On Thursday morning, as I scrolled through X, one piece of news caught my attention: the financial support for Representatives had been increased, and a demonstration was being organized in front of the DPR/MPR building. I felt a wave of hesitation. It wasn’t my first time joining a protest. Back in September 2019, I had volunteered as part of the medic team during the Bandung riots. At that time, I wasn’t alone; a few friends stood beside me, sharing both the risks and the conviction. This time, though, things felt different. I didn’t know who I could turn to, or even who I should talk to.
But the issues felt too important to ignore; low wages, the outsourcing system, the threat of layoffs, and tax reforms that burdened ordinary people. I couldn’t just scroll past and move on with my day. Deep inside, I felt the urge to be there, not only to witness the demonstration firsthand but also to become an echo of the voices raised by the orators. Even if I couldn’t do much, I wanted to offer my moral support to those brave individuals who dared to stand at the front lines. So, as soon as my work ended, I made my way to Senayan.
When I arrived, I found myself walking down the middle of a road that had been blocked off. On one side, some demonstrators were resting quietly, sipping coffee from street vendors and catching their breath. On the other, a crowd pressed toward the front lines, their voices rising as they shouted demands at the Representatives. The sting of tear gas still hung in the air, sharp and unforgiving. I smeared toothpaste beneath my eyes, but it barely worked. My eyes still burned, and my nose began to run. Even so, I pushed forward, weaving my way closer to the front.
Barely seconds after I arrived, chaos suddenly erupted. The demonstrators scattered, running from the oration point, and before I could process what was happening, I found myself running too. Shocked and unprepared, my heart pounded as sirens wailed in the distance. I tried to steady my breath, careful not to trip or step on anyone’s feet in the rush. Around me, voices rang out through the confusion: “Be careful! Stay aware! Look out for each other!”
After that, there was no way to return, the area had descended into chaos. People scattered in every direction, spilling into the streets around Senayan. I made my way toward the nearest bus station, wiping my face as I walked, trying to get rid of the smudges of toothpaste under my eyes. The police had begun to move through the area, and the last thing I wanted was to be caught lingering in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Not long after, I found out something that left me stunned. The Representatives had decided to go on WFH mode. What the hell? They saw the movement, read the situation, and chose to hide behind the excuse of “working from home.” To me, it felt like nothing more than cowardice, escaping accountability while the people were out on the streets demanding to be heard.
And then came the tragedy. Mas Affan, a Gojek driver who was simply delivering an order, was killed by the police. I don’t have the strength to write the details here; you can find them yourself online. But his death lit a fire within the demonstrators. The thought that the police used vehicles bought by the people to kill the people was beyond comprehension. We were left mourning, and seething with anger.
The next day, my office announced that they will operate half day. This affected by the escalation of the demonstration. Without too much thinking, I went to Jakarta to join the demonstration again. At first, I thought it will be around Senayan. However, people gathered in front of Polda Metro Jaya in Sudirman St. Labors, university students, parents, street sellers, teachers and other group of people gathered and demand the police to be responsible on their action. I was there, shouting at the top of my lungs with other demonstrators. The fire starts burning things at the front of the Polda building.
What I remember most vividly is how everyone took care of each other. Even though I had arrived alone, people quickly pulled me to the front lines, making sure I wasn’t left vulnerable. Whenever Gojek drivers passed through to deliver orders, the demonstrators parted ways to let them through with ease. Some university students went around collecting trash, keeping the space as orderly as possible. At one point, a student tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Bro, don’t forget to tie your shoelace.”
The tension spiked when a group of soldiers arrived, their presence heavy and unsettling. But the demonstrators stood their ground with quiet bravery, and in the end, the military retreated back to their barracks. I was so stunned by all the demonstrators. Nothing beats their courage and spirit, even those military.
As time went by, heavy rain began to pour down. Some demonstrators believed it was the result of weather modification by the Government, pointing to a BNPB airplane they had seen flying over Jakarta’s skies. I had seen dark clouds before, but this sky felt different; so heavy and ominous it seemed to mirror the weight of the moment. The downpour felt less like nature’s cleansing and more like an attempt to wash away the voices rising from the streets. Yet even under the rain, people stayed, shouting louder.
I saw people sharing raincoats, umbrellas, medicine, even a cup of coffee. Voices rose in song, fight songs echoing against the steady rhythm of the rain. As we huddled under the roof of an MRT entrance, the same one that had been damaged the day before by provocateurs, we made light of the situation. The entrance was locked, so we waited outside, squeezed together beneath a small canopy that offered just enough shelter.
"Mas, Mbak, ini kita udah kuyup banget loh. Kita enggak boleh ikut neduh di dalam MRT? Sakit nanti. Siapa pula nanti yang ngerawat kita?" said someone, asking the MRT officers to let us in.
"Kamu toh punya BPJS. Aman pasti hidupnya," other demonstrator jokingly respond.
Laughter spread through the group, cutting through the cold drizzle. For a moment, the heaviness of the day gave way to something lighter. By the time the rain began to ease, our spirits were still intact. We approached to the Polda again while still shouting some demands while critiquing the works of the police department at that moment.
As time went by, of course, the demonstration does not perform well. I can hear the sound of fireworks from distant, the loud sound of explosion from the fire in front of the Polda, and some uni students tried to make them back off. Situation is uncontrollable. Since I live outside Jakarta, I decided to leave the place and promised myself to come back tomorrow if needed.
While I was on the bus, I could still hear the chants echoing loudly. It wasn’t only the tires burning in front of the Polda, my heart was burning too.
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