G30S/PKI: A Reflection

Several striking historical anecdotes illustrate how personality cults in communist states clashed with ethical governance and human welfare—principles central to Pancasila.

One famous example is Mao Zedong’s “Little Red Book” era in China. During the Cultural Revolution (1966–1976), Mao’s image and quotations were treated almost as sacred scripture. Citizens, including children, were encouraged—or coerced—to carry and memorise the book, and failing to publicly demonstrate loyalty could result in humiliation, imprisonment, or death. Ordinary bureaucrats, teachers, and intellectuals were denounced simply for questioning party policy or expressing independent thought. The cult of Mao turned ideological obedience into a matter of life and death, prioritising loyalty to one man over moral reasoning, justice, or human dignity—clearly at odds with the Pancasila principle of “Kemanusiaan yang adil dan beradab.”

Another illustrative case is North Korea under Kim Il-sung and Kim Jong-il. Portraits of the leaders are ubiquitous, schoolchildren are required to sing songs praising them, and citizens are expected to demonstrate daily reverence. In practice, this cult of personality institutionalizes fear, suppresses dissent, and forces blind obedience, which runs contrary to Pancasila’s emphasis on participatory decision-making (“Kerakyatan yang dipimpin oleh hikmat kebijaksanaan dalam permusyawaratan/perwakilan”) and unity based on shared moral and humanistic values rather than coercion.

Even in the Soviet Union, Joseph Stalin’s era demonstrates the dangers vividly. Stalin was glorified as “Father of Nations,” with propaganda presenting him as infallible. People feared criticising policies, and arbitrary arrests, purges, and executions were common. The elevation of a single individual above the law and collective welfare clearly contradicts the Pancasila vision of ethical, balanced governance and respect for human life.

These anecdotes illustrate that personality cults replace collective responsibility with personal loyalty, suppress ethical judgment, and create social systems based on fear and idolisation—essentially the opposite of what Pancasila strives to uphold.

The personality cults seen in many communist states clearly contradict the philosophical foundations of Pancasila because Pancasila emphasises collective responsibility, moral leadership, and the primacy of the nation over individuals. One of its core principles is “Kemanusiaan yang adil dan beradab” (Just and Civilised Humanity), which stresses respect for human dignity, equality, and moral accountability. When a leader is elevated to near-divine status, obedience to the individual can override ethical considerations, human rights, and societal well-being—precisely what Pancasila warns against.

Furthermore, Pancasila’s principle of “Persatuan Indonesia” (Unity of Indonesia) promotes harmony among diverse communities and discourages authoritarian domination. Personality cults concentrate power in one person, often suppress dissent, manipulate ideology for personal glorification, and generate fear rather than unity. This is diametrically opposed to the Pancasila ideal of governance as a service to the people and the collective good, not to one individual’s ego.

In addition, the Pancasila principle of “Kerakyatan yang dipimpin oleh hikmat kebijaksanaan dalam permusyawaratan/perwakilan” (Democracy guided by inner wisdom in deliberation/representation) demands participatory and reasoned decision-making. Personality cults eliminate real deliberation, replacing debate and consensus with commands from a single figure. This undermines the Pancasila vision of democracy, rooted in mutual consultation and respect for the collective will.

In short, the worship of a single leader contradicts Pancasila because it prioritises power and loyalty to an individual over ethical governance, social justice, human dignity, and collective decision-making. Pancasila seeks to balance authority with morality and unity with plurality, while personality cults invert these values to elevate a single person above the law, the people, and moral responsibility.

Some of us deny that communists do not believe in religion; they say, there are communist figures who still adhere to their religion.

Yes, it is indeed possible for some communist figures to remain religious, although this might seem contradictory at first glance. Classical Marxist theory, as laid out by Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, strongly criticises religion, famously calling it “the opium of the people,” and promotes atheism as part of the materialist worldview. Many communist regimes, especially in the Soviet Union and China, actively discouraged or even suppressed religious practices.

Yet, history shows us that the reality was more nuanced. For instance, José Carlos Mariátegui, a Peruvian Marxist thinker, attempted to integrate spiritual and moral values drawn from Catholicism into his understanding of social justice, refusing to adopt rigid atheism. Similarly, Ernesto Cardenal, a Nicaraguan Catholic priest and poet, was actively involved in the Sandinista revolution while maintaining his religious identity. In countries such as Poland, Hungary, and Czechoslovakia, some members of communist parties continued to practice Catholicism or Orthodox Christianity, often navigating a delicate balance between party loyalty and personal faith. Even in Indonesia, Tan Malaka, a key communist figure, referenced spiritual concepts in his writings despite advocating socialist and materialist principles.

In short, the assumption that all communists are automatically atheists does not hold universally. While orthodox communism is formally atheistic, individual beliefs often adapt to local cultures and personal convictions, allowing for a surprising coexistence of communist ideology and religious faith.

However, the following will be the problem: if a communist state is fully established, the practical relationship between communism and religion becomes much more complicated. In orthodox communist theory, religion is seen as a tool that distracts people from the struggle for social and economic equality, so the state often promotes atheism as the official stance. In practice, this usually leads to restrictions on religious institutions, surveillance of religious leaders, and propaganda against religious practices.

For example, in the Soviet Union, churches were closed, religious education was banned, and clergy were often persecuted or forced to conform to state directives. In China under Mao, temples and mosques were destroyed, and religious rituals were heavily controlled or banned entirely during the Cultural Revolution. However, in countries like Cuba or Vietnam, the state eventually allowed a degree of religious freedom while maintaining strict political control, recognising that completely eradicating faith was impractical.

Even when religion is allowed, it is typically subordinated to the state: religious activities are monitored, and loyalty to the communist party is expected to take priority over spiritual matters. The survival of religious faith in such contexts depends on the resilience of communities and their ability to adapt practices under surveillance. In short, in a fully communist state, religion can exist, but it is rarely free in the sense of being independent from political oversight.

For an individual communist who personally maintains a religious belief, there may be no immediate conflict while they remain just one person within a broader society. Their faith and political ideology can coexist privately, as in the case of thinkers like José Carlos Mariátegui or Ernesto Cardenal. The tension typically arises when a communist movement attempts to establish a state, because orthodox communism as a governing system usually demands conformity to atheism and materialist ideology.

Once a communist state is formed, the political and legal structures of the state often conflict with independent religious practice. The state tends to subordinate religion to political goals, regulate religious institutions, and monitor or restrict spiritual activity. Religious leaders who hold political power or try to influence policy outside the state’s framework are often seen as a threat. This is why we see cases in the Soviet Union, China, and North Korea where even nominally religious individuals faced pressure, surveillance, or persecution once communism became the official system of governance.

So, the coexistence of communism and religion is usually manageable at the level of the individual or intellectual thought, but systemic conflict emerges when communism becomes a state apparatus with authority over society.

In a sense, communist ideology functions like a secular religion for its adherents. While classical Marxism-Leninism is officially atheist, it often elevates its doctrine to a moral and existential framework that demands absolute faith, obedience, and devotion, similar to religious practice. Core principles—such as class struggle, historical materialism, and the eventual triumph of the proletariat—are treated as immutable truths, guiding every aspect of personal and societal life.

