Agrarian Crimes in Indonesia, How the Country Protects the Looters, Not the Legitimate Owners.

Based on True Life's Experience in Indonesia.

"Still Alive, Still Speaking" A Memoir of 3,050 Hectares of Land, Betrayal, and Resistance is the true story of a woman’s fight against criminalization and land mafia in Indonesia. Chronicling the plunder of 3,050 hectares of indigenous land in Putat, Rokan Hilir, Riau, this book reveals a bitter reality—how the legal system and state apparatuses have become tools of oppression for the powerless. Through a bold and honest narrative, this memoir exposes the dark side of agrarian oligarchy cloaked in the language of development and progress.

From intimidation and slander to death threats, the author refused to surrender. Her struggle reached the international stage, seeking justice beyond the failed promises of her homeland. Now, with new hope on foreign soil, this story stands as a testament to courage, solidarity, and resilience in the face of injustice.

Brief Description

This memoir unveils a true struggle against land mafia and criminalization in Indonesia. With the bravery of a mother and a fighter, this story takes readers through the hidden veil of injustice often unseen by the public. A story of wounds, courage, and unextinguished hope, Still Alive, Still Speaking invites us to reflect on the meaning of true justice and the importance of defending land rights and human dignity.

Chapter 1 Hunted by Shadows, Betrayed by My Own Country

Testimony of Resistance against the Seizure of 3,050 Hectares of Land in Putat, Rokan Hilir

Every human bears wounds. But not all wounds are visible. Some are hidden behind smiles, and some are buried deep by a system that never takes sides. This is my story, not fiction, not drama, but the grim reality of a homeland that should protect, yet instead strips you bare.

I am an ordinary woman. A mother of three. We are not billionaires, but we have dignity. We owned land legal and legitimate under our family-run company: PT. Ria Estella. The 3,050 hectares of land in Putat, Rokan Hilir, Riau, were not just soil; they were our future legacy and that of the local people. We built from nothing, planting dreams and treating nature as a life partner, not a dead commodity.

But everything changed when greed arrived wearing uniforms and wielding state emblems. They came not to uphold the law, but to dominate. With fake documents, hired thugs, and state-backed intimidation, they seized land and silenced resistance. Those who stood firm were criminalized or disappeared.

I witnessed how neighbors were threatened into submission or bought into betrayal. Police summons became weapons. The local media was silenced. Terror became routine for over a decade. I myself was slandered, reported, and nearly imprisoned for defending our rights.

This resistance lasted from 2007 to 2017, a ten-year hell disguised as an “agrarian dispute.” But there was no justice in this “dispute.” From the start, the state sided with oligarchic capitalists.

I don’t write this to beg for sympathy. I write so the world knows: Indonesia despite calling itself a democracy still harbors colonial wounds in a new form: oligarchy. Where the poor are forced to bow to powerful entities disguised as “investors.” Where the law is traded like a commodity. Where a mother must flee her homeland to protect her children because her own country won’t.

Today, I live far from my birthplace in Canada, the home of my husband and children, a country that gave us safety and dignity. I am an Indigenous daughter of Indonesia.

But that land the 3,050 hectares that were plundered still pulses inside me. It is a wound that won’t heal, but also a flame that never dies.

I am still alive. And I am still speaking. For those who’ve been silenced. For those who’ve been forgotten. For the land that is still bleeding.

Chapter 2
Chronology of Agrarian Crimes: How the State Protects Looters, Not Lawful Owners

(2007–2017)

This chapter presents the key chronology of the ten-year battle for our land. It is a story of deliberate erasure of a legal land title nullified not by law, but by conspiracy. I write this not merely to record what happened, but to expose how the Indonesian legal and bureaucratic systems systematically enable and protect land grabbers so long as they have capital and connections.

2007 The Invasion Begins

In early 2007, the first signs of encroachment appeared. We discovered unknown parties operating heavy equipment on our legally owned land in Putat, Tanah Putih, Rokan Hilir Regency, province of Riau, Indonesia. They began clearing land, claiming it was part of a “plasma scheme” supported by powerful backers. We immediately objected and reported the intrusion.

At that time, we still had faith in the law. We submitted complaints to the local police and the Rokan Hilir Regency Government, attaching valid documents: land certificates, company licenses, and tax records. But no action was taken. Instead, we received vague responses: "Let’s mediate first,” or worse, "Don’t escalate the conflict."

2008 The Criminalization Begins

The following year, the aggressors intensified their operations with even greater force and impunity. What began as sporadic acts of intimidation evolved into systematic efforts to erase our physical and cultural presence from the land. They not only continued the unauthorized clearing of our land territory but also began exploiting the 32 Kilometers access road that our company PT. Ria Estella had built through collective effort and self-funding. This road, originally intended to connect villages and facilitate access to the project development and local community's farm, was forcibly taken over and used to transport heavy machinery, processed timber from illegal logging, and construction materials for plantation expansion.

As their encroachment advanced, they destroyed our nursery plants, years of community labor and environmental restoration efforts, while deliberately setting fire to our camp (12 Barack unit) and office, which served as the coordination center for our reforestation and cultural preservation projects. The burning of these facilities was not only a material loss but also a symbolic act of erasing our communal identity and resistance.

In blatant disregard of legal procedures and land-use regulations, the perpetrators began planting oil palm trees without any permit or prior consultation with the rightful community custodians. Despite clear evidence of illegal occupation and destruction of property, our repeated protests to local authorities, police, and relevant ministries were either ignored or deflected. No investigation was initiated, and no sanctions were imposed on the mafia's company or its operatives.

Instead of receiving protection as victims of aggression, we were criminalized. Local officials, echoing the company’s narrative, accused us of “occupying state land.” This accusation is deeply ironic and unjust, given that the land in question has been under our community’s stewardship for generations long before the corporate concessions were even established. The framing of indigenous land as “state land” has become a convenient legal instrument to dispossess traditional communities and legitimize corporate expansion under the pretext of national development. Threatening Ninik Mamak's and the villagers.

These events demonstrate a pattern of structural violence where state institutions fail to uphold their duty to protect citizens and instead enable corporate actors to operate above the law. The destruction of our land, livelihood, and cultural heritage represents not only an environmental crime but also a direct violation of our constitutional and human rights as indigenous people of this region.

I, along with company staff and community members who defended the land, began receiving police summons. The narrative was flipped. We landowners were now the “intruders.” They threatened to revoke our land permits. We were labeled troublemakers.

We submitted dozens of letters official letters of protest, clarification, and requests for legal protection. None were answered. That year, three of our field workers were arrested. Their only crime: standing on land that legally belonged to us.

2009–2010 The Conspiracy Deepens

These two years marked the consolidation of the land mafia. We discovered that a new company backed by military and police retirees had forged documents claiming ownership of our land. This company was granted a location permit by the local government, without ever verifying the land status. In short, our land was being “relicensed” without our knowledge.

When we protested and presented evidence of ownership, our objections were dismissed. Bureaucrats at the regency and provincial level responded with silence—or worse, joined the conspiracy. The same names began appearing: retired generals, local strongmen, and political figures forming a powerful triangle.

Subsequently, we submitted formal complaints to the Ministry of Agrarian Affairs in Jakarta. Once again, our efforts were met with silence. Following the Rapat Audensi between the Ministry of Agriculture and PT Ria Estella, several officers who had facilitated the meeting were dismissed from their positions and reassigned to other departments. Tragically, we later received information that one of the government officials had suddenly fallen ill and passed away.

