be prepared to face the law and be ready for repressive measures.”
In many cases, victims of state violence are left without clarity and truth. The state has failed to provide an independent mechanism to uncover the facts.
“In our opinion, and as we have conveyed to the police, this mystery should be addressed by encouraging the state or state authorities to establish a joint fact-finding team to locate the remains of Farhan and Reno.”
“The police have also not released the findings regarding the reconstruction of the source of the fire in the ACC building,” criticized Dimas.
This kind of violence continues to recur because of one fundamental reason: there is almost never any real accountability. Perpetrators of violence are rarely brought to court. They are dealt with through internal mechanisms that never touch on the root of the problem.
“Every member of the police force or government official or legislative official who commits a crime is never successfully punished effectively, punished fairly, in accordance with applicable laws, and this has become one of the patterns of the culture of impunity.”
Instead of criminal proceedings, the public is only presented with closed ethical hearings with minimal transparency. This also happened to the officers who ran over and killed Affan Kurniawan. Of the seven people involved in the incident, as of the end of 2026, no criminal charges have been filed. The most severe punishment has been dishonorable discharge and ethical sanctions.
Poster of Affan Kurniawan killed by police posted around Kwitang, (August 29). (Photo: Luthfi Maulana Adhari/Konde.co)
Members of the Mobile Brigade Corps (Brimob) who have been subjected to ethical sanctions are required to submit a written apology to the leadership of the Indonesian National Police, namely the Chief of Police, as a form of accountability for violating the professional code of ethics. This is in contrast to other political prisoners, such as Laras, who has been sentenced to one year in prison.
“Some of these perpetrators are still within the scope of ethical hearings, ethical investigations, by internal police institutions. They have not yet been pushed to be held accountable in court,” criticized Dimas.
In this landscape of impunity, the most extreme human rights violations during arrests continue to occur, namely extrajudicial killings. This practice shows that state officials still use lethal force without due process, without proportional threats, and without clear accountability.
The case of Padly in Ogan Komering Ulu, South Sumatra, is a concrete example of how the right to life is not guaranteed, especially for citizens who are in the most vulnerable social position.
“The Padly case is an illustration of how extrajudicial killings are still occurring this year,” said Dimas.
Padly died after being shot by police officers who were trying to arrest him on charges of throwing stones at a police station. Padly was a person with psychosocial disabilities. The fact that this violence was perpetrated against a vulnerable group, according to KontraS, shows the failure of the authorities to understand human rights standards and demonstrates a low level of sensitivity to the condition of disability.
“Padly’s case was in Sumatra. The process leading up to his arrest resulted in an extrajudicial killing, and it happened to a person with a disability, who is a vulnerable group,” said Dimas.
Dimas described this whole situation as a structural collapse of democracy and human rights.
“The year 2025 is like the apocalypse,” concluded Dimas.
Prison for Those Who Defend Their Land
The arrest season also spread to Dairi, North Sumatra.
The morning air in Dairi, North Sumatra, on Wednesday, November 12, 2025, was calm and cool. Pangihutan Sijabat, chairman of Pejuang Tani Bersama Alam (Petabal), was not giving a speech or leading a mass action. He was simply fulfilling his duty as a father taking his child to school.
The clock showed around seven in the morning. As his child slowly disappeared from Pangihutan’s view, entering the school gate, authorities suddenly arrived to arrest him.
A warning shot was fired into the air. Those seconds marked the boundary between life before and after. At that moment, Pangihutan’s son had already entered the school. The great trauma that was almost created was only a few steps away.
News of the arrest spread quickly. In the villages, it didn’t take long for the news to turn into collective anxiety. Their leader had been arrested without a warrant, but with weapons. The residents wanted to know what had really happened, wanted to confirm Pangihutan’s condition, wanted to hear directly from the authorities.
The momentum carried them to the Dairi Police Station. They came en masse, with their bodies, anger, and voices, not with plans for violence.
