[Part 14]Communism’s attachment to the colour red and the symbol of the star is not a matter of coincidence but rather a carefully constructed language of political imagery. Red became its chosen banner because it represented blood, sacrifice, and the unity of workers who were willing to fight and even die in pursuit of equality. The colour was first associated with revolutionary struggle during the French Revolution and was later embraced by socialist and communist movements worldwide as a declaration of defiance against oppression. The star, particularly the five-pointed one, carried a layered meaning: it represented the unity of workers from the five continents, but also symbolised the alliance of different groups within the socialist struggle — the peasants, the workers, the soldiers, the youth, and the intellectuals. Together, the red and the star formed a visual manifesto, one that sought to inspire hope among the masses while striking fear into the hearts of rulers who relied on hierarchy, privilege, and inherited power.The hammer and the sickle became the most recognisable symbol of Communism because they condensed an entire ideological project into a single, sharp image. The hammer represented the industrial workers — those who laboured in factories, mines, and foundries — while the sickle symbolised the peasants — those who toiled in the fields to feed the nation. By crossing the two together, Communism declared its ultimate vision: the alliance of the working class and the peasantry as the backbone of a new, classless society. It was not just an emblem but a political promise, suggesting that when these two groups unite, no elite, monarch, or capitalist could withstand their combined strength. To the faithful, the hammer and sickle were a rallying cry of solidarity; to their enemies, it was a reminder that the revolution intended to uproot both landownership and industrial exploitation at once.The hammer and the sickle were officially adopted by the Soviet Union after the 1917 Bolshevik Revolution, when Lenin and his comrades sought a visual symbol that would capture the spirit of their new state. In 1922, as the Soviet Union was formally established, the hammer-and-sickle emblem was placed on its flag and coat of arms, giving it not just local but global visibility. It was deliberately designed to stand out from monarchic crests or capitalist national flags, signalling that the Soviet Union was not merely another state, but an entirely new experiment in human history. Over time, communist parties around the world — from China to Cuba, from Vietnam to Angola — borrowed the symbol because it provided instant recognition and ideological legitimacy. In short, the hammer and sickle became the global logo of revolution, carrying with it both the weight of Soviet power and the promise of class unity.When the hammer and sickle became the official emblem of the Soviet Union, it did not remain just a decorative sign; it evolved into one of the most feared symbols of the twentieth century. For countries outside the communist orbit, especially in the West, it was read not as a sign of workers’ liberation but as a warning of revolution, upheaval, and the destruction of traditional structures. During the Cold War, the sight of the hammer and sickle on a flag or a protest banner was enough to trigger alarm among governments and elites, who saw it as the opening act of subversion. Many states, from Europe to Asia, reacted by banning the symbol altogether, arguing that it was not merely a political logo but a provocation aimed at dismantling their existing systems. Thus, what had started as a hopeful promise of unity between peasants and workers became, in the eyes of its opponents, the universal shorthand for tyranny, dictatorship, and suppression.Today, the hammer and sickle continues to live a double life, split between nostalgia and taboo. In countries that once lived under communist rule, the symbol is often outlawed, treated in the same way as the swastika: a dangerous emblem of past oppression that should never again be allowed to inspire political movements. Yet in other contexts, especially among leftist youth movements or fashion subcultures, the hammer and sickle has been revived as a kind of retro statement, stripped of its original menace and rebranded as a sign of rebellion. In street art, music, or even clothing, it sometimes appears less as a call for revolution and more as a provocative piece of irony, a way of saying, “we don’t buy into the system.” This duality shows how symbols, once drenched in blood and ideology, can be emptied of meaning for some while remaining heavily loaded for others.In the Indonesian context, the use of communist symbols such as the red star, the hammer and sickle, or their many variations cannot be separated from a heavy and painful historical background. These symbols are not neutral decorations but reminders of an ideology that once attempted to uproot the very foundations of the nation’s philosophy, Pancasila. To wave them today is not merely a matter of artistic expression but a direct challenge to collective memory, which recalls the violence, division, and betrayal associated with communist movements in the country. Beyond Indonesia’s specific history, the