Following the prolonged inaction of local authorities, we escalated our concerns by submitting formal complaints to the Ministry of Agrarian Affairs and Spatial Planning in Jakarta. Despite the detailed evidence and documentation we provided highlighting clear irregularities in land acquisition, community displacement, and corporate misconduct, the Ministry remained unresponsive.

A few months later, a Rapat Audensi (consultative meeting) was convened between representatives of the Ministry of Agriculture and PT Ria Estella, the corporate entity at the center of the dispute. The meeting, which was expected to serve as a forum for accountability and resolution, instead raised serious concerns about internal interference and institutional pressure.

Shortly after the meeting, several government officers who had helped organize or facilitated the session were abruptly removed from their positions and transferred to other departments without clear justification. This sudden administrative reshuffling appeared to be more than a routine bureaucratic adjustment, it reflected a deeper systemic attempt to suppress transparency and intimidate public servants who were sympathetic to the affected communities.

The situation took a tragic turn when we received information that one of the government officers involved had suddenly fallen ill under unexplained circumstances and subsequently passed away. The timing of these events created an atmosphere of fear and uncertainty among officials and community members alike, reinforcing the perception that efforts to expose or confront corporate wrongdoing often come at a personal cost.

Taken together, these incidents reflect not only the lack of institutional accountability but also the existence of an entrenched culture of silence within state institutions when faced with powerful corporate interests. The case illustrates how bureaucratic coercion and fear can undermine justice, obstruct due process, and perpetuate impunity in land-related human rights violations.

2011 Threats Turn to Violence

In 2011, violence escalated. Our company’s facilities were burned down. Equipment destroyed. Community supporters attacked. Police refused to investigate.

Instead, I received death threats. My children were stalked. A police official even suggested I "leave the area before something happens."

That year, we fled the site entirely. We had no choice. The land was occupied, our staff terrorized, and we were marked as “agitators” by the district police.

2012–2015 The System Closes Ranks

During these years, we pursued legal action. We filed lawsuits. Hired lawyers. Appealed to the central government. Brought the case to the National Commission on Human Rights. We even contacted members of parliament.

What we found was chilling: no matter where we turned, the door was already closed.

Judges refused to process our case. Police failed to follow up reports. Even members of parliament who initially showed sympathy backed away after receiving “calls from above.”

The land our land was now fully planted with palm oil by the mafia-backed company. They exported profits while we fought just to survive. No media dared to cover it. We were gaslighted. Told: “The case is too complicated,” or “You’re just being emotional.”

2016 International Exposure Begins

Desperate and exhausted, I contacted foreign journalists and international human rights organizations. I began speaking out online. Sharing documents. Giving testimony.

That was when state intelligence began monitoring me. I was blacklisted at airports. My email was hacked. My children’s school was visited by unidentified people asking strange questions.

But the international attention began working. Some NGOs and academic networks helped us bring the case to the UN’s Special Rapporteur on Indigenous Rights. The Indonesian government, pressured by these exposures, offered a “negotiation.” But the offer was a farce: we were asked to accept a 5% share of our own land.

We rejected.

2017 Forced Exile

In 2017, fearing for the safety of my children and myself, we made the most painful decision: to leave Indonesia.

We resettled in Canada through a humanitarian route. Here, I began a new life with my family. But the fight never ended. I wrote, I spoke, I advocated.

3,050 hectares of land were stolen, project development & infrastructure were destroyed but our dignity remained.

This chronology is not just a record of one family’s tragedy. It is a mirror of how the Indonesian state treats indigenous landowners who lack political protection. When land conflicts arise, the state almost always sides with capital and corporations. Legal documents are not protection they are targets to be erased.

I will continue to speak. Because silence is complicity.

Chapter 3 The Face of the Real Land Grabbers Not the People, but the Corporate Predators

We often hear news headlines that say, “Farmers Seize Land,” “Residents Occupy Palm Oil Plantations,” or “Illegal Land Invaders Arrested.” The mainstream narrative always seems to portray the people small farmers, Indigenous groups, or poor villagers as criminals in land disputes. But have we ever asked: who really are the invaders?

The truth is, behind nearly every land conflict in Indonesia, the actual perpetrators are not the people, but corporations with strong political and military connections. They don't come barefooted. They arrive with bulldozers, drones, and signed permits issued behind closed doors, far from the communities whose lives they will destroy.

In our case in Putat, the theft of 3,050 hectares was not carried out by desperate villagers. It was a meticulously orchestrated operation backed by corporate mafias that used legal fronts and state apparatus to commit the theft. They disguised themselves under companies some already blacklisted for environmental violations, others created specifically for land grabbing.

These companies were not acting alone. They worked hand in hand with oknum aparat (rogue officials), from the local police and land office to regional authorities. They brought in thugs to intimidate us, bribed key community figures, forged land documents, and when needed weaponized the criminal justice system.

Let me say this plainly: the real land grabbers in Indonesia are protected by the country.

They are not hiding in forests they sit in air-conditioned offices. They don’t wield machetes they sign decrees. And when resistance arises, they don’t debate they criminalize.

When we presented proof of our land rights our HGU (Hak Guna Usaha), our legal ownership, our permits it didn’t matter. They always had “new documents,” mysteriously issued, post-dated, or manipulated. When we took it to court, the judges were silent. When we reported it to the police, the case was buried. The system wasn’t built for justice. It was built to protect power.

In 2013, one of our employees was brutally beaten by unidentified men after speaking out. That same year, I received anonymous calls warning me to “back off or your children won’t come home.” I reported it. No action. I showed documents. No investigation. The only thing that moved fast was the defamation suit they filed against me.

So let us be clear: land grabbing in Indonesia is not an accident. It is a business model.

Land is the new gold. The greed is systemic. Corporations backed by oligarchs use the machinery of the state to dispossess Indigenous people and destroy ecosystems. And the biggest lie they sell is that it’s all “legal.”

But legality does not mean legitimacy.

The fact that a piece of land has an official permit doesn't make the acquisition just. Especially when the permit was issued through bribery, intimidation, and legal manipulation. Especially when the land in question is ancestral land, protected under constitutional rights and international Indigenous rights laws.

In Indonesia today, the ones who get arrested are not the ones who steal land—but the ones who defend it.

The criminals wear ties, not masks. They walk freely in Jakarta’s malls, not in the jungle. They fund election campaigns, not grassroots food programs. And they are the reason thousands of Indigenous families like ours are displaced, silenced, and forced into exile.

So don’t ask me why I left Indonesia. Ask instead: why does a woman have to flee her homeland just to stay alive?

This chapter is not just about my personal pain. It is a call for truth. A warning to the world: beware of those who speak of development but leave a trail of blood behind. They are not builders. They are colonizers in corporate clothing.

And yet, I am still alive. I am still speaking.

Because the truth must be louder than their lies.

Chapter 4
When the Legal System Becomes a Weapon Anatomy of Criminalization

There is a saying among many Indonesian peasants and Indigenous communities:

“Kalau kau lawan penguasa, siap-siap masuk penjara. Kalau kau diam, siap-siap kehilangan tanah.”

("If you resist the powerful, prepare for prison. If you stay silent, prepare to lose your land.")

This was not just a proverb in our struggle—it was a prophecy fulfilled.

After we resisted the corporate land grab in Putat, Rokan Hilir, the machinery of criminalization was activated with frightening precision. Not against the perpetrators of theft, but against us—the rightful landowners.