Communist regimes often create rituals, symbols, and even sacred texts (like Mao’s Little Red Book or Lenin’s writings) that followers must internalise. Leaders are frequently idolised as prophets or saviors of the ideology, reinforcing the quasi-religious character of the movement. In this sense, the ideology itself becomes an object of worship, and dissent is treated as heresy. Ethical and moral questions are framed entirely through the lens of the ideology, rather than independent human judgment or universal principles.

This “religion of ideology” explains why communist states often exhibit zeal similar to religious fanaticism, including mass mobilisations, indoctrination of youth, and intolerance of opposing views. It also clarifies why personality cults and ideological orthodoxy are central: the system substitutes faith in God with faith in the revolutionary idea and the “prophetic” leader who embodies it.

Some also say, "Look at Putin, he's been reported in the media as respecting Islam." So, what exactly is his attitude toward religion in his own country?

Vladimir Putin’s public image certainly projects respect for religion, including Islam, especially in international media. In interviews and public events, he often highlights Russia’s multicultural and multi-religious heritage, meeting with Muslim leaders and attending Islamic celebrations. This has led some observers to suggest that Putin personally respects Islam and other religions.

However, the reality within Russia is more complex. Putin and the Russian state primarily support the Russian Orthodox Church, which is closely tied to national identity and state ideology. Other religions, including Islam, Judaism, and Buddhism, are officially recognised, but they operate under strict regulation. Religious organisations must register with the state, and there is heavy monitoring of religious activity, especially when it is seen as politically sensitive or linked to foreign influence. Muslim communities in Russia, particularly in regions like Chechnya and Dagestan, enjoy some autonomy and public support, but they are also under surveillance, and any form of dissent can be framed as extremism.

In essence, Putin’s public gestures of respect toward Islam reflect a strategic policy to manage Russia’s religiously diverse population and to bolster his image as a unifying leader. While there is a degree of religious freedom, it is conditional, carefully controlled, and subordinate to the state’s political interests.

The situations in China and North Korea are even more restrictive than in Russia when it comes to religion, although they are handled in very different ways. In China, the Communist Party officially promotes atheism, viewing religion as a potential source of social unrest or foreign influence. All religious organisations are required to register with the state and operate under strict government control. For example, Christian churches, Buddhist temples, and Islamic mosques are monitored, and unregistered or “underground” religious activity is often suppressed. The situation for Muslims, particularly Uyghurs in Xinjiang, has drawn international condemnation due to mass surveillance, forced indoctrination, and restrictions on traditional practices.

In North Korea, the regime treats religion as a threat to the absolute authority of the Kim family. Traditional religions like Buddhism and Christianity are virtually banned, with only state-controlled religious organisations allowed, mostly as a façade for international optics. The government prioritizes the Juche ideology, a political and quasi-religious cult of self-reliance around the Kim family, which replaces traditional spiritual belief entirely. Any private religious practice is severely punished and can be considered treasonous.

In short, while Russia allows a controlled pluralism for strategic reasons, China tolerates religion only under state supervision and suppresses dissent, and North Korea eliminates independent religious expression entirely, subordinating spiritual life to the political cult of the state.

It is largely accurate to say that most of the existing communist states came to power through violent or coercive means, though the details vary by country. In the 20th century, communist movements often relied on armed struggle, revolution, or civil war to overthrow existing governments. For example, the Bolsheviks seized power in Russia through the October Revolution of 1917, which involved street fighting, armed uprisings, and the eventual collapse of the provisional government. In China, the Chinese Communist Party under Mao Zedong consolidated power after a prolonged civil war against the Kuomintang, which included widespread military campaigns, guerrilla warfare, and substantial civilian suffering.

Vietnam experienced a decades-long struggle, first against French colonial rule and later against South Vietnam and its U.S. allies, resulting in massive casualties before the communist regime unified the country in 1975. Cuba’s revolution, led by Fidel Castro and Che Guevara, relied on guerrilla warfare and strategic insurrection to overthrow the Batista government. Even North Korea’s communist regime was established following the violent division of Korea and a brutal civil and proxy war.

The Black Book of Communism: Crimes, Terror, Repression (1999) offers a harrowing account of the extensive use of violence and repression by communist regimes throughout the 20th century. The book, authored by a team of European scholars, documents the systematic campaigns of terror, purges, forced labour, and executions carried out under leaders such as Lenin, Stalin, Mao, Pol Pot, and others. It argues that the implementation of communist ideology often relied on state-sponsored coercion, censorship, and terror to maintain power, resulting in millions of deaths and widespread suffering. The authors meticulously examine historical records to highlight the similarities between different communist regimes in their mechanisms of control and their disregard for human life. The work positions these acts not as isolated incidents but as an intrinsic feature of the totalitarian pursuit of a classless society, stressing the moral and human costs of enforcing ideological orthodoxy through violence.

According to the book, communist regimes were often founded and sustained through violent means. In the Soviet Union, for instance, the Bolshevik government executed tens of thousands of hostages and prisoners, and murdered hundreds of thousands of rebellious workers and peasants between 1918 and 1922. The Great Purge of the late 1930s saw the execution of numerous individuals, including intellectuals and political opponents, consolidating Stalin's absolute power. Similarly, in China, the communist government under Mao Zedong employed mass executions, forced labour camps, and purges to eliminate perceived enemies and enforce ideological conformity. The Cultural Revolution (1966–1976) was particularly notorious for its violent campaigns against intellectuals, perceived counter-revolutionaries, and traditional cultural elements.

The book also highlights the use of forced labour camps as a means of political repression. In the Soviet Union, the Gulag system subjected millions to brutal conditions, leading to high mortality rates. Similarly, in Cambodia under the Khmer Rouge regime, forced labour camps were established where individuals were subjected to grueling work, starvation, and execution.

Purges were another common method employed by communist regimes to eliminate perceived threats. In Eastern Europe, Stalinist purges led to the execution and imprisonment of numerous individuals, including political leaders, military officials, and ordinary citizens. These purges were often based on arbitrary accusations and were used to instill fear and maintain control.

The human cost of communism, as detailed in The Black Book of Communism, is staggering. The book estimates that communist regimes were responsible for the deaths of over 94 million people through executions, man-made famines, forced labour, deportations, and other forms of repression. This figure underscores the extent to which violence and terror were integral to the establishment and maintenance of communist states.

While not every communist movement was identically violent, the historical pattern shows that armed struggle, coercion, and often bloodshed were central to the establishment of most communist states. Peaceful transitions to communism have been extremely rare.

From Indonesia’s perspective, communism remains fundamentally incompatible with the state ideology of Pancasila. Pancasila, established as the philosophical foundation of the Indonesian state, emphasises belief in God (Ketuhanan Yang Maha Esa), humanity (Kemanusiaan Yang Adil dan Beradab), national unity, democracy, and social justice. Communism, particularly in its orthodox Marxist-Leninist form, is atheistic and materialist, often rejecting religious belief and promoting class struggle over spiritual or moral considerations.

