Fear has always been a weapon for those in power. During colonial times, the rulers feared the people they controlled, just as today’s government fears its citizens when they speak up. Every time protests break out, the state builds tall barricades and spreads news that makes protesters look violent. But the real violence doesn’t always come from street clashes—it happens in everyday life. It’s in how the government cuts healthcare budgets, passes careless policies, and lets public services crumble. It’s like slowly removing the crutches from someone who can’t walk, then blaming them when they fall. State violence isn’t just about police and prisons; it’s also about making sure people don’t get the help they need to live.

To start, violence is something our country is very familiar with. We can trace it back to its pre and post-colonial times. Two waves of unprecedented Dutch violence swept through the Indonesian archipelago. The Dutch inflicted two major waves of violence: the first in the late 17th century, when the VOC (the Dutch East India Company) sought to control key trade routes like Melaka and Makassar, using brutal force to outdo the Portuguese. The second wave, between 1871 and 1910, saw the full force of imperial expansion, with the colonial state waging 32 wars and spending one-third of its budget on military operations. Though the early 20th century was framed as the “Ethical Policy,” aimed at improving native lives (talk about white savourism and “damage control”), the Dutch imposed severe punishments to force obedience. The violence during this time laid the groundwork for the repressive systems that would continue into Indonesia’s post-colonial era.

As Frantz Fanon explains, colonial violence doesn’t just disappear after independence. It continues to affect the people and the society long after the colonial rulers are gone. The trauma of that violence becomes a part of the system, influencing both how the government rules and how the people respond. In Indonesia, the state’s use of violence and repression is a direct result of this ongoing cycle that started during colonial times. Just as Fanon argued, the damage done by violence doesn’t go away—it shapes the way people and governments act even generations later. Michel Foucault’s ideas about power help explain why this cycle of violence keeps going. Power isn’t just about force; it’s also about controlling how people think, behave, and live. The Indonesian government continues to use violence, but it also controls people through other means, like surveillance, punishment, and rewards. This is what Foucault meant when he said power works not just by force but by shaping society through rules and systems that keep people in line. 

Even after independence, Indonesia’s government still carries the weight of its colonial and massive feudal past.

The government in Indonesia has inherited more from its colonial past than it often admits. Much like the Dutch rulers before them, today’s comprador class of leaders are deeply wary of their people, afraid that relaxing their grip on power could lead to unrest or even the break-up of the nation. This fear has led to a system where power remains in the hands of a select few, especially the military, which works alongside secret police to keep a close watch on the population. The echoes of feudalism, where power was concentrated in the hands of a few elites, are still present in how leadership works in Indonesia today. The focus on loyalty, hierarchy, and control mirrors the past, where the ruler’s authority was unquestioned, creating a system that benefits the powerful and leaves the majority of the people sidelined.

This concentration of power isn’t just a holdover from the past—it’s also seen in the political dynasties that have shaped the country. The Cendana family, led by the late President Suharto, is a prime example of how political power has often stayed within a small, elite group. Even today, the influence of family ties continues. Joko Widodo, or Jokowi, despite his rise as a leader seen as a departure from the old guard, has built his network and is often criticised for creating a new kind of political dynasty. His connections and the ongoing patronage system point to a deeper trend in Indonesia’s politics—a cycle where power remains in the hands of a few, passing down through family ties and elite influence.

The #DarkIndonesia (#IndonesiaGelap) movement is calling for key reforms to address the ongoing culture of violence and repression within Indonesia’s state institutions. The demand to reevaluate the roles of the TNI (Indonesian National Armed Forces) and Polri (Indonesian National Police), alongside reforming Polri’s repressive culture, is a direct challenge to the system that has historically used force to maintain control. The movement also emphasises the need for accountability in human rights violations committed by state actors, reflecting the deep, lasting impact of colonial-era violence. Some of the demands call to review the revisions to the Mineral and Energy Law (UU Minerba), which curbs academic freedom, highlights the continued suppression of free speech and knowledge—echoing Foucault’s ideas about the state controlling power through information. Lastly, the demand for prioritising education and healthcare, is a demand for a more equitable system that invests in people’s well-being rather than state control and elite interests, while challenging budget cuts.

In understanding the deep-rooted violence in Indonesia’s political and social landscape, it’s important to consider the concept of structural violence. As Herrick and Bell (2020) point out, structural violence is when the very systems around us—political, social, and economic—keep certain groups at a place of disadvantage. It’s not always obvious, but its effects are felt in every corner of society, especially when it comes to health and access to basic services. In Indonesia, this plays out in the way the state uses power to suppress dissent and control its citizens. Whether it’s the military’s role or the silencing of protests, the long-standing legacy of colonial violence lives on, embedded in the systems that continue to marginalize vulnerable communities. Armstead and colleagues (2021) further highlight that violence risk isn’t just about direct conflict—it’s deeply rooted in economic instability, social exclusion, and systemic inequality. Indonesia’s current policies reflect these risk factors, as the government systematically neglects public welfare while maintaining elite interests. This neglect, in turn, fosters conditions that the state then uses to justify more repression—blaming poverty-driven crime and unrest on the people rather than on the policies that create them.

What’s even more troubling is how the government continues to frame the anger of civilians as “violence,” while in reality, it’s the ruling class that has been the source of violence all along. The current regime’s approach—through policies that prioritise control over the well-being of the people—only deepens this divide, reinforcing a cycle of violence that blames the oppressed for the system’s failings. In doing so, the government ironically positions itself as the victim while systematically perpetuating the very violence it accuses others of. This distortion of reality makes it harder for citizens to challenge the system, as their anger is framed as a disorder, not a response to the oppression they face daily.

No matter how much the government tries to suppress dissent, the people will not stop resisting. The anger that has built up over years of injustice and violence will continue to fuel protests, uprisings, and calls for change.

As Desmond Tutu wisely said, “If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor.” The people of Indonesia, despite facing overwhelming power, understand that silence and passivity only serve to uphold the system that oppresses them. Their persistence is a powerful reminder that those in power cannot maintain control forever, especially when the will of the people refuses to be silenced. Change is not a distant dream—it’s a reality waiting to happen, as long as the fight for justice continues.