However, the space that was supposed to be a place for clarification turned into a space of chaos. The crowd grew larger, emotions ran high. In the midst of an uncontrollable situation, the police responded with several shots. The atmosphere became chaotic, screams were heard, and it was in this chaos that more arrests took place.
Dozens of people were detained. The number was large, the impact even greater. Some were released after two days. Women with disabilities who had been arrested were released early. However, not everyone was able to go home. In the days that followed, eleven people remained behind bars. Three of them were women. Each person faced different charges, but they were all bound by the same conflict.
In Dairi, conflict never comes as a single explosion. It creeps slowly, like morning fog descending from the hills, seeping into fields, wooden houses, and the conversations of women leading the line on the porch, until it finally obscures the view of what is safe and what is dangerous.
In this disaster-prone region, residents have long fought against the land that has been divided up on concession maps. At least two large companies have disturbed their peace: PT Dairi Prima Mineral and PT Gunung Raya Utama Timber Industry.
When the state grants forest management permits to companies, an unequal relationship begins to form between the residents who remain and the corporations that arrive with legal legitimacy. The conflict between the residents of Dairi and PT Gunung Raya Utama Timber Industry (GRUTI) grew out of this inequality.
In explaining this series of events, BAKUMSU Executive Secretary Juniaty Aritonang, who accompanied the Dairi residents’ advocacy, recounted the chronology that is key to understanding how the agrarian conflict transformed into a criminalization of residents. Her explanation emphasizes the map of emotions and power at work in Dairi:
From Juni’s explanation, it is clear how one land conflict spread into three incidents: the burning of a command post in the disputed area, the burning of the village head’s house, and demonstrations at the police station.
In this vortex, the term “incitement” became a flexible net, as was the pattern that occurred on a national scale in the August 2025 action. This article was able to ensnare both the head of the organization and ordinary citizens. The perpetrators of the arson were said to be unknown, but the accusations still found their target.
On the other hand, the damage caused by PT GRUTI to the lands of land rights activists in Dairi in June was not seen as a problem.
Eleven people who are still detained today live in a long limbo. They await legal proceedings while bearing the burden of a structural conflict that is much greater than themselves. Dairi, in the end, is not just about who burned what, or who threw stones where. It is a story about how power works on contested land, about how the voices of citizens can turn into court cases, and about how one ordinary morning can change the lives of many people for a very long time.
The criminalization of indigenous peoples and land rights activists never arises in a vacuum.
This precedent always grows out of unequal power relations, economic interests that require land, forests, and natural resources, and a state that chooses to act as a facilitator of exploitation. Behind every arrest, every criminal charge, there is always a story about land and living space that is considered expendable.
“So these cases of criminalization are not isolated incidents. They are always linked to the seizure of customary lands. That’s for sure,” said Rukka Sombolinggi, Secretary General of the Indigenous Peoples Alliance of the Archipelago (AMAN), to Konde.co (17/12).
The Indigenous Peoples Alliance of the Archipelago (AMAN) recorded that 162 indigenous people were criminalized throughout 2025. Meanwhile, Auriga Nusantara recorded 31 precedents of threats against environmental activists. Konde.co itself, by processing data from various reports and news throughout 2025, recorded that 330 activists fighting for land rights and living space were criminalized.
The report adds to the grim record of violence documented by AMAN, which shows that in the decade leading up to 2024 (2014-2024) there were 687 agrarian conflicts in customary territories covering 11.07 million hectares. As a result, more than 925 indigenous people ( ) were criminalized, 60 of whom were subjected to violence by state officials, and 1 person died.
Agrarian conflicts in customary territories during 2014-2024. (Source: AMAN 2024 Year-End Report)
According to Rukka, criminalization is not a spontaneous response to legal violations, but rather part of a strategy to control living spaces. It works like a knife aimed precisely at the heart of resistance.
In this pattern, the targets of criminalization are almost always the same: those who stand at the forefront, who speak out, who are considered leaders.