universal record of communist regimes has too often been marked by suppression of democracy, the silencing of dissent, and the sacrifice of human dignity in the name of ideological purity. For a nation that has chosen democracy, pluralism, and humanity as its pillars, flirting with these symbols risks reopening old wounds, undermining trust, and confusing future generations about the direction of the republic. The wiser path is to strengthen civic education, celebrate inclusive values, and use symbols that heal rather than harm, unite rather than divide.To carry the hammer and sickle, or to brandish the red star, in Indonesia is not merely to adopt a foreign ideology but to betray the very soul of the republic. The Pancasila, born from the vision of the founding parents, declares belief in the Almighty God, a just and civilised humanity, the unity of Indonesia, democracy guided by wisdom, and social justice for all. None of these principles can ever be reconciled with the record of communism, which denies faith, crushes dissent, and sacrifices humanity in the name of ideology. To flirt with these symbols is to turn away from the solemn oath made in the preamble to the 1945 Constitution: to protect all the people of Indonesia, to advance general welfare, and to realise social justice. If we truly wish to honour democracy and humanity, then let us embrace symbols that breathe life into Pancasila, not those that seek to erase it.Not all communist or socialist-leaning states limited themselves to just the “red-and-star” or the “red-with-hammer-and-sickle” family. While those two became the most recognisable and globally exported logos of the communist brand, several countries and movements experimented with their own adaptations, adding local flavour or symbolic twists to convey both Marxist ideas and national identity.For instance, Yugoslavia used the red star but placed it inside a wreath of wheat, topped with flames, meant to symbolise brotherhood and unity among its diverse republics. Albania kept its traditional double-headed eagle but crowned it with a small red star, mixing nationalism with socialism. North Korea combined the red star with additional socialist emblems like a hydroelectric dam and rice stalks on its coat of arms, giving the revolution a technocratic vibe. Laos went for a white disc on red, representing the full moon over the Mekong, framed as socialist but rooted in local culture.Then there are African and Asian examples: Mozambique, as I mentioned earlier, created perhaps the boldest remix — crossing a hoe with an AK-47 on its flag, signalling both agriculture and armed struggle. Angola preferred a machete with half a cogwheel, meant to echo the hammer-and-sickle but localised to African liberation movements. Even Vietnam’s yellow star was itself a symbolic variation, representing not just socialism in abstract but the five specific social classes working together under the party.So, while red, the star, and the hammer-and-sickle dominate, communist iconography has often been more diverse, adapting Marxist symbols to local myths, histories, and revolutionary struggles.When the Founding Fathers of Indonesia drafted the national philosophy and the 1945 Constitution, they were very aware of the ideological contest taking place in the world. Communism, which by that time had already been embodied by the Soviet Union, was seen as both a source of inspiration and a potential threat. The pros and cons of communism in relation to Indonesia can be understood as follows.
On the positive side, communism’s emphasis on equality, social justice, and the liberation of the oppressed resonated with Indonesian aspirations. Many of the founding figures, such as Sukarno, admired the anti-colonial spirit of communism because it positioned itself against imperialism and capitalism, both of which had been instruments of colonial oppression. It's call for the empowerment of workers and peasants also echoed the Indonesian desire to uplift the rakyat kecil from centuries of marginalisation.However, on the negative side, communism’s materialistic and atheistic foundation stood in sharp contrast with the spiritual dimension of Pancasila. The First Principle, belief in the One Supreme God, directly conflicted with Marxist doctrine, which rejected religion as an illusion. Furthermore, communism’s tendency to centralise power and impose a one-party system contradicted the consensual democracy envisioned by the Fourth Principle. The aggressive class struggle promoted by communism also risked tearing apart the fragile unity of Indonesia, which was precisely what the Third Principle sought to protect.As to whether communism could erase the existing ideology and replace it with one aligned to itself, the answer is historically nuanced. In theory, communism aims to supplant all prior systems with its own comprehensive worldview. However, in Indonesia, the deeply rooted Pancasila framework, with its blend of spirituality, nationalism, and social justice, has proven remarkably resilient. The attempt by communist movements in the 20th century to assert dominance—most notably in the events surrounding the Indonesian Communist Party (PKI)—ended in confrontation and rejection, largely because their principles clashed