When news about the covid-19 outbreak began to proliferate in January, the general attitude in Indonesia was nonchalant. As neighbouring countries—the Philippines, Singapore, Malaysia, Australia—began to report mounting cases in February, public officials continually described the virus as a foreign phenomenon that would not penetrate our borders. The Minister of Health, a former military doctor whose dubious record includes peddling a controversial ‘brain-flushing’ treatment for strokes, of his own invention, proudly declared that Indonesia was ‘immune’ to covid-19 thanks to ‘prayer’. When 243 Indonesian nationals were repatriated from Wuhan on 1 February and sent to the far northwest Natuna Island—with no prior notice given to the outraged local government and residents—they were said to have shown no symptoms after two weeks of quarantine and observation; it was later revealed that they were never tested for the virus. As late as March, airport checks remained lax, travellers were not required to take temperature tests, and outdated health-alert cards were distributed, containing information about mers, sars and avian flu, rather than covid-19. The Minister for Tourism meanwhile promised to pour idr 72 million into the flagging tourism and travel industry.

Once the first two cases were formally announced on 2 March, local governments still dithered over the comprehensive measures needed to curb the outbreak. The way these cases were reported is indicative. After a mother and daughter were initially misdiagnosed with bronchitis and typhus, the pair demanded a coronavirus test, whose outcome they learned not from the hospital staff, but from a televised press conference held by President Jokowi.footnote¹ They were then harassed for allegedly bringing the virus into Indonesia after their personal data were leaked online by a government official. Fake news circulated that the daughter was infected after ‘dancing with a male tourist’ in a club, whereupon mainstream-media outlets condemned her for being ‘loose’. This grim precedent deterred many Indonesians from coming forward for testing. There was a strong narrative, promoted by public and religious officials, that contracting the virus put one’s piety in question: for example, the state-funded Council of Ulama, chaired by Indonesian Vice President Ma’ruf Amin, claimed in a press release on 3 March that the virus was ‘a rebuke from Allah’ to those eating haram.

This attitude began to change after Indonesia witnessed the Malaysian lockdown on 18 March. Malaysia had a surge of 566 cases, which were traced to a gathering of 16,000 in a mosque at the end of February, organized by Tablighi Jamaat, a global evangelical-Muslim organization. On top of the fact that 696 Indonesians attended the event, another multi-day Tablighi Jamaat festival was scheduled to take place in the Indonesian regency of Gowa, Sulawesi. Although it was eventually cancelled by the government, about 10,000 worshippers from fourteen different countries had already gathered in anticipation.footnote² At this point, the Council of Ulama changed tack, releasing a number of fatwas to support physical distancing and prevent mass religious gatherings. Not everyone complied: some insisted that state law should not interfere with holy rituals, and a former general claimed that the restrictions were part of an Islamophobic conspiracy to prevent religious observance.

While religious factors have played a significant role in shaping responses to the crisis, tensions and competition between national and regional leaders have affected the haphazard approaches to containing covid-19. Though the national government declared that quarantine measures could not be imposed without its explicit command, many regional leaders have defied this order and implemented their own lockdowns.footnote³ This is exemplified by the ongoing tussle between President Jokowi and the Jakarta governor, Anies Baswedan, a former ally turned rival eyeing up the 2024 presidential seat. With more than 50 per cent of the infection originating in Greater Jakarta, Baswedan has been calling for a lockdown to prevent mudik—that is, the return of urban migrant workers to their rural hometowns. This is especially urgent in light of the upcoming Ramadhan fasting month and Idul Fitri holidays in May, when a mass exodus from metropolitan centres, especially Jakarta, usually takes place.

According to some public-health experts, the prevention of mudik is critical to stop the virus spreading outward from its epicentre. But others are asking whether transport restrictions may be counterproductive. On 16 March, when public transport in Jakarta was hastily reduced and the even-odd number-plate limit on cars was lifted, it caused overcrowding on trains and buses as well as congestion on the roads.footnote⁴ As political leaders continue their tug-of-war, a series of confusing policies have been announced and uncoordinated actions taken. Some regions have closed schools, public gatherings and roads in order to limit movement into their precincts. Tegal, a small city home to about 240,000 people in Central Java, blockaded its boundaries with movable concrete barriers after one positive case. Surabaya, the second biggest city in Indonesia, with a population of over 13 million, yet barely any public-transport infrastructure, is planning to prohibit entry to drivers without Surabaya id cards or number plates. Papua has restricted entry by sea or air since 26 March. By contrast Prabumulih, another small city in Sumatra with a population of 161,000, which had four positive cases and a hospital director dead from the virus, had refused to enforce any closures at all.

The police meanwhile have been given a free hand to shut down cafes, market stalls, public events and religious ceremonies—including weddings and mass prayers—in a move that will enable increased extortion and the suppression of protests. Squeezed by a combination of job losses, falling incomes and the fear of arbitrary travel restrictions, the final weeks of March saw around 14,000 migrant, informal and wage workers leave Jakarta by bus alone, not counting those who travelled via ship, motorcycle or car; the number of layoffs is likely to be far higher than the reported 72,000, too, since the majority of the workforce is in the informal sector. Food is cheaper and rents lower in their hometowns, but the elderly and vulnerable population is higher, while health facilities—where they exist at all—are highly limited.

Compared to the hardest-hit areas, the 1,528 covid-19 cases reported in Indonesia as of 31 March seemed low. But the number has risen fast, quickly surpassing those of Indonesia’s neighbours to become the highest in the region. The mounting death toll—still below 200 as of 4 April, according to the official statistics—is also suspected to be seriously underreported. Only around 7,621 tests have been done in a country of more than 260 million (or less than 3 for every 100,000), and in Jakarta alone nearly 4,400 burials occurred in March 2020, 40 per cent higher than any month since at least January 2018.footnote⁵ In addition to the usual reasons for under-reporting—limited testing capacity, the back-and-forth delay in diagnosis—people may also be deterred from reporting covid-19 deaths through fear of being ostracized. Following the treatment of the first two patients, there have been a number of reports of residents being refused burial, their families and even medical workers being ejected from their neighbourhoods.