On World Labor Day 2025, Konde.co launched research or data journalism on the situation and conditions of women ojol drivers. This coverage was aired on April 30-May 1, 2025, which is part of the #MeiMelawan 2025 series.

It has been a decade since the online motorcycle taxi (ojol) application appeared in Indonesia. Over the years, the number of online ojek drivers continues to skyrocket, recorded at more than 4 million people by the end of 2024 .

Of this figure, about 20% of them are women. For some groups, female ojol is a social revolution that proves that women are able to take roles in masculine areas or what is familiarly called “women in male fields” in livelihoods in the digital era. In feminism, this could be a space to show that women can and want to be in positions that have been historically closed to them, without feeling the need to ‘be a man’ or fulfill existing gender expectations.

But behind this story of empowerment, the daily reality faced by female ojol drivers is fraught with structural injustice. These femaleojol drivers continue to experience labor issues, one of which is reproductive exploitation. The working relationship between ojol drivers and companies in the name of partnership is also built artificially.

The glorified “partner” status between the company and ojol is an illusion. In reality, female ojol drivers work under the full control of the applicator: set performance targets, subject to penalties, but without protection rights. Applicator companies play with technology to discipline and exploit, obscuring the reality of hard work and making basic rights difficult to achieve.

Seeing this situation, Konde.co then conducted research on 30 female ojol drivers in 9 cities, including Sukabumi-Cianjur, Cilegon-Serang, and the Jakarta, Bogor, Tangerang, Bekasi (Jabotabek) area. This research is to look at gender issues and work masculinity experienced by female ojol drivers.

Konde.co Research: Situation of Ojol Women

Conducted at the end of April 2025, this research shows a series of multidimensional problems that cross based on gender, family status, and social class experienced by ojol women.

In terms of demographics, the majority of female online ojek drivers are high school graduates (53.3%). Followed by junior high school graduates (26.7%) and elementary school graduates (6.7%). In addition, there are 13.3% who hold a diploma or bachelor’s degree. This shows that with a higher education, a person can still be pushed into the informal sector due to the narrowness of fair employment opportunities.

This condition is reinforced by the finding that many women become ojol due to termination of employment (PHK). 13.3% cited “being laid off from their old job” and 23.3% cited “no other job options”.

Fadhila Isniana, a researcher from the Sedane Labor Information Institute (LIPS Sedane) confirms the fact that becoming an ojol is like a connecting chain from the rampant layoffs and lack of employment opportunities.

“There have been many layoffs (PHK), people who have been laid off are absorbed into informal work, including becoming online motorcycle taxi (ojol) drivers,” explained Fadhila.

Beaten by Double Burden, Every Time is Working Hours until Burnout

Most of the female ojol drivers who took part in the Konde.co survey were between 35-44 years old (46.7%) and above 45 years old (26.7%). While only 3.3% are under 25 years old. About 40% of respondents are married, 40% are divorced, and the rest are unmarried.

The majority (66.7%) had children living together, and 6.7% had children not living together. Of the 40% who are widowed, most of them (83.3%) are female heads of households with children to support, so it can be seen that most ojol women in this data bear the burden of taking care of the family.

Although many children are waiting anxiously at home, these mothers who struggle on the streets are not protected by social security. Only 23.3% of respondents have social security and of these, the majority (86.7%) are not from the applicator company. This means that state protection for them is very weak.

Infographic of demographic characteristics of female ojol respondents. (Source: Konde.co research)

Off the road, women drivers face heavy domestic demands. The survey found that only 2 respondents reported having no household burden. The rest divide themselves between working and taking care of other affairs: 20 people (57.1%) have to take care of children alone, 10 people (28.6%) take care of household/domestic work, 3 people (8.6%) take care of parents/elderly.

This means that 94.3% of ojol women have to deal with heavy domestic tasks in addition to work. Among them, 40% answered “no one helps, everything is done by myself”, 26.7% received help from their husbands or partners, and 33.3% were only assisted by parents/extended family.

Data on daily working hours and income emphasize the disparity. 53.3% of women work 9-12 hours per day and 23.3% even more than 12 hours. The majority of female ojol (60%) work every day without days off (7 days a week), the rest mostly work 6 days (26.7%).

Despite the very long working hours, the average net daily income of the majority remains low, with 73.3% of respondents receiving an average daily income below Rp100,000 (13.3% below Rp50,000 and 60% Rp50-100 thousand).

More worryingly, not a single respondent felt that their income was sufficient for household needs. 50% thought it was not enough and 40% thought it was mediocre. These results illustrate that the wise words “work hard and you will be rich” from motivators on how to be successful are not always true. Despite working more than 10 or even 12 hours a day, their income is still mediocre, let alone having to divide their time between household chores.

It is these burdens that make the majority (53.3%) often experience burnout or extreme fatigue due to double work, another 43.3% occasionally experience extreme fatigue and only 3.3% never burnout.

In other words, 96.6% felt the effects of burnout due to the accumulation of domestic responsibilities and platform work. This is a clear form of reproductive exploitation, as the efforts of childcare, home maintenance, and fulfilling family needs traditionally assigned to women are not valued by the economic system and are instead used as working capital without compensation.

As women and often heads of households, they face gender discrimination in public spaces and economic pressures. Low income, long working hours, and intertwined domestic responsibilities. These conditions are exacerbated by state policies that regard them as “partners”.

These women workers find themselves in the precariat, caught between unclear labor relations and unpaid domestic responsibilities. As such, their vulnerability is structural and multidimensional.

“They are severely exploited without job security, without income security, without legal protection, all wrapped up in the frills of “partnership”. In fact, the partnership is just a gimmick for the applicator and the state to release responsibility,” said Fadhila.

Gender Discrimination on Masculine Pathways

Another major challenge felt by ojol women is closely related to gender discrimination and traditional expectations. A total of 26 respondents (86.7% of the sample) complained that their orders were often cancelled just because they were women.

This is consistent with previous studies that found order cancellation rates to be 2.7% higher among female drivers than male drivers . Frequent cancellations are not only economically detrimental due to a lost income basket, but also confirm the social stigma that women are “not fit” to work on the road.