with the foundational spiritual and pluralist commitments of the Indonesian state.Therefore, communism could never truly erase Indonesia’s ideology, because Pancasila was deliberately designed as a broad umbrella to unite a diverse people. Any ideology that seeks to exclude religion or suppress plurality would inevitably find itself at odds with the Indonesian soul as articulated by its Founding Parents.Communism and Pancasila stand as two fundamentally different systems of thought, even though they occasionally appear to share concerns about justice and equality. In terms of religion, communism is grounded in materialism and explicitly rejects the existence of God, regarding religion as a mere illusion created to pacify the masses. Pancasila, in contrast, begins with belief in the One Supreme God as its very first principle, embedding spirituality at the heart of the state and affirming that religion is a source of moral guidance, not a tool of deception.When one examines democracy, communism has historically moved towards centralised power in a one-party system, claiming that this ensures the dictatorship of the proletariat. This, however, suppresses plurality and silences dissent. Pancasila’s democratic principle is instead rooted in deliberation and consensus, where political decisions are made not through the domination of one class over another, but through dialogue and agreement among all elements of society.In the field of economics, communism advocates for the abolition of private property and the establishment of collective ownership over the means of production, insisting that equality can only be achieved by dismantling class distinctions altogether. Pancasila, however, envisions an economy built upon the principle of kinship, where cooperatives and shared responsibility balance with individual rights, allowing for social justice without erasing personal initiative.Finally, in terms of unity, communism thrives on the concept of class struggle, encouraging conflict between the working class and the ruling class as a path to revolution. Pancasila, conversely, places unity at the very centre of the national project, emphasising harmony among Indonesia’s diverse peoples as essential to survival and progress.So, communism seeks to impose uniformity through conflict and revolution, while Pancasila aspires to build unity through dialogue, spirituality, and justice. The clash between the two lies not only in their methods but also in their ultimate vision of human life: one is materialist and combative, the other spiritual and inclusive.When Indonesia stood on the threshold of independence in 1945, its leaders were confronted with the monumental task of choosing an ideological foundation that could unite an incredibly diverse archipelago. The debates within the Preparatory Committee for Indonesian Independence revealed a spectrum of ideological possibilities, including Islamism, liberal democracy, socialism, and communism. Yet the Founding Parents ultimately coalesced around Pancasila, not by accident, but because it provided the broadest umbrella under which the entire nation could stand.Communism, although attractive to some because of its anti-colonial zeal and emphasis on equality, was ultimately set aside for several reasons. Its rejection of religion clashed irreparably with the deeply spiritual character of Indonesian society. In villages across Java, Sumatra, Sulawesi, and beyond, faith was not merely a private affair but the backbone of community life. To adopt an ideology that labelled religion as “opium” would have torn the very soul of the nation.Moreover, communism’s call for class struggle contradicted the vision of unity that the new republic desperately needed. Indonesia was not a homogeneous nation-state but a tapestry of ethnicities, languages, and cultures. The emphasis had to be on knitting these diverse elements together, not on setting one group against another. Pancasila’s third principle, unity of Indonesia, was precisely the antidote to the fragmentation that communism might have exacerbated.Economically, communism’s programme of abolishing private property and imposing collectivisation did not resonate with the Indonesian idea of “gotong royong” and “ekonomi kekeluargaan.” The cooperative spirit envisaged in the Constitution reflected not a war between classes but a shared effort to raise the welfare of all. In other words, Indonesian socialism was softened by kinship and faith, unlike the hard-line doctrine of Marxist communism.As history unfolded, especially during the turbulent 1960s, the incompatibility between Pancasila and communism became painfully clear. The Indonesian Communist Party (PKI) sought to push its agenda more forcefully, but this culminated in violent confrontation and eventually led to its destruction in 1965–66. The bloodshed that followed sealed communism’s fate in Indonesia, embedding Pancasila even more firmly as the non-negotiable state ideology.In the end, Pancasila triumphed not because it was a compromise of the weakest kind, but because it was the strongest synthesis: it preserved spirituality, embraced diversity, encouraged deliberative democracy, and envisioned justice without erasing human dignity. Communism, by contrast, demanded