Historically, this incompatibility was one of the reasons why the Indonesian government banned the Indonesian Communist Party (PKI) in 1966 following the events of 1965. The PKI’s atheistic ideology and efforts to implement Marxist principles were seen as threatening to the religious, social, and political fabric that Pancasila was designed to uphold. Even today, any movement promoting communism is viewed with suspicion and is legally restricted under laws that explicitly prohibit the dissemination of Marxist-Leninist teachings.

While some individuals might theoretically reconcile personal religious faith with communist ideas, as a political system and ideology, communism conflicts with the core principles of Pancasila, particularly its first principle which emphasises belief in God and its commitment to moral and ethical governance.

The commemoration of G30S/PKI feels like a flashback that makes us realise just how fragile a nation becomes when ideology turns into an uncontrollable monster. 30th September 1965 was not merely a historical date, but a real tragedy—six generals were killed, chaos reigned, and Indonesia was in severe shock. Imagine it: families of the victims shattered, communities panicking, and the country turned upside down.

This was not an action movie; this was real life, showing the dangers of blind fanaticism. That day urges us all to reflect, ensuring that political ambition never blinds us to humanity. The victims of G30S/PKI were real people, with families, dreams, and responsibilities to their nation. Their loss serves as a stark warning: ideology without ethics can bring the world crashing down. The impact was not limited to that night—Indonesian politics remained in turmoil for years.

Today, it prompts us to ask how a nation can avoid the allure of extremism. It is not merely about ideology, but about how ideology can destroy lives if left unchecked. G30S/PKI teaches that loyalty to ideology can sometimes overpower basic human compassion.

This reflection also touches on Indonesia’s core values: unity, social justice, and higher moral principles. Today encouraged us to safeguard Pancasila, balancing God, humanity, unity, democracy, and justice. Freedom is precious, and we must remain vigilant to prevent violence from recurring. Education becomes an essential weapon, so younger generations do not fall prey to extremism.

Studying history is not enough; critical thinking, empathy, and moral awareness are necessary. The commemoration of G30S/PKI acts as both a reminder to pray and a civic responsibility. We pray for those who died and commit ourselves to preventing further bloodshed. Each year, the nation pauses briefly, realising that peace is never guaranteed automatically.

The events of 1965 serve as a lens to view contemporary politics—are there signs of extremism? Are there authoritarian tendencies? Today urges us to resolve political differences through discussion, not bloodshed. Pluralism is a strength, but it must be continuously safeguarded, never allowed to crumble. G30S/PKI reminds us: ideology should serve humanity, not the other way around. It demonstrates the danger when ideology blinds people to empathy and justice.

Ceremonies, speeches, and moments of silence—all serve to remind the nation of its collective history. Remember history not through vengeance or politicisation, but through moral lessons. Transparency in history is crucial, so it cannot be easily manipulated. G30S/PKI teaches us about the human cost of fanaticism. We must not be complacent; political ambition and rigid ideology can destroy social trust.

Today also prompts reflection on leadership—leaders must be ethical, not merely power-hungry. The lives lost demonstrate that a leader’s responsibility is profoundly real. Citizens must also be active, because politics carries real consequences. By remembering, the people honour the victims while upholding principles of justice. It makes us realise the danger of blind obedience to political movements. 

This commemoration also strengthens national identity, as the struggles of history are preserved. This reflection urges each individual to consider how they respond to injustice or political manipulation. Personal responsibility is vital, protecting stability and ethics. Freedom is precious and must be continuously safeguarded. Peace, democracy, and social justice are ongoing projects, not static achievements.

The anniversary also provides space for cultural reflection: arts, literature, and media can express historical trauma. Being critical of the past allows us to imagine a future free from similar violence. G30S/PKI teaches the importance of dialogue, moderation, and ethical conduct in politics. History is not just facts; it shapes moral awareness.

Today strengthens collective morality; shared tragedy demands shared responsibility. Place humanity above ideology, empathy above fanaticism, and justice above blind loyalty. Ultimately, G30S/PKI is not merely history, but a moral compass for Indonesia: honour life, protect democracy, and resist extremism.

So that history is not forgotten, and the lessons of 1965 continue to guide the present and future of the nation. Young generations can read this while scrolling their timelines, yet still feel the weight of its moral message. G30S/PKI teaches that we must be critical, caring, and not easily swayed by dangerous ideology. Today is not only about mourning the past, but also about recharging the nation’s moral strength and spirit. All citizens are invited to pause, remember the victims, and uphold the commitment: politics serves life, not blood.

Bahasa

Asal Bapak Senang (Curry Favour with the Boss) (1)

The media plays a crucial role in a good democracy by acting as a bridge between the government and the people. It provides citizens with accurate, objective, and timely information about public affairs, policies, and political events, which is vital for informed decision-making and meaningful participation in democratic processes. Moreover, the media functions as a watchdog that monitors government actions, uncovering corruption, abuses of power, and misconduct, thereby promoting transparency and holding leaders accountable. It also offers a platform for public discussion and debate, allowing diverse voices and opinions to be heard and exchanged, which enriches democratic discourse. Additionally, by ensuring freedom of expression and supporting an independent press, the media sustains the democratic values of openness and inclusiveness. However, the media's role must be protected from political or economic control to maintain its independence and effectiveness in supporting democracy.

On the 27th of September 2025, the Press, Media, and Information Bureau (BPMI) of the Presidential Secretariat revoked the press identification card belonging to CNN Indonesia journalist Diana Valencia. This revocation occurred after Diana posed a question to President Prabowo Subianto concerning the Free Nutritious Meal (MBG) programme, which the Palace deemed the reason for withdrawing her pass. The card was physically taken at CNN Indonesia’s office at 19:15 Western Indonesian Time.

The decision to revoke the press card has attracted scrutiny from various parties, including the Press Council and the Indonesian Journalists Association (PWI). The Press Council considers this action a hindrance to press freedom and has called for Diana Valencia’s reporting access to be reinstated promptly so she can resume her journalistic duties at the Palace. Komaruddin Hidayat, Chair of the Press Council, requested the Palace Press Bureau to provide an explanation to avoid obstructing journalistic work and reminded all parties to respect press freedom as regulated by Law Number 40 of 1999 on the Press.

State Secretary Prasetyo Hadi responded to the incident by stating that his office has instructed the Press Bureau to communicate and seek the best resolution regarding the revocation of the press identification card.

In general, this case is seen as a significant issue concerning press freedom and the public’s right to information, with calls urging the Palace to provide an official clarification and open constructive dialogue with journalists to prevent future impediments to journalistic duties.

If the revocation of the press ID was truly President Prabowo's will, it appears difficult to believe, judging by his demeanour during the interview. In that interview, he responded calmly and showed no sign of anger or distress. Public reaction, however, has leaned heavily towards criticism of the government's actions. Many see the revocation as an unacceptable encroachment on press freedom, especially given that the journalist's question was on a matter of significant public interest—the Free Nutritious Meal (MBG) program, which had recently been linked to food poisoning cases.