“Well, those who experience criminalization are usually not ordinary citizens. Usually, they are the leaders of the resistance,” said Rukka.
By removing the leaders, the state and corporations hope that the resistance will lose its direction, the community will lose its footing, and fear will spread to homes, fields, and forests.
In the midst of this discussion, indigenous women often do not appear in the main narrative. They are not considered leaders, do not always stand at the front of demonstrations, do not always appear as spokespersons, and are therefore often erased from stories of resistance.
In fact, leadership in indigenous communities is never that narrow.
“Leaders are not only those at the forefront. Leaders are not only those who attend meetings and go to the House of Representatives. The role of women should not be downplayed in the resistance,” said Rukka, who is also an indigenous woman.
According to Rukka, indigenous women exercise leadership in their own way. They ensure that food is available, families survive, and communities do not collapse when their men are arrested, hunted, or imprisoned.
Women’s gardens are the foundation of resistance, a space where politics meets the care of life.
“Because it is women who feed these people. Where would these people go to get money if it weren’t for the women who feed them? If it weren’t for the produce from women’s gardens,” she said.
However, precisely because their work takes place in an agrarian space, this role is often underestimated. The narrative of leadership is still masculine biased, measuring resistance by who speaks the loudest, not who has supported life the longest. Therefore, strengthening the narrative of women’s leadership is a political task in itself.
“So, I think we still need to continue to strengthen the narrative of women’s leadership. Because if we are also biased, we are also being unfair when we do not appreciate women, regardless of how small or big their role is, even though their role is actually very big.”
In the collective memory of many indigenous communities, there is an awareness that the conquest of a nation does not always begin with weapons. It can begin with the subjugation of women.
The story in Seko is the most vivid example of how resistance works in a gendered way. When men are at the forefront of action and are then hunted down by the authorities, the living space is not immediately emptied. Women are not only quick to guard the village; they maintain the continuity of life, ensuring that the land remains cultivated, the fields continue to bear fruit, and the children continue to eat.
“In Seko, the men took action, then they were chased by the police, they ran into the forest and the women guarded the village. The women guarded the fields from the people who had been imprisoned,” said Rukka.
This experience clearly illustrates what ecofeminism refers to as the intersection between the oppression of women and the exploitation of nature.
Indigenous women and land are in the same position: both are viewed as resources, both are taken over without consent, and both are removed when they resist. When criminalization breaks resistance, it is not only the individual’s body that is attacked, but also the system of life that women protect.
This awareness grows stronger when we see how indigenous peoples collectively protect the global ecosystem.
“Indigenous peoples are mentioned in the IPCC (Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change) report, which states that we can still survive because 80% of the best areas, because we still have the best ecosystems, including forests. And 80% of that is because it is protected by indigenous peoples and local communities.”
However, it is precisely at this point that the most fundamental rights of indigenous peoples are often violated: the right to self-determination. The principle of Free, Prior, and Informed Consent (FPIC) should be at the heart of the protection of collective rights.
This right does not stand alone. It is directly linked to the dignity and autonomy of the community. This means that indigenous peoples have the right to determine whether a project will proceed or not, without pressure, manipulation, or threats.
However, in practice, FPIC has been reduced to an empty formality. Consultations are falsified, decisions are directed, and consent is produced under the shadow of power.
“FPIC is not consultation or socialization. FPIC is consent. Agree or disagree. So it is the embodiment of the collective rights of indigenous peoples over their land, territory, natural resources, and livelihoods. And that includes what is known as the right to self-determination.”
“So it’s not just consultation. It’s not just socialization. It’s free. There should be no intervention or interference from outside parties. Only indigenous peoples should be allowed to deliberate and make decisions. In reality, officials and companies often act as pressure groups, rather than parties who respect the decisions,” criticized Rukka.
As a result, indigenous peoples often only realize that their land has been seized when everything has already been marked with stakes by the company. Stakes have become the most obvious symbol of structural violence for land rights activists. They serve as a sign that decisions about the land, their bodies, and their future have been made without them.
