Dina (23), a student in Yogyakarta, was once raided by the police while carrying a book titled History of the Labor Movement.
The police officer who searched her bag commented sarcastically, “Be careful, reading this book could lead you astray.”
After that, Dina became paranoid about carrying books in public spaces.
“Since then, I’ve been paranoid about carrying books on public transportation. It’s as if reading ‘leftist’ material could make me a criminal,” she said.
Sari (28), a literacy activist, experienced something similar. While reading Emma Goldman at a cafe, she was eyed as if she were part of an extremist group.
“I was reading about the history of feminism, not learning how to make bombs.”
Recently, the West Java Police Chief also engaged in similar behavior during a demonstration in Bandung from August 29 to September 3, 2025. In addition to naming suspects, the police also confiscated dozens of books that were considered to be anarchist ideology reference materials.
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The police displayed books such as Anak Semua Bangsa (Children of All Nations) by Pramoedya Ananta Toer, Anarkisme (Anarchism) by Emma Goldman, and Pemikiran Karl Marx (The Thoughts of Karl Marx) by Franz Magnis-Suseno. These books were treated the same as stones, bottles, and other confiscated items, as if reading materials were weapons. The police explained that they wanted to build a case and understand the background of the suspects’ actions. But the question is simple: since when has reading books become a criminal offense?
“As you can see, there are books with anarchist ideas,” said the West Java Police Chief, pointing to the pile of books on the conference table.
These stories show how fear is always created. Reading becomes suspicious, especially for women. Yet, from Kartini to S.K. Trimurti, literacy has always been a path to liberation for women.
This question is simple but important: what does the state actually fear from books? Are they afraid that the people will become critical after reading about the dark history of 1965, which has been covered up for decades by official propaganda? Or are they afraid of feminism, which teaches women to question power relations at home, at work, and in the political sphere? Are they afraid that workers will understand Marxist theory and demand justice in unequal production relations? Or are they afraid that students will read Emma Goldman and dare to reject arbitrary power?
What the state has always feared is not paper and ink, but the courage of the people to understand injustice, because understanding is the first step towards resistance. Books make the people know that their suffering is not destiny, but the result of a political and economic system that can be changed.
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History shows that this has been repeated. From time to time, books have been confiscated not because their contents are truly dangerous, but because the knowledge they impart can inspire resistance.
From a feminist perspective, the state’s fear of books can also be read as patriarchy’s fear of alternative imaginations. Feminism, for example, challenges the idea that women are only meant to be in the kitchen or in bed. It offers an imagination of an equal society, where women’s bodies and minds are not controlled by the state, husbands, or religious institutions. Feminist readings deconstruct nature as a construct, and this makes the state and patriarchal institutions panic: if women dare to reject oppression, then the power structure will collapse from within.
Silvia Federici, an Italian materialist feminist, once wrote that control over women’s bodies is always linked to control over labor and social production. If women’s bodies can be regulated, then the entire social order can be kept in check. By the same logic, if the minds of the people can be controlled through the confiscation of reading material, then the status quo can be maintained for longer.
Audre Lorde, a black poet and activist, also reminded us: “Your silence will not protect you.” Silence, or not reading, will not protect anyone from repression. It is precisely by reading and speaking out that we can find the strength to fight back. This is the main reason why the state fears books: because books teach citizens not to remain silent.
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Similarly, bell hooks, an African American feminist, wrote that “reading gave me a way to think about the world, a way to imagine a life beyond the boundaries of race and class.”
Reading is a window to imagine a world beyond the boundaries of oppression. And it is this kind of imagination that the state considers dangerous, because it gives the people the courage to demand greater justice.
But this is precisely where the state’s weakness lies. A state that fears books is a state that does not trust its own citizens. Instead of building a critical society, the state chooses to perpetuate ignorance. Instead of inviting dialogue, the state prefers to silence.
In fact, world history shows the opposite: the harder an idea is suppressed, the stronger it survives. Banned books are even more sought after. Confiscated reading material is even more popular.
In the digital age, state censorship has become even more absurd, as texts can spread rapidly, crossing borders that cannot be controlled by police or soldiers.
Therefore, what the state truly fears is something it cannot control: the courageous minds of the people who dare to resist.
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In the context of book confiscation, the Criminal Procedure Code clearly states that there are only five types of valid evidence in criminal cases: witness testimony, expert testimony, documents, evidence, and defendant testimony. General reading materials are not included. Using books as evidence only demonstrates the state’s paranoia about knowledge.
Fatia Maulidiyanti from KontraS said that book confiscation is a form of state fear.
“The police are still afraid of books and ideas. What should be investigated is the violence committed by the authorities and the riots themselves, not people’s bookshelves.”
