A collaborative piece by Trend Asia and LBH Bandung
Writing Team: Meike Inda Erlina, Andi Daffa Patiroi
13 March 2026
In this country, Indonesia, justice remains a privilege that eludes the poor and marginalised. At the same time, for those within political-economic elite, it is treated as a cheap ‘commodity’ to be traded at will. In the past, we might still believe that people could pursue justice through the courts. Over time, however, as Indonesia’s law enforcement system has ground to a halt—so deadlocked has it become—citizens now place their last hopes in ‘digital courts’, going viral with protest content marked by the hashtags #NoViralNoJustice and #PercumaLaporPolisi.
Virality has now become more than just an internet phenomenon. It has evolved into both a symbolic act of resistance and a tool for the public to exercise social control over a skewed law enforcement system. It is a response to the repressive actions and abuses of power carried out by the government and state security apparatus.
Yet, virality is a double-edged sword. As citizens struggle through the digital court, narrative-shaping machinery and ‘elite’ political-economic buzzers operate systematically—framing negative stigmas, engaging in doxing, and targeting those critical of various policies and development projects—ultimately leading to criminalisation. At this point, virality may offer a rapid response, but it cannot guarantee substantive justice for those behind the digital screens.
We must also look at the reality beyond the virtual world. In areas far from stable internet access, untouched by conventional media coverage, or among those who lack digital devices—and are unable to use them—patterns of oppression continue to recur. This reality is exploited, and the law is commodified and manipulated to benefit those in power—particularly elites who control key sectors of production essential to people’s livelihoods.
In West Java, the most populous province and a centre of industrialisation with extensive infrastructure development, the tide of urbanisation often leaves behind a picture of injustice. In Dago Elos, a village of more than 2,000 residents, people have faced the threat of eviction since 2016 from the Muller Brothers—three men claiming to be the heirs to land dating back to the colonial era. They have sued residents based on three eigendom verpondings (colonial land certificates). Nonetheless, these certificates have been invalid since the enactment of Law No. 5 of 1960 on Basic Agrarian Principles. To this day, residents continue to fight, despite suffering numerous defeats in court and becoming victims of repressive police actions in 2023. On the other hand, residents have achieved a moral victory, as two out of the three Muller brothers have been sentenced to prison after being found guilty of forging birth certificates used to claim the residents’ living space.
In Tanah Badega, Garut, four farmers who are members of the Badega Farmers’ Union were sentenced to 10 months’ imprisonment by the Garut District Court on 29 February 2023. They were reported by PT Perkebunan Nusantara (PTPN) VIII Kebun Cisaruni for clearing productive crops in Blok Cipanjur 6—which the company claims falls within its land-use rights—and for disturbing public order. Meanwhile, to this day, Blok Cipanjur 6 remains the subject of an agrarian dispute between the residents of Cikajang and PTPN VIII. Legal advisers suspect irregularities in the process, from the designation of suspects through to the judge’s verdict.
In the courtroom of the Bandung District Court in early 2025, dozens of protesters who had staged a demonstration in August 2025 were tried en masse, marking the largest mass arrest since Indonesia’s post-reform era. Dozens of protesters who took part in the August demonstration were tried together. Without clear notification of the specific charges, they were immediately found guilty and sentenced to prison terms ranging from 6 months to 2 years. The charges levelled against them varied, from damaging state property and burning buildings to inciting the masses. However, none of these charges was supported by strong evidence. The trials were rushed; the panel of judges merely copied the prosecutors’ indictment without considering the defence or the facts presented in court. Ultimately, all defendants were found guilty.
At the foot of Mount Gede Pangrango, at the start of 2026, residents of three villages—Sukatani, Cipendawa, and Sindang Jaya—were confronted by heavy machinery, escorted by local mass organisations and police and military personnel stationed at the site where the machinery was being unloaded. The residents were unaware that heavy machinery was being mobilised and therefore blocked the road. However, PT Daya Mas Geopatra Pangrango (DMGP) stated that it had coordinated with the village government, the village consultative body (Badan Permusyawaratan Desa), and the community.
From the four incidents above, a similar pattern emerges: a lack of transparency, restrictions on public participation, criminalisation, the legalisation of state violence, and the exploitation of mass organisations as tools of repression. Residents are then framed as instigators, land grabbers, and lawbreakers, thereby justifying their imprisonment. However, what is actually happening is that the law is being used to safeguard the interests of the political-economic elite.
When the pattern is already crystal clear and systematic in this way, we must ask the following reflective question: Is ‘going viral’ enough to protect residents’ struggles and ensure the fulfilment of our basic rights?