The Indonesian Press Council, along with journalism organisations such as the Central Indonesian Journalists Association (PWI) and the Indonesian Television Journalists Association (IJTI), have sharply condemned the move. They emphasise that journalists have a legitimate duty to question public officials and that such questions should not be censored or punished. Public opinion largely agrees that the President himself answered the question in a measured way, indicating willingness to follow up on the issue, thus making the revocation of the press credential appear disproportionate.

Furthermore, the Press Council advises that rather than restricting questions, protocols should be in place to manage journalists’ time constraints effectively without impeding their freedom or access. The controversy underscores broader concerns about government transparency and respect for the press in Indonesia, sparking calls for the restoration of the reporter's access and an official explanation for the revocation.

Social media reactions to the revocation of the press card for the CNN Indonesia journalist have been overwhelmingly critical and vocal. Many netizens and journalists expressed their disapproval by using hashtags and comments that emphasise freedom of the press and the essential role of journalism in holding public officials accountable. The controversy has sparked debates on platforms like Twitter (X), where hashtags related to press freedom and government transparency have trended widely. The general mood conveys frustration and suspicion towards the government's motivation in revoking the journalist's credentials, especially since the journalist had asked a legitimate question about a government welfare program.

Several journalist forums and editor groups publicly support the CNN Indonesia reporter and demand explanations from the Palace's Press Bureau regarding the revocation. These groups stress that suppressing journalistic questioning undermines democratic principles and the public's right to information.

Additionally, public figures and media commentators have highlighted that President Prabowo's calm and measured response to the question contradicts any justification for punitive actions against the journalist. Many netizens argue that the move appears as a censorship attempt rather than a justified administrative procedure.

Overall, the social media landscape reflects a strong pushback against perceived government overreach, with calls for the restoration of the journalist's access and for safeguarding press freedoms as a cornerstone of democracy.

The incident involving the revocation of a press card at the Presidential Palace can be astutely linked to the deeper cultural phenomenon encapsulated by the phrase "Asal Bapak Senang." This expression, which translates roughly to "As long as the boss is pleased," reflects a pervasive attitude within Indonesian political and bureaucratic landscapes where subordinates prioritise pleasing their superiors above all else, often at the expense of transparency, truth, and accountability. In the case of the press card revocation, this cultural mindset appears to manifest in the suppression of journalistic inquiry that challenges authority, symbolising a preference for control and conformity rather than open and constructive engagement. Thus, this incident not only highlights issues of press freedom but also exemplifies how patron-client dynamics impact governance and public discourse in Indonesia.

The expression “asal bapak senang” is an Indonesian phrase that literally translates as “as long as the boss is happy.” It is often used to describe a culture of compliance in which subordinates are more concerned with pleasing their superior than with achieving genuine results. In practice, it reflects a situation where employees or officials present only good news, fabricate favourable reports, or manipulate appearances to avoid displeasing their leader, even when the reality is quite the opposite. This phrase has become a shorthand for the wider problem of sycophancy, where truth and accountability are sacrificed for the sake of maintaining the illusion of harmony in front of authority. Ultimately, “asal bapak senang” exposes the fragility of systems built on image rather than substance, and it serves as a critique of hierarchical environments where power is feared rather than respected.

In both British and American English, the sentiment behind the Indonesian phrase “asal (kan) bapak senang” is widely understood, though the expressions used to convey it vary slightly depending on regional norms. In British English, one might simply say “just to please the boss,” a straightforward phrase often heard in office corridors when someone’s actions seem driven more by appeasement than genuine necessity. A more formal or subtly critical alternative would be “to curry favour with the boss,” which suggests a deliberate attempt to gain approval, possibly at the expense of integrity or independent judgment. For those opting for a more colloquial—and frankly, cheeky—tone, “brown-nosing” is the go-to term. It carries a pejorative edge, painting a picture of someone who’s overly eager to flatter or ingratiate themselves with authority.

Across the pond, American English offers similar expressions. “Just to please the boss” remains a neutral staple, while “to suck up to the boss” leans heavily into informal territory, often used with a roll of the eyes or a knowing smirk. “Curry favour with the boss” is also recognised stateside, though it lacks the everyday punch of “suck up.” Ultimately, while both dialects share the same underlying meaning, their informal vocabulary diverges: “brown-nosing” rings more British, whereas “sucking up” is unmistakably American.

The phrase "Asal Bapak Senang" (ABS) originally started as the name of a band formed by the personal guard regiment (Detasemen Cakrabirawa) during President Soekarno's era to accompany his dance performances at the palace. Soekarno and his entourage enjoyed the music, and the band was known by the acronym ABS. Interestingly, Sukarno himself did not seem to know the full meaning of the acronym and simply knew it by the abbreviation.

The primary sources mentioning the band "Asal Bapak Senang" (ABS) trace back to historical testimonies and autobiographical accounts from those close to President Soekarno and his presidential guard. The band was formed by the Detasemen Kawal Pribadi (DKP) or the Presidential Bodyguard Regiment, under the leadership of Major Police Iskandar Winata and Commander Mangil Martowidjojo, to entertain President Sukarno during his dance performances at the palace, particularly for dances like lenso and cha-cha. Sukarno enjoyed the music from the band, which bore the acronym ABS, though he reportedly did not know the full meaning of the name and sometimes referred to it jokingly as "Brul Apen." Notable sources mentioning this include Sukarno's autobiography "Bung Karno Penyambung Lidah Rakyat Indonesia" by Cindy Adams, and testimonies in the book Sewindu Dekat Bung Karno by Bambang Widjanarko, Sukarno’s aide. Interviews with historians, descendants of some involved figures, and articles on sites also recount these details as primary or near-primary narratives. Therefore, the origin of "Asal Bapak Senang" as a band name is well-documented in historical testimonies and literature related to Sukarno's era, making them credible primary sources.

The phrase began to morph into an idiomatic expression over time, describing a culture where subordinates or officials would only report good news or act to please their superiors, regardless of truth or reality. This behaviour, characterised by flattery or obsequiousness, became increasingly prominent and widely recognised during the New Order era under President Soeharto, who reportedly inspired more intense "Asal Bapak Senang" behaviours to stay in favour and avoid punishment.

Thus, while the phrase's origin lies in Soekarno's time as a band name, its metaphorical and more widespread negative connotation as a political and bureaucratic culture became popular and entrenched during the New Order regime. It is a cultural phenomenon that evolved from a historical anecdote connected to Soekarno's circle but gained its full, often critical, political meaning and usage in the Soeharto period. 

The phrase “asal bapak senang” captures more than a behavioural quirk; it encapsulates a set of incentives and social codes that shape how organisations and communities communicate, make decisions, and allocate credit. At its core, the expression describes an environment where the chief objective is to preserve the superior’s satisfaction, and this objective often trumps accuracy, dissent, or long-term thinking.

