September 5, 2025
JAKARTA – Before dawn breaks over the capital, Mr Aris Prabowo is already on his red Honda motorbike – with his black helmet strapped on, and green jacket zipped tight – ferrying some of Jakarta’s 11 million residents to work.
At age 51, his routine is unyielding. He starts at 5.30am and rides until noon, before heading home to relieve his wife in caring for their 17-year-old son, who has autism.
By late afternoon, he is back on the road, taking food and ride orders until close to midnight.
It might sound like an exhausting rhythm, but it allows him to be present for his son – a trade-off that he treasures.
Stories like Mr Aris’ are not unusual among “ojol”, or motorcycle taxi riders. Among their two-wheeled ranks, many have similar stories of sacrifice and reinvention.
Carrying passengers and parcels as they weave in and out of notorious traffic jams, they are regarded as the backbone of urban life in Indonesia’s sprawling cities.
Most riders operate through the two dominant platforms, Gojek and Grab, which have become the main gateways for ojol services across Indonesia’s cities.
Their role came into sharp focus last week when protests swept the country after 21-year-old rider Affan Kurniawan was crushed by a police tactical vehicle in Jakarta on Aug 28. His death fuelled some of the worst unrest in decades.
For many ojol riders, autonomy is one of the few perks of the job. A decade ago, though, life looked very different for Mr Aris.
Back then, he worked in finance, clocking the rigid hours of an office job. But the demands of a desk career clashed with responsibilities at home, leaving his wife to shoulder too much of their son’s care.
“He grew up fast and got bigger. My wife couldn’t handle him alone. He sometimes had meltdowns and getting him on and off the wheelchair became exhausting to do by herself,” said Mr Aris.
Leaving the corporate world behind, he dabbled in other ventures, including a food supply business and selling of gemstones. Both gave him the flexibility he needed, but neither could sustain his family for long.
When he finally joined the ranks of ojol, he found a way to balance caregiving with earning a living.
Similarly, Mr Abdul Rochman, 29, gave up his job as a sales supervisor six years ago for the freedom of the open road.
The work is punishing – riding up to 15 hours a day under the blazing sun or heavy rain and through endless road congestion. Yet it also offers something else: fellowship.
On the streets, Mr Abdul Rochman has found kinship with riders of all ages, many of them 15 to 25 years older than him.
Their bonds show in the small rituals of the road.
For instance, it is not uncommon to see riders pull over at roadside warungs (eateries) when they are tired, taking a break over sweet tea and fried snacks while exchanging stories and experiences, before plunging back into traffic.
“Even though we are of different ages, the sense of brotherhood is very strong. Everyone looks out for one another and is friends with one another,” said Mr Abdul Rochman.
There are also those who turn to delivery riding because they feel that they have no other choice.
Mr Ari Kurniawan, 30, used to run two online shops selling printer ink and electronics, but all that changed when hackers wiped out his 80 million rupiah (S$6,300) in capital earlier in 2025.
Desperate, he signed up as an ojol rider in July to support his wife and toddler.
Riders like him typically complete 10 to 12 trips a day, earning around 10,000 rupiah, or about 80 Singapore cents, per trip.
Mr Ari said a good day now means taking home about 100,000 rupiah, after deducting 50,000 rupiah for his daily motorbike rental and meals on the road. On bad days, his net earnings shrink to just 25,000 rupiah – barely enough to pay for diapers and milk powder.
From grief to solidarity
With earnings irregular and barely enough to cover basic needs, ojol drivers were among those who took to the streets in August to voice their frustrations over what they say is unfair treatment.
The demonstrations, among the largest in years, were fuelled by economic frustrations, anger over the generous allowances of legislators, and the growing perception that Indonesia’s political elite is detached from ordinary citizens.
At the same time, new burdens such as higher value-added tax – Indonesia’s equivalent of Singapore’s GST – and rising land taxes have been felt most sharply by lower-income households, adding to the sense of economic squeeze.
But it was the death of ojol rider Affan Kurniawan that galvanised the drivers. His funeral drew crowds of ojol riders, including Mr Ari, who later joined protests outside Parliament and at the headquarters of the paramilitary police.
For Mr Aris, what stood out was not just the grief but the unity that followed, with thousands of drivers riding in step.
“This time round, everybody participated. We were all in support of Affan. Our movement has never been as solid as this,” he said.
As the protests swelled, the riders said life became especially difficult. Delivery maps sent them into blocked roads, orders dried up, and many feared being caught in clashes.
Yet, solidarity also surged. Strangers, both at home and abroad in South-east Asia, sent food through online delivery apps – such as rice boxes or bread – meant to be shared among riders hustling on the streets.
“The enthusiasm of people to give to us was extraordinary,” said Mr Abdul Rochman, recalling how the meals were handed to them while they worked.
That sense of solidarity spread beyond food. This week, netizens began overlaying their profile pictures with neon pink and green, echoing the “Brave Pink, Hero Green” online movement pushing for political change and honouring the sacrifices of everyday Indonesians.
Pink was a tribute to a fearless mother in a pink hijab who caught public attention when she stood at the front line of an Aug 28 protest, while green honoured Mr Affan.
The use of pink and green filters spread quickly, embraced by students, influencers and ordinary users as symbols of courage and justice.
Beyond a visual gesture, the pink-green profiles became a digital chorus of solidarity, which ojol riders said extended the spirit of the streets into social media feeds.
“When strangers from across the country started sending food and drinks,” said a driver known only as Mr Rizky, “it felt like someone finally recognised how hard we ride – not just to deliver, but to keep going when the city is in chaos.”