The legal system, which should have been our shield, became the dagger aimed at our backs.

1. Criminalizing the Victim, Protecting the Thief

When we filed reports to the police about illegal occupation and intimidation, they stalled. They told us to “wait,” “negotiate,” or worse, “let it go.” But when the corporation filed a police report accusing us of encroachment, illegal occupation, or defamation action was swift. Officers came to our house. Our staff were interrogated. Warrants were issued. The legal tables turned, not based on truth or evidence, but on power and connections.

I was accused of defamation, simply for telling the media that our land had been stolen. I was labeled a “provocateur” for organizing peaceful resistance. Suddenly, the woman defending her ancestral land became the criminal in the eyes of the law.

They weaponized the very institutions meant to serve justice.

2. Legalized Injustice: How the Courts Are Used to Silence Us

The court hearings were a theater of mock justice. Evidence we presented land certificates, historical maps, community testimonies were dismissed as “incomplete.” Meanwhile, the corporate side came with fabricated documents, often issued suspiciously close to the dispute, signed by officials whose loyalties were clearly bought.

Judges rarely asked critical questions. Their decisions mirrored the corporate argument word-for-word. It was not a trial. It was an endorsement.

I learned the hard way that in Indonesia, the courtroom is not a neutral space it is a battlefield where truth loses to influence.

3. Criminalization as a Business Strategy

We later discovered this pattern wasn’t unique to us. Across Indonesia, Indigenous and agrarian communities resisting land grabs are systematically criminalized. It is not a coincidence it is a corporate strategy.

Accuse the landowners of encroachment on land that is legally theirs.

Intimidate them with police summons, lawsuits, and media blackmail.

Split the community by bribing some members while arresting the rest.

Use the case to freeze opposition and secure a court ruling legitimizing the theft.

This is not just injustice it is a state-sanctioned theft industry, wrapped in legal language and rubber-stamped by officials.

4. The Price of Speaking the Truth

My personal price? I lost my business. I lost my peace. I was forced to leave my homeland for fear of arrest or worse. Some of our employees fled. Others were harassed or detained. One friend, a fellow activist, disappeared for weeks after being followed by unknown men.

And yet, I was lucky compared to others. Some were jailed for years. Some were shot. Some were buried in unmarked graves while the media reported nothing.

Indonesia’s legal system is not broken. It is functioning exactly as designed: to protect the powerful and punish the brave.

5. This Is Not Just About Me

This chapter is not a personal vendetta. It is a mirror. What happened to me is happening to thousands of others across the archipelago farmers in Sumatra, Dayak leaders in Kalimantan, Papuan elders, fisherfolk in Sulawesi, and many more.

Criminalization is the new colonialism. It does not wear a soldier’s uniform it wears a judge’s robe.

So when the world looks at Indonesia and sees “democracy,” “legal reform,” and “development,” I say, look deeper.

Behind the shiny infrastructure and green-washed speeches, there is a dark war against land defenders waged not with guns, but with court summons and handcuffs.

But I still write. I still speak. Because if silence is safer, then truth must be louder.

Chapter 5 The Weaponization of Ulayat Law and the Betrayal by Customary Institutions

In the early days of our resistance, we believed that adat (customary) law would protect us. We believed that the sanctity of tanah ulayat the ancestral land passed down through generations was unshakable. We thought that customary institutions, guardians of tradition and identity, would stand on our side.

We were wrong.

What we witnessed was not just the erosion of law, but the betrayal of tradition a betrayal orchestrated through corruption, political manipulation, and the slow but deliberate weaponization of adat against its own people.

1. Ulayat Law Was Supposed to Protect Us

For centuries, tanah ulayat was not just land it was soul. It was our identity, our history, our breath. It could not be sold. It could not be alienated. It belonged not to individuals, but to the entire community. Chiefs (ninik mamak), elders, and adat councils were supposed to guard this land like sacred trust.

When corporations came, we invoked these customs. We presented ancestral claims, oral histories, rituals, and boundaries etched in memory. We brought elders and traditional leaders to bear witness. We believed adat would prevail.

2. When Customary Leaders Were Bought

But what we didn’t expect was that adat itself could be bought.

Some of the very ninik mamak entrusted to defend the land were seduced with envelopes of cash, corporate “CSR” programs, free pilgrimages, new cars, or political favors. One by one, they signed letters of “release” of ulayat land documents which had no legitimacy under adat law, but were used by companies to claim legal ownership.

They stood in press conferences beside CEOs and smiled as they handed over our inheritance.

And when we confronted them, they accused us of being “anak durhaka” (unfilial children), of disrespecting tradition. They used adat language to shame us while they sold adat values for profit.

3. State-Affiliated Customary Institutions: The New Colonial Agents

In many regions, customary councils have been absorbed into the state system. They are given ceremonial roles, official budgets, and political ties. They no longer act as defenders of the people they act as intermediaries for power.

Instead of resisting land grabs, they validate them.

Instead of leading rituals of protection, they perform rituals of surrender.

Instead of standing with the oppressed, they sit beside the oppressor.

The spiritual foundation of Dalihan Natolu, of adat basandi syarak, of ancestral cosmologies has been gutted. What remains are costumes and slogans, paraded during festivals, but empty of resistance.

This is adat as theater, not as power.

4. Divide and Conquer Through “Custom”

Corporations and local elites learned quickly: if you want to break a community, don’t attack them head-on divide them. Use adat titles to buy influence. Recognize some lineages over others. Fabricate “adat decisions” with a few compliant elders. Frame resistance as “rebellion” against tradition.

They turned ulayat land into political capital. They turned adat councils into notaries for land theft.

5. This Betrayal Cut Deeper Than the Law

When the state criminalizes you, it is cruel but expected.

But when your own adat betrays you, it wounds the spirit. We felt abandoned not just legally, but cosmologically. We asked: What happens when the guardians of the sacred become the brokers of betrayal?

We realized that the colonizer had changed its costume. It no longer wears a European uniform. It wears a peci, holds a keris, speaks in the name of adat and serves the interests of capital.

6. Reviving Adat from Below
But not all is lost.

Across Sumatra, Kalimantan, Sulawesi, Papua new grassroots adat movements are rising. Not tied to the state. Not bound to political parties. These are councils formed by real customary holders, women leaders, young people, environmentalists, and spiritual elders who still carry the memory of land as sacred.

We are part of that resistance.

True adat is not for sale. True adat defends the forest, not the concession. True adat speaks from the land, not from the boardroom.

When we say “kami ingin kembali ke tanah adat”, it does not mean nostalgia. It means reclaiming a future rooted in dignity, justice, and ancestral power.

Chapter 6 When the Legal System Becomes a Weapon Anatomy of Criminalization

They say the law is blind. But in Indonesia, the law is not blind it chooses not to see.

When we talk about the criminalization of land defenders, we’re not talking about unfortunate legal misunderstandings. We are talking about a calculated, systematic weaponization of the legal system to destroy resistance and protect corporate theft.

After we resisted the illegal seizure of our 3,050 hectares in Putat, Rokan Hilir, we expected intimidation. We expected bribes. We expected offers to “settle quietly.” But what we did not fully anticipate was how far the system would go to fabricate crimes just to break us.

Let me explain how the criminalization worked, step by step:

1. The False Narrative

The first attack is always in the narrative. Suddenly, news reports began painting us as “illegal land occupants” or “resisting investment.” Who wrote these articles? Reporters paid off by the companies. Headlines were shaped to justify the next steps. They made it look like we were obstructing national development. The reality: we were defending our legal, ancestral land.

