Indonesia is currently grappling with a human trafficking emergency. The tragic death of Soleh, a young Indonesian man coerced into working for an online gambling syndicate in Cambodia, has alerted the public to the extent of the problem. First, a video of him lying unconscious during a phone call with his mother went viral. His grieving parents then shared their story on a widely viewed YouTube podcast, drawing renewed attention to the alarming surge in trafficking cases involving Indonesian citizens.
Soleh is among a growing number of Indonesians, many lured by promises of lucrative overseas jobs, who have fallen into the hands of transnational criminal syndicates operating out of cyber scam and online gambling hubs in Myanmar, Cambodia, Laos, and the Philippines. In March, a joint operation between Indonesian and Thai authorities, with limited cooperation from Myanmar authorities, rescued more than 550 Indonesians from a “cyber slavery” compound in Myanmar’s notorious Myawaddy region.
Perhaps what is more alarming is how these trafficking networks are evolving. Where once victims were mostly rural villagers with little education or international experience, today’s traffickers are increasingly preying on Indonesia’s urban middle class: educated young people who are desperate to escape economic precarity. Many victims are professionals, college graduates or even former public servants. Soleh was a trained pastry chef who had worked at a star-rated hotel in Jakarta. Another victim, Robiin, was a former local legislator from Indramayu, West Java. These cases are both part of an emerging trend that official prevention programs have failed to address.
One factor behind this shift is arguably the growing disillusionment among Indonesian youth. Facing stagnant wages and a soaring cost of living, many feel there is little hope for financial or personal advancement at home. This anxiety is reflected in the popular hashtag #KaburAjaDulu (“just escape for now”), which encapsulates the sentiment that any opportunity abroad, no matter how vague or risky, is better than staying. The region’s visa-free travel policies have only made this easier.
In this environment, traffickers find fertile ground to exploit dreams of a better life. And yet, when things go wrong – as they often do – victims are finding it harder to turn to the state for help.
More often than not, it is family, friends, and social media that become the first line of defense. In one case, a young Indonesian woman trapped in Myanmar was able to escape after secretly recording videos of her captivity and sending them to a friend. In desperation, that friend then uploaded the footage online. The resulting outcry helped trigger a rescue effort. Others, such as a group of victims in the Philippines, avoided contacting the Indonesian embassy altogether. Instead, they paid their way out and arranged their own return home, leaving authorities with no details, no oversight, and no chance to act.
This avoidance of formal channels stems from real fears. Many victims worry that seeking help from authorities will lead to punishment, not protection – particularly when they lack proper work documentation or have been forced into illegal activities like online fraud. Many worry that authorities will see them as perpetrators rather than victims.
Structural barriers add to this fear. Victims often lack the documents required to file complaints. They may not know how to access assistance, or they may be trapped in remote areas with no safe path to government offices. Efforts to report trafficking are further complicated in places like Myanmar and Cambodia, where syndicates often operate with the knowledge – or even the support – of local authorities or militia groups. In such contexts, speaking out can be life-threatening.
This is where community-based protection becomes critical.
Traffickers frequently recruit through people social ties – friends, neighbors, even relatives – who use trust and familiarity to manipulate potential victims. Countering this requires local knowledge, awareness, and resilience. Indonesia’s legal framework inherently recognizes this. Articles 60 and 61 of the 2007 Law on the Eradication of Trafficking in Persons call for community involvement in identifying, reporting, and responding to trafficking. Crucially, they require the government to equip local communities with the tools and access needed to act. These provisions were further reinforced by Article 7 of the 2023 Presidential Regulation No. 19 and the 2024 Ministerial Regulation No. 2, which lay the foundation to community participation in anti-trafficking efforts.
From 2015 to 2019, the government’s response has included the establishment of Community Watch (CW) programs under the Anti-Trafficking Task Force. These have been rolled out in 320 villages across 31 provinces, training over 1,600 “agents of change”: village heads, teachers, religious leaders, youth organizations, and others. Typically facilitated by local NGOs, these agents are selected, trained, and tasked with spreading awareness and supporting victims in their communities.
However, these initiatives remain voluntary, patchy, and underfunded. Most CW agents receive little recognition or support beyond a mayoral decree. Participation also varies across regions, and the government has yet to provide robust data on the effectiveness of these programs. Meanwhile, there is a glaring gap in support for male victims, despite men and boys becoming increasingly represented among trafficking survivors.
If Indonesia is serious about tackling human trafficking, it must move beyond ad-hoc responses. Community involvement needs to be placed at the center of national policy, provided with the necessary resources, and integrated them into the broader protection ecosystem.