Tertibkan, Apparently

An attack on human rights activist Andrie Yunus has drawn national attention this week, with many commentators framing it as an attack on freedom and democracy themselves. ^[1] Indonesia’s national police — Polri, the Kepolisian Negara Republik Indonesia — have stated they are currently investigating the crime, ^[2] and government officials have made public statements calling for a thorough investigation. ^[3]

All very reassuring, on paper.

The president, however, decided to lead with something else. He called for tertibkan — discipline — not long after the attack took place. ^[4] To translate: tertibkan is the Indonesian verb for restoring order, clearing the streets, putting things in their place. It is, in policy memos and cabinet briefings, the word a government uses when it wants to remind everyone that there are rules, and that someone is going to be reminded of them.

The question, as is traditional, is which someone.

Because when a president says “discipline” in the same week a human rights activist is attacked, the word does a great deal of work. It can mean discipline the perpetrators. It can mean discipline the public. It can mean discipline the press, the activists, the opposition, or whoever is next in line to be a problem. The sentence “we must restore order” is famously flexible. It bends toward whoever is speaking.

Critics pointed out, in measured tones, that this is not a great look. People online, in less measured tones, expressed their distrust. ^[5] The general vibe was: thanks for the words, now show us the arrests. Because if justice does not prevail, it would not only beg the question of the fairness of the law, but also — in my opinion — public confidence in the president, the government, and every branch that makes it. ^[6]

The gap, as they say, is the policy.

It is also, to be fair, a familiar gap. This is a government that has historically preferred tertibkan — the gentle choreography of reminding people of their place — over the rather louder business of putting people on trial. Discipline, as a concept, travels well. It can be aimed at protesters, journalists, opposition figures, and activists with equal ease. It does not require evidence. It does not require a verdict. It requires only the willingness to say the word out loud, and the expectation that everyone in the room understands which way the word is pointed.

A thorough investigation, by contrast, requires evidence, witnesses, courtrooms, and the small administrative miracle of a case actually moving from announcement to conviction. The two are not the same instrument. They are not, in fact, even the same department.

Which is, in fairness, the minimum the moment requires. Announcements are free. They cost a podium, a press officer, and the goodwill of a caption writer. Arrests cost paperwork, prosecutors, defense attorneys, courtrooms, judges, and the small administrative miracle of a calendar that actually moves. The two are different products. One is a press release in a suit. The other is a verdict. Indonesia has, in recent memory, produced a great many of the former. The latter, historically, takes a bit longer.

And so the people are watching. The transcript of the moment is short: there was an attack, the police are looking into it, the government has spoken, and the president has asked for discipline. What happens next is, by tradition, the part the government would prefer to handle without an audience.

The audience, however, has stopped leaving the room.

So remember, the people are watching. It is the kind of sentence that sounds redundant until you notice who, historically, has been left alone in rooms with a president and a problem. The pattern, at this point, is the policy. The policy, at this point, is the pattern. Make of that what you will.