In addition, 43.4% of respondents claimed to have experienced harassment from passengers, 43.33% felt the weight of carrying a double burden (working while taking care of home and children), 36.67% found it difficult to work during menstruation or illness, and 10% felt a lack of family support.

This data shows a strong intersection of burdens. The reproductive burden of households such as children, domestic affairs, and even caring for the elderly is often carried alone by lower middle class women, so ojol women often go out tired or sick.

Not to mention having to face a work environment that is mostly masculine and unsafe from harassment. As a result, many women drivers enter a public sphere that is packaged as “flexible and independent”, but in reality remains in the shackles of patriarchy and class oppression.

Passenger Harassment and Other Harassment

The research also illustrates that women drivers often face sexual harassment or verbal abuse.

In the survey, 43.4% of respondents experienced some form of harassment (6.7% were harassed often, 6.7% sometimes, 30% once or twice), while 56.6% said they never had.

Infographic of women’s ojol experience of harassment. (Source: Konde.co research)

This means that almost half of female drivers have been exposed to harassment at least once. Most perpetrators are male passengers.

Applicator companies are also seen as a source of discomfort. 7 respondents mentioned the applicator itself as being less than pleasant, such as unilateral suspensions or a less gender sensitive curriculum.

Male ojol colleagues did not fail to provide a sense of discomfort, with a total of 5 mentions of fellow drivers making uncomfortable situations. On the other hand, 9 drivers mentioned unknown people as perpetrators of harassment.

This pattern is actually a form of gender-based violence legitimized by patriarchal culture. Komnas Perempuan has noted that female workers who experience harassment often do not dare to report because of unequal power relations; women are afraid of being blamed and fired.

Our survey confirmed this. Only 43.3% of female drivers have reported to the applicator about unpleasant incidents, 56.7% have never reported at all. Fear and unclear complaint mechanisms make cases of gender violence in the world of ojol work mostly settle and then quickly disappear .

Work Safety Situation

When faced with harassment, the majority (54.5%) of female drivers choose to talk to friends or the community as a way to vent their emotions and seek support. Only 22.7% dared to officially report to the applicator, the remaining 18.2% chose to remain silent or did not know where to go, and 4.5% took spontaneous actions such as speeding up and giving one star to naughty customers.

This condition shows that the dominant informal coping method, namely solidarity between drivers, is the main outlet. Not daring to report is not without reason, in addition to the fear of being terminated from the partnership, the reporting mechanism at the platform company also has no guarantee of results.

Of the 24 who had tried to report, only 4 cases (16.7%) were followed up properly. A total of 11 cases (45.8%) had no follow-up at all, 7 (29.2%) had a response but the applicator’s answer was not satisfactory, and 2 people (8.3%) were even accused or punished by the applicator.

Infographic of women’s ojol experiences in reporting harassment. (Source: Konde.co research)

This means that almost 70% of the reports did not receive clarity or were actually made worse. This reflects the failure of the partnership system, where drivers are considered autonomous, but in reality do not have the proper protection mechanisms that workers should have.

The impact of harassment and revocation of orders often makes ojol women feel threatened. Most respondents (66.7%) only feel safe sometimes and sometimes not while working, 13.3% often feel unsafe, and only 20% always feel safe.

The data shows that 80% of ojol women have worried about their safety on the road. Qualitative data reinforces how vulnerable they are: there are stories of women drivers being driven around for hours or mistreated by customers, being asked to pick up unspecified “third parties”, or having children taken without consent. Some drivers’ quotes describe how physically and psychologically exploited they are.

Table coding unpleasant experiences of ojol women

Theme	Coding	Example quote
Sexual harassment and physical discomfort	Customer likes to stick to the back	“customer like to stick on back of my body. As woman, I feel uncomfortable”
	Customer leaning on the driver’s shoulder	“I got foreign customer and this person leaning on my shoulder”
	Customer sit too close	“I feel get harassment when male customer sit too close”
	The hands of customer cannot stop moving	“the hands of customer cannot stop moving, the sitting position is also too close”
	Ask to driving around not according to the application	“ask to driving around not according to the application and it scare me”
Inconvenience in service operations	The customer requested to be picked up on a narrow road	“sometimes when customer requested to be picket, the road only enough for one car”
	The picked up point or dropped off is far or no accurate	“The picked up point or dropped off often far from the pin point”
	Not responsive consumers	“it is difficult to contact consumers when already arrived in location”
	Inappropriate customer chat language	“inappropriate chat from customer when pick up package”
	Customer often bring child or overload carried	“costumer is too big and bring child”
Discrimination based on gender	Often cancelled because of woman driver status	“often cancelled by consumer because my status as woman”
	Inappropriate behaviour with the reason of not knowing of women driver status	“consumer does not know that the driver is woman”

These examples range from vulgar sexual harassment to manipulation of trip distances and times-all coordinated by app algorithms, not by principles of fairness or passenger safety.

Vagueness and Applicator Policies

The data from the research questionnaire shows the paradigm of platform capitalism that applies ‘partner’ to labor. Only 13.3% of respondents felt that the applicator was fair to female ojol drivers, while 66.7% considered it unfair (the rest did not know). This reflects the perception that online ojek companies still treat female workers discriminatively.

Infographic of women ojol drivers’ perceptions of the applicator company system. (Source: Konde.co research)

Indeed, as formal “partners”, women drivers are not recognized as workers with full protection. The partner label itself is deliberately constructed to disguise the actual working relationship, as Fadhila stated that the partnership jargon serves to reframe that the driver is freely “self-employed” while he is still controlled by the company’s algorithm .

“They are laborers, but the company does not want to fulfill their obligations to their labor rights. So the partners are also not partners in the sense of equality. This Ojol has no choice. The application notification when there is an order is tantamount to a work order. They cannot freely choose what time they want to work. They say they are flexible, but in reality they are not,” explained Fadhila.

The granting of this status means that drivers are not recognized as entitled to protection such as leave, humane working hours, or social security. In fact, survey data shows 93.4% of respondents stated that rights such as maternity leave, menstrual leave, and fair treatment are “very necessary/needed” (26.7% necessary, 66.7% very necessary). Only 6.7% did not understand the urgency.