2. The Police Are Not Neutral

When we reported the land theft to the police, the first response was silence. Then suddenly, we were the suspects. Police refused to process our reports but were quick to act on reports filed by the company. often baseless claims of “illegal occupation,” “trespassing,” or even “defamation.”

They arrested our workers, summoned our elderly parents, and visited our homes in the middle of the night. They created a climate of fear and uncertainty, forcing us into hiding.

3. The Role of Forged Documents

The company produced new “certificates” and “permits” for land they never previously owned. We showed older, official HGU documents that proved our rights. It didn’t matter. The forged ones were suddenly accepted as the legitimate basis. How could that be?

Because they were legalized after the fact rubber-stamped by complicit officials. If a paper is signed by a government office, it becomes “valid,” regardless of how it was obtained.

4. The Courts Are Not Protectors of Justice

When we challenged the land theft in court, we were told we lacked standing. When we brought documentation, they questioned our identity. When we submitted testimony, it was ignored. Judges delayed hearings, lost files, or simply ruled in favor of the corporations without explanation.

At one point, I was directly threatened by someone connected to a judicial network. The message was chilling:

“If you don’t stop this case, you’ll be the next target.”

5. Criminal Charges as a Strategy

The most painful moment came when I was named a suspect in a criminal case — for land that legally belonged to my family. The charge? “Fraud” and “false claim to land.”

Yes, you read that right. The thieves accused me of stealing my own land.

The case dragged on for years. I had to flee the region. Warrants were issued. Bank accounts were frozen. Our family was painted as fugitives.

And still —not one single perpetrator from the company was investigated for the land theft. Not one official was punished for issuing false permits.

6. Silence from the Human Rights Institutions

We reached out to Komnas HAM. We sent reports to the Ministry of Agrarian Affairs. We contacted members of the DPR. Some were sympathetic. Most were silent. The system was too tangled, too bought, too afraid to act.

International bodies were our only hope. And even then, the process was slow. Meanwhile, our land was cleared, burned, and planted with oil palm. Cemeteries destroyed. Forests gone. Our children exiled.

This Is Not Just My Story

Thousands of Indigenous and small landowners across Indonesia have faced similar fates. The criminalization of land defenders is not an accident. It is a tool. A weapon used by the oligarchy to ensure that the poor never rise, and that the land always flows upward into the hands of the elite.

Why I Still Speak

I speak now because I survived. I speak because many others didn’t. I speak because if I don’t, they win.

They want us silent. They want us broken. They want us erased from our own history.

But I refuse.

Over the course of these conflicts, there have been multiple attempts on my life. These incidents appear to be part of a broader pattern of intimidation designed to silence me and prevent further exposure of the corporate and political networks behind the land occupation.

On one occasion, a meeting was arranged under the pretext of a “negotiation” at a café located inside a mall on Riau Street. Anticipating possible danger, I was accompanied by a high-ranking military officer. The meeting, however, did not proceed as planned, and the attempt to compromise or harm me failed.

Not long afterward, I was followed during an official trip to Kuala Lumpur, where I was scheduled to attend a meeting. At the airport café, a woman attempted to poison my drink. Fortunately, I noticed her suspicious behavior in time and avoided consuming it.

A subsequent incident occurred at Bali’s international airport, where two unidentified men attempted to coerce us into entering a specific queue that appeared to have been prearranged. Recognizing the danger, I managed to excuse myself under the pretext of going to the restroom. I remained there for several hours until the situation appeared safe, after which I discreetly exited and successfully evaded their pursuit.

These repeated attempts reflect the extreme lengths to which certain actors are willing to go to suppress those who challenge their illegal and exploitative activities. The coordination and resources involved suggest that these are not isolated acts of intimidation but part of a systematic effort to eliminate witnesses and silence dissent related to corporate land grabs and state-backed corruption.

This chapter is a record. A testimony. A warning.

Because if we don’t expose how the legal system is used against the people, there will be no justice left to defend.

The purported transfer of shares from PT Ria Estella to PT ASPL is a deliberate fabrication. This claim is fraudulent and was clearly intended to create the appearance of a legitimate corporate transaction, while in reality it serves to obscure the true ownership and control of the land in question. I am the rightful shareholder of PT Ria Estella and have never sold the land or the company to anyone.

In fact, the perpetrators attempted to kill me because I refused to hand over PT Ria Estella and its assets. When these attempts on my life failed, they resorted to occupying the land by force. These events demonstrate that their actions were not only fraudulent but criminal, involving both deception and violent coercion to seize control over indigenous territory without consent.

Today, PT ASPL and its affiliated entities continue to occupy our land. Due to the ongoing threats to my life and the safety of my family, I have been forced to flee Indonesia. We left Indonesia in 2017 and settled in Canada.

This situation underscores the extreme risks faced by community leaders and land rights defenders in confronting powerful corporate actors and highlights the urgent need for protection, accountability, and international attention.

They publicly announced that PT Ria Estella had sold its shares to their group, effectively transferring control of the disputed area without any consultation or consent from the affected community. This change in ownership, however, has not altered the nature of the problem it has only deepened the layers of corporate manipulation behind the ongoing land grab. It's all Fraud.

PT ASPL operates as a subsidiary within a network of companies under the Sumalindo Group, a conglomerate long associated with large-scale logging, plantation, and industrial forest operations in Indonesia. Evidence suggests that the Sumalindo Group maintains close financial and operational ties with the Salim Group, one of Indonesia’s most powerful business empires with significant influence in the agribusiness, palm oil, and forestry sectors.

This connection raises serious concerns about corporate collusion, the concentration of land ownership, and the use of front companies to obscure accountability. Through such complex corporate structures, major conglomerates like the Salim Group are able to expand their territorial control while distancing themselves from direct legal responsibility for the human rights violations, environmental destruction, and displacement of indigenous communities that occur on the ground.

As a result, what appears to be a localized land dispute is, in fact, part of a broader pattern of corporate consolidation, facilitated by weak law enforcement and state complicity. Our land has become a silent victim of these shadowy transactions exploited through the revolving door of subsidiaries, shell companies, and political protection that shield the true beneficiaries from public scrutiny.

The Salim Group’s involvement in this case cannot be viewed in isolation. As one of Indonesia’s most influential and politically connected conglomerates, the Salim Group has long played a central role in shaping the country’s economic and land-use policies. Founded during the New Order regime, the conglomerate expanded rapidly through preferential access to state concessions, monopoly rights, and protection from political elites. Its vast portfolio now extends across palm oil, illegal logging, infrastructure, banking, and food industries often through an intricate web of subsidiaries and local partners that obscure direct ownership and liability.

Through these networks, the Salim Group and its affiliated companies have been able to acquire and control extensive tracts of land, often in regions inhabited by indigenous and rural communities. This control is frequently secured through regulatory loopholes, political patronage, and the exploitation of Indonesia’s ambiguous land classification system, which allows Indigenous land or APL territories to be redefined as “state forest” or “idle land” (tanah negara). Such reclassification provides legal cover for the displacement of traditional landholders and facilitates the transfer of land rights to corporate concessionaires.