“Indigenous peoples usually find out that their land has become the property of a company or is going to be explored after someone comes to the village carrying stakes,” he said.
At this point, criminalization, the erasure of women’s roles, and violations of the right to self-determination converge in a cycle of violence. The state, through its laws and apparatus, chooses to side with capital, while indigenous women continue to preserve life in spaces that are never considered political. Yet it is there that the most fundamental resistance takes place.
Rasi, an indigenous woman from Kaluppini who is entrusted with guarding the Sapo Lalanan traditional house in Kaluppini Village, Enrekang Regency, South Sulawesi. (Photo: doc. Konde.co/Salsabila Putri Pertiwi)
Criminalization does not stop at physical arrest. It extends to the most cosmic and essential aspects of indigenous life: spirituality, rituals, and the culture that binds people to their land.
In one case in Tano Batak, criminalization targeted those who had been maintaining the spiritual rhythm of the community as Gondang players, a musical instrument used in their traditional rituals. The detention was not merely the imprisonment of individuals, but also severed the relationship between humans, ancestors, and nature that had been maintained through the sounds and rituals of two villages at once.
“They are gondang players. Gondang is Batak music. But this is not just any gondang, it is ritual gondang. So because they are in prison, they can no longer play gondang for rituals, they can no longer perform rituals because the gondang players cannot do so as they are being detained.”
“Not only are they physically detained to weaken their struggle, but it also affects their rituals, which are now incomplete. So, the two villages cannot perform gondang rituals because the gondang players are detained,” explained Rukka.
These patterns of criminalization are made possible by Indonesia’s long history of laws that have never been neutral. Since independence, laws have not been developed to protect indigenous peoples, but rather to pave the way for exploitation as a continuation of new colonization.
“Well, what has emerged since Indonesia’s independence are various laws that have been used, always used, to legalize robbery.”
Rukka criticizes various laws such as those on forestry, mining, plantations, and other natural resources as formal instruments that wrap up dispossession in the language of legality.
According to him, legality is never synonymous with justice. Even when the seizure is legally valid, it still loses its moral and constitutional legitimacy under the constitution, which, according to Rukka, emphasizes the spirit of anti-colonialism, including the colonization of the rights of land rights activists.
“Well, but even so, legalization, although legally valid, means that the seizure of customary lands is legalized but has no legitimacy because it contradicts the constitution,” he explained.
Benny Wijaya, Head of the Campaign Department of the Agrarian Reform Consortium (KPA), reminded that before the wave of deregulation and project acceleration, Indonesia actually had a legal mechanism that explicitly recognized the position of the community as subjects of development, not objects that must be sacrificed.
“For example, in the context of PSN, or national strategic projects. In the past, development was governed by Law No. 2 of 2012 on land acquisition for development in the public interest,” he said when interviewed by Konde.co on Tuesday, December 16, 2025.
According to Benny, this law on land acquisition for public interest development was not created without limits. It clearly defines what is meant by “public interest” and limits the types of projects that can use the state land acquisition scheme.
However, more important than the list of projects is the process that should precede every development. This law, says Benny, places dialogue as the foundation, not administrative formalities.
“Well, it explains the allocation. What is included in the public interest? Infrastructure, toll roads, highways, including ports, airports, and so on.”
“Well, the process is also explained in the law. There is a process that must be followed when acquiring land and designating a location, whereby the government or project party is obliged to engage in dialogue with the community.”
However, what is written on paper, says Benny, rarely happens in practice. The procedures, which should be multi-layered and participatory, are cut short, while the rights of the community are reduced to compensation figures.
“In practice, the government often disregarded this. There was never any dialogue to seek agreement with the community, whether the community agreed with the use, meaning that the rights of the community farmers were ignored. Often it was cut short, going straight to compensation, which also did not provide any options other than compensation in the form of money.”
When residents rejected the compensation amount that was unilaterally determined, the state did not act as a mediator, but rather as a threat that pushed residents to give up due to exhaustion and fear.