Culturally, “asal bapak senang” reflects respect for hierarchy combined with an aversion to open conflict. In many collectivist societies, maintaining face and social harmony is valued, so people learn to moderate criticism and to present problems in ways that do not threaten the superior’s dignity. Over time, this practice becomes routinised: junior staff pre-emptively frame information to align with expected preferences, and rituals of deference — polite language, staged reporting, celebratory displays — replace candid assessment. While this preserves short-term cohesion, it can erode norms of candour and curiosity that are essential for learning and improvement.

From a political perspective, the phrase highlights how patronage and image management can subvert accountability. When political leaders reward loyalty and penalise inconvenient truths, officials have strong reasons to produce polished reports and staged successes rather than to confront messy realities. This dynamic can lead to policy choices grounded more in optics than in evidence, and it may incentivise symbolic projects that photograph well over those that deliver sustained public value. In extreme cases, “asal bapak senang” contributes to corruption, capture of institutions, and a political culture in which blame-shifting and performance theatre take precedence over governance.

Socially, the practice reshapes interpersonal trust and public discourse. If citizens, colleagues, or community members anticipate that decisions are principally driven by the desire to please powerful figures, they may become cynical or withdraw from participation. Informal networks of favour and reciprocity flourish under such conditions, privileging insiders and marginalising those who lack patronage. Conversely, conformism can create an appearance of unanimity that stifles minority voices and prevents institutions from benefiting from diverse perspectives — a slow-moving social cost that only becomes visible when crises expose the gaps between show and substance.

Economically, “asal bapak senang” influences resource allocation, risk-taking, and organisational productivity. Firms or public agencies that prioritise pleasing executives may underinvest in monitoring systems, ignore early warning signs, or funnel resources into visible but low-value projects to signal competence. This leads to inefficiencies: capital and talent are misdirected, innovation is discouraged, and moral hazard increases because success is measured by proximity to power rather than by measurable outcomes. Over the long run, economies with widespread practices of performative compliance can suffer lower productivity growth and weaker institutional resilience.

Recognising the problem does not mean blaming individuals alone; the incentives embedded in rules, reward structures, and social expectations matter. Remedies that have shown promise range from creating safe channels for dissent and protecting whistleblowers, to designing transparent performance metrics and rotating evaluators so that rewards are aligned with outcomes rather than with pleasing personalities. Cultivating a culture that values constructive feedback, learning from failure, and institutionalised checks can gradually reduce the space in which “asal bapak senang” thrives, replacing theatrical compliance with robust accountability.

The expression “asal bapak senang” has its roots in the hierarchical structures that have long shaped Indonesian workplaces, politics, and bureaucratic culture. It emerged in the twentieth century, when modern bureaucracy and military-style organisations reinforced the idea that authority should be respected without question. In this context, subordinates quickly learned that what mattered was not necessarily delivering results in line with reality, but rather framing outcomes in ways that avoided displeasing superiors. The phrase gained traction particularly during the New Order era under President Suharto, when loyalty to the chain of command was considered paramount and dissent was systematically discouraged. During that time, upward reporting often meant polishing information, minimising problems, and amplifying successes, as long as it satisfied the “bapak,” a term that itself reflects both patriarchal authority and paternalistic leadership.

Its popularity stemmed from lived experiences. Ordinary people observed how civil servants, politicians, and even private employees routinely adjusted their conduct and their language to fit the expectations of those above them. The phrase “asal bapak senang” became a satirical shorthand, used by the public to describe the absurd gap between official narratives and actual realities. Its bite lay in the recognition that systems of power were being sustained less by merit and more by a choreography of appearances. Over time, it evolved into a critical cultural label, one that continues to circulate widely in discussions of governance, workplace behaviour, and social commentary.

In contemporary times, the term remains relevant. While Indonesia has moved into a more democratic era, the fundamental dynamics of hierarchy, image management, and patronage still persist. In corporate settings, employees may still refrain from criticising flawed projects to maintain harmony with management. In politics, staged spectacles and over-curated media campaigns often echo the same spirit of pleasing “the boss” rather than serving the citizenry. Even in digital spaces, the culture of “pleasing the superior” translates into performative loyalty on social media, where narratives are shaped to flatter leaders rather than to foster accountability.

Thus, “asal bapak senang” remains a living concept: it continues to describe how people navigate power imbalances by privileging comfort over candour. Its persistence underscores both the resilience of hierarchical cultures and the challenge of building systems where truth is valued over deference. Far from being an outdated relic, the phrase serves as a reminder that genuine progress requires dismantling the incentive structures that reward surface-level compliance while punishing honest feedback.

Now, let’s take the concept of “asal bapak senang” and place it directly into the living theatre of contemporary Indonesia, because the phrase only becomes sharper when seen in practice rather than in abstraction.

One obvious case is in politics. In recent years, major infrastructure projects have often been rushed to completion to hold dramatic ribbon-cutting ceremonies before election cycles. Highways, airports, and even new capital city projects are frequently showcased as symbols of progress. Yet behind the glossy drone shots and ceremonial speeches, many reports surface about unfinished details, poor planning, or inflated costs. This is “asal bapak senang” in action: the spectacle is curated to keep leaders smiling and voters impressed, while the underlying issues remain unresolved.

Another arena is bureaucracy. Civil servants often prepare visually impressive reports—full of colourful charts, slogans, and ceremonial jargon—but these documents may conceal more than they reveal. For instance, poverty reduction or employment data might be polished to demonstrate “success,” even when people on the ground feel no tangible improvement. Subordinates know that presenting raw, uncomfortable truths risks reprimand or sidelining, so they deliver what the superior expects to hear. The truth is bent, not because individuals are inherently dishonest, but because the system rewards optimism and punishes candour.

The corporate world is hardly immune. In Indonesian companies, especially state-owned enterprises, employees may hesitate to flag design flaws or financial risks if such honesty would disturb boardroom harmony. We have seen scandals erupt in firms where whistleblowers were ignored, and losses piled up because nobody wanted to spoil the mood of the directors. In effect, “asal bapak senang” delays problem-solving until crises are unavoidable.

Social media adds a modern twist. Today, the “bapak” is not only a literal superior but also a symbolic figure: political leaders, corporate bosses, or even influencers. Online buzzers and loyalists flood timelines with choreographed praise, drowning out dissenting voices. Every photo-op, every public statement, and every campaign is amplified into a spectacle of success, regardless of substance. Once again, what matters is not reality but the satisfaction of the leader and the perception of unity.

Taken together, these examples show that “asal bapak senang” is not merely a cultural relic of the Suharto era. It has adapted to the democratic age, the corporate age, and the digital age. Its resilience lies in the fact that power hierarchies remain, and as long as systems incentivise image over honesty, the phrase will stay relevant—an enduring reminder of how easily truth can be sidelined in service of authority.