In many documented cases across Sumatra, Kalimantan, and Sulawesi, the Salim Group and its subsidiaries have been implicated in large-scale deforestation, illegal burning, and human rights violations related to palm oil and timber expansion. Their operations have benefited from decades of state protection, particularly through alliances with high-ranking political figures, former military officers, and regional officials. This pattern reflects the structural entanglement between Indonesia’s political oligarchy and corporate power where legal frameworks are selectively enforced to protect economic elites while criminalizing indigenous resistance.

The situation involving PT ASPL and the Sumalindo with Salim nexus exemplifies this broader system of oligarchic exploitation. What is presented as a “business transaction” between companies is, in fact, a continuation of the historical process of dispossession that has characterized Indonesia’s extractive economy. The Indonesian community’s land, has been converted into a commercial asset within the hands of a few conglomerates, undermining both local sovereignty and environmental sustainability.

Without transparent disclosure of share ownership, concession permits, and corporate beneficiaries, it remains difficult to trace the full chain of accountability. However, the recurring pattern of aggressive land occupation, state inaction, and corporate rebranding, suggests deliberate coordination designed to maintain control while evading public and legal responsibility. Such systemic impunity reflects the deep-seated failure of Indonesia’s regulatory and judicial institutions to uphold the principles of justice, environmental protection, and indigenous rights as guaranteed under the Constitution and international conventions.

It is now critical to demand full accountability from major corporate actors such as the Sumalindo Group, the Salim Group, Sinar Mas, and the Wilmar Group. These conglomerates have long operated with impunity across Indonesia’s resource sectors, systematically exploiting land, forests, and indigenous territories through opaque corporate networks and political patronage. Their economic power has translated into structural influence over public institutions, enabling them to evade legal consequences for environmental destruction and human rights violations.

Holding these corporations accountable is not merely a matter of justice for affected communities it is essential to restoring the rule of law, protecting Indonesia’s remaining forests, and ensuring that indigenous peoples’ rights are recognized and respected in accordance with both the national constitution and international human rights conventions. Without transparency, enforcement, and independent investigation into the actions of these conglomerates, the cycle of dispossession, intimidation, and ecological degradation will continue unchecked.

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Dalam Tulisan Bahasa Indonesia

Kejahatan Agraria di Indonesia: Bagaimana Negara Melindungi Perampok, Bukan Pemilik Sah

Berdasarkan Pengalaman Hidup Nyata di Indonesia

Oleh: Ellis Ambarita

“Masih Hidup, Masih Bicara”: Memoar 3.050 Hektar Tanah, Pengkhianatan, dan Perlawanan adalah kisah nyata perjuangan seorang perempuan melawan kriminalisasi dan mafia tanah di Indonesia. Mengisahkan perampasan 3.050 hektar tanah adat di Putat, Rokan Hilir, Riau, buku ini mengungkap kenyataan pahit—bagaimana sistem hukum dan aparat negara menjadi alat penindasan bagi yang tak berdaya. Melalui narasi yang berani dan jujur, memoar ini menyingkap sisi gelap oligarki agraria yang dibalut bahasa pembangunan dan kemajuan.

Dari intimidasi dan fitnah hingga ancaman kematian, penulis menolak menyerah. Perjuangannya mencapai panggung internasional, menuntut keadilan di luar janji-janji yang gagal dari tanah airnya. Kini, dengan harapan baru di tanah asing, kisah ini menjadi bukti keberanian, solidaritas, dan ketahanan menghadapi ketidakadilan.

Deskripsi Singkat
Memoar ini menyingkap perjuangan nyata melawan mafia tanah dan kriminalisasi di Indonesia. Dengan keberanian seorang ibu sekaligus pejuang, cerita ini membawa pembaca melalui tabir ketidakadilan yang sering tersembunyi dari publik. Sebuah kisah luka, keberanian, dan harapan yang tak padam, Still Alive, Still Speaking mengajak kita merenungkan makna keadilan sejati serta pentingnya mempertahankan hak atas tanah dan martabat manusia.

Bab 1
Dikejar Bayangan, Dikhianati Negeri Sendiri
Kesaksian Perlawanan terhadap Perampasan 3.050 Hektar Tanah di Putat, Rokan Hilir

Setiap manusia memiliki luka. Namun tidak semua luka terlihat. Ada yang tersembunyi di balik senyum, ada yang terkubur dalam oleh sistem yang tak pernah berpihak. Ini adalah kisah saya, bukan fiksi, bukan drama, tetapi kenyataan pahit tanah air yang seharusnya melindungi, malah menelanjangi.

Saya perempuan biasa. Seorang ibu dari tiga anak. Kami bukan miliarder, tetapi kami memiliki martabat. Kami memiliki tanah secara sah melalui perusahaan keluarga kami: PT. Ria Estella. 3.050 hektar tanah di Putat, Rokan Hilir, Riau, bukan sekadar tanah; itu adalah warisan masa depan kami dan masyarakat lokal. Kami membangun dari nol, menanam impian, dan memperlakukan alam sebagai mitra hidup, bukan komoditas mati.

Namun segalanya berubah ketika keserakahan datang dengan seragam dan lambang negara. Mereka datang bukan untuk menegakkan hukum, tetapi untuk menguasai. Dengan dokumen palsu, preman bayaran, dan intimidasi berbasis negara, mereka merebut tanah dan membungkam perlawanan. Mereka yang berdiri teguh dikriminalisasi atau lenyap.

Saya menyaksikan tetangga diancam untuk menyerah atau dibeli untuk mengkhianati. Panggilan polisi menjadi senjata. Media lokal dibungkam. Teror menjadi rutinitas selama lebih dari satu dekade. Saya sendiri difitnah, dilaporkan, dan nyaris dipenjara karena membela hak kami.

Perlawanan ini berlangsung dari 2007 hingga 2017, sepuluh tahun neraka yang disamarkan sebagai “sengketa agraria.” Namun tidak ada keadilan dalam “sengketa” ini. Sejak awal, negara berpihak pada kapitalis oligarkis.

Saya menulis ini bukan untuk meminta simpati. Saya menulis agar dunia tahu: Indonesia, meski menyebut dirinya demokrasi, masih menyimpan luka kolonial dalam bentuk baru: oligarki. Di mana orang miskin dipaksa tunduk pada entitas kuat yang menyamar sebagai “investor.” Di mana hukum diperjualbelikan seperti komoditas. Di mana seorang ibu harus melarikan diri dari tanah air demi melindungi anak-anaknya karena negaranya sendiri tidak peduli.

Hari ini, saya hidup jauh dari tempat lahir di Kanada, rumah bagi suami dan anak-anak saya, negara yang memberi kami keselamatan dan martabat. Saya adalah putri adat Indonesia.

Namun tanah itu, 3.050 hektar yang dirampas, masih berdenyut dalam diri saya. Ia adalah luka yang takkan sembuh, tapi juga api yang tak pernah padam.

Saya masih hidup. Dan saya masih bicara. Untuk mereka yang dibungkam. Untuk mereka yang terlupakan. Untuk tanah yang masih berdarah.

Bab 2
Kronologi Kejahatan Agraria: Bagaimana Negara Melindungi Perampok, Bukan Pemilik Sah
(2007–2017)

Bab ini menyajikan kronologi penting dari perjuangan sepuluh tahun atas tanah kami. Kisah ini adalah penghapusan sengaja atas hak kepemilikan tanah yang sah, dibatalkan bukan oleh hukum, tetapi oleh konspirasi. Saya menulis ini bukan sekadar untuk mencatat apa yang terjadi, tetapi untuk menyingkap bagaimana sistem hukum dan birokrasi Indonesia secara sistematis memungkinkan dan melindungi perampok tanah selama mereka memiliki modal dan koneksi.

