On 3 January 2024, the Indonesian Broadcasting Commission (KPI), the state agency authorised to oversee broadcast television content in Indonesia, issued a warning to Ivan Gunawan, a prominent male Indonesian fashion designer. The warning was prompted by his perceived feminine appearance (kewanitaan) on the Brownis variety show on a leading TV station, Trans TV.

Both Brownis and Trans TV were reprimand for what the KPI said was a violation of the 2012 Broadcasting Code of Conduct and Program Standards. As per the regulation, the KPI prohibits the normalisation of men dressing, grooming, and waving (melambai) like women.

In 2016, the KPI also established KPI Circular Letter Number 203/K/KPI/02/2016, which prohibited the normalisation of men appearing as women on TV, something which it claims is a violation of ethics and norms of courtesy, decency, and morality associated with Eastern culture (budaya ketimuran). The KPI believes that men who present themselves as women potentially have a negative influence on children.

The reprimand of Gunawan for adopting a stereotypically feminine appearance highlights a significant issue in how authorities perceive masculinity. It suggests an ingrained view of men aligned with the concept of hegemonic masculinity.

In the Indonesian context, this concept was strongly emphasised during the New Order through the construct of “Bapakisme.” This ideology distinctly separated gender roles, portraying men as providers, distant from domestic activities, and not affectionate, while women are considered to solely belong to the domestic realm and serve as companions to men (konco wingking) — assumptions from which Julia Suryakusuma’s drew her concept of “State Ibuisme”.

On the flip side, in early modern Indonesia, men who presented themselves in a feminine manner received a certain level of “acceptance” on TV and in other media. For instance, in 1979, Tessy, a male member of a comedic group called Srimulat who dressed as a woman, earned a spot on TV. The Indonesian Queer Archive, a project dedicated to preserving and celebrating materials on the lives of queer individuals in Indonesia, has also made an extraordinary effort by showcasing films like “Lenong Rumpi,” “Jang Djatuh di Kaki Lelaki,” and “Remaja di Lampu Merah” that clearly depict gender diversity representation on the silver screen. In contemporary Indonesia, Aming in Extravaganza, Aziz Gagap in Opera Van Java, and Olga Syahputra in Dahsyat also receive a certain level of acceptance to express feminine appearances.

However, even though they receive certain acceptance and celebration, it’s important to acknowledge that these entertainers still face discrimination. Their representation is often seen as jokes (becandaan) and objects of mockery (olok-olokan), failing to capture the full breadth of who they are.

A new wave of LGBT panic?

Fair and comprehensive representation for diverse expressions of gender in popular media, including TV, remains crucial.

Yet the recent “cancellation” of Ivan Gunawan for violation of KPI bans on male “femininity” marks another phase of the LGBT panic that has lent justification to the 2016 KPI circular letter on “proper” gender presentation on broadcast media. In 2018, Trans TV’s Brownis Tonight variety show received a warning from KPI for discussing transgender issues, as it was considered to have the potential to encourage children and teenagers to normalise inappropriate LGBT behaviours.

In 2021, five Indonesian TV stations—RCTI, Indosiar, FTV, SCTV, and Trans 7—were cautioned by KPI for airing advertisements featuring men dressing and speaking like women, which was deemed inconsistent with moral values. In the same year, the KPI chapter in West Sumatra province reinforced the 2016 KPI regulation to prohibit LGBT-related content, interpreting it as men appearing feminine on television. In 2023, the Pagi-Pagi Ambyar show also received a warning from KPI for broadcasting an interview with Lucinta Luna, a popular Indonesian transgender woman, and with her boyfriend.

Beyond the LGBT panic, censorship is also used as moral justification to discipline and regulate bodily expression in general. This rationale aligns with Gunawan’s cancellation: grounded in morality and the concern that it might have a negative influence on children. They have, at times, strangely censored kissing scenes in Shaun the Sheep; a female swimming athlete; and swimsuits in a Doraemon cartoon.

Gunawan’s cancellation is not a new wave of LGBT panic but rather another instance of a sustained period of official homophobia, as consideration of the broader social and political context of Indonesia shows. In 2016 — when the KPI published the circular letter that marked a ramping up of its policing of expressions of gender diversity — sentiments of marginalisation against the LGBT community in Indonesia were intensifying simultaneously.