uniformity through conflict, which was incompatible with the pluralist, spiritual, and consensual character of the Indonesian nation.In the twentieth century, communism did not remain an abstract theory but was implemented with varying intensity in different parts of the world. In the Soviet Union, communism became the official ideology of the state after the Bolshevik Revolution of 1917. It sought to abolish private property, eliminate class distinctions, and impose atheism as part of its materialist worldview. While it initially succeeded in rapid industrialisation and building global influence, the Soviet system became heavily centralised, repressive, and economically rigid, eventually collapsing in 1991 under its own contradictions.In China, communism took root after the revolution of 1949 led by Mao Zedong. Here, communism adapted itself to the peasant-based society, focusing on agrarian collectivisation and revolutionary struggle. The Cultural Revolution demonstrated communism’s radical attempt to reshape not only the economy but also culture and thought. Yet China later diverged, especially under Deng Xiaoping, introducing elements of market economics while maintaining communist political control. This created a hybrid system, “socialism with Chinese characteristics,” which persists to this day.In Cuba, communism came into power through Fidel Castro’s revolution in 1959, aligning itself with the Soviet bloc. The ideology provided free education and healthcare but also restricted freedoms and entrenched authoritarian rule. The fall of the Soviet Union weakened Cuba’s communist model, yet it survives in a modified, more pragmatic form.Indonesia’s path diverged sharply from these experiences. Though the Indonesian Communist Party once gained strength, especially in the 1950s and early 1960s, its attempt to assert ideological dominance clashed with the deeply ingrained spiritual and pluralist nature of Indonesian society. Unlike the Soviet Union, China, or Cuba, Indonesia’s foundation was not a class-based revolution but a struggle for independence rooted in unity across ethnic, religious, and social lines. The adoption of Pancasila was precisely a way to prevent one group or ideology from monopolising the state.Thus, while communism in other nations either rose to dominance and later declined or mutated into hybrid forms, in Indonesia it was rejected outright after 1965. What endured instead was Pancasila, a uniquely Indonesian synthesis, which resisted totalitarian uniformity by affirming diversity, resisted atheism by affirming belief in God, and resisted class struggle by affirming harmony and cooperation. This is why Indonesia did not become “the Cuba of Asia” or “the China of Southeast Asia,” but something entirely different: a pluralist republic anchored in its own philosophy.The endurance of Pancasila as Indonesia’s state philosophy is remarkable, especially when compared to the fate of many other ideologies in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. While communism collapsed in Eastern Europe, fascism was crushed in World War II, and even liberal capitalism has faced repeated crises of inequality, Pancasila has remained the ideological backbone of the Indonesian state.One reason for its survival lies in its flexibility. Pancasila is not a rigid dogma but a broad framework that can be interpreted in various ways according to the needs of the time. It accommodates religion without being theocratic, embraces democracy without being strictly liberal, and promotes social justice without abolishing private property. This elasticity has allowed successive Indonesian governments—from Sukarno’s Guided Democracy to Suharto’s New Order, and even the Reformasi era—to reinterpret Pancasila while still claiming allegiance to it.Another reason is cultural resonance. Pancasila was crafted not in the halls of Western philosophy but from the lived reality of Indonesian society. Concepts such as gotong royong, musyawarah, and persatuan are deeply embedded in communal life, and Pancasila simply elevated them into a national doctrine. Because of this, it feels indigenous rather than imported, unlike ideologies such as communism or liberalism, which often carry the baggage of foreign origins.Furthermore, Pancasila has been defended through institutions and rituals. From schools that teach it in civics classes to ceremonies that reaffirm its place as the “foundation of the state,” it has been deliberately embedded into the national consciousness. Even critics who view it as sometimes being manipulated for political purposes cannot deny its symbolic strength as the one thing all factions must publicly accept.During the New Order era, the Indonesian state did more than reiterate Pancasila as the nation’s philosophical foundation: it bureaucratised and enforced it through official programmes and legal instruments, turning Pancasila into a compulsory principle that organisations and citizens had to endorse. The rollout of P4 (the Pedoman Penghayatan dan Pengamalan Pancasila), the creation of BP-7 to run nationwide penataran, and MPR resolutions and later laws in the early 1980s made the doctrine into an instrument of state orthodoxy rather than a freely embraced moral vision. Because many people