Responding to Arrogant Political Elites’ Policies: Anger and Unease in the Journey of a Young Woman’s Activism

[This is an expanded and translated version of the original essay written in Bahasa Indonesia]

Since anger (rasa marah) is almost always interpreted as a negative energy, this particular anger of mine is often misunderstood by most people. Yet surely it is only natural for anger to surface as a reflection of a citizen’s frustration (rasa frustasi) with government policies that fail to touch the ground, that is, policies that do not stand with civil society (especially with women). At the same time, this anger in fact grows out of a love for the homeland (rasa cinta tanah air), the place where I was born, where I grew up, and where I became who I am today.

After several occasions of taking to the streets and being quite vocal about socio-political issues on my personal social media, I have continued to reflect on strategies of resistance. This includes thinking about how to ensure that my anger is not received raw (ditafsirkan mentah-mentah) as the directionless, hatred-driven anger of a (feminist) young woman. At the same time, the silencing of activists’ voices in the months since Indonesia’s new government came to power has become my strongest reason for being more cautious when expressing opinions and critiques related to politics.

I firmly believe that nothing is stronger or more forceful than putting one’s feelings (perasaan) into writing. Writing helps me map and name my emotions (perasaanku) in relation to the life I am living, and to see a feeling (perasaan) as a spectrum that develops over time. I also find calm and relief after releasing everything that fills my mind and heart onto the page. As word after word, sentence after sentence, unfolds into this paragraph and beyond, I hope I can continue to make a habit of writing about my anger (rasa marahku) toward a political situation that seems like a disaster unfolding every day. For me, it is important to write this anger reflectively so that it is no longer trivialised or reduced to something individualised, dismissed merely as a hormonal side effect before menstruation.

After completing my master’s degree at Universitas Indonesia, I became increasingly aware of the extent of the privilege I have had, which has enabled me to see and understand socio-political issues from a critical gender perspective. This awareness deepened when I no longer saw the state as a neutral entity but as an institution that actively regulates and confines the bodies of its citizens, including women’s bodies, through its often reckless (ngawur) policies. Such conditions persist because they are sustained by the state apparatus itself, where constructions of leadership and the entire realm of politics appear to benefit men more than anyone else. In order to maintain this status quo, state institutions often operate through dubious rules of the game and with minimal involvement of women in the work of governance.

Even so, in a broader sense, I began to realise that it was not particularly wise to critique the political situation in Indonesia solely through the lens of gender dynamics. Perhaps it was this awareness that prompted me to undertake a form of self-critique toward someone, or a group of people, who identify themselves as feminists, myself included. As we all know, feminist activists have often invoked the narrative of “intersectionality” as the ultimate framework for unpacking gender bias in the making and passing of policies. Recently, I was also reminded by Analouise Keating’s writing in her book Transformation Now! (2012) that feminists who think this way, myself included, often fail to fully grasp intersectionality itself. If we want to move toward a more humane and just form of reflection, diversity of identity should not merely serve as a basis for asking who benefits and who is disadvantaged. It should also allow us to consider what makes an individual complex within a particular political situation and how one person remains connected to others even when they hold many different political views. (Although I no longer wish to refer to myself as a “feminist”, the term is used here to provide context for my original identity after becoming someone critically awakened to gender inequality and other socio-political issues.)

Certainly, after entering this phase of what feels like a significant new awareness, I no longer wish to vent my anger wholesale at people who could be described as “don’t want to listen” because of their inability to be attentive to the social realities of lower-class communities marginalised by systems they themselves have helped create. In an earlier version of the article, I wrote: “…then I go to war against them.” Allow me to acknowledge again my own oversight in failing to grasp the complexity of a political situation that cannot be understood through a simple black-and-white lens. I have also come to realise that it was not wise for me to use the analogy of warfare to express my frustration (perasaan frustasi), simply because there was little I am able to do in the midst of a regime marked by silencing. Although I did at times feel pessimistic (merasa pesimis) about the possibility of meaningful change, rather than cornering or blaming one side, perhaps what I need to do now is pause for a moment and reconsider the steps I will take moving forward.