As the research of Hendry Yulius Wijaya shows, during that period numerous Indonesian officials openly expressed negative opinions about the LGBT community. Then defence minister Ryamizard Ryacudu asserted that the LGBT movement was part of a “proxy war” that posed a threat to national security. Indonesia’s presidential spokesperson, Johan Budi, also declared that there was no room for LGBT groups in Indonesia. In the same year, the then minister of social affairs, Kofifah Indar Parawangsa, cautioned the public about the dangers of the LGBT group, particularly for children.

Islamic conservatism

When it comes to censorship, KPI is not acting alone. It is also influenced by the growing Islamic conservatism that surfaced in Indonesia’s post-reformasi period. Conservative Islamic groups frequently target the LGBT community, employing moral justifications to rally their political interests. For example, the Family Love Alliance (Aliansi Cinta Keluarga/AILA), a group of urban middle-class mothers, suggested amending the Indonesian Criminal Code in 2016 to criminalise same-sex relations and extramarital sexual relationships.

Some claim that conservatism on TV is growing due to the high viewership of Islamic-themed programs, such as “Mamah dan Aa” (Mom and Bro), “Islam itu Indah” (Islam is Beautiful), and Islamic-oriented soap opera (sinetron) “Tukang Bubur Naik Haji” (Porridge Seller Goes on Haj). I would argue that the growing interest in religious content does not guarantee the simultaneous growth of conservatism — it is an expression of their religious piety, which is not necessarily synonymous with conservatism.

Okky Madasari’s argument about how political Ibu-Ibu (mothers) contribute to the censorship of freedom of expression, including issues related to gender diversity, makes sense to me. Despite Ibuhood no longer being exclusively associated with domestic roles, mothers are now actively involved in politics.

However, despite this greater engagement in political life, they also participate in politics by submitting various petitions and organising boycotts to censor TV shows deemed immoral. One example was the boycott against Blackpink, a South Korean girl band, because they wore mini-skirts, and the comic edition of a translation of a sexual education handbook, WHY: Pubertas, which was considered as promoting gender minorities.

Building an inclusive masculinity

Eric Anderson’s idea of inclusive masculinity, which discusses various kinds of masculine expression, is important to be promoted in order to counter the “official” masculinity construction constructed by the state and society in general.

Ivan Gunawan is well aware that his feminine expression on TV is a part of his freedom of expression and does not undermine his status as a man. Instead of conforming to the expectations of the KPI by altering his style as a man, Gunawan chose to bid farewell to the Brownis show and set out on a different path for his future career after entertaining the audience for six years.

He also Top of FormBottom of Formdefended himself by asserting that he is a fashion designer and working in the creative industry. His self-expression on television is an integral part of his creativity and shouldn’t be constrained. Gunawan is acutely aware that what occurred represents a limitation on his expression. He also cautioned his followers against judging him solely based on his appearance, questioning, “Is your prayer (shalat) better than mine? Is your charity (sedekah) more-sincere than mine?” In a social media response to the official KPI posting on his case, Gunawan fought back by saying, “Why don’t you criticise Haji Roma Irama who performs wearing a headscarf and high-heeled shoes?” He added, “Have you not seen a man wearing a headband at a TV station’s anniversary event?”

The problem in the idea of ”proper” masculinity is risky because it overlooks the fact that masculinity, and gender in general, is fluid and a construction that is not final — and in Indonesia is often shaped by the pressure from conservative Islamic groups. What is considered masculine here, may not be viewed as a form of masculinity elsewhere. A singular view of masculinity is also perilous as it has the potential to segregate gender roles and expressions, jeopardising efforts to achieve gender equality.

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“Data! Data! Data! ― I can’t make bricks without clay,” Sherlock Holmes was described saying in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Adventure of the Copper Beeches.

For students of Indonesian politics, public opinion data is the clay we need to make sense of this year’s national and local elections. The stakes are high: over the past few years, Indonesia has experienced what many observers regard as a democratic erosion.