experienced Pancasila primarily as a top-down obligation and an instrument of political control, its organic popular legitimacy was weakened in numerous quarters; at the same time, major organisations such as Nahdlatul Ulama and Muhammadiyah formally accepted Pancasila, which shows that responses were mixed rather than universally hostile. For Pancasila to be genuinely accepted by the people, it would have been wiser to cultivate national consciousness through open civic education and participation rather than by compulsory indoctrination and legal compulsion.Globalisation and modernisation have also tested Pancasila, but rather than replacing it, these forces have only highlighted its relevance. In an age of rising religious tensions, Pancasila’s principle of belief in God without privileging one religion provides a path for coexistence. In a world fractured by inequality, its principle of social justice remains a rallying cry. And in an era of divisive identity politics, its insistence on unity continues to serve as a compass.Pancasila has survived because it is not merely an ideology imposed from above but a synthesis rooted in Indonesia’s cultural DNA. Its resilience lies in its ability to adapt, to unite without erasing difference, and to endure as a symbol of national identity even as governments, leaders, and global trends come and go.Communism, when examined in relation to the aspirations of Indonesia’s founding parents, reveals itself as both a force of attraction and a source of anxiety. On the one hand, its emphasis on equality, class struggle, and the dismantling of feudal hierarchies resonated with the anti-colonial spirit of early Indonesian nationalism. For leaders who had witnessed the exploitation of their people under Dutch rule, the promise of a society without class domination carried a certain appeal. Yet, at the same time, the rigid atheistic materialism that underpinned much of Communist doctrine posed a profound contradiction with the deeply spiritual and religious foundations of Indonesian society, as enshrined in Pancasila’s first principle, belief in one God.In this tension lay the duality of Communism’s role in Indonesia: it was not merely a foreign ideology forced upon the nation, but rather an idea that sparked genuine enthusiasm among those who believed in radical change. However, its incompatibility with the inclusive, pluralistic ideals envisioned in the 1945 Constitution meant that it could never be fully reconciled with the national philosophy. Communism, in its pure form, threatened to erase the very balance that the founding generation sought to create: a balance between nationalism, democracy, and faith. If allowed to grow unchecked, it could indeed have replaced Indonesia’s hybrid ideological framework with a singular doctrine that disregarded the diversity and religiosity upon which the nation was built.Communism’s presence in Indonesia was like a storm on the horizon: it promised renewal and upheaval, yet it also threatened to wash away the fragile architecture of unity and harmony that the founding fathers and mothers had carefully constructed. Its allure was undeniable, but so too was its potential to undermine the uniquely Indonesian synthesis of ideals.Imagine if Communism had indeed become the official ideology of Indonesia. On the surface, the country would have projected itself as a proud workers’ paradise, where no man would own another, and every drop of sweat would be rewarded equally. The rhetoric of equality would have echoed from Sabang to Merauke, and the red star might well have fluttered above every school, office, and rice field. Yet beneath this revolutionary glamour, the diversity that had always been Indonesia’s lifeblood might have been reduced to a dull monotony. Religion, with its vast role in shaping Indonesian identity, would have been pushed into the shadows, if not banished outright, and spiritual life would have been trimmed to fit the iron frame of materialist doctrine.In such a world, the great ideals of the founding fathers would have been rewritten. “Belief in one God” would have been replaced by “Loyalty to the Party.” At the same time, democracy would have been refashioned into a single voice chanting in unison to the dictates of ideology. The richness of difference, whether in faith, thought, or lifestyle, would have been dismissed as counter-revolutionary. Indonesia might have achieved radical equality in theory, but at the cost of silencing the very plurality that made it distinctive. A society built on Pancasila’s balance between faith, humanity, and justice would have been transformed into a machine that tolerated no deviation from its singular path.And yet, one cannot deny the paradoxical possibility that such a system could have accelerated land reform, dismantled entrenched elites, and given peasants and workers unprecedented power. The irony, however, is that in lifting one class, Communism often crushed the freedoms of all, turning utopia into a regimented discipline where every citizen became both participant and prisoner. In the Indonesian context, such an outcome would not only have severed ties with centuries of spiritual heritage but also created a nation whose soul was stripped in the name of equality.
[Part 12]