This contrasts with their current precarious position, no applicator policy for sick/menstrual leave, and minimal non-economic safety net. Only 63.3% have ever received some sort of Hari Raya allowance (BHR), the remaining 36.7% never have).

The level of benefits received also tends to be small. Of the drivers who had received BHR (63.3%), the majority received less than Rp50,000 (57.9% below Rp50,000), only 26.3% received ≥50,000, and 15.8% received ≥100,000.

This lack of incentives shows that despite the economic demands on drivers, companies are trying to reduce labor costs. The work flexibility system, which is often advertised as an advantage of the gig economy, is in fact highly controlled.

As many as 56.7% of respondents do not feel they have full control over their flexibility, only 43.3% feel free. This contrasts with the applicator’s narrative, and reveals the illusion of flexibility.

As for the fairness and transparency of fares and bonuses, only 16.7% considered the company’s fare/incentive system to be clear/fair; more than half (53.3%) said it was unclear, and 30% were undecided. This lack of clarity leads to income uncertainty.

Algorithmic Sanctions and Structural Reactions

In the age of platform capitalism, corporate control is not through workers or police, but through algorithms.

Konde.co’s research data found that 63.7% of female drivers have experienced algorithmic punishment, with 27.3% often suspended or limited in features, 36.4% several times, and 36.4% never.

The punishment is often unclear as the algorithm is considered neutral. In addition, 90% of respondents think the ojol work system only benefits the applicator, while only 10% see benefits for both parties.These results further emphasize that the platform transfers risks to workers, the burden of operational costs such as gasoline, sickness, broken machines is borne by the driver, but huge profits are collected by the company.

The political implication is that most female drivers demand a change in employment status. About 43.3% want to be recognized as permanent workers with labor-like rights (U-Permanen); 40.0% want to remain partners but with clear protection guarantees. Only 16.7% have ‘no objection’ as long as income is stable.

This means that 83.3% reject the current “partner without certainty” status. These women workers realize that without formal protection, their productivity and welfare are difficult to guarantee.

Overall, the research results show an intersectional picture. Women, especially those whose social class and status are vulnerable, have faced multiple oppressions. On the one hand, they are reproductively exploited, while on the other hand, they are undermined by platform capitalism that extracts labor through a pseudo-partnership system.

Applicator companies play on technology to discipline and exploit, obscuring the reality of hard work and making basic rights difficult to achieve.

However, women’s voices are getting louder, as online ojek unions and communities such as the Indonesian Driver Democracy Union (SDPI) and other ojol communities demand justice. Cases of discrimination, harassment, and threats of partnership termination have provoked protests.

They need structural changes such as recognition of workers’ rights including reproductive and safety rights, algorithm transparency,and wage and social protection guarantees. Only by raising this collective unrest, it is hoped that online ojek will no longer only be a place for exploitation of women workers, but a fair profession for all.

II. Betting on Asphalt and Algorithms: Four Women, Three Twilights, Two City Breaths, One Carib Fate

This research brought the Konde.co team together with Tia (32) who had just picked up her son’s report card and was promoted from the first year of junior high school in Cempaka Putih, Central Jakarta.

Tia immediately turned on the app after finding out that her son had made the grade. One order came in, the customer asked her to deliver to the Slipi area, West Jakarta.

After completing one mission, Tia rushed to Cikini, Central Jakarta, which along the way was an office for the woman who was the head of a household with one child. Tia waited for about 45 minutes, until finally getting a notification of a food delivery order.

“Got it! Where is it? Oh, next door (the restaurant),” she said with a smile.

While waiting for the food to be ready, a second notification appeared. “Wow, double order! Not bad in the same direction,” she said.

On a cloudy afternoon, Tia picked up both orders, one for a customer in the Salemba area, the other in Matraman. The roads were congested, and the map on her app was a deep red color.

Tia (32), a female ojol driver, picking up food orders in Cikini, Central Jakarta. (Photo: Luthfi

Maulana Adhari/Konde.co)

“It’s all red. Through the alley, deh,” she said quietly .Arriving at the first customer’s house, Tia had to wait about 10 minutes, repeatedly knocking on the door while saying excuse me. When asked if waiting for 10 minutes felt long, Tia replied lightly, “That’s normal. I’ve waited more than an hour, the person fell asleep,” she said with a slight chuckle.

After delivering the first order, Tia stepped on the gas to deliver the second order. About 2 miles to the delivery point, the rain suddenly poured down heavily. Tia hurriedly pulled over to the bus stop, put on her raincoat and wrapped the food she was carrying in dry plastic that she brought herself, keeping the food from getting wet. She knew that if the food was damaged, her account could be suspended. She continued on her way to her second customer, about 5 minutes into her journey, crossing narrow alleys in the rain that suddenly leaked in the middle of the road.

After finishing her work, Tia immediately got an order to deliver food again, but this time she was forced to skip the notification because she had to go around 4 kilometers plus heavy rain.

“If you skip like this, it affects performance. The performance of the application is lowered,” she said .

Once, when he was hungry and waiting for his food to arrive, he had to leave the fried rice that had just been delivered because an urgent order came in.

“Once I had fried rice in front of my eyes, because it was tight, I had skipped more than one or two times, so I took it. I was only on-bid for food at that time, but I got a passenger. I couldn’t leave it behind, it was already cold,” she said with a small smile .

The next day, on the side of the Pluit Reservoir, North Jakarta, that afternoon, Mother Ros (53) was seen chatting with her friends in a Gayatri jacket, a women’s ojol community that had its fourth anniversary on that Sunday.

The Gayatri community, which invites other online ojol friends, was partying to celebrate the women-only community’s fourth birthday. (Photo: Fiona Wiputri/Konde.co)

Gayatri stands on unrest. On the streets, women online ojek drivers are vulnerable to violence, harassment, and even criminality. There is no adequate protection from the applicator, let alone the state. From that empty spot, Ros and her female friends chose to build their own power.

“So it was formed because Mother felt that Mother could not be alone. We have to work together, help each other, coordinate with each other,” said Ros.