Consider the recent Constitutional Court ruling that paved the way for Gibran Rakabuming’s inclusion on the ballot as a vice presidential candidate. Was this episode a simple case of elite politics and manoeuvring on the part of Jokowi? Or does it reflect a declining public appetite for the burdens associated with the rule of law?

To answer these sorts of pressing questions, we need access to publicly available survey data.  To be sure, there exist several such sources, including the World Values Surveys (WVS), the Asia Barometer survey, the USAID Demographic and Health Surveys, the Indonesian Family Life Survey (IFLS), and the Pew Center’s study of the World’s Muslims, to list some notable examples. But these surveys tend to be one-off snapshots—a fact that undermines their utility for observing how Indonesians’ attitudes are unfolding in real time and in response to external events. (The World Values Survey was most recently conducted in Indonesia in 2018, for example.)

With an eye towards encouraging data-driven research, since November 2023 we have been conducting weekly public opinion surveys, gauging the attitudes of 1,650 Indonesian adults each week. We will continue to conduct weekly surveys until January 2025, aiming to survey approximately 95,000 Indonesian adults over the course of 58 weeks.

Importantly, we will make the data freely available to interested researchers. We call this initiative High-Frequency Surveys on Indonesians’ Knowledge of and Attitudes on Politics (HI-RES SIKAP). Below, we describe the survey design, the sample, two use case examples, and how to access the data.

The design

The SIKAP project draws inspirations from the Nationscape study run by the Democracy Fund and UCLA. As co-Principal Investigators, we contribute equally to the project and would like to acknowledge funding from the Singapore’s Ministry of Education and the National University of Singapore that has made the project possible.

The key component of SIKAP is the weekly online surveys that we have been running and will continue to run for a total of 58 weeks, from 27 November 2023 to 5 January 2025. This period, as students of Indonesia will immediately notice, covers several politically significant events, such as the presidential election in February 2024, the inauguration of Prabowo Subianto as president in October 2024, and the simultaneous local elections in November 2024.

We developed a set of core modules that are asked across all 58 surveys. That the surveys have overlapping core questions, and are fielded weekly means that SIKAP offers insights on how voters’ attitudes on an issue may change as a response to a political event.

For instance, we can theoretically examine if there is a growing sense of affective polarisation over the course of the election campaign. It might be the case, for instance, that supporters of presidential candidates increasingly become more negative toward each other.

Table 1: Core Modules in SIKAP

Sampling methods

Each SIKAP wave collects data from a fresh sample of 1,650 respondents, provided by the online panel vendor Cint (formerly known as Lucid). In the ideal case, by the conclusion of the project we will have collected data from 95,700 unique respondents. However, for several practical reasons, we allow respondents to be interviewed again after eight weeks have passed since their last interviews.

This gives us the best features of cross-sectional and longitudinal data. Aiming for a fresh sample in each wave enables us to capture a diverse pool of respondents. Allowing for multiple interviews, meanwhile, enables us to track how social and political attitudes of re-interviewed respondents might change over the course of 58 weeks.

Online surveys are not representative of the Indonesian population. Many voters do not have internet access and the underlying factors that drive such access may be correlated with the attitudes in which we are interested in measuring. For example, our sample is more educated than the population.

Nevertheless, we prioritised implementing quotas that enabled us to achieve representational parity on other crucial variables: gender, age, and region. These quotas improve the representativeness of our sample and, at the same time, still ensure that each survey wave can finish in one week.

Table 2: Demographic Quotas in SIKAP

The lack of representativeness of our sample has significant implications. Researchers who wish to use our data are solely responsible for the content of their analyses, but in general we would discourage using the SIKAP data to present simple descriptive statistics or to extrapolate those statistics to the population.

For example, it is not advisable for researchers to analyse our presidential vote preference question and then extrapolate that to argue for how many voters support Anies Baswedan, Prabowo Subianto, or Ganjar Pranowo. That kind of exercises requires a different type of sampling method.

Instead, we believe our data is particularly useful for two types of exercises.

The first is to examine the trend of a political attitude as a function of time. For example, a researcher might examine how, as the election date nears, heated religious rhetoric might lead to more exclusionary attitudes among voters.