I think (aku rasa) every activist has, at some point, passed through this phase: imagining that a socialist state ideology might be realised in Indonesia. Although the original ideas of socialism emerged from male philosophers, feminists have also embraced the notion of a state organised around principles of justice and equality. It feels somewhat ironic to realise how nearly impossible such a political vision would be without revolutionary leadership and a sustained practice of civic politics, as Paulo Freire suggests in his book Pedagogy of the Oppressed (1993).

To be honest, my turmoil within these idealistic thoughts is also a response to my growing pessimism (rasa pesimisku) toward Pancasila, which we have long assumed, or perhaps only I have believed, to be a moral compass for governing and for everyone who lives within the nation. Yet it is precisely state officials who betray these principles and create damage everywhere. In the end, that pessimism and idealism (rasa pesimis dan idealis) become tangled in my mind until I no longer know how to separate them or how to turn them into a narrative without anger spilling through.

On the other hand, I still believe that this nation has not lost its fighting spirit. To this day, many young activists continue to organise political discussions within their small communities, working guerrilla-style under the radar (bergerilya). Some speak out boldly, even at the risk of becoming political prisoners (LBH Jakarta, 2025). Others are still willing to take to the streets (Octavia, 2025), voicing their concerns, if only briefly for a day, two days, or three. Some come simply to provide medical aid and food. To me, that is enough. All of these acts, however small, represent the weakest form of faith still possible (selemah-lemah iman) in the midst of a government that is becoming increasingly repressive.

Speaking out about political issues is, of course, even more challenging for women. Politics has long been considered a “heavy” topic, one that is assumed to interest men more. In many ways this is because politics itself has been systematically shaped through masculine perspectives, sidelining the contributions of women thinkers, much like other fields of knowledge that have long been dominated by male intellectual traditions. As a result, women become more vulnerable to criminalisation when they choose to speak out and offer criticism of the government. Unfortunately, perhaps, I am also part of that vulnerable group, and perhaps that is why those closest to me worry and demand that I be silent (diam), a silence that is itself a normative expectation of women’s place.

It is very difficult for me to respond to such expectations without my anger erupting. I know very well that the problem is not that women are too outspoken or too harsh. Rather, it lies in the patriarchal structures that have shaped us to see our own “natural disposition” (kodrat) as something silent and compliant. I feel anger when I realise how deeply this construction has been internalised within me, the belief that women are not made to resist. Often this belief is reinforced by religious narratives that are themselves biased, which makes me even angrier when religion is invoked by believers who do not critically reflect on the realities surrounding the verses they cite.

Building on Analouise Keating’s (2012) invitation to “sit with discomfort,” recognising that each human being is different yet also shares certain commonalities (kesepadanan), I think it will take much longer for people, especially women, to develop a collective awareness that we have been oppressed by patriarchal and capitalist systems of governance and social life. These systems limit our capacity for critical thought and keep us confined within normative bubbles. Keating reminds us that this journey is not easy, because it requires emotional sensitivity (kepekaan emosional). Perhaps such sensitivity can only emerge when people are willing to understand one another, to listen, and to relearn the old patterns that still reside in their hearts and minds.

I admit that the most difficult part of this anger is the desire, and the consistency, required to rethink what it means to live as a woman in a fascist state. Living as a woman citizen itself demands a life full of political considerations if one wishes to remain a person capable of freely extending networks of care and solidarity. Unfortunately, such political considerations are always shaped by the legal processes and policies that govern a country. In the end, as a woman, I must learn to appreciate the small steps I have managed to take so far. For me, valuing oneself is also a way of strengthening others. That is why moving forward slowly, but continuing nonetheless, has become the most important reminder for me now and in the future.

Even amid my optimism (rasa optimis) that change is possible, fear (rasa takut) still lingers. As a woman, that fear grips more tightly (terasa lebih mencengkam). It is not only the possibility of being silenced or suddenly arrested; the safety of those around me also becomes a concern. Having once spoken out loudly, I have often imagined such possibilities in my mind. From what I understand, at least from the psychology circulating on social media, fear (rasa takut) is a signal from the body, an alarm prompting the brain to develop safer strategies for action.

Fear does not have to be eliminated or fought against. Instead, it can guide me toward expressing this anger through alternative ways that can endure over time while minimising harm to others. Writing these reflections on anger is one such way. Yet even as I write, I continue to ask myself: will I remain here, or could I leave whenever I choose?