Indonesia’s new Criminal Code, set to take full effect in January 2026, has become one of the most closely watched legal reforms in Southeast Asia, igniting debate far beyond its borders over gender, morality, sexuality, and the limits of state authority over private life. The revised Kitab Undang-Undang Hukum Pidana (KUHP) replaces a Dutch colonial-era code and is framed by the government as a long-overdue assertion of national values. Yet its gender- and morality-related provisions have stirred anxiety among women’s rights advocates, LGBTQ communities, legal scholars, and young Indonesians navigating an already complex social landscape.
At the heart of the controversy are articles that criminalise sex outside marriage and cohabitation. Under the new code, zina (extramarital sex) and kumpul kebo (living together as an unmarried couple) can be punished with prison terms of up to one year and six months respectively. Lawmakers insist these offences are delik aduan (complaint-based crimes), meaning police can only act if a report is filed by a spouse, parent, or child. Supporters argue this safeguards privacy and reflects Indonesia’s strong emphasis on family values. Critics counter that even complaint-based enforcement opens the door to moral surveillance, family coercion, and selective policing, particularly against women.
Gendered consequences loom large. In practice, women are more likely to be reported, shamed, or pressured into marriage when accusations of zina arise. Indonesia’s deeply rooted malu (shame) culture means reputational damage alone can be devastating, regardless of whether a case reaches court. Feminist legal groups warn that these provisions may reinforce existing inequalities, especially for young women, single mothers, and survivors of sexual violence whose personal lives are already subject to scrutiny.
The code’s silence on marital rape has also drawn criticism. While Indonesia has made progress through separate legislation addressing sexual violence, the KUHP’s morality framework still centres marriage as a moral shield, reinforcing the idea that sexual relations within marriage are inherently legitimate while those outside are suspect. This framing sits uneasily with contemporary debates on bodily autonomy and consent, particularly among urban youth who increasingly question traditional norms while still living within conservative family structures.
For LGBTQ Indonesians, the implications are indirect but profound. Same-sex relationships are not legally recognised, meaning all consensual same-sex intimacy automatically falls outside marriage. Although the code does not explicitly criminalise homosexuality, activists argue it creates a de facto vulnerability, especially in a climate where moral panic and local bylaws (perda syariah) already target gender nonconformity. The fear is not mass prosecutions, but sporadic enforcement that reinforces stigma and legitimises harassment.
The morality turn of the new KUHP cannot be separated from its broader cultural context. Indonesia is neither a secular Western state nor a theocracy, but a plural society shaped by Pancasila, religious conservatism, and neo-authoritarian anxieties about social change. Lawmakers frequently invoke ketertiban umum (public order) and nilai ketimuran (Eastern values) to justify tighter moral boundaries, positioning the code as a bulwark against perceived moral erosion brought by globalisation, dating apps, and shifting gender roles.
International reactions have ranged from concern to cautious acceptance. Tourism-dependent regions have rushed to reassure visitors that the law will not target foreigners indiscriminately, while officials emphasise that the code is designed to protect families, not police bedrooms. Still, human rights groups note that laws are not only about enforcement, but about signals: what a state chooses to criminalise reveals whose lives are considered legitimate.
Ultimately, the new Criminal Code reflects a broader struggle within Indonesian society over who gets to define morality, sexuality, and gender norms in the world’s third-largest democracy. As the KUHP comes into force, its real impact will likely be uneven, shaped less by courtroom statistics than by everyday negotiations between families, communities, and the state. Whether it becomes a symbolic assertion of tradition or a tool that deepens gendered and sexual inequalities will depend not only on the text of the law, but on how Indonesians themselves choose to live with it.
Spicy Auntie here, adjusting her chili-pepper necklace and sighing deeply, because honestly, Indonesia, what are we doing? I’ve read the new Criminal Code carefully, especially the shiny morality clauses about sex outside marriage, cohabitation, and “family values,” and I can already smell the incense of good intentions mixed with the stale air of control. Governments love regulating bedrooms when they feel anxious about everything else. Inflation? Climate crisis? Youth unemployment? Never mind—let’s inspect who’s sleeping with whom.
On paper, the law sounds almost polite. Don’t worry, they say, it’s delik aduan—complaint-based. Only your spouse, your parents, or your children can report you. How comforting. Because nothing ever goes wrong when families become extensions of law enforcement, right? As if family pressure, gossip, shame, and good old malu weren’t already doing enough damage. Now we’re giving them legal backing. Bravo.
Let’s be clear: morality laws are never gender-neutral. Women pay first, pay more, and pay longer. Who gets dragged into “explanatory conversations” when neighbours whisper? Who is told to marry quickly to “fix” the problem? Who carries the pregnancy, the shame, the screenshots? Hint: not the men who wrote the law. I’ve seen this movie across Asia, and the ending is always the same—women disciplined, men forgiven, society nodding solemnly.
And spare me the “this reflects our culture” line. Indonesian culture is not a museum display frozen in time. It’s messy, plural, urban, rural, religious, secular, queer, straight, TikTok-obsessed, pesantren-rooted, and constantly negotiating itself. Turning one conservative interpretation into criminal law doesn’t preserve culture; it weaponises it. Culture is conversation. Criminal codes are blunt instruments.
Now let’s talk about my LGBTQ siblings. No, the law doesn’t explicitly criminalise homosexuality. Congratulations on clearing the lowest possible bar. But when marriage is the only moral shelter and same-sex marriage doesn’t exist, everyone knows what happens next. You don’t need mass arrests to create fear. All you need is uncertainty, a few strategic cases, and a society already primed to look away.
What disappoints me most is the wasted energy. Imagine if this moral passion were redirected toward fighting gender-based violence, ensuring real consent education, enforcing workplace equality, or protecting domestic workers. Imagine a Criminal Code obsessed with justice rather than virtue signalling. But no—once again, we’re told that controlling sex will somehow produce social harmony. History suggests otherwise.
Still, freedom is freedom. People will love, desire, cohabit, and experiment anyway—because humans always do. Laws can intimidate, but they rarely transform hearts. My hope is that Indonesians will do what they’ve always done best: negotiate, bend, reinterpret, and quietly resist where needed. Spicy Auntie will be watching, eyebrow raised, because morality imposed from above is rarely moral at all.