Julia Susanti (48), known as Mpok Lia, is one of Gayatri’s members. Lia was unable to attend her community’s birthday party that Sunday because she was sick. She also feels that Gayatri is enough to make her not feel alone as a female ojol in the midst of masculine smoke.

“(Joining) Gayatri, so there are many friends in ojol,” she said briefly.

On the other side of Java, in Sukabumi, Sumi (48), who has been an online ojek for a year, shares the same fate as Lia, Ros, and Tia.

As a woman who also carries the responsibility of being a mother, just like the other three colleagues whom Sumi may not recognize, everyday she has to get up early, go home at night, and get up early again while convincing herself to start her motorcycle.

The sometimes warm and sometimes cold afternoons while looking at her child’s photo on her phone, then leaving when a notification pops up might be a simple experience that unites their experiences as women who are not faced with many choices.

Tia who fights her own eye bags

Tia’s life revolves around apps, the streets, and the noise of horns. Between food orders that must be wrapped in plastic to avoid getting wet, orders and passengers that must be delivered quickly and safely, and performance targets that must be maintained despite the rain. There was no time to be thankful for the child’s grade. The road is waiting. The system is demanding.

In a busy, polluted corner of Jakarta, Tia puts all her energy into surviving. Wearing a well-worn jacket emblazoned with the logo of an online motorcycle taxi applicator, she cuts through the streets from dawn to midnight. No time to spare, no luxury to be tired.

Layoffs and the Lure of Job Flexibility

Before becoming an online ojek driver, Tia worked in sales tax administration at a car spare parts company in Pecenongan, Central Jakarta. The stable job despite earning below the minimum wage disappeared in an instant. At that time, the COVID-19 pandemic was used as an excuse to lay off workers, without severance pay, without compensation.

“I got a reduction. I was in charge of sales tax. Compared to them, I was the newest, so I was the one who got the reduction,” she said.

What Tia experienced was not just a coincidence. In the midst of the pandemic, the Indonesian government passed the Job Creation Law which removed many basic labor protections. Flexible work agreements and outsourcing were legalized more widely, making workers’ bargaining position even more fragile.

In this framework, Tia’s termination is not only a business decision, but also a political one. It is part of a larger project of labor flexibilization that treats human workers as mere production numbers. In the eyes of the new law, women workers like Tia are just statistics that can be easily removed without consequence.

Trying to return to the formal labor market, Tia was faced with age and social status discrimination.

“Oh, it’s hard. The age,” she says, referring to the impossibility of getting a job in the formal sector at 32.

The False Promise of the Gig Economy: Labor without Protection

When the formal world refused, the informal world became the only place to stay.

Tia signed up as a Grab and Shopee driver, bought a motorcycle with daily installments from an online loan from JULO and Grab.

“After I was laid off, I got my driver’s license, initially I went to Molis (electric motorcycle) to get an account, and I also paid Molis for the rental system to Grab. When I already had an account, after three months, four months, if Grab has a JULO loan, Grab Modal (online loan feature scheme). So I got six million JULO and immediately got a motorcycle,” Tia said.

A self-portrait of Tia preparing to leave to deliver orders. (Photo: Luthfi Maulana Adhari).

Her income does not touch 200 thousand a day despite working 16 hours every day from before 7 am after taking her child to school until 11 pm. Tia often complains about the amount of deductions.

“Gasoline is three tens of thousands per day. Also eating out, fifteen thousand per meal. Daily motorcycle instalments from JULO must also be paid,” she explained.

In addition, the applicator takes a cut of around 20 percent from each trip. Programs such as GrabBike Hemat, Gaspol, Argo Goceng (Gojek) are even detrimental to drivers, locking them into an income scheme that is cut deeper if they don’t want the application to go down.

“The casing is just a partner. They have to do this, they have to do that,” said Tia.

The payment scheme of the “Save” system from the Grab applica7on that is charged to partners.

The glorified status of “partner” is an illusion. In reality, women drivers work under the full control of the applicator: set performance targets, subject to penalties, but without labor protection rights.

The state is not present to improve the situation. Instead, the government allows applicators to set unilateral working conditions without strict regulation. The so-called “digital economy” is nothing more than the expansion of a new form of protection-free contract labor.

A Body extorted and Never Considered

Every day Tia works from six in the morning until midnight. She takes her son to school, then starts pulling passengers, delivering goods, and delivering food. She only stops briefly to take her son home, before returning to the streets.

“I drop off my child at half past seven, and then I pull until twelve at night,” she told.

During menstruation, her body often rebels. She sometimes has to endure severe pain on the motorcycle. There have been several times when she could only lean limply on an empty bus stop seat, almost fainting, but in her head going home was not an option.

“If I have a bad period, once I was carrying a passenger on a motorcycle, the passenger didn’t know that I had a stomach ache, so I endured it. After that, I’d pull over, sometimes resting on a chair or at a bus stop. When I feel better, I just reactivate the app. Especially during the day, in the heat, my body can get feverish.”

“I don’t go home, I’m too lazy to go out,” Tia continued.

There is no room for rest. No sick leave, no compensation if her body collapses on the road. In her exhaustion, Tia often cried on the road. She would quickly wash her tears away when the app notification popped up.

“When I’m tired, I think about home, paying for the motorcycle tomorrow, this or that. On the road, I like to cry by myself. But when we get to the place where we meet others, we have to get used to it,” she said.

Cancelled because she’s a woman and subjected to sexual harassment

Working in public spaces exposes women like Tia to insecurity every day. Being canceled by passengers for her is daily food that must be swallowed even though it is bitter.

“I was shopping from a stall across the street when suddenly an order came in. I was in a hurry to get going, and the passenger said, ‘Sis, I’m sorry, I can’t use a female driver. I’m cancelling.'”

Tia replied calmly, holding back the disappointment that was probably already familiar to her.

“That’s okay, sis. It’s okay. I’m sorry.”

“If it’s like that, it’s better to confirm so we don’t get upset ourselves. Sometimes we’re already in, already want to wear a helmet, cancel without confirmation. Look at his profile, this man is usually” continued Tia.

In a fast-paced system, such confirmation has become a small form of respect that she rarely encounters. For many women drivers, unilateral cancellation without a reason often feels like a rejection of their own existence.