2007 – Invasi Dimulai
Awal 2007, tanda pertama pelanggaran muncul. Kami menemukan pihak tidak dikenal mengoperasikan alat berat di tanah kami yang sah di Putat, Tanah Putih, Kabupaten Rokan Hilir, Riau. Mereka mulai membuka lahan, mengklaim itu bagian dari “skema plasma” yang didukung pendukung kuat. Kami segera menolak dan melaporkan intrusi tersebut.

Saat itu, kami masih percaya pada hukum. Kami mengajukan pengaduan ke polisi setempat dan Pemerintah Kabupaten Rokan Hilir, melampirkan dokumen sah: sertifikat tanah, izin perusahaan, dan catatan pajak. Namun tidak ada tindakan. Sebaliknya, kami menerima jawaban samar: “Mari mediasi dulu,” atau lebih buruk, “Jangan eskalasi konflik.”

2008 – Awal Kriminalisasi
Tahun berikutnya, agresor memperkuat operasinya dengan kekuatan lebih besar dan impunitas penuh. Yang dimulai sebagai intimidasi sporadis berkembang menjadi upaya sistematis untuk menghapus keberadaan fisik dan budaya kami dari tanah tersebut. Mereka tidak hanya melanjutkan pembukaan lahan ilegal, tetapi juga mengeksploitasi jalan akses 32 kilometer yang dibangun PT Ria Estella melalui usaha kolektif dan pendanaan sendiri. Jalan ini, awalnya untuk menghubungkan desa dan memfasilitasi proyek serta pertanian masyarakat, direbut paksa dan digunakan untuk mengangkut alat berat, kayu hasil ilegal logging, dan bahan konstruksi ekspansi perkebunan.

Seiring pelanggaran semakin meluas, mereka menghancurkan bibit, hasil kerja komunitas bertahun-tahun, sekaligus membakar kamp (12 unit barak) dan kantor, pusat koordinasi proyek reboisasi dan pelestarian budaya kami. Pembakaran ini bukan hanya kerugian materi, tetapi simbol penghapusan identitas dan perlawanan komunitas.

Dengan mengabaikan prosedur hukum dan peraturan tata guna lahan, pelaku mulai menanam sawit tanpa izin atau konsultasi dengan pemilik sah. Bukti jelas pendudukan ilegal dan kerusakan properti diabaikan. Protes kami kepada aparat, polisi, dan kementerian terkait diabaikan. Tidak ada investigasi, tidak ada sanksi.

Alih-alih dilindungi sebagai korban, kami dikriminalisasi. Pejabat lokal meniru narasi perusahaan, menuduh kami “menempati tanah negara.” Tuduhan ini ironis dan tidak adil, mengingat tanah tersebut telah dikelola komunitas kami selama generasi, jauh sebelum konsesi perusahaan ada. Label “tanah negara” menjadi alat legal yang nyaman untuk menggusur komunitas adat dan melegitimasi ekspansi perusahaan atas nama pembangunan nasional. Ancaman terhadap Ninik Mamak dan warga desa pun terjadi.

2009–2010 – Konspirasi Menguat
Dua tahun ini menandai konsolidasi mafia tanah. Kami menemukan perusahaan baru yang didukung pensiunan militer dan polisi memalsukan dokumen kepemilikan tanah. Perusahaan ini memperoleh izin lokasi dari pemerintah tanpa verifikasi status tanah. Singkatnya, tanah kami “diperizinkan kembali” tanpa sepengetahuan kami.

Protes kami dan bukti kepemilikan diabaikan. Birokrat kabupaten dan provinsi diam, atau lebih buruk, bergabung dalam konspirasi. Nama-nama yang muncul: jenderal pensiunan, preman lokal, dan tokoh politik membentuk segitiga kekuatan.

Pengaduan resmi ke Kementerian Agraria di Jakarta kembali diabaikan. Pertemuan audensi dengan Kementerian Pertanian dan PT Ria Estella berakhir dengan pengawasan internal dan tekanan institusional. Beberapa pejabat yang memfasilitasi pertemuan dirotasi tiba-tiba, bahkan satu dilaporkan sakit mendadak dan meninggal.

Kejadian ini menunjukkan kurangnya akuntabilitas institusi dan adanya budaya diam dalam menghadapi kepentingan korporasi kuat. Persekongkolan birokrasi dan ketakutan menghambat keadilan, merintangi proses hukum, dan mempertahankan impunitas dalam pelanggaran hak atas tanah.

2011 – Ancaman Menjadi Kekerasan
Tahun 2011, kekerasan meningkat. Fasilitas perusahaan dibakar. Peralatan hancur. Pendukung komunitas diserang. Polisi enggan menyelidiki. Saya mendapat ancaman kematian, anak-anak saya diintai. Seorang pejabat polisi bahkan menyarankan: “tinggalkan daerah ini sebelum terjadi sesuatu.”

Kami terpaksa meninggalkan lokasi. Tanah diduduki, staf kami diteror, dan kami dicap “agitator” oleh polisi distrik.

2012–2015 – Sistem Menutup Barisan
Kami menempuh jalur hukum: menggugat, menyewa pengacara, mengajukan banding ke pemerintah pusat, bahkan ke Komnas HAM. Kami menghubungi anggota DPR. Hasilnya mengejutkan: pintu tertutup di mana pun kami melangkah.

Hak tanah kami kini penuh ditanami sawit oleh perusahaan mafia. Mereka mengekspor keuntungan sementara kami berjuang sekadar bertahan hidup. Media takut meliput. Kami digaslighting: “Kasus terlalu rumit” atau “Anda cuma emosional.”

2016 – Paparan Internasional Dimulai
Dalam keputusasaan, saya menghubungi jurnalis asing dan organisasi HAM internasional. Mulai berbicara online, membagikan dokumen, memberi kesaksian. Intelijen negara mulai memantau saya. Saya diblacklist di bandara, email diretas, sekolah anak dikunjungi orang tak dikenal.

Namun perhatian internasional mulai memberi dampak. Beberapa LSM dan jaringan akademis membantu kasus kami sampai ke UN Special Rapporteur on Indigenous Rights. Pemerintah Indonesia, tertekan eksposur ini, menawarkan “negosiasi” tapi palsu: kami diminta menerima 5% tanah kami sendiri. Kami menolak.

2017 – Pengasingan Paksa
Karena keselamatan anak dan diri, kami meninggalkan Indonesia. Kami menetap di Kanada melalui jalur kemanusiaan. Di sini, saya memulai hidup baru. Tapi perjuangan belum selesai. Saya menulis, berbicara, dan mengadvokasi.

3.050 hektar tanah dicuri, proyek dan infrastruktur dihancurkan, tapi martabat kami tetap ada. Kronologi ini bukan sekadar catatan tragedi satu keluarga, tapi cerminan bagaimana negara Indonesia memperlakukan pemilik tanah adat tanpa perlindungan politik.

Bab 3
Perlindungan Negara untuk Mafia: Hukum yang Dijadikan Alat

Setelah pengasinganku, aku mulai meneliti bagaimana struktur negara bekerja untuk melindungi mafia agraria. Kronologi sepuluh tahun ini menunjukkan pola jelas: setiap kali ada bukti kejahatan perusahaan terhadap tanah dan masyarakat, aparat hukum justru memihak pada pelaku yang memiliki modal dan koneksi.