[Part 2]

Bahasa

Buzzers

A buzzer, in its most basic sense, is a small electronic device that produces a sound when electricity passes through it, commonly found in alarms, timers, and everyday appliances. However, in the social and political sphere, especially in Indonesia, the term “buzzer” has taken on a very different meaning. It refers to individuals or social media accounts, often anonymous, that are mobilised to amplify certain narratives, whether to promote a brand, defend a public figure, or attack political opponents. These digital buzzers do not merely create noise like their electronic counterparts, but instead generate waves of influence that can sway public opinion, shape reputations, or spread misinformation. While their presence can sometimes serve promotional purposes, they are more often associated with orchestrated campaigns that manipulate conversations and dominate online discourse.

In today’s world, the breeding of buzzers—whether officially sanctioned or quietly tolerated—has become a hallmark of both fragile democracies and entrenched authoritarian regimes. Officially, governments such as Russia, China, and Turkey have constructed large-scale digital operations that deploy armies of trolls, bots, and human accounts to shape global narratives. Russia’s infamous Internet Research Agency, for instance, has been well-documented for meddling in elections abroad and flooding domestic debates with Kremlin-friendly propaganda. China’s so-called “50 Cent Army” performs similar tasks, steering online conversations toward party-approved messages while drowning out dissent. Turkey, under President Erdoğan, has cultivated digital brigades loyal to the ruling party, ensuring that hashtags trend on command and critics are swiftly silenced. These states embrace buzzers not as an embarrassment but as an official extension of statecraft, turning them into instruments of both domestic control and international influence.

Yet the phenomenon is not confined to authoritarian states. In countries that pride themselves on democracy—such as India, Brazil, and the Philippines—buzzers have thrived in more ambiguous, semi-official forms. Political parties contract private firms or networks of influencers to create the illusion of popular enthusiasm, particularly during elections. India’s ruling party, for example, has been repeatedly accused of cultivating IT cells that flood social media with pro-government messages while harassing journalists and opponents. In Brazil, Jair Bolsonaro’s rise was accompanied by a digital machine that spread memes, disinformation, and aggressive counter-narratives. The Philippines, under Rodrigo Duterte, became a global case study in how online troll farms could normalise political violence and erode trust in traditional journalism. These operations are rarely acknowledged outright by governments, but they flourish in plain sight, feeding off state patronage and corporate contracts.

Indonesia itself stands as a hybrid case, where buzzers emerged first from commercial marketing before being weaponised in politics. From the Jakarta gubernatorial election in 2012 to the presidential contests of 2014 and 2019, buzzers became semi-institutionalised, working both for political elites and business interests. Reports by institutions such as CSIS and Oxford have confirmed that Indonesia belongs to the growing list of countries where digital mercenaries, both bots and humans, operate to skew debates, attack critics, and manufacture legitimacy. Here, the state may not openly declare its use of buzzers, but the evidence of their orchestration—coordinated hashtags, simultaneous content drops, and the silencing of dissent—is impossible to ignore.

There is evidence that the administration of President Joko Widodo allocated public funds to engage buzzers and influencers to promote government programs. According to a report by Indonesia Corruption Watch (ICW) released in August 2020, the central government spent approximately Rp 90.45 billion on influencer services between 2017 and 2020. These expenditures were primarily for social media campaigns aimed at disseminating information about various government initiatives, including the handling of the COVID-19 pandemic. The Ministry of Tourism and Creative Economy accounted for the largest share, with 22 procurement packages totalling Rp 77.66 billion, while the Ministry of Communications and Information Technology had four packages amounting to Rp 10.83 billion.

The use of influencers by the government was intended to leverage their reach and credibility to communicate policies effectively to the public. For instance, during the pandemic, several celebrities were invited to the Presidential Palace to discuss and promote health protocols and government measures. However, this practice has raised concerns among critics who argue that it may blur the lines between genuine public information and state-sponsored messaging, potentially leading to the spread of disinformation.

Buzzers occupy a twilight zone between official statecraft and informal shadow work. In some countries they wear the uniform of the state, while in others they hide behind the masks of anonymity, contractors, or influencers. What unites them is their ability to transform the digital sphere into a weaponised arena where truth is negotiable, power is performative, and democracy itself becomes background noise drowned out by the orchestrated hum of artificial consensus.

In the cacophony of social media, buzzers are no longer a novelty. Once mere tools for marketing products, they have morphed into the cheapest and most effective propaganda machines. In the hands of those in power, buzzers become virtual mercenaries—not armed with bullets, but with words, manipulation, and informational noise. They manufacture false opinions, orchestrate public discourse, and attack anyone deemed a political threat—even ordinary citizens demanding their rights.

Ironically, in a country that claims to be democratic, the voice of the people is drowned out by paid artificial chatter. This is the face of dirty politics in the digital age. Authorities no longer rely solely on state apparatus; they now command faceless troops working round the clock to fabricate the illusion of popular support.

Most citizens do not even realise that the opinions flooding their timelines are not genuine—they are ordered, manufactured, and directed with one goal: to preserve power at any cost. As Wasisto Raharjo Jati notes in Digital Propaganda: Fenomena Buzzer Politik dalam Kontestasi Demokrasi di Indonesia (Pustaka Pelajar, 2019), these orchestrated campaigns are less about free speech and more about sustaining political dominance through systematic deception.

Buzzers may sound like mere background noise online, but behind the hum lies a systematic machinery. In Indonesia, the phenomenon originated around 2009, when Twitter gained traction in the country. Buzzers initially served neutral commercial purposes. But during the 2012 Jakarta gubernatorial election, they were politicised—not for profit, but to craft images, attack opponents, and shape opinion through invisible waves on social media. Ross Tapsell’s Media Power in Indonesia: Oligarchs, Citizens and the Digital Revolution (Rowman & Littlefield, 2017) illustrates how political elites harness these networks, turning them into weapons of perception.

By 2014, buzzers had evolved into a shadow industry. They no longer just promoted—they propagated. Through memes, infographics, and hashtags that appeared spontaneous, they launched covert smear campaigns. Buzzers became cheap, elusive, and fast digital soldiers capable of splitting public opinion. This echoes Samuel Woolley and Philip Howard’s edited volume, Computational Propaganda: Political Parties, Politicians, and Political Manipulation on Social Media (Oxford, 2018), which situates Indonesian buzzers within a global phenomenon of cyber troops that distort democracy through coordinated digital manipulation.

Studies by CSIS and Oxford researchers Samantha Bradshaw and Philip Howard revealed Indonesia as one of 70 countries deploying cyber troops—both bots and humans—to spread propaganda, manipulate issues, and erode trust in media and democratic institutions. In Network Propaganda: Manipulation, Disinformation, and Radicalization in American Politics (Benkler, Faris, & Roberts, 2018), similar patterns are documented in the United States, showing that buzzers are part of a larger architecture of disinformation across the globe.

Buzzers now go beyond paid opinion. They design and execute strategies to flood digital spaces with curated information aimed at distorting reality. Their goal is not just promotion—it is domination. Using amplification techniques, they deploy vast networks of bots, fake accounts, and real users to spread digestible content like memes and infographics, making it appear organic. David Patrikarakos in War in 140 Characters (2017) underscores how social media has become a theatre of conflict, where influence operations can be as consequential as physical wars.

