Kriminalisasi: When Questions Become Crimes

In the Indonesian socio-political lexicon, the term “kriminalisasi” has taken on a weight far beyond its formal roots. While the word originates from the legal act of criminalising certain behaviour, in present-day Indonesia, it has evolved into a critique—a symbol of distrust in the legal system. It is invoked not merely to describe an unlawful act, but to signal a perception that justice is being manipulated for political or personal gain.

In British English, the equivalent term is "criminalisation", while in American English it is spelled "criminalization". Both refer to the legal process of making certain actions punishable by law. For instance, the criminalisation of smoking in public spaces or certain drugs follows this formal definition. This is the neutral, technical usage commonly found in policy or academic discourse.

However, the Indonesian understanding has moved well beyond this neutral meaning. In contemporary usage, kriminalisasi suggests that someone is being made into a criminal through distorted legal procedures, often under the pretext of upholding the law. The term carries connotations of injustice, fabrication, and repression—especially when levelled at those who dare to question authority.

This shift from a legal term to a political accusation reveals a great deal about the erosion of public trust in legal institutions. When people believe that the law is not applied equally, or that it serves those in power more than the public good, they begin to suspect that criminal charges are not always about guilt—but about silencing.

A recent example of this involves individuals raising questions about the legitimacy of a high-ranking official’s educational qualifications. Rather than engaging in a transparent clarification, the response was swift legal action against those who dared to ask. Suddenly, the accusers became the accused—not through a moral counterargument, but through legal prosecution.

In such cases, the legal system appears less like an instrument of fairness, and more like a weapon. The individuals under scrutiny are often charged with defamation, spreading hoaxes, or violating cyber laws—charges that are notoriously broad and open to interpretation. The timing and intensity of these charges often appear disproportionate, leading many to believe that these are not legal cases, but political statements.

This is where the term kriminalisasi becomes more than a buzzword. It is a shorthand for public anxiety: that justice has been hijacked by political interests. That one can no longer speak freely, ask tough questions, or express dissent without risking legal retaliation.

The criminalisation of questioning—of asking, “Is this degree real?” or “Why hasn't this issue been clarified?”—strikes at the very heart of democratic society. It turns curiosity into a crime, and concern into defamation. In such an environment, people learn to self-censor, not out of respect for the law, but out of fear of its abuse.

Democracy thrives on scrutiny. It survives because citizens have the freedom to interrogate those in power. Once that space shrinks, democracy begins to suffocate. The criminalisation of dissent does not protect a nation—it weakens it, eroding the very values it claims to uphold.

What makes this situation particularly troubling is that the legal system, which should be a neutral arbiter, becomes a partisan player. Instead of mediating conflict, it becomes a participant in it. When laws are selectively applied, or interpreted in ways that favour certain individuals or groups, the public begins to disengage—not just from politics, but from believing in justice itself.

In the unfolding controversy surrounding alleged fake diploma of a high-ranking public official, the actions of the Indonesian police have prompted serious questions about the neutrality and integrity of law enforcement. Rather than conducting an impartial investigation into the claims—which, in any healthy democracy, would be treated as a matter of public interest—the police appear to have positioned themselves not as guardians of justice, but as protectors of power. Those who dared to raise questions found themselves swiftly reported, summoned, or even threatened with prosecution, while the core issue—the legitimacy of the diploma—remained conspicuously unaddressed.

This pattern gives the distinct impression that the police are acting not as enforcers of law, but as instruments of political shielding. The very institution meant to uphold the constitution seems, in this case, to be more concerned with defending the dignity of the powerful than with defending the people’s right to know the truth. It’s not the allegations that are being thoroughly scrutinised, but rather the individuals making them. Inverting the logic of justice, the whistleblower becomes the suspect, and the powerful remain comfortably untouched.

In democratic societies, police forces are supposed to be impartial and accountable to the rule of law, not to individuals in high office. The perception that law enforcement is acting at the behest of political elites deeply damages public trust. When citizens see the police swiftly act against criticism but remain silent on potential fraud, it signals a worrying double standard—one that suggests the law bends with rank, not reason.

Moreover, the broader implications are cultural. When kriminalisasi becomes common, it changes how people talk, think, and act. It breeds cynicism, silence, and surveillance. People avoid topics, withdraw from public debate, and rely more on rumour than reason. Trust is replaced by suspicion. This weakens not only civil discourse, but the collective spirit of a democratic society.

In response, people turn to satire, memes, and social media hashtags. In a society where the formal channels of accountability feel blocked, digital culture becomes the new courtroom. Ironically, this too can invite prosecution—turning critique into "cybercrime." The cycle of criminalisation deepens, and public space becomes ever more policed.

The real tragedy lies in how normalised this has become. Instead of outrage, there's often resignation. People shrug and say, “Of course, you can’t say that anymore.” It’s not just law that is weaponised—it’s also fear. Fear of saying the wrong thing. Fear of being made into an example.

And so, the term kriminalisasi endures—not only as a linguistic adaptation of “criminalisation,” but as a national symptom. It signals a democracy that is not yet mature enough to tolerate scrutiny, and a legal culture that too often bends toward power. 

A question raised, polite and small,

Yet cuffs came down like a judgment’s call.

The law stood firm—but not for all,

For titles fake must never fall.

And the truth? It waits outside the hall.

[Bahasa]