The second type of exercises is to examine how a shock created by a significant social or political event leads to changes in trends of certain political attitudes. For example, as we measure respondents’ attitudes toward China, the interested researcher might examine how these attitudes change after a reporting of China’s incursion into Indonesian territories in the Natunas.

These are just few examples and, in the end, different researchers would want to analyse the data differently. Below, we present two preliminary analyses that we have done on the data.

Use case: affective polarisation

How do supporters of a presidential candidate feel toward supporters of other presidential candidates, and how do these feelings change over the course of the election? This is one of the questions that we can examine using the SIKAP data.

SIKAP includes questions about respondents’ presidential vote preferences. It also includes questions that tap into the respondents’ feelings toward supporters of the three presidential candidates that competed in the February 2024 presidential elections. Respondents may indicate their feelings toward supporters of each of the candidates on a 5-point scale that ranges from a strong dislike to a strong like.

Figure 1 presents levels of affective polarisation among the three candidates’ supporters from the first week of SIKAP (27 November 2023–3 January 2024) to the tenth week (29 January 2024–4 February 2024).

Figure 1: Feelings between supporters of presidential candidates

There are at least two notable patterns.

First, each candidate’s supporters feel most favourable toward fellow supporters. This is rather unsurprising. What is interesting, however, is that the feeling is not extreme―on average, a score of 4 out of possible 5. This suggests that political campaigns do not necessarily induce partisans to become more positive or feel more favourable toward their ingroup.

Second, among both supporters of Prabowo Subianto and Anies Baswedan, feelings toward supporters of Ganjar Pranowo are relatively constant in the ten weeks of the campaign period. They hover around the neutral point of 3. In other words, Anies and Prabowo supporters neither like nor dislike Ganjar supporters.

To the contrary, we observe that Prabowo supporters’ feelings toward Anies supporters increasingly become more negative, which is reciprocated by Anies supporters as their feelings toward Prabowo supporters also became more negative in these 10 weeks. This pattern is more interesting among Anies supporters.

Initially, Anies supporters viewed Prabowo supporters more positively than they did Ganjar supporters. Over time, this perception changed such that by early February Anies supporters actually view Ganjar supporters more favourably than Prabowo supporters. This pattern might actually reflect how in the final days of the campaign Anies’s campaign mounted an offensive against Prabowo, highlighting for example his business deals, land ownership, and lukewarm track record as defence minister.

Use case: gender and generational politics in Indonesia

Considerable attention has been given to the role of the youth vote in Indonesia’s upcoming presidential election. For the first time, a majority of voters will be millennials or gen-Z. This is having wide-ranging consequences for how candidates are appealing to voters, and is widely believed to have influenced Prabowo’s rebranding strategy as a “cuddly grandpa.” To what extent is this pivot working to sway young voters?

Figure 2: Support for Prabowo by generation

SIKAP data allows us to examine this question in-depth. In Figure 3, we examine the share of voters from different generations that support Prabowo. The first takeaway that stands out is that Gen-Z voters are much more likely to support Prabowo than older voters—by a margin of about 20 percentage points. This is surprising in its own right: compared to older voters, young voters are not generally thought to support candidates with authoritarian inclinations. The evidence suggests this may be changing.

Digging deeper, we can examine how generational differences interact with gender in terms of support for Prabowo. Again, what we observe on the right-hand panel of Figure 3 is that older men and women are equally as likely to support Prabowo—there are no gender differences. But the left-hand panel shows a stark gender divide: young men are much more likely to support Prabowo than young women.

The advantage of the high-frequency nature of the SIKAP data is that we can pinpoint the moment at which this gender gap emerges: until the first week of January, young men and women were equally as likely to support Prabowo. But early in the new year, support for Prabowo among young women dropped and support among young men increased—perhaps as a consequence of the 7 January televised presidential debate.

How to access

We welcome researchers, journalists, and other members of the public to access and analyse our data for their research. Our data is unique in its high-frequency nature and as such offers insights difficult to obtain by analysing other datasets. At the same time, we want to make a disclaimer that we are not responsible for inferences drawn by other researchers using our data.

