As the Indonesian Independence Day draws near, one might expect a sea of red and white fluttering proudly in every corner of the nation. And yet, a curious phenomenon is unfolding at the grassroots level: rather than hoisting the national flag, many citizens—especially the youth—are raising the flag of
One Piece, the emblem from a wildly popular Japanese anime. This isn't merely a display of fandom; it is a symbolic drift, a quiet cultural shift, and perhaps even a subtle expression of disillusionment.
The One Piece flag, bearing the image of the Straw Hat Pirates' skull and crossbones, stands not for national pride but for freedom, rebellion, and adventure. For a generation increasingly bombarded with political theatrics, corruption, and economic precarity, the pirate flag may feel more authentic than the rhetoric that accompanies Merdeka Day speeches. In this context, flying the Jolly Roger becomes a kind of protest—a playful yet pointed expression of what independence should mean: not mere ceremonial ritual, but genuine liberation from inequality and stagnation.
This trend also reflects the power of global pop culture to penetrate national consciousness, especially when local narratives seem to fall short of inspiring the masses. The blending of anime symbolism with national sentiment may seem absurd to some, but it reveals a truth many feel but few dare say: that sometimes, fictional heroes speak more to the people's hopes than real-world leaders do.
The decision of many Indonesians to raise the One Piece flag instead of the national red-and-white is not an act of betrayal, but rather a quiet, creative outcry—a protest dressed in fandom. It speaks volumes about a widespread disillusionment festering beneath the surface. At its core, this symbolic gesture reflects a sense of being let down by those in power: a frustration with promises unkept, justice delayed, and leadership that often seems disconnected from the people it claims to serve.
For many, the ideals of independence—dignity, opportunity, equality—remain painfully out of reach. Corruption is no longer a whispered rumour but a recurring headline. Social mobility feels like a fantasy, and meritocracy, a myth. The citizens are weary of being treated as passive spectators to political games, where loyalty is rewarded more than competence, and where elites juggle multiple titles while young people struggle to find even one job.
By hoisting the One Piece flag, the people are not merely romanticising pirates—they are expressing a longing for authentic heroes, for leaders who dare to dream and fight for justice, much like Luffy and his crew. It's a poetic rebellion against stagnation, a coded message that says: "We want more than slogans—we want a future worth believing in."
This symbolic act of raising the One Piece flag does tap into deeper grievances rooted in economic inequality and institutional distrust. It is not merely a cultural trend—it is a coded form of social critique. Beneath the surface, there’s a simmering frustration with a system that appears to favour the privileged, while the rest are left to fend for themselves. For many Indonesians, particularly the youth, there's a growing sense that the state demands loyalty and taxes, yet gives back little in the form of justice, opportunity, or dignity.
People witness government officials living in excess, holding multiple high-paying positions, while ordinary citizens struggle to afford basic necessities or secure decent employment. They see tax scandals, opaque public spending, and public service institutions that feel cold, distant, and overly bureaucratic. These everyday experiences sow disillusionment—eroding the people's faith in the very institutions that were supposed to protect them.
By waving the One Piece flag, they’re not escaping reality; they’re exposing it. They are using fiction to voice truths that reality keeps suppressing. It’s a statement not just against individuals in power, but against a system that feels rigged—a system where fairness is a fantasy, and justice, a luxury. It is a silent, visual rebellion from those tired of being told to be patriotic, while the benefits of the nation seem reserved for the few.
Labelling the act of raising a One Piece flag as treason (makar) is a drastic overreach—both legally and morally. Treason, in any democratic society, refers to concrete acts aimed at overthrowing the government through violence, conspiracy, or subversion. Waving a pirate flag inspired by a fictional anime, even during a national holiday, does not meet that threshold. It is, at most, a symbolic act of expression—provocative, perhaps, but far from an existential threat to the state.
To conflate cultural expression with rebellion is to ignore the underlying message: people are not calling for the collapse of the republic, but for its revival—its reform. The One Piece flag, in this context, is a metaphor, not a manifesto. When lawmakers reduce such gestures to makar, they reveal more about their own insecurities than about the intentions of the people. In a healthy democracy, dissent—even playful or ironic dissent—is not only tolerated but necessary.
To criminalise symbolic acts of discontent is to silence the very voices that democracy claims to protect. It risks turning a moment of cultural critique into a dangerous witch-hunt, further alienating citizens who already feel unseen, unheard, and unrepresented.