But the experience of being cancelled was not the only bitter story.

One afternoon, Tia got an order to pick up a passenger. A man was riding her motorcycle. Along the way, the man asked Tia to pass through a deserted lane. At first Tia was just wary. But when she saw the movements of the passenger who carried a small plastic bag and then moved his hand closer to her body, her fear hardened.

“I just kept quiet. I was afraid that if I shouted, it would be even more dangerous. He was behind me, he could do anything.”

Tia’s choice was to remain silent, hoping to reach her destination without incident.

Tia was the only woman at the Cikini ojol base that Friday. She was waiting for a notification from the application, her male colleague’s cellphone had already rung first. (Photo: Luthfi Maulana Adhari/Konde.co)

After getting off, instead of going straight home, the passenger walked while continuing to glance at Tia, adding to the anxiety that had not yet subsided.

In such quiet spaces, women like Tia are often forced to choose between ignoring their safety instincts or taking the risk alone.

Another story takes place at dawn, when Tia is “ngalong”-the drivers’ term for a night ride. She still remembers the pick-up point from McDonald’s Salemba to Holiday Inn Tegalan around Matraman, Central Jakarta. Tia picked up a male foreign tourist passenger who leaned his body against hers.

“He was leaning towards me, until my driving position was at the end of the seat like that. I thought he was drunk. Fortunately, at the red light, another driver reprimanded me.”

“Mister, lady!”

“Already, Ma’am, I’ll just follow you from behind to the point,” Tia said, imitating the ojol driver who helped her at that time.

She then persisted, driving him to his destination, enduring the discomfort that is rarely considered a big deal by many people.

In a work system that demands maximum service, safe spaces for women like Tia are often not available. She never reported the harassment she experienced. Not because she didn’t dare, but because she felt that the applicator system was not in favor of drivers.

“For drivers, the applicator is complicated, unless it is so serious that the police can process it, maybe, yes,” she said.

She proved this again when she experienced suspension from the applicator for refusing three orders to deliver goods from ITC Cempaka Mas in the middle of the night for reasons of personal safety.

“I once worked there, not only me, everyone also knows that at one o’clock at night ITC is closed. But still, I was suspended, tried to report back to the robot, there was no response,” she said.

From fellow male drivers, Tia often receives sexist comments. Tia is often teased while working to take food orders or when picking up passengers.

“What kind of woman does that? Is her husband allowed? Or a widow, huh? I’ll take you.”

“My husband allows it.”

“How many children do you have?”

“Three.”

Tia would always answer curtly while lying that she had three children and a husband who allowed her to work. She did this solely to prevent further unpleasant treatment.

In addition to being pelted with sexist comments or jokes, Tia also often hears flirtations from male drivers to female users. Tia often rebukes the drivers’ behavior, which she considers disrespectful.

“Bang, don’t be like that with women!” she scolded.

The discrimination and harassment Tia experiences are part of the daily burden that is never counted in the financial reports of tech companies, but continues to be counted in the burden on Tia’s shoulders.

Shoulders that Bear the Wounds of Domestic Violence and Stigma on Ojol

Tia also carries the burden of old trauma. She has experienced domestic violence, being scalded by her ex-husband.

“My ex-husband once scalded me with hot water. My mother didn’t know. I said he was doused in soup,” she said.

Since her divorce in 2014, she has raised her child alone without financial support from her ex-husband.

“I have never seen my child since the divorce. I only gave him pocket money once,” she says.

She carries the economic, emotional and social burden alone, in forced silence.

When picking up orders at malls or apartments, Tia is often forced to take off her ojol jacket. She feels as if she is seen as inferior to ordinary visitors, even pets.

“Very low. Even lower than animals. Dogs can enter the mall, we who work have to take off our jackets,” she said.

The ojol sign is prohibited from entering the Mall area at Citywalk Mall, West Jakarta. (Photo:

Luthfi Maulana Adhari/Konde.co)

The stigma against informal workers is a daily humiliation that Tia receives, without ever receiving compensation or respect for her hard work.

Although reality continues to slap her, Tia still nurtures a small hope. She sometimes longs for a life in an office job, with fixed working hours, weekends off, and a salary sufficient to live decently.

“Office work is decent. The working hours are clear, the salary is certain. You can meet your children, go to the mall, not just take orders,” she said .

But in a world that’s increasingly flexible for capital, and increasingly harsh for labor, the road there feels increasingly distant.

“What time do you come home? Not at night,” she often reads her son’s message on the crowded streets of Jakarta.

With every pull of her motorcycle, with every meal she delivers, Tia refuses to give up. She shows us that surviving, dreaming, loving our children, is the most basic form of resistance.

As long as applicators continue to suck the blood of workers under the guise of “partnership”, as long as the state continues to issue pro-capital regulations such as the Ciptaker Law and even now considered as “workers outside the employment relationship” without a clear status, then women like Tia will continue to ride the streets, carrying tired bodies with stoic hearts.

Gayatri, Community Resistance to Patriarchal Systems and Climate

The name Bunda Ros (53) is well known to many ojol drivers, especially in Central Jakarta. It’s been four years since Ros, amidst the exhaust noise and heat of the city’s asphalt, gave birth to a small, slowly growing movement that she named Gayatri.

Gayatri is more than just a community. For her, Gayatri is a symbol of resistance, solidarity and hope for ojol ladies, as she calls them, across the archipelago.

Ros (53), poses in the middle of a crowded Gayatri birthday party near Pluit Reservoir.

(Photo: Fiona Wiputri/Konde.co)

Mother Ros, who is also the Head of Division at the Anti-Begal team, founded Gayatri out of concern for the violence and harassment that often befalls women without adequate protection from applicators or even the state.

“There were so many people who asked for help when I was in the anti-stabbing team. That’s why it was formed (Gayatri), because Bunda realized that we can’t do it alone. We have to work together,help each other, and coordinate with each other,” said Bunda Ros again.

Now, the Gayatri network has expanded to Semarang, Samarinda, Kalimantan, and Cirebon. Ros opens the door wide for anyone lady ojol who wants to join.

“Anyway, from anywhere, who wants to coordinate or want to join, just go ahead,” she said excitedly.