Interested researchers may access the data from our websites nicholaskuipers.com or nathanael.id. For accountability purposes we would like to understand who accesses our data, so prospective users need to fill in a short form and enter their emails. The link to download the data will then be sent to this email.

As the first batch, we are releasing Wave 1 to Wave 11. We will release more waves as the data become available. We are hoping that this simple exercise will help create a path toward greater data sharing and data openness practices in Indonesia.

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According to all credible quick counts, Prabowo Subianto will be the next president of Indonesia. He and his running mate, President Joko Widodo’s son Gibran Rakabuming Raka, won the three-way race with a convincing 58% of the votes, easily clearing the 50% threshold required to win in a single round.

The losing candidates, former Jakarta governor Anies Baswedan and former Central Java governor Ganjar Pranowo, may challenge these results in the Constitutional Court, and some protest from civil society groups is expected. But it is unlikely that the outcome will change given the large margin of victory and because there is little evidence to suggest outright vote rigging. Instead, intervention in the process came before the election, when President Widodo (Jokowi) unabashedly mobilised social assistance funds and the bureaucratic apparatus to guarantee a quick victory for his former foe and, most importantly, to put his son in the vice-presidential office.

From strong man to statesman

Prabowo is a relic of Indonesia’s authoritarian past with a blotted human rights record. But he has proved to be a persistently popular political figure. He came within striking distance of the presidency in 2014 and 2019, using both ultranationalist and Islamist appeals. Both times, he managed to secure around 45% of the vote thanks in part to a committed core of supporters.

After losing again to Jokowi in 2019, many thought Prabowo had reached the twilight of his political career. But in a surprising move, Jokowi appointed him to the strategic post of defence minister. This arrangement not only neutralised Prabowo as an opposition figure, but also gave the aging strongman a chance to rehabilitate his image.

Over the past four years Prabowo transformed his public persona from that of a political troublemaker to a mature statesman. His term as defence minister signalled to both domestic and international audiences that he was fit for high office, and that he could put personal ambition to the side in service of his country and his once bitter rival.

After Prabowo, now 72, declared he would contest the presidency again in 2024, he began to campaign with a message of continuity. Not only would the ‘new’ Prabowo maintain Jokowi’s economic policies, but he also cut a calmer, more considered and inclusive figure. Prabowo went farther to boost his popularity among young voters, the under-40s who  comprise more than half of the electorate, through a carefully curated social media campaign that recast his macho image as an endearing old man.

Presidential desire meets post-presidential ambition

On its own, Prabowo’s image rehabilitation strategy proved effective and gave him a small lead over the other two, much younger candidates, Anies (54) and Ganjar (55). But in order to win, he needed to expand support beyond his loyal base—and it was his former foe that provided the tools to do so.

Once heralded as a new hope for democratic Indonesia, over the course of his second term Jokowi had become increasingly authoritarian and concerned with securing  post-presidential influence and legacy. Around the Covid-19 crisis, he first tried to extend his time in office beyond the constitutionally permitted two terms, and then to delay the elections. Both schemes were thwarted by the leader of his own party, PDIP’s chairperson Megawati Soekarnoputri. Long irked by Jokowi’s refusal to comply with party directives, she was determined to field a more obedient candidate in 2024.

Jokowi’s ambition found an unlikely ally in his former rival. Prabowo needed the endorsement of the popular incumbent to boost his electability; Jokowi wanted his eldest son, Gibran, on Prabowo’s ticket to retain power after leaving the presidential palace.

But Gibran was barred from running because the 2017 Election Law set a minimum age of 40 to appear on the presidential ballot. In a shocking move, the Constitutional Court, headed by Jokowi’s brother in law, created a legal loophole that cleared the way for the 36 year old to run on Prabowo’s ticket.

Analysts and activists alike believed this brazen act of nepotism would prompt a backlash; but Jokowi’s popularity continued to hover above 75 percent. In a country where provincial and municipal governments are littered with dynastic figures, most voters remained unconcerned about Gibran’s sudden entry into the presidential race. Jokowi’s popularity also made the two rival candidates wary of attacking him for bending the law to favour his son.

