Indonesia’s late-August protests have laid bare the growing economic fragility and social tension simmering beneath the surface of President Prabowo Subianto’s first year in office. What began as a wave of demonstrations in Jakarta against labour insecurity and inequality quickly spread across the country, revealing a deep crisis of confidence in the nation’s post-pandemic economic direction.
President Prabowo’s administration, which took power with grand populist promises and overwhelming parliamentary support, now faces a legitimacy challenge from the very demographic that once symbolised Indonesia’s modernisation: its precarious workers.
On 15 August 2025, in his first State of the Nation address, Prabowo delivered a triumphant account of his government’s achievements. He claimed that unemployment and poverty had reached record lows and that Indonesia’s economy was on track for “inclusive prosperity.” Yet just two weeks later, those claims were punctured by street-level reality.
Tens of thousands took to the streets of Jakarta, Surabaya, Bandung and Medan to protest against what they saw as a widening gap between official rhetoric and lived experience. The protests quickly escalated when an ojol (ride-hailing motorcycle) driver was killed on 28 August after being struck by an armoured police vehicle near the parliament complex.
The incident, captured on video and widely circulated online, ignited outrage. The victim, quickly dubbed a martyr of the people, became a symbol of Indonesia’s “precariat”—a class of workers trapped in unstable, low-paying, and insecure forms of employment. Within days, solidarity actions erupted across the country, particularly among the estimated seven million ojol drivers who rely on gig work for survival.
The term precariat, coined by British economist Guy Standing, refers to those who live with chronic uncertainty—low wages, irregular hours, few benefits, and little social protection. In Indonesia, this group has become increasingly visible over the past decade.
When the ojol industry boomed in 2015, platforms such as Gojek and Grab promised flexibility and income opportunities for millions. But over time, shrinking profit margins, algorithmic controls, and lack of social protections turned optimism into disillusionment. Today, the average ojol driver in Jakarta earns just around US$300 per month—barely enough to sustain a family in one of Asia’s most expensive megacities.
The stagnation of real wages has compounded the frustration. Between 2010 and 2020, Indonesia’s GDP grew by an average of 5.4 percent annually, and real wages rose by about 5.1 percent per year. But the pandemic reversed those gains: GDP growth slumped to 2.3 percent in 2020, and real wages contracted by 0.9 percent. Though headline growth has since rebounded to roughly 5 percent annually, wage growth lingers around 1.2 percent—a figure that underscores a widening gap between economic expansion and household welfare.
The data tells a story of social regression. The middle class shrank from 23 percent of the population in 2018 to 17.1 percent in 2024. Meanwhile, the share of Indonesians “vulnerable to poverty” rose from 18.9 to 24.2 percent in the same period.
For many, Indonesia’s celebrated growth has failed to translate into better living conditions. Rather than consolidating the middle class, former president Joko Widodo’s massive infrastructure push and mineral downstreaming policies appear to have enlarged the ranks of the precarious—those who hover one misfortune away from poverty.
Prabowo entered office in October 2024 promising to continue Widodo’s legacy while deepening social protection. His agenda features big-ticket populist projects: US$28 billion for free school meals, US$5 billion for 80,000 village cooperatives, and US$3.5 billion for three million affordable homes.
These initiatives are politically appealing but economically risky. With fiscal pressures mounting, Indonesia’s ability to sustain such spending without deeper structural reform is limited. Analysts warn that the programs address symptoms of inequality but not its causes—chiefly the lack of stable, formal-sector jobs.
Labour-intensive manufacturing, once the backbone of Indonesia’s industrial ascent, has stagnated under the combined weight of automation, capital-intensive production, and competition from cheap imports—particularly from China. Small and medium enterprises, which employ the majority of Indonesians, continue to struggle with access to credit and high operational costs.
Instead of tackling these issues head-on, the government has doubled down on short-term populism. “Feeding children is noble,” said an economist from the University of Indonesia, “but feeding the economy with jobs is far more sustainable.”
Politically, Prabowo has maintained an image of control. His coalition includes nearly all major political parties—an alliance of convenience that has effectively neutralised opposition in parliament. Indonesia’s so-called collusive democracy ensures elite stability, but it also erodes accountability.
This elite consensus, however, has created a dangerous disconnect between Jakarta’s corridors of power and the realities of ordinary Indonesians. The late-August protests revealed the fragility of this arrangement: while the ruling class remains united, the social contract at the grassroots level is fraying.
In response to the demonstrations, Prabowo accused “foreign actors” of instigating unrest and labelled some protesters as “terrorists.” The government’s crackdown, coupled with internet restrictions in several provinces, signaled a familiar authoritarian reflex—one that may quell dissent temporarily but deepens alienation among citizens.
Adding to the tension, the government’s austerity measures have hit local governments hard. Jakarta has slashed fiscal transfers to regional administrations to balance the national budget. This move has disrupted basic services and forced some districts to raise local taxes—further burdening lower-income households.
For many Indonesians in smaller towns and rural areas, these fiscal cuts feel like abandonment. “We hear about free meals and houses on television,” said a schoolteacher in East Java, “but our local clinic has no medicine, and our roads are full of holes.”
The violent turn of August’s protests is a warning sign. What began as a peaceful demand for fair wages and employment rights transformed into widespread unrest partly due to heavy-handed policing and deep-rooted frustration. Reports from independent outlets like Tempo and Tirto suggest that some violence may have been instigated by provocateurs with elite or military links—a claim that underscores the murky intersection between politics, power, and protest in Indonesia.
At its core, however, the unrest reflects genuine socio-economic despair. The ojol driver’s death crystallised years of pent-up anger over rising living costs, wage stagnation, and the sense that the state serves the powerful more than the people.
If the government continues to treat these grievances as a law-and-order issue rather than a socio-economic one, further escalation is likely. The risk is not only political instability but also the radicalisation of a generation that feels cheated by democracy.
To prevent such an outcome, policymakers must look beyond short-term populism and focus on creating structural stability for Indonesia’s working class. That means revitalising labour-intensive sectors like textiles, footwear, and agribusiness—industries capable of absorbing Indonesia’s massive young workforce.
Equally vital is reforming the social protection system to cover informal and gig workers, ensuring that the ojol drivers and delivery riders who keep urban economies running are not left behind. Expanding access to affordable housing, healthcare, and education must go hand in hand with improving labour standards and collective bargaining rights.
Economic policy should prioritise security of livelihood, not just speed of growth. As the pandemic years proved, a society built on precarity is inherently unstable. The middle class—long celebrated as Indonesia’s stabilising force—is shrinking, while the precariat is growing restless.
Prabowo’s administration still enjoys high approval ratings and parliamentary dominance, but social legitimacy is another matter. The protests have shown that political stability at the top can coexist with instability at the bottom.
If Prabowo hopes to preserve his authority and avoid a spiral of unrest, he must abandon the illusion that populism alone can buy social peace. His challenge is to transform economic growth into genuine security for millions of Indonesians who live on the margins of prosperity.
Indonesia’s late-August protests were not an isolated outburst—they were a cry for dignity from a generation living without guarantees. Unless that cry is answered with real reform, it may soon become the rallying call of a movement that no government can easily contain.
