Introduction
The newly elected Indonesian government has recently passed its New Criminal Code (KUHP) after decades of debate. The new criminal code was passed in December 2022 and came into force on January 2nd, 2023 by Indonesia’s House of Representatives. The government presented the 632-article code as the country’s own and modernised version of colonial-era law. However, the new KUHP was met with backlash from rights groups, who warned that the code contains provisions that criminalise peaceful expression, while also codifying conservative moral values.
Set to take effect in January 2026, the new criminal code specifically prohibits public attacks on the “honour or dignity” of the president or state institutions. In addition, free speech is further restricted by the already enforced Electronic Information and Transactions (ITE), which aims to sweep defamation and “fake news” from Indonesian media (Freedom House, 2024; Lamb & Teresia, 2022). The reworked criminal code also includes the criminalisation of consensual intercourse outside of marriage, cohabitation, and even education on contraception. While the new code liberates Indonesia from its colonial roots, it has added new laws that introduce vague morality-based offences (Human Rights Watch, 2024; Root, 2023).
Dissent and Expression are being Criminalised
Article 218 of the new code makes it an offence to attack the honour and dignity of the president or vice president in public. If an individual is found to have committed this offence, they are punishable by up to three years’ imprisonment if a complaint is filed. Article 240 prohibits insulting the government, and it is enforced strictly. For instance, over the past decade, Indonesian authorities have frequently dispersed assemblies addressing sensitive topics such as Papuan self‑determination or the 1965–66 massacres, using treason or blasphemy charges to deter participation (Freedom House, 2024; Lamb & Teresia, 2022).
Similar provisions under the ITE law have already been used to prosecute activists and journalists who criticise officials or investigate corruption, creating a climate of self‑censorship in which people avoid speaking out about (Baghdasaryan, 2022). As a consequence, advocates have expressed concern that the code’s speech offences will work in partnership with the ITE law and ministerial regulations to silence online dissent.
However, those deemed to have generated hostility from what is considered false information about protected individuals or even religion will face harsh penalties. Ministerial Regulation No. 5 of 2021 requires digital platforms to register with the Ministry of Communication, or risk being blocked, and obliges providers to remove content deemed unlawful (Freedom House, 2024). The Virtual Police unit, established by the National Police in 2021, monitors online discussions and issues “virtual warnings” to individuals who post criticism.
Added Morality Laws
Another central area of concern is the codification of conservative morality. Articles 411 and 412 criminalise consensual sex outside marriage and cohabitation, offences punishable by up to one year in prison and fines. However, only relatives such as spouses, parents, or children can file complaints (Human Rights Watch, 2023; Root, 2023). The code retains prohibitions on abortion, however, only in limited cases. It also made education on contraception a crime worthy of imprisonment, disproportionately targeting girls and women.
Same‑sex relations are not explicitly criminalised, but because same‑sex marriage is illegal, the code’s ban on extramarital sex and cohabitation effectively criminalises all intimate relationships among LGBTQIA+ people. The morality clauses also interact with local by‑laws introduced under Sharia‑inspired ordinances in provinces such as Aceh, where public canings for “illicit sex” and “gambling” are already practised (Freedom House, 2024).
Blasphemy Provisions Punishing Religious Minorities
Indonesia’s blasphemy provisions have long been used to punish religious minorities and dissenters, and the new code expands them from a single article to several. Article 302 criminalises acts that incite someone to become an atheist or to change or leave a religion, while Articles 304–309 penalise the “distortion” of religions and ritual (Human Rights Watch, 2024). The International Commission of Jurists notes that these provisions are vaguely worded and do not require intent, enabling prosecutions against people who discuss religious history or express alternative interpretations of scripture (ICJ, 2022).
While national blasphemy laws remain in place, the code now states that judges can apply any “living law” (hukum yang hidup) still observed in a community. Courts may, therefore, rely on unwritten norms set by local leaders. Researchers caution that this broad permission could validate hundreds of sharia-inspired bylaws issued after Suharto’s fall. Many of those orders restrict women from wearing headscarves, forbid drinking alcohol, and gambling. Those who are found guilty of breaching these orders may face public cannings (Human Rights Watch, 2024). The International Bar Association warns that such flexibility weakens legal certainty and can fuel bias against ethnic or faith minorities who hold different traditions, undermining fairness.
In 2018, two women were flogged in Banda Aceh for “intimacy outside marriage” under such a bylaw, even though this was not a criminal offence under national law. Human Rights Watch documented how non-Muslims and migrants have also been subjected to these punishments, despite official claims that the qanun applies only to Muslims.
Effects on Indigenous and Ethnic Communities
The new criminal code’s “living law” will affect Indonesia’s Indigenous peoples most. In Kalimantan, Sulawesi, and Papua, adat leaders settle disputes and bless marriages without ever visiting a civil registrar. The new code erases those unions on paper, leaving couples vulnerable to “illicit cohabitation” charges and chipping away at community autonomy (ICJ, 2022). Worse, the same vague clause lets local officials drape custom over forced evictions, land grabs, and even rules about where women may go.
A brewing independence struggle for Papua means the Morning Star flag is already treated as contraband; lifting it, or just speaking up about separatism, can mean years behind bars (Freedom House, 2024). For instance, on December 1st, 2021 a group of Papuan students, including Malwin Manfre Yobe and Melvin Fernando Waine, participated in a Morning Star flag-raising at a stadium in Jayapura. They were arrested, tortured while in custody, with one student later dying in prison, and then convicted of “treason”, receiving ten-month sentences. Embedding “living law” in national criminal statutes is likely to stiffen that crackdown and further restrict Papuan cultural and political expression.
Conclusion
Indonesia’s revised Criminal Code represents a symbolic departure from its colonial past, but it also embeds new threats to civil liberties. Provisions on speech criminalise dissent and political expression; expansive morality clauses risk policing private life; extended blasphemy articles entrench discrimination against religious minorities; and the invocation of “living law” endangers Indigenous practices and autonomy. Human rights groups warn that these measures contravene Indonesia’s international obligations, and reform is urgently needed to prevent the new code from deepening repression rather than advancing justice.
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