A painting hangs quietly on a gallery wall. A punk song screams for barely three minutes. A theater performance gathers bodies in a dark room. A documentary film flickers across a makeshift screen in a provincial town. None of these things carry tanks, command battalions, or draft legislation. Yet the Indonesian state, from one regime to another, repeatedly treats art as if a watercolor painting were an insurgency manual and a guitar riff were a constitutional threat. Indonesia has long behaved like a nervous parent terrified that its children might begin thinking independently after hearing poetry.

The history of Indonesian art censorship is not a side effect of political power. It is one of its central rituals. Since the colonial era, artistic expression has occupied an uncomfortable position between ornament and danger. The Dutch East Indies administration censored newspapers, theatrical performances, and political writings because representation itself threatened colonial legitimacy. Art was not feared because it lied. Art was feared because it exposed truths too clearly. Under Sukarno, art became inseparable from ideological struggle. Lekra and anti-Lekra conflicts demonstrated that cultural production was never neutral territory. Paintings, novels, and performances became extensions of political camps.

Then came Suharto’s New Order, the period in which the state perfected censorship into an administrative art form. The regime understood something crucial. Violence alone does not stabilize authority. Violence must be accompanied by narrative management.

Michel Foucault’s theory of power explains this machinery with painful precision. For Foucault, power does not operate merely through prohibition or brute force. Power circulates through institutions, discourses, surveillance, normalization, and discipline. The modern state does not merely punish bodies. It produces obedient subjects. A censorship board is not merely a bureaucratic office. It is a factory for acceptable consciousness. Under disciplinary power, citizens internalize surveillance and begin censoring themselves before the state even intervenes. The ideal authoritarian citizen eventually becomes both prisoner and guard simultaneously.

Foucault’s concept of discourse is especially relevant in the Indonesian context. Discourse determines what may be spoken, who may speak, and which truths become legitimate. In authoritarian systems, discourse is guarded with near religious intensity because controlling discourse means controlling social reality itself. During the New Order, official narratives about communism, nationalism, religion, morality, and development were institutionalized through schools, cinema, television, literature, and state ceremonies. Alternative narratives did not merely become unpopular. They became dangerous.

The New Order’s censorship practices reflected what Foucault described as the intimate relationship between knowledge and power. The state monopolized historical truth. Films such as Pengkhianatan G30S/PKI were not entertainment products. They were disciplinary instruments. State violence required continuous narrative reinforcement because memory itself was political territory. Indonesian artists learned quickly that criticism did not always produce imprisonment. Sometimes the punishment was subtler. Funding disappeared. Venues canceled events. Licenses vanished mysteriously. Journalists stopped calling. Surveillance became ambient. Fear became social weather.

Post-authoritarian Indonesia after 1998 promised democratic openness, yet Indonesian post-authoritarian studies repeatedly demonstrate that reformasi did not eliminate authoritarian structures. Scholars such as Vedi Hadiz and Richard Robison argue that democratization in Indonesia often preserved oligarchic power relations beneath democratic aesthetics. The uniforms changed, the language softened, elections multiplied, but coercive habits survived institutionally and culturally. Authoritarianism did not disappear. It decentralized itself.

This is where Indonesia becomes especially fascinating in Foucauldian terms. Contemporary censorship rarely appears through explicit state decrees alone. Instead, censorship operates diffusely through police pressure, military intimidation, religious organizations, bureaucratic obstruction, digital harassment, public morality campaigns, and institutional “concerns.” Nobody officially bans anything. Things simply become impossible to perform safely. This ambiguity is politically useful because power avoids accountability while maintaining disciplinary effectiveness. The modern Indonesian censorship apparatus often behaves like a ghost. Everyone feels its presence, yet officials continuously deny its existence.

The cancellation of Yos Suprapto’s exhibition in December 2024 revealed precisely this mechanism. The exhibition, titled “Kebangkitan: Tanah untuk Kedaulatan Pangan,” was scheduled to open at the National Gallery in Jakarta before being abruptly canceled following disputes over several paintings allegedly depicting former president Joko Widodo in critical and symbolic ways. The paintings addressed agrarian exploitation, political power, and food sovereignty. One image reportedly depicted a businessman being fed rice by a farmer beneath the shadow of a dog. Another portrayed explicit sexual imagery connected to the state’s symbolic architecture.

The National Gallery and associated figures framed the issue as a curatorial disagreement rather than censorship. This rhetorical maneuver deserves attention because it perfectly illustrates post-authoritarian discourse management. Contemporary censorship rarely introduces itself honestly. Nobody says, “We fear political criticism.” Instead, power disguises itself through administrative language. The exhibition was not “banned.” There were merely “curatorial inconsistencies.” The gallery did not silence dissent. It merely protected thematic coherence. Indonesian bureaucracy has become extraordinarily talented at laundering repression through procedural vocabulary.

Foucault would recognize this instantly. Modern power functions best when repression appears rational, technical, and impersonal. The National Gallery’s actions reflected institutional discipline masquerading as professionalism. The result, however, remained identical to classical censorship. The public was prevented from accessing politically sensitive artworks. The artist was pressured into compromise. The institution protected political comfort rather than artistic autonomy. Indonesia’s democratic institutions once again demonstrated their commitment to freedom of expression, provided expression remains sufficiently decorative and politically toothless.