“Even worse, in some cases, when the community refuses to accept the compensation amount, they are threatened with legal action. Eventually, the community is slowly forced to accept the amount unilaterally determined by the government. Well, conflicts like this often occur.”
Instead of evaluating these practices, the state has reversed its perspective. The problem is not a violation of rights, but rather an obstacle to development.
“However, the government does not see the problem in this way. Instead, it sees the government as having difficulty finding land for infrastructure development.”
This perspective then became the basis for policy revisions through the Job Creation Law. According to Benny, these revisions did not improve practices, but rather removed the remaining protections.
“That is one of the reasons why the Job Creation Law, Law No. 2/2012, was revised. This means that the priority rights of the community have been eliminated.”
Table: Key Provisions of the UUCK and Its Agrarian Impact
| Land BankArticles 125-126 and Article 129 paragraphs 1-4Agrarian Implications: Creates new provisions regarding the Land Bank that have the potential to overlap the authorities of the ATR/BPN and the Land Bank, as well as facilitate land grabbing for business interests. | HPL and Land RightsArticles 136 and 138 paragraphs 1-5Agrarian Implications: Restores the principle of domeinverklaring through a deviation from the concept of Management Rights (HPL), making the state the owner of the land and making it easier for HPL holders to grant Land Rights to third parties. | Sarusun and Foreign Ownership RightsArticle 32 points 1-2 and Article 68 points 2-4Agrarian Implications: Contradicts Article 42 of the Basic Agrarian Law, which only allows foreign nationals to have right of use, not ownership rights. |
| Food PolicyArticle 123 points 1-8Agrarian Implications: Eliminates the obligation to fulfill national food needs, impacting the freedom of the government and entrepreneurs to import, moving away from the mandate of food sovereignty. | Land AcquisitionArticle 29 points 1-19Agrarian Implications: Contradicts Article 18 of the Basic Agrarian Law, which requires the release of rights/provision of adequate compensation. Oriented towards accommodating business interests and national strategic projects. | PlantationsArticle 36 points 1-18Agrarian implications: Opens up opportunities for land grabbing by plantation companies. |
| Forestry & EnvironmentArticle 36 point 17 and Article 37 points 4-20Agrarian Implications: Eliminates government efforts to prevent and enforce laws against forestry violations, and facilitates the use of forest areas for business interests. | MiningArticle 39 points 1-2Agrarian implications: The imposition of a 0% royalty is contrary to Article 33 of the 1945 Constitution and does not improve the welfare of the community. | Coastal Areas and Small IslandsArticle 18 points 1-12Agrarian Implications: Opens up opportunities for the seizure of fishing grounds and coastal areas belonging to fishermen in the name of national strategic policies/areas. |
| Spatial PlanningArticle 150 paragraph 3, Article 157 and Article 173Agrarian Implications: Facilitates and increases areas designated by the government as investment areas and national strategic projects. | KEK and PSNArticles 160 and 163Agrarian implications: The 50% requirement that has been mastered will risk corruption by issuing false evidence of community rights release. |
Furthermore, the definition of public interest was expanded in a problematic manner. PSN status then became absolute justification for evictions. It is not surprising that almost all projects then competed to be labeled as PSN, including private projects.
“Even PSNs that were not initially included are now included in the context of the land acquisition law, which makes it easier, including mines that are not actually part of the public interest, which are now also included as part of the public interest. PSNs, for example, even those that already have PSN status, have an easier land acquisition process, which is not as ideal as Law No. 2. When it has PSN status, it means that evictions are legalized, there are no more, and the community can no longer refuse anything.”
The Job Creation Law also has serious implications for the forestry and plantation sectors, particularly palm oil. This law also exacerbates the escalation of agrarian conflicts that are occurring across the board, which in turn directly increases the criminalization of those fighting for land rights and living space.