History has seen several moments where fictional or non-state symbols were used by the people to express disillusionment or call for change, often misunderstood by authorities as subversion. One notable example is from post-war Japan, where students in the 1960s wore Zorro masks and Ultraman costumes during protests—not because they believed in superheroes, but because those characters symbolised justice, resistance, and hope, in contrast to the government’s perceived failure to address inequality and corruption.
Another striking case is the "Guy Fawkes mask" movement, popularised by the graphic novel V for Vendetta and later adopted globally during protests like Occupy Wall Street and anti-government rallies in countries such as Thailand, Hong Kong, and Chile. The mask became a symbol of resistance to systemic injustice and government overreach, even though it originated from fiction. Authorities in some countries panicked, banned the mask, or arrested wearers, mistaking cultural critique for revolutionary plotting.
These moments reveal a recurring pattern: when citizens feel voiceless, they often turn to the language of fiction, irony, and popular culture to articulate their frustrations. Instead of threatening national security, these acts often reflect a desire for reform—not destruction. Misinterpreting them as rebellion only deepens the rift between the rulers and the ruled.
There are several influential references that explore how people channel their frustration with power through symbols, protest, culture, and everyday resistance. One landmark work is "Weapons of the Weak: Everyday Forms of Peasant Resistance" by James C. Scott (Yale University Press, 1985). In this book, Scott explains how ordinary people, especially in rural Southeast Asia, express dissent through subtle acts—like humour, rumour, silence, or even ironic rituals—when they feel they cannot speak openly against authority.
Scott explores how Southeast Asian peasants, particularly in Malaysia, resist domination and economic injustice not through open rebellion, but through subtle, everyday acts. These forms of resistance are often disguised in gossip, silence, foot-dragging, feigned ignorance, or even ritual performances loaded with sarcasm. Rather than risk violent retaliation by confronting landlords, bureaucrats, or the state directly, these peasants opt for what Scott calls “infrapolitics”—a hidden transcript of resistance whispered behind the scenes, embedded in daily life.
For instance, in Kedah, Malaysia, Scott describes how villagers resist unfair rice quotas by secretly under-reporting their harvests or delivering poor-quality grain while pretending to comply with government rules. In public, they appear obedient and respectful; in private, they mock their overlords through stories, jokes, and coded songs during festivals. Even something as simple as a ritual prayer for rain can carry a biting undertone, subtly blaming elites for droughts or failed crops. Gossip becomes a potent weapon as well: by undermining the reputations of collaborators or greedy officials, the community reasserts its own moral order without drawing direct attention from those in power.
This quiet resistance is not flashy or headline-grabbing, but it is persistent. It allows the oppressed to maintain dignity, challenge injustice, and protect their interests without sparking violent suppression. Scott’s work highlights that even the most powerless can reshape power relations—not with guns or protests, but with whispers, smirks, and the clever use of cultural norms.
In
The Politics of Cultural Protest (SUNY Press, 1997), edited by David Trend, the contributors argue that when formal political channels become inaccessible, unresponsive, or co-opted by power, culture steps in as a battleground. Art, music, theatre, and even pop culture transform into potent tools of resistance, not because they shout the loudest, but because they slip under the radar, reaching hearts and minds where speeches and protests often fail. When laws are rigged and the media silenced, a graffiti mural, a punk song, or a satirical play can say what the people are no longer allowed to.
Cultural protest doesn't always wear a banner or demand a permit. It sneaks into everyday life: a hip-hop lyric exposing police brutality, a stand-up routine mocking corrupt leaders, or a fashion trend that reclaims indigenous identity. These acts resonate precisely because they speak the people's language, reflect their frustrations, and travel fast—sometimes viral—across communities that feel silenced. The book emphasizes that such expressions are not “just art” or “mere entertainment”; they are interventions in the political arena, often far more subversive than traditional protests.
When institutions fail to listen, culture finds a way to scream—through rhythm, canvas, costume, or meme. It blurs the lines between resistance and performance, turning creativity into confrontation. As Trend and his fellow contributors show, cultural protest becomes a lifeline when democracy feels like theatre and theatre becomes democracy in disguise.
In Culture Jamming: Activism and the Art of Cultural Resistance (NYU Press, 2017), edited by Marilyn DeLaure and Moritz Fink, the authors reveal how today’s citizens—armed with humour, irony, and internet fluency—are hijacking the tools of consumer culture to flip the script on power. Instead of rejecting pop culture, they remix it. Logos are twisted, slogans are spoofed, and even beloved anime characters are recontextualised to expose corporate greed, political hypocrisy, and the apathy of the state. This isn't vandalism—it’s semiotic warfare.