This fear is not new. From the Old Order, the New Order, to the Reformation, the state has repeatedly confiscated and banned books: Marxist literature, the works of Pramoedya, and books on the history of 1965. Historian Asvi Warman Adam reminds us, “A state that fears books is a state that does not trust its own people.”
Book confiscation is not merely a legal procedure, but part of a pattern of state control. If women’s bodies are regulated through morality laws, if public spaces are monitored with state violence, then thoughts are also attempted to be restricted through the criminalization of reading.
Books are used as “evidence” to make citizens afraid to read, afraid to think critically, afraid to ask questions. Yet reading is a fundamental right, guaranteed by the constitution as part of freedom of expression.
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Eko Prasetyo, a literacy activist, once quipped, “If books can be used as evidence, then libraries are the largest crime scenes.”
In the rhetoric of the authorities, anarchism is always equated with violence such as throwing Molotov cocktails, burning police posts, and rioting in the streets. In fact, the tradition of anarchism is much broader, encompassing solidarity, direct democracy, and criticism of authoritarian power.
Equating anarchism with criminality is not only disinformation, but also an attempt to stifle alternative learning spaces.
Young people who read Emma Goldman or Kropotkin do not automatically become rioters. Similarly, people who read Che Guevara do not immediately become guerrilla fighters. The state fears independent learning spaces that can breed courage.
The state’s fear of reading material is not a new story, but a long tradition passed down from one regime to the next.
During the Old Order era, Marxist literature was strictly banned because it was considered a threat to the stability of the young nation. In the New Order era, the works of Pramoedya Ananta Toer were labelled dangerous. Books that attempted to recount the tragedy of 1965 were also withdrawn from circulation. Entering the Reformation era, when we hoped for more freedom, the same pattern repeated itself: books about Papua, Aceh, and even discussions of leftist movements were all viewed with suspicion, and some were even confiscated.
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Regimes may change, but the habit of controlling knowledge never disappears. Books are always the victims of the state’s fear of a people who are too knowledgeable, too critical, too brave.
Violence does not always manifest in the form of batons, tear gas, or arrests on the streets. There is a more subtle form of violence, not always visible, but with far-reaching consequences: control over the mind.
When confiscating books, the state sends a message to its people that thinking and reading are dangerous.
This message not only demonstrates a strategy of power that works through fear, but also reveals a characteristic patriarchal logic: controlling both the body and the mind ( ). Women’s bodies are controlled so that they do not deviate, while public thought is monitored so that it does not rebel.
For women, this burden is doubled. Reading feminist or radical books stigmatizes them, making them seem rude, overly critical, and even out of place. Feminist literature is considered dangerous because it shakes two structures at once: the authoritarian state and the patriarchal family.
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Mind control is a form of violence that is not always visible, but it is real: it imprisons the imagination, robs people of the courage to ask questions, and makes citizens lose their critical faculties. And like all forms of patriarchy-based violence, it is the vulnerable groups who suffer the most: women, students, the urban poor, and communities whose voices are considered disruptive to the status quo.
Confiscating books is tantamount to taking a step back into the dark ages. Democracy cannot survive without freedom of reading and thinking, because democracy is born from the courage of the people to question power. If reading is considered a threat, then what is the meaning of the people’s voice at the ballot box?
Indonesian history itself has repeatedly proven that a democracy that rejects books is a fragile democracy. During the New Order era, the state banned the works of Pramoedya Ananta Toer. His books were considered dangerous, even though all he did was write history from the perspective of the common people. In fact, Pramoedya himself was imprisoned for years on Buru Island without trial, in order to ensure that his critical thinking did not spread. But what was the result? Now, Pramoedya’s works have become required reading for young people who want to understand the wounds of the nation’s history.
Another example is the banning of Tempo, Editor, and Detik magazines in 1994. The government at that time wanted to silence press criticism. However, pressure from civil society actually grew stronger, and this silencing became one of the triggers for the 1998 reform movement. From this, it is clear that banning books and reading material never strengthens the state; it actually exposes the flaws of power and fosters resistance.
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History in international events provides a similar reflection. In 1933, Nazi Germany burned thousands of books by Jewish, feminist, and socialist authors. They believed that by destroying books, they could destroy ideas. But history proved otherwise: ideas about freedom, equality, and justice grew stronger, passed down from generation to generation. In the United States today, there is a resurgence of the book banning movement in schools, particularly targeting feminist and queer literature. This shows that even in a country that claims to be democratic, control over thought is still being pursued.
The confiscation of books today is a dangerous sign. Confiscating books is not just a matter of law, but also a matter of symbolic violence. The government is sending a message that the state is more comfortable with a passive populace that does not ask questions and simply accepts the official doctrine. In fact, a healthy democracy requires a populace that is talkative, critical, and even disruptive.
Books are not Molotov cocktails. Reading is not a crime. And what the people should fear is not knowledge, but a state that is constantly afraid of its own people.