In the Gayatri community, hearts are pouring out, ranging from harassment, fear of being terminated by the applicator, to problematic customers.

“There are those who take goods at the mall, then fuss with the customer. There are also passengers who are less polite. They are afraid of being PMed, afraid of having their accounts terminated unilaterally by Grab or Gojek or Shopee. Here, Bunda helps them to be safe, so that we can help each other,” explained Bunda Ros.

Bunda Ros also strongly criticized the applicator, which according to her, neglected the welfare of the drivers.

“The application should pay attention to the welfare of ojol. For example BPJS, a task force to handle incidents on the road. Now applicators only give orders, but don’t care if goods are lost, accidents, or drivers get into trouble,” she said bitterly.

Stories of injustice are also felt about tariffs. He feels that the deductions given by applicators are often played with.

“I asked the customer, ‘How much did you pay?’ The answer was 18 thousand. But the driver only gets 5 thousand. Funny, huh? But yes, maybe our fate is like that,” said Mother Ros, laughing bitterly.

Nevertheless, for Mother Ros, becoming an ojol driver is a choice she made consciously. But she warned, slowly but surely the applicator feels like an employer.

“That’s why we have to emphasize, don’t (charge partners with projects that require drivers to pay again) there (applicators) become like employers,” she said.

A banner containing photos and names of Gayatri community members. (Photo: Luthfi Maulana Adhari/Konde.co)

Among the many stories of ojol ladies in Gayatri, Mpok Lia (Julia) is one that can represent the anxiety of many ojol women.

At the age of 48, Lia supports her five children even though they no longer live with her due to separation from her husband. But her responsibilities have not diminished in the slightest.

“I handle the work at home myself,” says Lia. She cooks, cleans the house, and still earns a living.

Every day, Lia takes the time to meet her children in East Jakarta, just to give them school snacks.

“My children are not with me because they have separated from their father. But I see them every day to give them pocket money,” she said.

As an ojol driver, Lia usually uses two applications: Shopee and Grab. However, her account at Grab has been suspended for three months.

“Suspended because I couldn’t verify my face. Maybe because my cellphone was cracked, the camera was not bright enough,” Lia explained.

Her income is often below Rp50,000 a day when orders are “anyep”. Even so, she does not give up. From 8am to 11pm, Lia continues to make a living.

“Because I have many dependents. The children go to private school and need more money. If I work from morning to evening, I don’t have enough money. I aim to earn Rp150,000 a day. If it’s not enough, I look for a side job, such as an opangan (motorcycle taxi).”

On the street, Lia has experienced harassment. Her hips were hugged from behind. She reprimanded him, but he ignored her plea. Alarmed, Lia finally got fed up and forced the passenger to get off his motorcycle in the middle of the trip.

“At that time his hands were playing, holding my hips, hugging me like that. I reprimanded him, I just got off in the middle of the road, that fight,” she recalls firmly.

Not only from passengers, she has also received unpleasant sexist comments from neighbors.

“I have, because I often go home at night,” she said briefly.

If she can speak directly to the applicator, Lia wants the applicator to really provide protection for women. At least she feels she has the right to feel safe from harassment, violence, and discrimination.

“The application must really hear women’s voices for GoRide. No more harassment or hands on hips. And improve the service for drivers. Now I’m really complaining, orders are quiet,” Lia complained.

A Dream for Brotherhood and Justice

Through Gayatri, Bunda Ros and friends want to build a fairer world for ojol ladies. A world where they no longer feel alone, no longer afraid to face problems, and always have brothers in arms to help each other. The existence of women is also a big mission.

“We want to know the extent of this group of women’s brotherhood. So that their language, communication, confessions flow, they are not awkward to coordinate,” explained Mother Ros.

One of Gayatri’s members who was leaving the event that day. (Photo: Luthfi Maulana Adhari/Konde.co)

The Gayatri logo itself symbolizes the struggle, a skull and a rose, which Mother Ros describes as resilient and beautiful.

“The bone is our symbol, the backbone. Most of us are widows, single moms, who are the backbone of the family,” said Mother Ros.

Gayatri is also active in social action, including supporting demonstrations to lower the applicator’s cut from 20% to 10%.

“We help the ojol union. If the action is useful, we participate,” she explains.

At the end of all her struggles, Bunda Ros has only one hope, that Gayatri can open the door for other ojol women to strengthen each other and build a supportive climate between women who share a sense of welfare.

“Hopefully Gayatri can be an example for the lady ojol community throughout the archipelago. That ladies can be united, can find brotherhood, can be conducive, can be prosperous,” she concluded.

Sumi and the Twisting Asphalt in Sukabumi

On a dark morning, when most of the houses in Sukabumi’s small alleyways still had their doors and windows closed, Sumi (40) strapped her helmet to her head and turned the motorcycle key.

The sound of the engine roared softly, as if she knew the tough task that awaited her that day. For Sumi, like thousands of other ojol ladies in Indonesia, nothing is more evident than the need to keep moving for the sake of her children, family, and if there’s anything left over for herself.

Since 2018, Sumi has been struggling with this job. Ojol has become her source of livelihood, a choice she has made to fulfill two roles at once: housewife and main breadwinner.

With her older husband no longer able to work much, the burden of running the household falls squarely on her shoulders. Every day, the rhythm is regular, hard and demanding.

“When it comes to organizing time, we clean up the house in the morning. Then my son goes to school while attending boarding school. But sometimes he likes to come home. So every day when I’m at home, I clean up the house and then take the kids to school at half past seven.”

“After dropping off, I immediately turn on the app. On the app until noon and then go home. Then usually on the road while thinking about what’s in the house , what to cook, what to buy because there is still a husband and children also coming home soon.”

“Then while cleaning and so on. After Asr, I’ll start the app again around 4 o’clock. Continue until eight or half past nine,” Sumi said.

Her narrative is simple but powerful, she struggles with time, fatigue, worry, and even guilt for not always being fully present for her family. For her, her life now is an effort to unite two worlds that rub against each other, the domestic world and the street world.