“Included in the Job Creation Law are policies that whitewash palm oil in forest areas, including amnesty for palm oil plantations in forest areas, processes that violate regulations, and so on.”
“So, the Job Creation Law further exacerbates this escalation. Because of this, rather than creating disharmony between laws, it actually makes it easier and weakens the community’s bargaining power when dealing with development policies, whether in the mining sector, the plantation sector, or even in national strategic projects that are currently underway,” explained Benny.
The emergence of the Land Bank has worsened the situation. In practice, the Land Bank has become a tool for land grabbing, even though these lands have been cultivated for decades.
“And one of the reasons for the establishment of the Land Bank is also the Job Creation Law, although the idea had already been developed before the Job Creation Law.”
“The Land Bank is even worse. It is an entity used to collect abandoned land, state-owned land, and the impact is that the Land Bank unilaterally seizes land in various areas belonging to the community because it is considered state land.”
Although Indonesia has an agrarian reform policy, its implementation has stalled due to weak political will. He emphasized that the problem is not a lack of regulations, but rather a lack of commitment.
“If we look at this presidential regulation, it is a revision of Presidential Regulation 86 of 2018 on agrarian reform. In terms of policy context, we actually already have many positive policies, including the Basic Agrarian Law , and the aforementioned Presidential Regulation. However, we see that the government’s political will is not strong. So, it’s just lip service. It’s just a pro-people gimmick,” explained Benny.
The term “lip service” was also mentioned by Juni, even after the major disaster that struck Sumatra, BAKUMSU did not see any seriousness from the government in addressing agrarian issues, which are suspected to be one of the causes of the disaster.
The governor’s statement that he would recommend revoking the permit was deemed meaningless in June because there was no decisive follow-up after the statement was made.
“The local government has also failed to respond to the cries of the people today. We have heard Bobby Nasution, our governor, speak about the conflict with Toba Pulp Lestari. He has indeed conveyed a recommendation—at the insistence of the community—that Toba Pulp Lestari’s permit be revoked if it is proven to have violated the rules. However, to this day, the letter has not been issued. Only a statement has been released, not an official decree or policy regarding the conflict between the community and Toba Pulp Lestari. Until now, there has been no policy.”
“So it’s all just lip service. Everything is lip service. How is it possible that in the future, even until next year, 2026, they still dare to make such efforts? In my opinion, there is no seriousness at all,” said Juni.
As a result, conflict resolution has been virtually non-existent. Even though concrete proposals have been put forward, the outcome remains the same: the state’s approach is considered increasingly repressive and state-centric.
Even since 2016, the KPA has proposed that around 850 areas of agrarian conflict in Indonesia be resolved, either through Presidential Regulation 86 at that time, or through Presidential Regulation 62 now, but less than 1% have been resolved. Moreover, the perspective has become increasingly state-centric, so it seems as if what the government is doing through, say, food self-sufficiency, through the TNI, fighter jets, and so on, is the right thing to do,” explained Benny.
As a result, the consequence is an escalation of violence with an increasingly diverse range of violent actors.
“And we can also see cases of mass arrests and mass criminalization, with the actors involved becoming increasingly diverse,” said Benny.
Arrests and Disappearances in Papua
The new year had only been underway for three days. On the morning of January 3, 2025, the streets of Dekai, Papua Pegunungan, were still tense since gunshots broke the silence on January 1, . Two teenagers, YM (14) and HS (17), were arrested by a group of police officers from the Papua Police Mobile Brigade Special Unit who stopped them on Kali Bonto Sosial Street during a patrol.
Without any prior warning, both were escorted away without a clear reason.
Since that day, until March 2025, there has been no clear news about them. This case represents the beginning of the year, showing the vulnerability of Papuan civilians, including children, amid increasingly intense armed conflict.
A month after the arrest of YM and HS, Human Rights Monitor (HRM) documented a series of repressive actions by the authorities against students in Papua who rejected the Free Nutritious Meals (MBG) program. The wave of protests began on February 3, 2025, when hundreds of students in Dekai City, Yahukimo Regency, took to the streets to express their rejection of a policy that they believed did not address the structural problems of education and welfare in Papua.