Public reactions quickly drew parallels with the New Order era. This comparison matters because post-authoritarian Indonesia remains haunted by unresolved authoritarian memory. Reformasi did not dismantle the psychological architecture of censorship. Instead, authoritarian reflexes survive culturally inside institutions that officially celebrate democracy. The state no longer burns books dramatically in public squares because contemporary repression prefers plausible deniability. Today’s censorship is cleaner, softer, and administratively polite. The outcome remains unchanged.

The cancellation of a theater performance in February 2025 further exposed how Indonesian artistic space remains vulnerable to disciplinary intervention. Theater in Indonesia has historically occupied a dangerous position precisely because live performance creates collective immediacy. Unlike film or recorded music, theater gathers bodies physically in shared emotional space. From W.S. Rendra during the New Order to contemporary activist performances, Indonesian theater repeatedly collides with state anxiety because performance transforms criticism into communal experience. Power fears gatherings. Art merely provides the excuse.

Theater censorship often emerges through security discourse. Authorities invoke concerns about order, morality, or public stability. Here Foucault’s theory of biopolitics becomes relevant. Modern states regulate populations by managing risk, normality, and acceptable conduct. A theatrical performance becomes threatening not because audiences automatically revolt afterward, but because performance temporarily disrupts disciplinary norms. The stage allows alternative realities to become imaginable. Authoritarian logic understands imagination itself as politically dangerous.

Indonesia’s post-authoritarian condition intensifies this contradiction. Democratic governments publicly endorse freedom while simultaneously treating dissenting artistic expression as social disturbance. This creates what many Indonesian scholars describe as illiberal democracy, a system where electoral procedures coexist with authoritarian governance habits. Art becomes trapped inside contradictory demands. Artists are encouraged to celebrate national identity, cultural diversity, and democratic values, but only within acceptable ideological boundaries. Indonesian democracy frequently resembles a shopping mall security guard insisting customers are free to walk anywhere except the places that matter most.

The Sukatani controversy in February 2025 demonstrated how musical censorship functions through intimidation rather than formal prohibition. The punk band Sukatani withdrew their song “Bayar Bayar Bayar” after public pressure and alleged police intimidation. The song criticized police corruption through satirical lyrics about bribery and institutional abuse. Following the song’s viral circulation, the band publicly apologized to the Indonesian National Police while revealing their previously concealed identities.

The symbolism here was extraordinary. Punk music traditionally depends upon anonymity, resistance, and anti-authoritarian aesthetics. The forced removal of masks transformed the apology ritual into a disciplinary spectacle. Foucault argued that punishment in modern societies often becomes performative. The goal is not merely correction. The goal is visibility. The public apology video served as political theater designed to restore institutional dominance. The band members appeared subdued, apologetic, and exposed. Power demanded not only silence but submission.

Official responses further illustrated post-authoritarian absurdity. Some police representatives denied suppressing the song while simultaneously celebrating freedom of criticism. Other institutions acknowledged that the song constituted legitimate free expression. Meanwhile, reports emerged alleging intimidation and coercion behind the scenes. This contradiction reveals the genius of diffuse authoritarianism. Nobody officially bans the song. The artists simply become terrified enough to erase themselves voluntarily.

Foucault described this phenomenon as self-discipline produced through surveillance. The individual internalizes power until obedience becomes automatic. Sukatani’s case reflected precisely this transformation. The state no longer requires mass imprisonment when fear alone produces compliance. Contemporary Indonesian censorship increasingly operates psychologically. The artist begins calculating risk instinctively. Musicians censor lyrics before recording. Curators avoid controversial themes preemptively. Filmmakers dilute political content to survive distribution systems. Repression succeeds most effectively when censorship becomes invisible labor performed by artists against themselves.

The public backlash supporting Sukatani also revealed another important dimension of post-authoritarian Indonesia. Social media temporarily disrupted institutional narrative control. Public sympathy transformed the band into symbols of resistance. Yet even this resistance demonstrated Foucauldian complexity because digital platforms simultaneously expand expression and intensify surveillance. The same networks amplifying dissent also expose artists to harassment, monitoring, and coordinated attacks. Indonesian democracy increasingly resembles a panopticon with comment sections.

The disbandment of group screenings of the documentary film Pesta Babi in May 2026 perhaps represented the clearest continuity with older authoritarian traditions. Reports described military intervention against public screenings and discussions organized by journalist and activist networks in Ternate. The documentary reportedly addressed colonialism, Papua, environmental destruction, and state violence. The military justified intervention through concerns about security risks and regional stability. Naturally, nothing protects democracy more effectively than soldiers interrupting film discussions.

Cinema has always occupied a uniquely sensitive position in Indonesian political history because film combines narrative, image, emotion, and mass accessibility. During the New Order, film censorship boards aggressively regulated political content. Joshua Oppenheimer’s The Act of Killing decades later demonstrated how unresolved violence continued haunting Indonesian public memory. Documentary film in particular threatens authoritarian structures because it contests official archives. The documentary camera becomes counter-history.