The Most Valuable Treasure

Sumi’s biggest motivation to survive lies in her children, who are still in school and boarding school. In this increasingly expensive world, ensuring that her children continue to study is a form of stubborn love.

“Yes, the motivation is because we have children who are still in school. That means we have to pursue the target. Because I send them to boarding school once a week. Sometimes twice a week. So how do I have the money.”

“If it’s Sunday, oh poor kid, yesterday I gave him a small amount of money. That means in a few days he will run out of money. That means we have to send it again,” said Sumi firmly.

In addition to taking care of the house and earning a living, Sumi is also tasked with being the family treasurer who takes care of the household income so that it can be sufficient for all.

“Then at home too, my husband is like saying he’s no longer working. So what should I do? That means we have to be able to manage the family income,” she added.

The sentence was uttered by Sumi with a long breath, as if each word contained the burden of hundreds of kilometers of travel, tens of liters of gasoline, and thousands of anxieties about the future. In front of her, there is a family that depends on an uncertain income. She knows that her child deserves a better education.

And the only possibility he sees is to continue “pulling” to be able to give something valuable to the treasure that is most precious to him.

From Kilometer to Kilometer: War with Uncertainty and Harassment

In the daily life of an ojol woman, income is an enigma. There is no fixed salary. Every dollar is earned with sweat, luck, and the speed of fingers responding to orders.

Just like income, for Sumi, expenses are also an enigma.

“The biggest expense is for children. Because most of them are unexpected. There are expenses that are beyond calculation. If at school, it’s books, right? If at the pesantren, the money is usually used to buy this, buy that. ‘Mama, there’s a follow-up, you have to memorize this, buy this’.”

There is no sufficient savings, no emergency fund ready. Every additional unexpected expense could become a new source of stress. Sumi has to manage as if her income never runs out, even though heavy rain, a punctured tire, an app crash, or a collapsed body can happen at any time.

If being a male ojol is about surviving the harshness of the streets, then being a female ojol is about surviving the harshness of a world that puts your own body at risk. Sumi is used to the experience of gender-based discrimination.

“Most of the cancellations are with male customers. They say it’s uncomfortable.”

“But there are also those who don’t get cancelled, but they say “can I bring my mom?” I usually look at the track first. If the track is to a safe or crowded place, I let him take it. But if it’s to a quiet place, I don’t allow it, I’m afraid I’ll be taken away,” she exclaims worriedly.

This vigilance is not just paranoia. For Sumi as a woman, it is a survival instinct that grows out of direct experience.

Sumi has even faced a situation of direct harassment from a customer who claimed to also be an ojol.

“At that time there was a customer who said he was also an ojol. We just believed him. He asked to take turns driving, so I was the one on the back. Then I was taken around and around not according to the point.

“‘I’ll go to the boarding house first’, it’s uncomfortable. Why do you talk about the boarding house?”

Faced with that, Sumi tried to calm down, taking a deep breath while trying to think of how she could ask for help. Until finally Sumi had the courage to drop off her customer in the middle of the trip.

“Because I was the one on the back, it was good that I could talk to the community, in community groups. ‘Please monitor, I’m afraid there’s something wrong because the person has started to get resentful’. Until I just got off on the road.”

“That’s it, sir. Instead of being complicated, I don’t know where to go. Let’s stay here!” said Sumi.

The experience was a long time ago, but the feeling of trauma lingers.

“If I pick up male passengers, I’m afraid first,” she explained.

Silenced by the System, Abandoned by the State

In her long journey as an ojol driver, Sumi felt how the applicator, which initially promised a “partnership” relationship, slowly turned into a structure that more resembled a rigid conventional company.

The bonus system, once considered an encouragement, has now turned into a trap.

“For Grab, the bonus was 100,000 if I’m not mistaken. The 100,000 bonus is above 300 orders for 26 days and 275 hours. 275 hours per month. If I get it, thank God, I don’t chase it because I have to take care of the house too. Not like my friends who are really chasing targets,” said Sumi.

For Sumi, the choice is between chasing targets or taking care of the family. She chose the latter, even though it meant giving up bonus opportunities.

Furthermore, the “partner” status claimed by the applicator also only feels good in the beginning. Over time, partner only means one-sided responsibility.

“I’m okay with the partner system but use the old rules. Called the old rules, we are like BPJS, we are covered. It means that if you have an accident, the application will help you. In the past, it was very easy, if you entered the hospital, just look at the profile. So we don’t have to spend money when we enter the emergency room.”

Worse, when violence or harassment occurs, Sumi’s experience reveals that support from the applicator is almost non-existent. Such stories accumulate in small communities between drivers, but rarely reach the policy-making table.

All this uncertainty has made Sumi’s spirit swell to fight for her rights. Now Sumi is a member of the Indonesian Driver Democracy Union (SDPI) which actively advocates for the welfare of ojol, especially women ojol.

“Once, my friend said he dropped a customer on the road because he was groped. There used to be a task force, so there was counseling like that. Now there is none, so it’s more about each of us.

“There is no special harassment or complaint for women. There is an emergency contact. But it’s also a hassle because you have to wait in line to get a response, nothing is immediate. They use codes first. There is no special call center for harassment.”

Unwise Policy

Sumi recalls the early days when applicators still provided special support for female drivers.

“In the early days, there was a special group from the applicator for female drivers, called lady grab. There was a task force. It was good back then, if anything was handled. Since 2020 there has been no more. There is no special protection for women. I also in Sukabumi often complain or propose problems about female drivers but it takes a long time without any handling,” she complained.

The policy shift has left many female drivers feeling abandoned. Typical problems faced by women on the streets such as harassment, threats, insecurity, no longer have a dedicated  channel to be reported or resolved. They are forced to rely on personal initiative or the solidarity of fellow drivers.

There are no special leave options for women who are pregnant, giving birth, or in poor health. There is no flexibility that truly understands the realities of women’s lives.

“No policy on this. So if there is no leave or anything, there is no income (if you don’t pull). Now I just report it but it’s not handled,” she said with a sigh.

Ojol Women from the Perspective of Female Passengers

In the gig economy era, a female driver’s smile is often considered personal warmth, not a form of emotional labor that is also exhausting. Customers often praise their neatness and friendliness without realizing that underneath it all, there is a system that demands them to look perfect, even though it does not provide proper protection.

