In the humid predawn light of Bandung, a young woman named Siti Nurhaliza pressed her palms against the cool tile of her bathroom sink, staring at the raw, weeping wounds on her forearms. The acid had eaten through her shirt like water through paper, leaving behind not just burns but a silent scream etched into her skin. It was March 17th, 2026 — just three weeks after she had stood before a crowd of university students in Jakarta, her voice trembling but clear, demanding accountability for the illegal seizure of ancestral farmland in West Java. Now, she was learning the hard way that in Indonesia, speaking truth to power can come with a chemical price tag.
This represents not an isolated tragedy. Over the past 18 months, at least 12 Indonesian activists, journalists, and lawyers have been targeted in acid attacks — a brutal, low-cost tactic that leaves victims maimed for life while often evading serious legal consequences for perpetrators. What began as sporadic violence against land rights defenders has metastasized into a chilling pattern: dissent met not with dialogue, but with vitriol — literal and figurative. As France 24’s recent report highlighted, these attacks are increasingly linked to critics of government-backed development projects, environmental advocates, and those challenging the impunity of security forces. But the deeper story — the one the wires haven’t fully told — is how this violence is intertwined with Indonesia’s weakening democratic safeguards, economic pressures from global commodity chains, and a legal system that too often protects the powerful while punishing the principled.
To understand the rise of acid violence in Indonesia, one must look beyond the immediate brutality to the structural fault lines beneath it. Acid attacks, while horrific, are not latest to the region. Similar tactics have been used in Bangladesh, India, and Cambodia — often targeting women who reject marriage proposals or challenge patriarchal norms. But in Indonesia, the shift is notable: the victims are increasingly male activists, environmental monitors, and legal advocates challenging corporate-state alliances. This suggests a tactical evolution — a move from gender-based punishment to silencing dissent through permanent, visible harm.
The legal framework remains woefully inadequate. While Indonesia’s 2009 Anti-Terrorism Law and 2012 Child Protection Law contain provisions that could be applied to acid violence, there is no specific statute criminalizing the possession or use of corrosive substances with intent to harm. Perpetrators are typically charged under vague articles of the Criminal Code related to “assault” or “causing injury,” which carry maximum sentences of up to nine years — rarely enforced in full. Worse, police often classify these attacks as “personal disputes” or “land conflicts,” sidestepping any investigation into possible links to corporate interests or state-affiliated groups.
“We’re seeing a dangerous normalization of violence as a tool of intimidation,” said Dr. Anita Yusuf, a human rights lawyer and lecturer at the University of Indonesia’s Faculty of Law, in a recent interview with Kontras. “When activists are attacked with acid and the perpetrators walk free — or worse, are never even identified — it sends a message that the state either condones this violence or is incapable of stopping it. Either way, the chilling effect is real.”
Dr. Yusuf’s words echo a growing concern among civil society groups: that acid attacks are becoming a preferred method of repression precisely because they are difficult to trace, cheap to execute, and leave victims with lifelong disabilities that undermine their ability to continue advocating. A 2023 study by the Indonesian Legal Aid Foundation (YLBHI) found that over 60% of acid attack victims involved in land or environmental disputes were unable to return to their previous work due to physical trauma, psychological torment, or social stigma.
The economic context cannot be ignored. Indonesia remains one of the world’s top exporters of palm oil, nickel, and coal — commodities driving a surge in foreign investment, particularly from China and Singapore, under the guise of infrastructure development and “national strategic projects.” These projects often require the acquisition of customary land, leading to clashes with indigenous communities. When protests erupt, companies frequently hire local security firms — some with ties to retired military or police personnel — to “maintain order.” Investigations by Tempo.co and the Alliance of Independent Journalists (AJI) have documented cases where such firms were present in the vicinity of acid attacks, though direct links remain unproven due to lack of forensic transparency.
Internationally, the response has been muted. While the European Union issued a statement in late 2025 expressing “grave concern” over the shrinking space for civil society in Indonesia, no concrete sanctions or conditional aid measures have followed. The United States, through its Agency for International Development (USAID), continues to fund governance programs in Indonesia, yet human rights conditionality remains weakly enforced. This disconnect — between rhetoric and action — allows impunity to persist.
Yet amid the darkness, We find signs of resistance. In Surabaya, a coalition of burn survivors and legal advocates has launched “Aksi Suka Cinta” (Action Love Lives), a campaign providing medical aid, psychological support, and legal assistance to acid attack victims. In Jakarta, artists have turned protest into paint, creating murals of victims’ faces with the slogan “Bukan Sampah, Manusia” — “Not Trash, Human.” These efforts are not just acts of solidarity; they are acts of reclamation — refusing to let violence define the narrative.
The acid attack on Siti Nurhaliza was not just an assault on her body. It was an attempt to erase her voice from the public square. But as she told me in a quiet voice during our interview last week, her burns may fade, but her resolve has only hardened. “They wanted me to be silent,” she said, tracing the edge of a scar on her cheek. “But now, when I speak, people don’t just hear my words. They see what speaking costs. And that makes them listen harder.”
Indonesia stands at a crossroads. Will it allow fear to rewrite the rules of dissent? Or will it recognize that the true measure of a nation’s strength lies not in how silenced its critics are, but in how fiercely it protects those who dare to speak? The answer will be written not in courtrooms alone, but in the streets, in the hospitals, and in the quiet courage of those who refuse to let vitriol have the last word.
What do you think — can legal reform alone stop this violence, or does it require a deeper reckoning with who Indonesia chooses to protect?
