Why Indonesians rally more for Gaza than Xinjiang

Indonesians have shown overwhelming solidarity with the Palestinian people. From massive demonstrations to donation drives and viral social media campaigns, the public response to Israel’s attacks on Gaza has been emotional, urgent, and consistent. Yet, in stark contrast, the plight of Uyghur Muslims in China’s Xinjiang region has not sparked the same level of national outrage—despite years of well-documented repression.

This contrast is not due to selective empathy. It stems from three key factors: the visibility of the crisis, the nature of the repression, and how each conflict is understood within Indonesia’s political and historical imagination.

Let’s start with visibility. Gaza is in the headlines almost daily. Footage of Israeli airstrikes, civilian casualties, and crumbling buildings is broadcast around the world in real time. Indonesian media outlets run regular updates, and social media is flooded with emotionally charged content from Palestinian journalists, activists, and residents on the ground. The immediacy of these images and stories makes the suffering in Gaza impossible to ignore. It feels urgent because it is seen.

This matters deeply in a society like Indonesia’s, where visual storytelling and emotional connection drive public engagement. The more visible a crisis is, the easier it is for people to empathize, organize, and act. Palestine is familiar, not only politically and historically, but also visually. Indonesians know what is happening in Gaza because they see it—daily, dramatically, and painfully.

By contrast, the crisis in Xinjiang is largely hidden from view. China has tightly restricted independent reporting from the region. Journalists are surveilled or barred, Uyghur voices are silenced through fear and censorship, and digital communication is closely monitored. There are no live updates, no raw footage of crackdowns, and no social media testimonies from within the internment camps. What information does emerge is pieced together from leaked documents, satellite images, and survivor testimonies—important but distant sources, often lacking the emotional immediacy that drives public concern.

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As a result, the Uyghur crisis rarely breaks through to the mainstream in Indonesia. It is covered sporadically, often through dry headlines or technical reports. For the average person scrolling through news or social media, it is simply not as visible or emotionally resonant as the suffering in Gaza. And when repression is hidden, so too is the outrage.

The second factor is the nature of that repression. In Gaza, the violence is explosive—public, continuous, and deadly. Airstrikes, tank assaults, and missile launches kill civilians in their homes, schools, and hospitals. These acts are not just violent; they are spectacularly violent. The scale and speed of destruction leave behind heartbreaking images and dramatic headlines. It is this form of visible, indiscriminate destruction that fuels mass mobilization.

In contrast, what happens in Xinjiang is slower, systematic, and often invisible. There are no bombs or sirens—only surveillance, intimidation, and institutional control. Uyghurs are detained not by soldiers in the street but by bureaucratic mechanisms: “reeducation” orders, security checkpoints, facial recognition systems. The repression is not loud or chaotic—it is quiet and calculated. Families are separated, mosques are shuttered, languages and traditions are erased. What is happening is not just violent—it is cultural erasure.

This kind of repression—long-term, bureaucratic, and hidden—is much harder to depict, especially to a public that responds most strongly to immediate visual horror. There are no dramatic before-and-after photos. The trauma is internal, the suffering silent. As a result, the crisis feels distant, abstract, and harder to grasp emotionally.

READ: Israel inflicted worst humanitarian disaster in Gaza, Indonesia tells ICJ

But there is a third factor that is just as important: political framing. Many Indonesians view the situation in Gaza not just as a humanitarian disaster, but as a continuation of colonial oppression. Indonesia, a nation born out of anti-colonial struggle, sees in Palestine’s resistance echoes of its own past. For many, the war in Gaza is not just an Israeli-Palestinian issue—it is part of a broader, historical fight against occupation, apartheid, and imperialism. This resonance with anti-colonial ideals makes the cause feel both morally urgent and deeply personal.

Xinjiang, by contrast, is often viewed as a domestic matter within China’s borders—a complex internal issue rather than a case of foreign domination. Whether this framing is fair or not, it influences how the Indonesian public perceives the legitimacy or urgency of solidarity. In the absence of a clear narrative of external occupation or colonial aggression, the repression in Xinjiang does not tap into the same historical and ideological wellsprings that fuel activism for Palestine.

This is not to say that other factors don’t matter. Indonesia’s growing economic ties with China and Beijing’s efforts to reshape its image in Southeast Asia certainly play a role in dampening political and media discourse on Xinjiang. But even in the absence of those pressures, the differences in visibility, the form of repression, and political framing remain the most powerful explanations for why public solidarity with Uyghurs has not matched that for Palestinians.

None of this is an indictment of the Indonesian public. Rather, it is a call to recognize how information, imagery, and narrative shape our moral landscapes. When a tragedy is visible, we react. When it is invisible or conceptually distant, we forget. It is therefore the responsibility of journalists, researchers, and advocates to continue shedding light on the Uyghur crisis—not only through data and reports, but through stories, testimonies, and visuals that can cut through the fog of silence.

Indonesians have proven, time and again, that they do not turn away from injustice—when they can see it, and when it resonates with their deepest convictions. The challenge with Xinjiang is not a lack of care, but a lack of access and a lack of context. Bridging that gap begins with making the invisible visible—and with framing the slow repression of a people as no less urgent than the destruction of their homes. 

The views expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial policy of Middle East Monitor.