Two weeks later, on February 17, 2025, the protests spread to various regions. Actions were reported in Wamena, Jayapura, Sentani, Nabire, Timika, Yalimo, and Dogiyai, involving students and university students. In Dogiyai, the authorities allowed the demonstration to take place, but with strict supervision that from the outset treated the participants as a security threat. In other areas, authorities chose a repressive approach.
HRM reported forced dispersals in a number of locations accompanied by the use of tear gas, beatings, mass arrests, and intimidation of students, even within school grounds. On that day, at least 78 protesters were arbitrarily arrested, while six students in Jayapura and Nabire were subjected to ill-treatment at the hands of the authorities. This practice of violence demonstrates how the civil space for students in Papua continues to be narrowed through a security approach.
In Wamena and Yalimo, police officers were also reported to have fired warning shots to disperse the crowd. However, HRM stated that it had not received any reports of protesters being injured by bullets in either region. This statement came amid denials by the Papua Regional Police (Polda Papua) that firearms had been used in handling the demonstrations.
Papua Police spokesperson, Commissioner Ignatius Benny Ady Prabowo, stated that the photos of bullet casings circulating on social media were part of the West Papua National Coalition (KNPN) effort to corner the government. However, this denial did not address field reports of physical violence, arbitrary arrests, and intimidation of students that had been documented.
Photo of a student injured during a protest against the MBG in Papua (Photo: Human Rights Monitor)
For HRM, the pattern of forced dispersal and criminalization of students who voice their rejection of this state policy is a serious violation of the rights to freedom of expression and peaceful assembly. HRM also emphasizes the need for an independent investigation into allegations of excessive use of force and torture against students in Jayapura and Sentani.
“In a war situation, there is no longer any distinction between children, women, or priests,” said Emanuel Gobay, Director of the Papua Legal Aid Institute (LBH), during a discussion at the YLBHI office on Tuesday (16/12).
A few weeks later, in Biak, Tineke Rumkabu, a human rights defender, was intimidated in her own home. Officials arrived while she was praying. They questioned her about her activities, took notes, and returned again in the following days.
Human Rights Monitor noted this pattern as non-judicial intimidation against human rights defenders. This intimidation sends a signal that surveillance does not require handcuffs to be effective; the mere feeling of being watched is enough.
In February, the pattern shifted to Jayapura. Five students were arrested from a rented house without a warrant. They were taken away by officers in plain clothes, blindfolded and handcuffed. According to the HRM report, these students were beaten and intimidated during their initial detention.
In Manokwari, in March 2025, officers visited the Jayawijaya student dormitory at night. There were no reports of crime. There were only identity checks, threatening questions, and the presence of weapons that turned the dormitory into a place of fear.
These events are considered to be the militarization of educational spaces. Campuses, schools, and dormitories, which should be places for thinking and growing, are treated as security risk nodes.
“In some districts, children cannot attend school because teachers have fled to the city. We are grateful that there are still teachers from outside Papua who remain, but many local teachers have also fled instead of teaching. This is very concerning. Education is important to us Papuans. If this situation continues, I am concerned that future generations of Papuans will lose their future. Even in the next 50 years, there may no longer be Papuan children studying outside the region, because many do not have diplomas or face administrative obstacles,” said Eka Kristina Yeimo, a member of the DPD RI at the YLBHI Building (16/12).
In April, armed conflict in Yahukimo escalated sharply after the TPNPB attacked gold miners. This incident was immediately followed by a large-scale security operation. This escalation was described as a turning point that accelerated the spiral of violence, with armed attacks being met with military operations, and civilians once again becoming victims.
On May 14, 2025, in Timika, a group of young Catholic activists gathered for prayer. There was no political declaration. There was no plan of action. However, the authorities arrived, broke into the church, and detained several participants without a warrant.