With Gibran by his side, Prabowo’s poll ratings soared from 37 percent in October to 47 percent in December 2023. This lead in the polls would, according to opinion surveys, be enough for the pair come first in the initial electoral round, and to then win a runoff election with a comfortable lead of almost 30 points against either of the two rivals. But with his son on the ticket, the stakes were too high for Jokowi to leave anything to chance.

No holds barred for a quick win

The campaign for a swift victory involved unprecedented intervention on the part of the outgoing president. First, Jokowi flaunted established norms of neutrality for a sitting Indonesian president and insisted on his right to take sides in the election. He repeatedly and publicly demonstrated his support for Prabowo and his son, sending clear and effective signals to the electorate. This endorsement boosted their lead in the polls.

Second, the president used his control over state institutions to drum up support in sympathetic quarters and depress votes for rivals. The main battle grounds were Central and East Java, and the target of this strategy was Ganjar, presidential nominee of PDI-P. It is the party to which Jokowi belongs but with whom he split in order to put Gibran on Prabowo’s ticket.

These areas were flooded with social welfare assistance. To dispense this unplanned aid, government ministers scraped funds from other programmed activities. Shedding any pretence of neutrality, Jokowi himself went to these regions and personally handed out food aid to potential voters. As this social assistance flowed, Prabowo’s popularity ticked up closer and closer to 50 percent.

Alongside these carrots, Jokowi also deployed sticks. In the lead up to election day, Indonesian lawyers and journalists documented how local bureaucrats and regional executives in parts of Java were threatened with corruption investigations and pressured by law enforcement to get out the vote for Prabowo and Gibran.

Some district and village heads in competitive areas suddenly found themselves being investigated for misuse of public funds but charges disappeared when they showed up to campaign for the pair. Others were told that release of social welfare assistance would be contingent on delivering votes for Prabowo–Gibran. To be sure, PDI-P countered this campaign using its own resources as well as its loyal regional and village heads. But this was no match for the state resources that Jokowi could mobilise.

It is difficult to say with certainty whether or to what extent these sorts of tactics had a significant impact on the final result. Regardless, the leveraging of incumbency in this way sets a dangerous electoral precedent.

All credible polls showed that Prabowo and Gibran had the popular support to win the presidency in a two-round race. They ran a far more sophisticated campaign than their rivals, and successfully courted young voters. Backed by most of the country’s major oligarchs and tycoons, their campaign team was awash with funds. They also had explicit endorsements from Indonesia’s largest Muslim mass organisation, Nahdlatul Ulama.

Much to the dismay of those concerned about Prabowo’s violent past, it was looking like an unstoppable campaign. But Jokowi’s impatience with the democratic process has undermined one the most durable feature of Indonesia’s democracy: electoral competition.

A stress test for Indonesia’s democracy

Over the past decade, numerous scholars and activists have raised serious concerns about democratic regression in Indonesia, which is occurring in line with global trends. The lack of democratic opposition, the dominance of oligarchic power, vote buying, and worsening human rights conditions have contributed to this decline in democratic quality. But there was a general consensus that Indonesia’s elections remained competitive.

Partisan behaviour of state officials is observed with some regularity in Indonesian elections. But the centralised nature of intervention in 2024, its scale and the brazenness with which it was done, is unprecedented in Indonesia’s brief democratic history. It is more reminiscent of elections under Suharto’s rule, when state machinery was routinely cranked to ensure a victory for the regime-backed party, Golkar.

Political parties in rival coalitions are indeed crying foul. But these same parties served in Jokowi’s parliamentary coalition over the past ten years and actively supported his attempts to dismantle checks on executive power. They agreed to stripping the anti-corruption body of its independence, packed top courts with sympathetic judges, and passed laws that criminalise dissent.

A Prabowo presidency was once considered a serious threat to Indonesia’s democratic institutions, and Jokowi was viewed as the antidote. But Prabowo now inherits a democracy far weaker than the one he sought to rule ten years ago. It is not clear whether Prabowo will choose to keep Jokowi’s influence in his government or isolate him in order to draw aggrieved parties into his camp. What is clear, however, is that without principled opposition in parliament to hold the new president accountable, Indonesia democracy will continue its downward trajectory.

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