Di Indonesia, hukum seharusnya menjadi pelindung pemilik sah. Namun dalam kasus kami, hukum diputarbalikkan: sertifikat tanah kami dipermasalahkan, dokumen palsu yang diajukan perusahaan diterima, dan aparat menegakkan “aturan” hanya ketika mempermudah kepentingan korporasi. Polisi, kejaksaan, dan pengadilan lokal menjadi instrumen untuk mendiskreditkan pemilik tanah.

Lebih dari itu, mafia agraria menggunakan taktik sistemik: membeli pejabat, memalsukan dokumen, menyewa preman bersenjata, hingga mengatur kampanye fitnah melalui media lokal. Semua ini dilakukan dengan impunitas, karena negara yang seharusnya melindungi, justru menutup mata.

Aku menyadari bahwa sistem hukum di Indonesia bukanlah sekadar lamban, tapi sengaja dijadikan alat untuk menindas warga yang lemah. Hukum digunakan bukan untuk menegakkan keadilan, tapi untuk membungkam mereka yang memperjuangkan hak sah.

Bab 4
Kriminalisasi Pembela Tanah

Kami bukan penjahat, tapi kami diperlakukan seperti kriminal. Surat panggilan polisi, tuduhan pencemaran nama baik, intimidasi melalui preman bersenjata, hingga ancaman fisik menjadi bagian dari rutinitas sehari-hari.

Puncaknya adalah ketika anggota staf kami dipenjara hanya karena menolak menyerahkan tanah kami kepada perusahaan mafia. Pejabat polisi lokal menutup mata terhadap kekerasan dan perusakan properti, sementara korban kriminalisasi menjadi sasaran utama hukum.

Di sinilah terlihat ketidakadilan struktural: pembela tanah dianggap sebagai ancaman, sedangkan perampok tanah dilindungi. Kami belajar bahwa mempertahankan tanah sah di Indonesia berarti menghadapi ancaman hukum dan fisik yang konstan.

Perjuangan kami menjadi simbol bahwa melawan oligarki agraria bukan hanya persoalan hak atas tanah, tapi juga keberanian menghadapi sistem yang korup.

Bab 5
Manipulasi Lembaga Adat dan Budaya

Tanah kami bukan hanya aset ekonomi, tetapi juga bagian dari identitas dan budaya komunitas. Lembaga adat seharusnya menjadi benteng perlindungan, namun dalam kasus kami, mereka dimanipulasi oleh kepentingan politik dan korporasi mafia.

Beberapa tokoh adat dipengaruhi untuk menandatangani dokumen yang melemahkan hak kami. Mereka mengklaim tanah sebagai “tanah komunitas” yang dapat dialihkan kepada investor, meskipun selama puluhan tahun tanah itu dikelola secara sah dan berkelanjutan.

Manipulasi ini memperlihatkan bagaimana oligarki tidak hanya mencuri tanah, tetapi juga mencoba mencabut sejarah, identitas, dan hak budaya masyarakat. Ketika adat dijadikan alat legitimasi perampasan, masyarakat adat menjadi semakin rentan terhadap penggusuran dan kriminalisasi.

Bab 6
Pengasingan, Perlawanan, dan Harapan Baru

Mengapa Saya Masih Bicara

Saya berbicara sekarang karena saya selamat. Saya berbicara karena banyak orang lain tidak selamat. Saya berbicara karena jika saya diam, kejahatan akan menang dan Kebenaran akan terkubur dalam.

Mereka ingin kita diam. Mereka ingin kita hancur. Mereka ingin kita dihapus dari sejarah kita sendiri.

Tetapi saya menolak.

Sepanjang konflik ini, ada beberapa percobaan untuk menghilangkan nyawa saya. Insiden-insiden ini tampaknya merupakan bagian dari pola intimidasi yang lebih luas yang dirancang untuk membungkam saya dan mencegah pengungkapan lebih lanjut tentang jaringan korporat dan politik di balik perebutan tanah ini.

Pada satu kesempatan, sebuah pertemuan diatur dengan kedok “negosiasi” di sebuah kafe di dalam mal di Jalan Riau. Mengantisipasi bahaya yang mungkin terjadi, saya didampingi oleh seorang perwira militer berpangkat tinggi. Namun, pertemuan itu tidak berjalan sesuai rencana, dan upaya untuk mengancam atau mencelakai saya gagal.

Tak lama setelah itu, saya diikuti saat perjalanan resmi ke Kuala Lumpur, di mana saya dijadwalkan menghadiri pertemuan. Di kafe bandara, seorang wanita berusaha meracuni minuman saya. Untungnya, saya menyadari perilakunya yang mencurigakan tepat waktu dan menghindari meminumnya.

Insiden berikutnya terjadi di bandara internasional Bali, di mana dua pria tak dikenal berusaha memaksa kami masuk ke antrean tertentu yang tampaknya telah diatur sebelumnya. Menyadari bahaya, saya berhasil mengundurkan diri dengan alasan pergi ke toilet. Saya tetap di sana selama beberapa jam sampai situasinya terlihat aman, lalu saya keluar secara diam-diam dan berhasil menghindari pengejaran mereka.

Upaya berulang ini mencerminkan sejauh mana aktor tertentu bersedia melakukan segala cara untuk menekan mereka yang menantang kegiatan ilegal dan eksploitatif mereka. Koordinasi dan sumber daya yang terlibat menunjukkan bahwa ini bukan tindakan intimidasi yang terisolasi, tetapi bagian dari upaya sistematis untuk menghilangkan saksi dan membungkam perlawanan terkait perebutan tanah oleh korporasi dan korupsi yang didukung negara.

Bab ini adalah catatan. Sebuah kesaksian. Sebuah peringatan.
Karena jika kita tidak mengungkap bagaimana sistem hukum digunakan melawan rakyat, tidak akan ada keadilan yang tersisa untuk membela.

Klaim transfer saham dari PT Ria Estella ke PT ASPL adalah rekayasa yang disengaja.

Klaim ini bersifat penipuan dan jelas dimaksudkan untuk menciptakan kesan transaksi korporat yang sah, seolah perusahaan PT. Ria Estella dan saya adalah penghianat masyarakat adat, padahal korporasi milik Mafia ASPL ini sebenarnya bertujuan menutupi kepemilikan dan pengendalian tanah yang sebenarnya. Saya adalah pemegang saham sah PT Ria Estella dan tidak pernah menjual tanah atau perusahaan kepada siapapun.

Faktanya, pelaku berusaha membunuh saya karena saya menolak menyerahkan PT Ria Estella beserta asetnya. Ketika upaya pembunuhan ini gagal, mereka kemudian menggunakan kekerasan untuk menguasai tanah tersebut. Peristiwa ini menunjukkan bahwa tindakan mereka tidak hanya penipuan, tetapi juga kriminal, melibatkan tipu daya dan pemaksaan kekerasan untuk menguasai wilayah adat tanpa persetujuan.

Saat ini, PT ASPL dan entitas terkait terus menempati tanah kami. Karena ancaman yang terus berlangsung terhadap nyawa saya dan keselamatan keluarga, saya terpaksa meninggalkan Indonesia. Kami meninggalkan Indonesia pada 2017 dan menetap di Kanada.

Situasi ini menekankan risiko ekstrem yang dihadapi pemimpin komunitas dan pembela hak atas tanah dalam menghadapi aktor korporasi yang kuat, serta menyoroti kebutuhan mendesak akan perlindungan, akuntabilitas, dan perhatian internasional.