One of their most effective tactics is hashtag hijacking. When a topic trends, buzzers infiltrate the conversation, insert favourable narratives, and redirect discussions entirely. They simulate mass support by flooding comments, liking content en masse, and creating the illusion of widespread public backing—a practice known as astroturfing. Merlyna Lim’s Many Clicks but Little Sticks: Social Media Activism in Indonesia (ISEAS, 2013) captures the fragility of online mobilisation, showing how orchestrated campaigns can easily overtake genuine activism.

Buzzers operate in structured teams. Recruitment is meticulous, targeting active, influential accounts. Selected individuals are invited into secret WhatsApp or Telegram groups, where only the most aggressive and consistent are promoted. Teams are divided by function: content creators, distributors, and counterattack units. They produce emotionally charged content, spread it simultaneously, and attack critics with disinformation or fake debates. Jessikka Aro’s Putin’s Trolls (2022) provides striking parallels, describing how Russia employs similar tactics to control narratives at home and abroad.

Buzzers now rely on human-run accounts with diverse posting histories, making them indistinguishable from real users. Hybrid accounts—part human, part bot—are used to mass-like or retweet content. Even hijacked accounts are employed to simulate diverse support. They stage fake debates between accounts controlled by the same team, creating the illusion of authentic discourse. Beyond public platforms like Twitter, buzzers spread propaganda via private messaging apps, exploiting the trust of personal groups.

This ecosystem is tightly coordinated. Content is crafted, distributed, and defended in waves, drowning genuine voices in orchestrated noise. Social media, meant to be democratic, becomes a battleground where truth is sacrificed for power. Investigative journalism by Kompas revealed rigorous selection processes, with candidates needing recommendations and passing account screenings. Influencer tiers determine pay and segmentation.

One example is the Cyber Army led by Madya Muzaki, exposed in May 2025 for obstructing corruption investigations. His team of 150 received over Rp864 million to spread negative narratives. Buzzers also played key roles in the 2019 KPK Law revision, manipulating public perception with doctored media and viral hashtags. Even ordinary citizens like Jau Hari have faced intimidation for criticising football policies. Buzzers have become tools of digital violence, threatening freedom of expression.

Buzzers distort truth through agenda setting, wresting control from mainstream media. In 2023 alone, over 2,300 hoaxes were recorded, half of them political. They also inflict psychological terror—doxing, bullying, and character assassination. Critics face coordinated attacks, silencing dissent. Democracy weakens when truth is obscured and criticism is punished. Buzzers manipulate policy, turning controversial laws into seemingly popular reforms. They normalise authoritarianism—not by banning criticism, but by drowning it.

Buzzers thrive in fragile digital environments. Algorithms favour emotional engagement over truth, rewarding sensational lies with virality. This degrades public trust and fuels cynicism. Buzzers also blur the line between moderation and censorship. Platforms pressured to act against disinformation risk suppressing free speech. This dual threat creates fertile ground for buzzers.

Their damage spans five layers: distortion of deliberation, erosion of trust, chilling effect, policy manipulation, and normalisation of soft authoritarianism. These layers interlock, weakening democracy’s foundations. Buzzers are not just noisy accounts—they are political weapons. They manipulate public opinion, erode trust, and silence dissent. If left unchecked, they threaten the very soul of democracy.

During Vice President Gibran Rakabuming Raka’s series of domestic and international visits, from regional appearances in Indonesia to his most recent trip to Papua New Guinea in September 2025, buzzers have consistently been deployed to manipulate public perception. On social media, these digital operatives flooded timelines with narratives portraying each visit as a success, highlighting cordial interactions with local leaders, and amplifying supposed popular support. Supportive hashtags, staged images, and even fabricated accounts contributed to a digital echo chamber in which dissenting voices were drowned out. Observers noted that while the official communications focused on diplomacy and protocol, the online campaigns often went further, attacking critics and pre-emptively discrediting alternative interpretations of events.

The operation was highly orchestrated: teams of buzzers were organised by function, with content creators, distributors, and counterattack units coordinating across multiple platforms. WhatsApp and Telegram groups served as command centres, where directives were given in real-time to respond to trending topics or negative commentary. In some instances, the same team simulated debates between accounts to create the illusion of public discourse. The Papua New Guinea visit, although minor in geopolitical terms, was transformed into a digital spectacle designed to project influence, secure domestic approval, and pre-empt any criticism of the administration.

Content creation was managed by a tiered structure: primary teams produced the visuals and narratives, secondary teams disseminated them across networks, and tertiary units monitored responses, flagging criticism and deploying counter-narratives. WhatsApp and Telegram channels functioned as real-time command centres, coordinating posts, likes, retweets, and comment amplification. In several instances, the same account networks staged “debates” where pro-government accounts debated each other, making online observers believe genuine discussion was taking place.

The campaign was not limited to social media optics. Influencers were recruited to post videos and live streams praising the Vice President’s local initiatives, while minor news outlets were encouraged to feature positive coverage. Any critical or questioning commentary—whether from independent journalists or local activists—was quickly overwhelmed by coordinated replies and reports, effectively silencing dissent in digital spaces.

This phenomenon reflects a broader trend seen across nations, where both authoritarian and democratic governments increasingly rely on digital operatives to shape narratives. In Indonesia, the line between voluntary support and paid orchestration has blurred, with the government and private interests both harnessing the speed and reach of buzzers. What might have once been a minor marketing tactic has now evolved into a sophisticated political tool, capable of influencing perceptions at home and abroad, particularly during high-visibility events such as official visits by top leaders.

Whenever criticism arose—whether from independent journalists, local activists, or satirical social media accounts—the buzzer network swung into immediate action. Using pre-planned scripts, coordinated replies, and rapid amplification, they countered dissent with both subtle persuasion and overt attacks. Negative commentary was often drowned in a flood of supportive comments, retweets, and emoji reactions, creating the impression that criticism was a minority view. Satirical memes or critical videos were quickly reported, flagged, and sometimes mirrored with “corrected” or rewritten versions that reframed the narrative positively.

WhatsApp and Telegram groups acted as command centres for these countermeasures. Instructions were sent in real-time: teams would target trending critical hashtags, flood comment sections, and mobilise hybrid accounts—part human, part bot—to simulate mass rebuttals. Even hijacked or repurposed accounts were used strategically to appear as diverse participants in the debate, masking the orchestrated nature of the operation.

The long-term effects of sustained buzzer operations have become increasingly apparent in Indonesia’s political landscape. Over time, the constant presence of orchestrated digital messaging has contributed to a blurring of lines between genuine public opinion and manufactured consensus. Citizens scrolling through social media timelines may find themselves exposed almost exclusively to curated narratives, supportive hashtags, and amplified content from hybrid accounts, leaving critical voices isolated and marginalised. This ecosystem fosters an environment in which citizens struggle to distinguish authentic debate from orchestrated noise, ultimately weakening the capacity for informed decision-making.