Pesta Babi entered this dangerous territory by discussing colonialism and contemporary exploitation. The military response reflected enduring state paranoia regarding alternative historical narratives. Foucault argued that historical discourse represents a battlefield where competing regimes of truth struggle for legitimacy. States defend official history because legitimacy depends upon narrative continuity. A documentary questioning state violence threatens more than reputation. It threatens epistemological authority itself.

The military’s justification also reflected classic authoritarian paternalism. Authorities framed censorship as prevention rather than repression. The public supposedly required protection from potential unrest. Here Indonesian post-authoritarian governance reveals its deepest irony. Institutions repeatedly claim citizens are mature enough for democracy during elections but insufficiently mature to watch documentaries without military supervision.

The persistence of artistic repression across paintings, theater, music, and film demonstrates that Indonesian censorship is structural rather than incidental. Different governments, institutions, and ideological actors repeatedly reproduce similar disciplinary patterns because censorship remains embedded within political culture itself. Reformasi altered the style of repression more successfully than its substance.

This continuity also exposes the fragility of Indonesian democratic culture. Democracy requires more than elections. It requires tolerance toward discomfort, criticism, ambiguity, and symbolic disruption. Art frequently produces precisely these experiences. Consequently, insecure political systems instinctively regulate artistic expression because art destabilizes official emotional order. A protest speech argues directly. Art contaminates perception itself.

Indonesian authorities consistently underestimate the intelligence of their own citizens. Every censorship act reveals profound distrust toward public interpretation. Paintings must be removed because audiences might think politically. Songs must disappear because listeners might criticize institutions. Films must be interrupted because viewers might question official narratives. Democracy survives formally while epistemological control remains authoritarian.

Foucault helps explain why these incidents feel simultaneously modern and archaic. Contemporary Indonesian censorship rarely depends upon spectacular dictatorship. Instead, power disperses itself through institutions, regulations, security narratives, cultural norms, and psychological intimidation. The result is a society where artistic freedom exists theoretically but operates conditionally. Artists remain free provided they avoid offending sufficiently powerful actors. Freedom becomes ceremonial rather than substantive.

Indonesian post-authoritarian studies repeatedly warn against simplistic democratic triumphalism. The fall of Suharto did not eliminate authoritarian logic because authoritarianism was never merely one man or one regime. It was institutional habit, cultural conditioning, bureaucratic reflex, and disciplinary structure. Today’s censorship controversies reveal how deeply these structures survive beneath democratic rhetoric.

Perhaps the most tragic aspect of these incidents lies in their predictability. Indonesian artists already understand the boundaries before crossing them. Painters anticipate institutional panic. Musicians anticipate intimidation. Filmmakers anticipate disruption. The state’s greatest achievement is not censorship itself but normalization of censorship expectations. Citizens increasingly treat repression as routine administrative weather.

Yet art persists precisely because repression unintentionally confirms art’s political significance. No government fears harmless decoration. States censor because representation matters materially. A painting alters perception. A song reorganizes anger. A performance generates solidarity. A documentary reopens historical memory. Art threatens authoritarian tendencies because art reminds citizens that reality is neither fixed nor sacred.

Indonesia today stands inside an unresolved struggle between democratic aspiration and authoritarian inheritance. The battle no longer appears through dramatic coups or mass ideological campaigns alone. Sometimes the struggle emerges quietly inside gallery rooms, independent music scenes, temporary theater spaces, and documentary screenings interrupted by nervous officials claiming to preserve public order. The techniques evolve, the language modernizes, the uniforms occasionally soften, yet the central anxiety remains identical. Power still fears imagination.

And perhaps that fear reveals something unexpectedly hopeful. If paintings, songs, performances, and films truly possessed no social force, institutions would ignore them entirely. The repeated silencing of Indonesian art exposes not artistic weakness but artistic potency. Somewhere beneath the bureaucratic language, security rhetoric, and democratic branding, the state continues confessing the same uncomfortable truth through every act of censorship. Art still matters enough to frighten power.

References

  • Barker, J. (2008). Becoming a nation of spectators: Indonesia after Suharto. Duke University Press.
  • Foucault, M. (1977). Discipline and punish: The birth of the prison. Pantheon Books.
  • Foucault, M. (1980). Power/knowledge: Selected interviews and other writings 1972–1977. Pantheon Books.
  • Hadiz, V. R. (2010). Localising power in post-authoritarian Indonesia. Stanford University Press.
  • Herlambang, J. (2025). Ada apa dengan Sukatani? Kompas.id.
  • Irawan, W., & Ihsan, N. (2026). No instruction to ban “Pesta Babi” film screening, top minister says. ANTARA News.
  • Robison, R., & Hadiz, V. R. (2004). Reorganising power in Indonesia. Routledge.
  • Tanamal, Y. (2024). Closure of National Gallery exhibition sparks censorship concerns. The Jakarta Post.
  • Tapsell, R. (2017). Media power in Indonesia: Oligarchs, citizens and the digital revolution. Rowman & Littlefield.