Mereka secara publik mengumumkan bahwa PT Ria Estella telah menjual sahamnya kepada kelompok mereka, secara efektif memindahkan kendali atas wilayah yang disengketakan tanpa konsultasi atau persetujuan dari komunitas terdampak. Perubahan kepemilikan ini, bagaimanapun, tidak mengubah sifat masalah; justru memperdalam lapisan manipulasi korporat di balik perebutan tanah yang terus berlangsung. Ini semua penipuan.

PT ASPL beroperasi sebagai anak perusahaan dalam jaringan perusahaan di bawah Grup Sumalindo, sebuah konglomerat yang lama terkait dengan penebangan besar-besaran, perkebunan, dan operasi hutan industri di Indonesia. Bukti menunjukkan bahwa Grup Sumalindo memiliki hubungan keuangan dan operasional erat dengan Grup Salim, salah satu kerajaan bisnis paling kuat di Indonesia dengan pengaruh besar di sektor agribisnis, kelapa sawit, dan kehutanan.

Koneksi ini menimbulkan kekhawatiran serius tentang kolusi korporat, konsentrasi kepemilikan tanah, dan penggunaan perusahaan cangkang untuk menutupi akuntabilitas. Melalui struktur korporat yang kompleks ini, konglomerat besar seperti Grup Salim dapat memperluas kontrol wilayah mereka sambil menjauhkan diri dari tanggung jawab hukum langsung atas pelanggaran hak asasi manusia, kerusakan lingkungan, dan penggusuran komunitas adat yang terjadi di lapangan.

Akibatnya, apa yang tampak sebagai sengketa tanah lokal sebenarnya adalah bagian dari pola konsolidasi korporat yang lebih luas, difasilitasi oleh lemahnya penegakan hukum dan keterlibatan negara. Tanah kami telah menjadi korban diam dari transaksi bayangan ini, dieksploitasi melalui anak perusahaan, perusahaan cangkang, dan perlindungan politik yang melindungi penerima manfaat sebenarnya dari pengawasan publik.

Keterlibatan Grup Salim dalam kasus ini tidak dapat dilihat secara terpisah. Sebagai salah satu konglomerat paling berpengaruh dan terhubung secara politik di Indonesia, Grup Salim telah lama memainkan peran sentral dalam membentuk kebijakan ekonomi dan penggunaan lahan negara. Didirikan selama rezim Orde Baru, konglomerat ini berkembang pesat melalui akses preferensial ke konsesi negara, hak monopoli, dan perlindungan dari elit politik. Portofolio luasnya kini mencakup kelapa sawit, penebangan ilegal, infrastruktur, perbankan, dan industri pangan, sering melalui jaringan anak perusahaan dan mitra lokal yang rumit yang menutupi kepemilikan dan tanggung jawab langsung.

Melalui jaringan ini, Grup Salim dan perusahaan afiliasinya mampu mengakuisisi dan mengendalikan lahan yang luas, sering di wilayah yang dihuni komunitas adat dan pedesaan. Kontrol ini sering diamankan melalui celah regulasi, patronase politik, dan eksploitasi sistem klasifikasi lahan Indonesia yang ambigu, yang memungkinkan tanah adat atau wilayah APL diubah menjadi “hutan negara” atau “tanah terlantar”. Reklasifikasi ini memberi perlindungan hukum bagi penggusuran pemilik tanah tradisional dan memudahkan transfer hak atas tanah ke konsesi korporat.

Dalam banyak kasus terdokumentasi di Sumatra, Kalimantan, dan Sulawesi, Grup Salim dan anak perusahaannya terlibat dalam deforestasi skala besar, pembakaran ilegal, dan pelanggaran hak asasi manusia terkait ekspansi kelapa sawit dan kayu. Operasi mereka telah mendapat keuntungan dari perlindungan negara selama beberapa dekade, terutama melalui aliansi dengan tokoh politik berpangkat tinggi, mantan perwira militer, dan pejabat daerah. Pola ini mencerminkan keterikatan struktural antara oligarki politik Indonesia dan kekuatan korporasi, di mana kerangka hukum ditegakkan secara selektif untuk melindungi elit ekonomi sambil mengkriminalisasi perlawanan masyarakat adat.

Situasi yang melibatkan PT ASPL dan nexus Sumalindo-Salim mencontohkan sistem eksploitasi oligarki yang lebih luas ini. Apa yang ditampilkan sebagai “transaksi bisnis” antar perusahaan sebenarnya merupakan kelanjutan dari proses dispossession historis yang telah menjadi ciri ekonomi ekstraktif Indonesia. Tanah komunitas Indonesia telah diubah menjadi aset komersial di tangan beberapa konglomerat, merusak kedaulatan lokal sekaligus keberlanjutan lingkungan.

Tanpa pengungkapan transparan mengenai kepemilikan saham, izin konsesi, dan penerima manfaat perusahaan, sulit untuk menelusuri rantai akuntabilitas secara penuh. Namun, pola berulang perebutan tanah secara agresif, ketidakaktifan negara, dan rebranding korporat, menunjukkan koordinasi yang disengaja untuk mempertahankan kendali sambil menghindari tanggung jawab publik dan hukum. Impunitas sistemik semacam ini mencerminkan kegagalan mendasar lembaga regulasi dan peradilan Indonesia dalam menegakkan prinsip keadilan, perlindungan lingkungan, dan hak-hak masyarakat adat sebagaimana dijamin oleh Konstitusi dan konvensi internasional.

Sekarang sangat penting untuk menuntut akuntabilitas penuh dari aktor korporat besar seperti Grup Sumalindo, Grup Salim, Sinar Mas, dan Wilmar Group. Konglomerat ini telah lama beroperasi dengan impunitas di seluruh sektor sumber daya Indonesia, secara sistematis mengeksploitasi tanah, hutan, dan wilayah adat melalui jaringan korporat yang tidak transparan dan patronase politik. Kekuatan ekonomi mereka telah diterjemahkan menjadi pengaruh struktural atas lembaga publik, memungkinkan mereka menghindari konsekuensi hukum atas kerusakan lingkungan dan pelanggaran hak asasi manusia.

Menuntut pertanggungjawaban korporasi ini bukan hanya soal keadilan bagi komunitas terdampak; ini penting untuk memulihkan supremasi hukum, melindungi hutan yang tersisa di Indonesia, dan memastikan hak-hak masyarakat adat diakui dan dihormati sesuai dengan konstitusi nasional dan konvensi hak asasi manusia internasional. Tanpa transparansi, penegakan hukum, dan penyelidikan independen terhadap tindakan konglomerat ini, siklus penggusuran, intimidasi, dan degradasi ekologis akan terus berlanjut tanpa hambatan.

Memoar ini menjadi bukti bahwa meskipun tanah dijarah dan sistem menutup mata, perlawanan tetap hidup. Aku masih bicara. Aku masih menulis. Dan aku tetap menuntut keadilan bagi tanah, komunitas, dan generasi masa depan.

Pesan penting yang kubawa: keadilan tidak datang dari diam; keadilan harus diperjuangkan, bahkan ketika sistem menentang. Walaupun aku jauh dari tanah kelahiran, nyala api perlawanan tetap menyala, membawa harapan bagi mereka yang masih berjuang di Indonesia.

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https://manusiaintegritas.blogspot.com/2025/10/agrarian-crimes-in-indonesia-how-state.html

Monday, October 27, 2025