This incident was an arbitrary detention in the context of religious activities. Even prayer can be interpreted as a threat if performed by Papuans who speak out. This precedent even gave rise to the terms “OPM priest” or “OPM pastor.”
“The term ‘OPM priest’ or ‘OPM pastor’ has even emerged, and these individuals were then arrested in churches,” said Gobay.
In the same month, in Intan Jaya, military operations reached their peak. There were mass evacuations, restrictions on humanitarian access, and allegations of forced disappearances of eight civilians. Families lost their loved ones without knowing whether they had been detained, killed, or forcibly relocated.
“In areas of armed conflict, extrajudicial killings continue to occur. To date, not a single case has been processed to the level of prosecution or trial, whether through the police, the prosecutor’s office, human rights courts, or the National Human Rights Commission. We continue to report these cases, but the process stops there,” explained Gobay.
Every civilian death in Papua, according to KontraS records, can be negated with one label: OPM, without a transparent investigation.
“When, for example, there is a shooting of someone who is later associated with the TPNPB or OPM, there is never a thorough identification and so on, so that the TNI can deny it by simply saying that the person concerned is a member of the TPNPB or OPM,” explained Dimas.
In Papua, violence often leaves dead bodies, but not always. It also often leaves uncertainty. This uncertainty then slowly destroys lives.
Throughout 2025, Human Rights Monitor recorded 145 Papuans arrested and 8 forcibly disappeared by October 2025. Further monitoring by Konde.co recorded an additional 54 cases of arrests by December 2025. Seven of them were women.
However, these reports also confirm that these figures most likely do not cover all cases, given limited access, victims’ fear of reporting, and information control in conflict areas.
Komnas Perempuan complained about the difficulty of accessing data, especially gender-disaggregated data. Komnas Perempuan commissioner Yuni Asriyanti even said that the situation is worse than it was 13 years ago.
“Imagine that in the past 13 years, the situation has not improved, but has actually worsened. In the past, documentation such as that carried out by Komnas Perempuan was still possible by involving the victims directly. Now, that space is getting smaller and access is becoming more difficult,” Yuni lamented during a discussion at the YLBHI Building (16/12).
Yuni added that the deployment of troops not only serves as a security mechanism, but also triggers the escalation of conflict in the affected areas. In situations like this, violence often increases, including extrajudicial killings, the growth of the military business, and the displacement of civilians. This series of impacts ultimately deepens existing structural poverty, as communities lose their sense of security, livelihoods, and access to basic services.
“The pattern that occurs is the deployment of troops to secure economic interests, which then triggers escalation of conflict, extrajudicial killings, military business, and displacement that exacerbates structural poverty.”
With the two issues above, namely the difficulty of recording data and the escalation of conflict due to vested interests, women’s vulnerability is at a boiling point.
“This indicates a very high level of vulnerability for women in armed conflict areas,” said Yuni.
Because behind those numbers are children who have dropped out of school, mothers on the front lines, young people learning to live with trauma, and indigenous communities uprooted from their land.
“They (the residents) conveyed two main points: first, the need for comprehensive handling of refugees (education, sanitation, environment); second, the importance of withdrawing military troops from the Papua region. Actually, if it is only for security purposes, the presence of the police and military district command is sufficient. However, the current number of troops exceeds the number of local residents,” concluded Eka.
The series of stories throughout this article shows that what happened to Ryan, Alfarisi, young activists, land rights activists, and Papuans is a complete portrait of of the cycle of state violence that repeats itself, starting from arbitrary arrests, criminalization of criticism, impunity of officials, and escalation of repression.
At this point, in 2025, as KontraS puts it, it is fitting to call it #KiamatDemokrasi (the end of democracy) because what is collapsing is not only civil liberties, but also the hope for a humane rule of law.
Without dismantling impunity, ending criminalization, and restoring victims’ rights, this season of arrests risks continuing into the coming years, especially with the specter of new Criminal Code and Criminal Procedure Code regulations that expand repressive powers.
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