Have you ever imagined that a national anthem, a symbol of unity and pride, could inflict pain and trauma?


National anthems are designed to unite. They aim to inspire pride, reinforce shared values, and create a sense of belonging, reminding people they are part of something larger than themselves. In moments of celebration or collective identity, they can be powerful, even moving.


But symbols are always shaped by the world around them. For some, the same anthem that evokes pride in others can trigger discomfort, anger, or even trauma.


I was struck by this during a film preview and discussion of the latest documentary by Dhandy Laksono and Victor Mambor at a lecture theatre at Melbourne University on 16 March 2026.


During the talk, Dhandy shared a deleted scene he had strongly wanted to keep, but ultimately had to remove due to legal concerns.


As a storyteller, he saw the scene as powerful and honest. But he also understood the risks it carried. Concerns raised by local advocacy groups, were not only about consent, but about the potential consequences: that such a statement could be perceived as too provocative in a context where national symbols are highly sensitive.


This points to a pattern in Indonesia: the state responds quickly to perceived threats against its symbols, yet far less to what people live through. Flags, anthems, uniforms, and religious imagery often draw stronger reactions than the conditions on the ground they are meant to represent.


In the deleted scene, a young farmer is washing his hands when he hears Indonesia Raya playing from a nearby government office, the sound thin and metallic through a loudspeaker. As is common practice, the anthem is broadcast at a fixed hour, and people are expected to stop and show respect. But for him, the experience is not neutral, it is traumatic.


The young farmer in the deleted scene says, “Setiap kami mendengar lagu ini, itu seperti di acara pelepasan jenazah. Kami dipaksa berdiri, menyanyi…” Soon they realised that they lost their lands, the ancestral land passed down for generations, suddenly their lands belong to the government now and abused by big corporations. “Lagu ini tidak ada guna. Yang masih berguna itu lagu gereja.”


I could hardly believe what I had just heard.I sat still for a moment, trying to make sense of it. 
I replayed the song in my mind, searching for the harm, but all I heard was what I’ve always heard. Pride. Ceremony. Belonging.


Then it came with a quiet realization: something so familiar, so ordinary to me, could feel entirely different to someone else. Not just different, but also painful. It’s disorienting, as if a truth you’ve long accepted begins to fracture, exposing meanings you were never meant to see.


I noted it isn’t in the tunes, not in the lyrics, but in what surrounds them. In memories I don’t carry. In histories that were never mine to feel.  The difference lies not in the song itself, but in lived experience. 


The anthem, in this context, is no longer a shared symbol, it becomes associated with coercion, repetition, and distance from lived reality.


When a nation’s history includes conflict, exclusion, or injustice, its symbols can carry those memories. For individuals or communities who have faced violence, marginalization, or silencing, the anthem may represent not unity, but a system that harmed them. Instead of belonging, it can evoke a sense of being overlooked or erased.


In West Papua, the backdrop is grim: the Indonesian government controls West Papua for its natural resources. That is, without doubt, a primitive form of colonization, an ongoing colonialism that relies on military intimidation. Civilians are shot, over 100,000 people are internally displaced, millions of hectares of forest have been cleared, taking with them food sources, wildlife, and ways of living. Ancestral lands have been seized, leaving communities cut off from what once sustained them for generations. Against this reality, it is not surprising that a national anthem can feel distant, even threatening.


The anthem remains the same, but it is not felt the same way by everyone. What gathers one person can isolate another. What feels like belonging to you can feel like something closing in on them.


This tension reveals an important truth: national symbols are not universally experienced. They reflect ideals, but people respond to them through the lens of reality. Where there is alignment, the anthem unites. Where there is a gap, it can divide.


Only fifteen minutes earlier, before the discussion with the filmmakers began, another song had moved me. Ela, from Mebourne Bergerak an activist group certainly not “antek asing” excerpted a lyric from a song titled “Papua”,


“…Sa su kasih semua bahkan sampai sa relakan sa pu jantung dan hati…
Sa su pilih ko ya sebagai sa pu kekasih tapi ko khianati…”


Ela’s voice was soft but deliberate. The air in the theatre shifted. Some were visibly moved, some were in tears. Two friends, one seated to my left, a Papuan activist, and a woman diaspora rows in front of me, had their shoulders shaking, hands trembling, as the lyrics wove through the room.


No one spoke. Even the air in the room felt still.


These weren’t empty lyrics; they carried memory in concrete images: mountain rains, the smell of wet earth, the weight of loss, and a quiet pride rooted in the land itself.


I glanced around subtly. No one spoke. No one moved. The song was not music, it was life, grief, and love, all wrapped in melody.


The audience responds with deep emotion, some are visibly moved, even crying. The lyrics, with images like “di bawah langit Papua” and “bintang kejora,” evoke intimacy, loss, and belonging. The song feels personal, rooted in what people live through, in grief, love, and memory tied to land.


Two Songs, Two Worlds
Against this backdrop, the contrast between “Papua” and “Indonesia Raya” becomes lived.


“Papua” resonates because it is lived: it carries pain, love, land, and memory. The national anthem Indonesia Raya, in this context, feels imposed: formal, distant, and detached from the realities on the ground, echoing without connection.


The audience’s reaction,  tears for one, discomfort for the other, reveals a divide beyond musical preference. It points to a gap between what is felt and what is expected to be performed. And that divide is not theorical, but part of everyday life.


In West Papua, people of the land still wake up as strangers in their own home. Children walk for hours and still cannot reach a proper school. The sick are carried on foot because help is too far, too scarce, or too late. Beneath their feet lies immense wealth, gold, forests, life itself, yet it is others who prosper, while they remain behind. Even in the cities of West Papua, inequality is visible in daily life: access to work, education, and services is uneven, shaped by distance and power rather than need.


They are told they belong to a nation. But when they speak, their voices fade before they are heard. Their leaders are sidelined. Their future is decided elsewhere. And in some places, life is lived in a quiet, persistent tension, where silence feels safer than truth.


This is not a single story. Some still believe in staying, in autonomy, in a promise not yet fulfilled. But many are left asking: what has that promise delivered?


Yes, if there were justice. If schools really  functioned, if hospitals were accessible, if wealth were shared fairly, if respect were real, and if people could shape their own future, then some might choose differently. Some might stay.


But this struggle was never only about development.


It is about dignity.


It is about being seen, not as subjects of a symbol, but as people. As equals. As rightful custodians of their own land.


Because in the end, a nation can ask its people to stand for an anthem.
But cannot ask them to feel it.


And until that gap is closed, the anthem will continue to play, not as a melody of unity,
but as an echo of something broken,
something unfinished,
something still unheard.

And elsewhere, another song is already speaking.


“I loved you so much,
but you betrayed me.
I gave you my heart,
yet you broke it.
Now I sit alone under the Papua sky,
telling my pain to the morning star.
Love that once felt beautiful
has turned into wounds and tears.
 …
sa pu kekasih tapi ko khianati
……….kekasih tapi ko khianati
………………………….ko khianati…”
___________________________________
Oleh: Mario Ngopidulu
@Melbourne, March 2026