Aleea (not her real name, 23 years old) one day in late 2024, experienced this paradox herself. She ordered an online motorcycle taxi to attend an important event. Her personal motorcycle was in use, and transportation options in her city were limited.

The first driver to appear on her app was a man who cancelled after waiting for some time. The order was transferred to a female driver who, within a short time, was already in front of the house. That’s where the warm interaction began.

“‘Good morning brother,’ she said something like that. I was like, what? The energy!” recalls Aleea. She was in a hurry and in a bad mood. But the mother’s greeting – which Aleea called her because she forgot the driver’s name at the time – broke the ice.

Not only was she friendly, she also insisted on carrying some of Aleea’s bags. “‘I can, I can. I can do it,’ she said. In everything,” Aleea said.

Aleea began to realize that this mother was different. Clean, fragrant, neat, her jacket wasn’t dull, even her helmet looked shiny.

“Until I thought, this mother seems to do ojol as a hobby,” she said, before realizing there was sadness lurking behind her mother’s calm face.

The conversation continued. Aleea asked, “How many orders have you gotten today?”

“You’re the second one today,” the mother replied. It was already 11 o’clock in the afternoon. That means only two orders in just over two hours. She explained that she could only start working at 9am, and suspected that her orders were limited because she was new.

“When you’re new, you tend to limit the orders you can get. But we are fighters for the rupiah, so we do whatever we can,” she continued. She complains that she often receives cancelled orders.

“I often get canceled ones,” she said, then asked carefully: “Are customers dissatisfied with ojol women?”

Her question is not naive; just like Tia, Ros, Sumi, and Lia, her question is a structural reflection of gender bias in the digital workspace. The female driver in this system works under double pressure, serving to high standards, while bearing the stigma of incompetence because of her gender. Yet throughout the journey, she serves meticulously. She even sprays perfume before attracting passengers.

“Because of the wind, if there is perfume, I feel comfortable. I’m afraid I’ll get less than three stars,” he explains.

Stars and ratings are not just symbols of satisfaction. In the platform economy, ratings are a control mechanism. Workers are herded to present the best version of themselves, to be friendly, fragrant, clean, without job protection, income security, or access to fair complaints.

Before getting off, the woman said quietly, “Can you give me a good star?” Then she asked, “Am I not good enough? Am I not neat enough? Or am I not swift enough?”

Even after giving her maximum service, she still feels the need to measure herself against the system.

When Aleea praised her mother’s neatness, the mother replied, “Do you like it? Are you neat?” Then she chuckled. “If there is an exemplary ojol employee, mom is the winner,” said Aleea.

“Yes, I hope to get a year-end bonus too. It’s hard to get year-end bonuses now, ma’am. Women rarely get it,” he replied.

It turned out that the motorcycle he was using was not his. She has to return it to her relatives at one in the afternoon, and can only pull it again after half past four in the afternoon until night.

This rotating work system is not because he wants flexibility, but because economic conditions force him to.

Moreover, she also mentions that she was left behind by her husband and is now supporting four children by herself. “I’m alone, sis,” she said.

“My husband has not provided for me for a long time. So I have to work.”

Clearly, every perfume she sprays, every neat shirt she wears under that green jacket, is a form of resistance to the structural poverty that ensnares many women. She looks clean and strong not because the system supports her, but because she is forced to exceed standards just to survive.

Workers are Workers

In early 2025, the Ministry of Manpower issued Permenaker No. 1 of 2025 which reaffirmed the position of partners in ojol drivers as “workers outside the employment relationship.” Fadhila Isniana, a researcher from the Sedane Labor Information Institute (LIPS), calls this term “partner” a cover for exploitation.

“This is strange. What is a worker outside of labor relations? It means that they are workers, but they are placed outside of labor relations, so their hunting rights are not obliged to be fulfilled by the company,” said Fadhila.

According to Fadhila, there is no change-if not worsening-the situation of ojol. So far, one mode of exploitation is gamification, which is the use of game mechanics to control work behavior. Applicators create point systems, daily incentives, and performance ratings-all of which seem fun, but are actually enslaving.

“There is a term gamification. It’s a concept from our academic friends, where the app makes drivers chase points like playing a game. They have to consistently work at certain hours to maintain their performance. For example, if they work at 7am today, they must work consistently at 7am every day,” said Fadhila.

In this way, applicators create a highly structured work system without responsibility, exacerbating the workload especially for women who also carry reproductive work at home.

The pandemic and the ease of layoffs post-UU Cipta Kerja have left many women without formal jobs. Many of them enter the formalized sector such as ojol not by choice, but by compulsion.

“The majority of drivers, especially women, became ojol after being laid off, especially during  the COVID-19 pandemic. Plus, the Job Creation Law makes it easier for companies to lay off.”

Not only ignorant, the state has also helped legitimize this practice by rewarding applicators for their “contribution to job creation.”

“The government is actually giving awards to applicator companies, as if thanking them for providing jobs for people affected by layoffs. In fact, creating decent jobs should be the responsibility of the state.

Now, many people are dragged into vulnerable jobs such as becoming ojol drivers, and the applicators are rewarded. This is outrageous and deceitful,” he said.

The structural solution proposed by LIPS Sedane is firm, namely abolishing the partnership system, recognizing ojol as formal labor.

Even in his dictionary, there are actually no formal and informal workers, only workers as long as they are working class.

“Ideally, the government should abolish the partnership system. Companies must recognize ojol drivers as formal workers. Because in practice, although the vehicle and gasoline come from the driver himself, there are work orders that come from the application. Every notification that comes in is like an order to work immediately. They are not fully free to determine when to work. “Therefore, the parties have established a real working relationship, and they must recognize the workers’ rights,” she concluded.

(Picture: Konde.co/Luthfi Maulana Adhari)

KONDE.CO’S TIM

Writer: Luthfi Maulana Adhari
Researcher Luthfi Maulana Adhari, Laras Ciptaning Kinasih
Grafis: Fiona Wiputri
Editor: Luviana

Translator: Theresia Pratiwi Elingsetyo Sanubari