Culture jammers understand that the battleground of the 21st century is the attention economy. They weaponise virality, turning advertisements into anti-ads, memes into manifestos, and brand identities into biting critiques. A fast-food clown becomes the face of exploitation; a superhero is recast as a symbol of surveillance. By speaking the visual and digital language of the age, these acts cut through noise and reach the masses not through policy debates, but through parody and subversion. DeLaure and Fink show that culture jamming thrives on participation—it invites ordinary people to become co-conspirators in decoding and disrupting dominant narratives.
Ultimately, culture jamming is both protest and play—a digital-age rebellion that rewires the circuitry of meaning itself. It tells the powerful: you might control the message, but you don’t own the medium.
James M. Jasper's The Art of Moral Protest: Culture, Biography, and Creativity in Social Movements, published in 1997 by The University of Chicago Press. This landmark book redefined how scholars approach the inner workings of protest by shifting the lens from purely structural or material factors to the deeply personal, emotional, and cultural dimensions of activism. Jasper argues that social movements are not just strategic responses to inequality or injustice, but expressions of moral vision and personal meaning. He places great emphasis on the role of emotions, individual biographies, and creative choices in shaping collective action, thus humanising the very concept of resistance.
In contrast to earlier theories that focused mainly on resources or political opportunities, Jasper brings the reader into the intimate worlds of activists—their anger, hope, guilt, and joy—all of which influence how protests unfold. He explores how protest is not only a form of rebellion, but also a kind of art, full of improvisation, cultural symbolism, and personal identity. By analysing case studies ranging from anti-nuclear campaigns to civil rights movements, Jasper demonstrates that protest is as much about who we are and what we value, as it is about strategy or success.
From the analytical perspective of James M. Jasper’s The Art of Moral Protest, the phenomenon of Indonesian citizens raising the One Piece flag—particularly in moments of despair, resistance, or satire—reveals itself as a deeply moral and cultural performance rather than a random act of fandom. Jasper’s central thesis insists that protest is not only strategic, but also emotional, biographical, and creative. Thus, when poor communities or disillusioned youth in Indonesia hoist the Jolly Roger not as pirates but as symbols of freedom and rebellion, they are engaging in what Jasper would call a “moral spectacle”: a carefully curated act that expresses outrage, identity, and hope.
In Jasper’s framework, the use of the One Piece symbol becomes a form of cultural bricolage—taking fragments of global media and reassembling them into new protest meanings rooted in local suffering. These acts are not merely sarcastic or playful; they are emotional declarations, channeling frustration into a narrative of heroic resistance. For many, Luffy and his ragtag pirate crew represent the fantasy of dignity for the marginalised, loyalty among outcasts, and a quest for justice in a world dominated by corrupt empires—images that eerily mirror the realities of modern Indonesia.
More importantly, Jasper’s analysis helps us see that these protests are not impersonal reactions to policy failure or poverty, but rich personal performances shaped by the lived biographies and cultural imaginations of the protestors. The One Piece flag is hoisted not just to criticise elites, but to declare, “We, too, are on a journey—and we refuse to be erased.” That, Jasper would say, is where protest becomes art.
This book has become a seminal reference for anyone trying to understand why people take to the streets, wave strange flags, or risk arrest—not only because of what’s wrong with the system, but because of what feels right in their hearts.
In the end, the image of the One Piece flag fluttering beside the red-and-white Indonesian banner is not a betrayal of national pride, but a layered expression of hope, irony, and longing. It speaks to a generation caught between inherited patriotism and lived disillusionment—a generation that still salutes the Merah-Putih, but finds no harm in letting Luffy wave beside it. They are not rejecting the nation; they are reminding it to live up to its promises.
This pairing of flags becomes a subtle but potent form of everyday protest—what Jasper might call “the moral creativity of the oppressed.” It is a silent shout, a meme made manifest, a visual declaration that the values of freedom, justice, and loyalty are not the monopoly of state narratives. In combining the official with the fantastical, these citizens aren’t mocking the republic; they are reimagining it through their own cultural lens.
And perhaps that is where true patriotism now lives—in the refusal to surrender meaning to officialdom alone. By flying both flags, the people are not choosing between country and cartoon, but crafting a new kind of symbolic citizenship. One where protest is poetic, where rebellion is emotional, and where even a pirate flag can carry the weight of a nation’s dreams.