In addition to shaping perception, buzzers have had tangible impacts on policy and public discourse. Controversial legislation, such as revisions to the KPK Law in 2019, was accompanied by extensive digital campaigns that flooded timelines with simplified explanations, emotional appeals, and doctored media. By pre-emptively framing these laws as popular and necessary, buzzers effectively softened potential resistance and normalised authoritarian tendencies, all without visible coercion. Even cultural or entertainment events were not immune; social media discussions about football regulations, local festivals, or public health campaigns were subtly steered to reflect official priorities, often marginalising grassroots concerns.

The psychological dimension is equally significant. The persistent bombardment of supportive messaging, counter-narratives, and online harassment against dissenters has created a climate of self-censorship. Many citizens, aware of the artificial amplification behind trends, may hesitate to voice criticism or engage in meaningful debate for fear of coordinated backlash. In this way, buzzers not only distort reality but also condition public behaviour, gradually reshaping civic participation according to the interests of political elites and private actors.

The cumulative effect is the transformation of Indonesia’s digital space into a battleground where truth is negotiable, dissent is surveilled, and democratic deliberation is increasingly subordinated to engineered narratives. What began as a seemingly innocuous marketing tool has become a powerful instrument of political control, demonstrating that in the modern era, influence and perception are often as decisive as legislation and governance.

The use of buzzers by government officials can be legally problematic if it involves the misuse of public funds, lack of transparency, or deliberate manipulation of public opinion for partisan purposes. Indonesian law requires that state budgets be allocated and spent according to principles of accountability and clarity. When funds are used to pay social media influencers or coordinate online campaigns without clear public reporting, questions arise about whether these expenditures comply with regulations governing public spending.

Furthermore, if the intent of employing buzzers is to suppress dissent, attack critics, or fabricate the illusion of widespread public support, such actions may constitute a violation of administrative and ethical standards in governance. While no specific law directly criminalises paying influencers, misuse of budget allocations for political gain can be challenged under anti-corruption statutes, audit mechanisms, and laws regulating the responsible use of public resources. Legal scholars and oversight bodies emphasise that transparency, clear objectives, and proportionality are essential; otherwise, the practice can be interpreted as an abuse of state power, potentially exposing officials to scrutiny, public criticism, and legal accountability.

So, the legal risk arises from the combination of intent, lack of transparency, and potential diversion of state resources for partisan purposes. The key point is whether the use of buzzers serves legitimate public communication objectives or whether it crosses the line into manipulation and covert propaganda, which would be difficult to justify under Indonesian law.

Transparency is a cornerstone of a healthy democracy, as it ensures that citizens have access to information about government actions, policies, and public spending. In a system where transparency is upheld, the public can monitor the decisions of officials, hold them accountable, and make informed choices during elections. Transparency prevents abuse of power, corruption, and secretive practices that undermine trust in institutions. It also fosters legitimacy, because when citizens understand why and how decisions are made, they are more likely to support them or engage constructively in debate.

The public plays a critical role in promoting and maintaining transparency. Citizens can demand access to official documents, question government expenditures, participate in public hearings, and use media platforms to scrutinise policies. Civil society organisations, watchdogs, and independent journalists amplify public oversight by investigating and publishing findings, which encourages accountability. Moreover, active civic engagement, such as reporting irregularities, participating in audits, and challenging opaque practices, strengthens democratic governance. In short, transparency is not only a legal or administrative requirement but also a social contract between the government and the governed, and the public is the key enforcer of this contract.

In the context of buzzers and social media, transparency in government becomes even more critical. When officials employ paid online operators to shape public opinion, the public has the right to know whether public funds are being used, how campaigns are conducted, and for what purposes. Without such transparency, citizens cannot distinguish between genuine grassroots sentiment and artificially manufactured consensus, which erodes trust in democratic institutions.

The public’s role is to act as a watchdog, scrutinising online campaigns and questioning government communication strategies. Civil society organisations and independent media can investigate and reveal the structure, funding, and tactics of buzzer operations. Citizens themselves can engage critically by recognising patterns of coordinated messaging, avoiding the spread of unverified content, and demanding explanations from officials. Tools such as freedom of information requests, public hearings, and investigative journalism are essential for exposing covert digital influence operations.

In the battle against manipulative online campaigns, the public functions as the main enforcer of transparency. By staying informed, questioning authority, and demanding accountability, citizens can prevent the misuse of public resources and maintain the integrity of democratic discourse. Transparency is not just a legal principle—it is a civic duty that allows society to distinguish truth from propaganda, ensuring that government communication serves the public interest rather than partisan agendas.

Citizens facing the mobilisation of buzzers should approach the situation with both caution and critical awareness. The first step is to develop media literacy, which involves understanding how social media content is created, amplified, and sometimes manipulated to shape public opinion. By learning to recognise patterns of coordinated messaging, emotional manipulation, and fake accounts, individuals can avoid being swayed by artificial trends or manufactured consensus.

Secondly, the public can strengthen independent verification of information. Checking multiple reliable sources, cross-referencing news, and relying on established fact-checking organisations helps mitigate the influence of orchestrated online campaigns. Citizens should also engage in thoughtful discussions in private or smaller community spaces rather than blindly participating in trending debates, which are often engineered by buzzer networks.

Additionally, citizens can participate in democratic oversight by demanding transparency and accountability from government communications. This can include advocating for clear reporting on the use of public funds for social media campaigns and supporting policies that regulate undisclosed political advertising or covert influence operations. Civil society organisations, independent media, and watchdogs play a crucial role in amplifying awareness and holding both public officials and private actors accountable.

Finally, fostering a culture of critical thinking and civic responsibility is essential. Citizens must recognise that their own engagement—likes, shares, and comments—can be manipulated, and therefore should interact with online content consciously. In doing so, society can resist the artificial shaping of opinion, protect genuine public discourse, and contribute to a more resilient democracy.

In today’s digital democracy, the role of the public is more complex and critical than ever. Citizens are no longer only voters or participants in physical civic spaces—they are actors in a sprawling online ecosystem where social media, influencers, and coordinated buzzers can amplify both authentic and artificial opinions. In this context, being an active citizen means not only engaging with policies and government decisions but also discerning which information is genuine and which is manufactured.

Public participation now requires digital literacy, critical thinking, and vigilance. Citizens must learn to identify coordinated campaigns, detect disinformation, and avoid spreading manipulated content. By cross-checking information across reliable sources and consulting fact-checking platforms, the public can resist the artificial shaping of opinion and protect democratic discourse. Civil society organisations and independent media act as intermediaries, investigating and exposing manipulative tactics while the public amplifies these findings through responsible engagement.

Moreover, citizens can hold officials accountable by demanding transparency in government digital communications, including the use of public funds for social media campaigns. Participating in online petitions, commenting critically on official announcements, and engaging in constructive debate are ways to assert influence and safeguard democracy in the digital age. In essence, a vigilant, informed, and digitally literate public is the most effective defence against manipulation, ensuring that democracy in Indonesia reflects authentic citizen voices rather than the engineered narratives of a few powerful actors.

Bahasa