In the early hours of a recent Saturday, tucked away in the Javanese city of Surabaya, 34 men found themselves hand-cuffed, barefoot, and paraded before flashing cameras — not for terrorism, cartel activity or street violence, but for simply having been at what the authorities called a “gay sex party”, reports LGBTQ Nation. According to the police, the raid occurred in the Wonokromo district after neighbours reported “unusual activity” on one floor of the Midtown Hotel. Evidence seized reportedly included phones and condoms, and rather than being treated simply as suspects, the men were publicly displayed in a media-friendly drag. Charges have not yet been publicly announced.
This latest chapter in Indonesia’s ongoing crackdown on queer life may seem sensational, but it is part of a much broader pattern of state-sanctioned stigma and enforcement targeting LGBTQI+ communities across the archipelago. For example, in February 2025 the police in Jakarta arrested 56 men at a “gay sex party”, citing the pornography law with potential prison sentences up to 15 years. In June, 75 people (74 men and one woman) were arrested in a villa near the capital, Bogor, accused of attending a “gay party”. Then there is the province of Aceh, which under sharia law has gone so far as public caning of men convicted for consensual gay sex.
These events might superficially look like law-and-order operations, but they are deeply rooted in cultural, religious, and legal dynamics shaping queer life in Indonesia. Traditional discourse in Indonesian Muslim-majority society frames sexual difference as a threat to the social fabric and family values: the language of “kenormalan” (normality), “keluarga” (family) and “kesusilaan” (morality) is often invoked by authorities and religious leaders to justify enforcement.
Although same-sex sexual activity per se is not illegal at the national level in most of Indonesia, the country still relies on broad-brush laws such as the Undang‑Undang Nomor 44 Tahun 2008 tentang Pornografi (Pornography Act 2008) to criminalise or shame LGBTQI+ people. So what drives these raids? On one level, they function as visible displays of state power and moral policing—what in Bahasa Indonesia is often known as “razia moral”. On another level, they exploit legal ambiguity. Because homosexuality is not explicitly outlawed nationally, the authorities instead use laws’ articles against “pornography”, “facilitating obscene acts”, or “threats to public order” to justify spectacular arrests. A raid becomes not just a policing matter but a media event: boots on the floor, suspects bound, cameras rolling, a public shaming spectacle.
The cultural context matters. Indonesia is home to diverse traditions and customs around gender and sexuality—from the Bugis “lima gender” system in Sulawesi, to the “waria” (a Malay/Indonesian term for male-to-female trans women) who for decades have occupied liminal social spaces. Yet increasingly the surge of conservative Islamist influence since the mid-2010s has emphasised a binary gender-order and heteronormative family model. The national conscience, so to speak, is being reframed: any non-heterosexual or non-cis normative life is easier to cast as “menyimpang” (deviant). In this climate, one hotel floor gathering becomes the excuse for a full scale operation.
What are the consequences? Beyond the immediate trauma of arrest, humiliation and policing, there is the chilling effect on public life and health. If queer people must fear that private gatherings may be invaded by police and turned into headline fodder, they are less likely to seek HIV prevention, support services, or organise openly. Human rights scholars have warned that such raids undermine outreach efforts and elevate risk. Moreover, the rhetoric of morality enforcement empowers vigilante sentiments and neighbour policing, meaning that queer people may be betrayed by social networks rather than protected by them.
On the flip side, the Indonesian state often appeals to the cosmopolitan – global image as a tolerant democracy; yet the reality on the ground remains deeply contradictory. While the national criminal code (UU KUHP) does not explicitly criminalise same-sex activity, the enforcement architecture around so-called “moral crimes”, pornography, and public shame offers a parallel system of control. From the sharia courts of Aceh to the metropolitan hotel raids of Surabaya and Bogor, the message to queer Indonesians is consistent: you are visible, surveilled and vulnerable.
For activists, the question is simple: how to fight back when the laws are elastic but the enforcement is fixed? Organisations such as Amnesty International Indonesia and Human Rights Watch have called on the Indonesian authorities to stop the “hate-based and humiliating raids”. They argue that criminal justice must not become a tool of public spectacle or moral theatre.
In the end, what these raids expose is not simply isolated law-enforcement episodes, but a fault line in Indonesian society where diversity, religion, modernity and rights collide. For the queer communities in Indonesia they send a stark message: your private lives may not be technically illegal, but they are not safe. As Surabaya’s flailing midnight hotel raid shows, the “party” may end long before dawn—and its echo may linger for years.
“Hotel Raids for Them, Back-Door Exits for Politicians…”
Indonesia, land of smiling hypocrisy — where the powerful can gorge themselves on corruption buffets, enjoy their own VIP extracurriculars, and still be hailed as defenders of “moralitas bangsa.” Meanwhile, queer folks quietly booking a hotel ballroom for a Saturday night are hunted like fugitives in a sinetron plot gone wrong.
Let Spicy Auntie be crystal clear: this isn’t about morality. If it were, half the political class would be handcuffed and barefoot in front of the cameras by sunrise. Because we all know—all of us—that the same gentlemen waving the Pornography Act like a holy sword are the ones whose names appear in leaked WhatsApp threads featuring a parade of mistresses and “booking ladies.” Yet those scandals get “handled internally” and evaporate faster than a bad durian on the balcony. Poof! Clean slate. Selamat pagi, Pak!
But if you’re gay, trans, or anything that challenges Indonesia’s official fairytale of “keluarga sakinah”, suddenly morality matters so much. Suddenly the police have all the time, manpower, and handcuffs in the world. Thirty-four terrified men displayed like circus exhibits — barefoot, humiliated, bodies turned into clickbait for a nation obsessed with shame when the “wrong” people are having sex. Oh, so you care about public decency now? Funny — where was that energy when corruption swallowed billions of rupiah? When religious elites, caught pants-down in their own scandals, were quietly chauffeured out the back door instead of shoved into a press conference?
Here’s the truth, darlings: queer Indonesians are the easiest scapegoats in town. A fresh distraction from the rotten things happening in those VIP meeting rooms. A drag show of state power to prove the morality police still matter. A free performance to entertain the conservative base and soothe fragile egos terrified of a rainbow flag.
But behind every raid there are real humans — brothers, sisters, siblings — who now fear booking a hotel room, attending a private gathering, asking for HIV support, or even trusting their neighbours. Yes, neighbours — because suddenly the guy watering his plants becomes a deputised informant in the “Razia Moral” Fan Club.
Spicy Auntie sees you, my Surabaya loves. A you, in Jakarta, you in Bogor, Aceh and Makassar — wherever you are fighting just to exist. The queer community in Indonesia is large, vibrant, and resilient as hell. You deserve joy, love, and a Saturday night that ends with breakfast, not a police parade.
To the authorities: stop pretending. Stop weaponising shame. Stop using queer bodies as your fig leaves while your own scandals burst at the seams. If morality is the standard, apply it equally — or drop the act and let people live.
To my queer Indonesian family: you are not deviant. You are not alone. You are the future — and the future is always louder than the handcuffs. Auntie stands with you.