Structural Legal Aid Education Goes Beyond Virality
In reality, we must recognise that there is no single method citizens can use to promote the enforcement of the law and the fair fulfilment of their rights. We pursue this through various means. Virality is effective in bringing facts to the surface. However, to structurally dismantle the roots of oppression, structural legal aid education is necessary so that citizens’ struggles and movements become organised and resilient.
The political-economic elite operate systematically and in an organised manner to maintain and expand their power over agrarian resources, cloaking themselves in the formal guise known as ‘the law’. The pattern is clear: they create legal instruments (such as the new Criminal Code – Law No. 1 of 2023) to control citizens, enabling them to dominate living spaces by disciplining both thought and action. At the same time, these instruments function as tools of criminalisation, serving as a form of punishment. The logic constructed is that citizens who comply with the rules are those who pursue the judicial route. There is a misleading narrative, framed as if it were entirely fair and reassuring: ‘Our country is a nation governed by law; simply go through the judicial process.’
Citizens are then burdened with proving land ownership documents against corporate permits. Nevertheless, citizens often pursue the judicial process; paradoxically, corporations exploit this formal process to legitimise the seizure of citizens’ rights and living spaces. Ultimately, the process is frequently frustrating. Even when judges rule in favour of residents, the reality on the ground often differs. Corporations remain resourceful and frequently act as though such verdicts hold no weight.
Although residents of Dago Elos, Gede Pangrango, and Cikajang Garut have lived in these areas for generations, they can still be labelled as land squatters simply because they lack government-issued legal documentation. Yet, such documentation and permits are often products of the elite's political architecture.
When residents seek justice through street protests or viral social media campaigns, they are labelled as rule-breakers. As punishment, they are ‘disciplined’ through imprisonment. Psychologically, this also serves as a systematic strategy to erode residents’ resolve to resist, ensuring that their struggle does not spread widely.
Amid a system that structurally impoverishes and legitimises oppression, citizens’ resistance can itself become a force that confronts the law. Consequently, structural legal aid efforts are required to empower the public as agents capable of transforming the system that constrains them. The presence of structural legal aid training is therefore crucial within citizens’ resistance movements.
Structural legal aid training is not merely technical training in understanding laws or dissecting clauses one by one. Rather, it is a lens for systematic counter-resistance, as well as a comprehensive form of learning that enables people to understand oppressive power structures and to build collective movements through critical legal education, community organising, and leadership.
Such training is delivered organically and inclusively across communities. This approach makes it more accessible to grassroots groups, particularly those who have not had the opportunity to receive formal legal education or who face barriers in accessing information. Online training alone is insufficient and carries the risk of bias and misinterpretation without interactive discussion.
The manifestation of structural legal aid training is community self-reliance. It also fosters the internalisation of leadership values within communities, enabling residents to rely on themselves and their collective strength when facing legal challenges, rather than depending entirely on legal advisers or lawyers.
Truthfully, our legal advisers face various limitations. We are confronting a massive wave of criminalisation and encroachment on living spaces, while human resources remain limited. If a spirit of leadership is cultivated in every community member, the movement can reduce dependence on individual figures and ensure its continuity, regardless of who takes on the coordinating roles.
Through this training, we do not standardise residents’ everyday resistance; instead, we strengthen its distinctiveness and weave it into a cohesive movement. This combination is essential. While courage and collective anger already exist, the awareness of rights often remains individual. Fear persists when confronting the legal frameworks of the elite, and this fear can spread collectively.
In the end, structural legal aid training is not something outdated; it remains highly relevant as long as the threat posed by the political-economic elite continues. We must emphasise that its goal is not merely to win cases in court. Beyond that, it seeks to ensure that people’s movements remain consistent, reflective, and resilient in the face of ever-evolving threats.
The question then becomes: are grassroots communities resilient enough to face the various tactics that the political-economic elite will launch tomorrow morning—when the cell phone screens dim and legal support is limited? How can we restore the dignity of the law as an infrastructure of resistance against elite arbitrariness, if not through a form of structural legal aid education that liberates? Fundamentally, the law is a battlefield people must win—but only through strong organisation and resilient local leadership.
Photo 1:Incident on 14 August 2024 in Dago Elos, Bandung. A clash broke out between residents protesting against the police for failing to accept a report concerning the alleged forgery of a document by the Muller Brothers.
Photo 2: The atmosphere in the Bandung District Court during the trial of six demonstrators from the August 2025 protests.
Photo 3: Protest by Gede Pangrango residents at the Cianjur Regent’s Office regarding their rejection of geothermal power plant development.
