When we think about colonialism, we often imagine it as a closed chapter—something that ended in 1945. But in Indonesia’s countryside, especially in areas dominated by palm oil plantations, colonial rule is not a distant memory. It is embedded in the law itself.
This became clear to me while researching land conflicts between palm oil companies and rural communities across Indonesia. As I tried to show in the documentary Colonial Debris, what appear to be contemporary disputes over development and investment turn out to be something deeper: the afterlife of a colonial legal system designed not to protect citizens, but to control them and extract their resources.
That insight matters well beyond academia. It helps explain why palm oil expansion causes so many conflicts why they so often turn violent, and why they are so difficult to resolve.
Law built for extraction
Dutch colonial law in Indonesia was never intended to serve the indigenous population. It was designed to secure land, labor, and natural resources for colonial profit while suppressing resistance. Courts, police, and administrative rules worked together to ensure plantations could operate cheaply and smoothly—even if this meant dispossessing communities or criminalizing protest.
One colonial provision is especially important: the domain declaration of 1870. It stated that all land not held under proven ownership belonged to the state. In practice, this erased customary land rights and allowed the colonial government to hand vast areas to plantation companies at minimal cost. Tobacco, sugar, tea, and later palm oil plantations expanded rapidly under this legal cover.
Indonesia gained independence, but it never fully dismantled this legal architecture. Instead, much of it was inherited and repurposed in the postcolonial era.
Palm oil conflicts everywhere
Today, Indonesia is the world’s largest palm oil producer. Alongside that growth has come a staggering number of land conflicts. NGOs have documented thousands of disputes between companies and communities over the past decade alone. These conflicts are not marginal or exceptional—they are structural.
In a collaborative research project and our book Rightless Resistance, my colleagues and I documented 150 palm oil conflicts across four provinces: Riau, West Kalimantan, Central Kalimantan, and West Sumatra. The patterns were strikingly similar everywhere.
Most conflicts began with land acquisition. Communities reported losing land without meaningful consent or fair compensation. Others revolved around broken promises of profit-sharing schemes, known as plasma, which are supposed to give communities a stake in plantations built on their land. On paper these schemes appear generous; in practice they often produce tiny, opaque payouts after years of waiting.
What communities experienced was not simply bad corporate behavior. It was legal vulnerability—what we came to describe as rightlessness. People technically had rights, but those rights were so weak, poorly enforced, and easily bypassed that they offered little real protection.
Colonial debris in modern law
This rightlessness has deep historical roots. Indonesia’s constitution and land laws formally recognize citizens’ rights, but they also give the state sweeping control over land. Today, around 63 percent of Indonesia’s territory is classified as state forest estate. Much of this land is not forest in any ecological sense; it is an administrative category that prevents private or communal ownership.
The consequence is paradoxical. Rural Indonesians struggle to obtain legal titles to land they have lived on for generations, while companies can gain control over that same land through state-issued concessions. Once a concession is granted, companies acquire strong legal backing—even if communities are displaced in the process.
This system closely mirrors the colonial logic of the domain declaration. It is colonial debris: an old legal idea that continues to structure present-day injustice.
Why conflicts rarely end well
One might expect courts, mediation, or government intervention to resolve these disputes. In practice, they rarely do. In our study, nearly 70 percent of conflicts ended with communities achieving little or nothing. Many dragged on for a decade or more. Even when companies violated regulations, sanctions were rare, while arrests of protesters were common.
A key reason is collusion between business and state authorities. Palm oil companies are deeply entangled with political elites. Politicians sit on company boards, own plantations, or rely on industry funding for election campaigns. At the local level, companies routinely provide informal payments to officials, police, and military units.
This collusion has concrete effects. Authorities tend to side with companies during conflicts. Police are deployed to suppress protests, and community leaders are criminalized—sometimes on flimsy or fabricated charges. Here again, the colonial past matters. Laws used today to criminalize plantation protests can be traced back to colonial-era regulations designed to discipline plantation laborers. The logic is unchanged: disrupting plantation operations is treated as a crime, while dispossession is treated as development.
A colonial mindset that endures
Colonial legacies are not only legal; they are also ideological. During our fieldwork, officials often justified siding with companies by portraying villagers as backward or unproductive, while companies were framed as engines of development.
This narrative echoes a colonial mindset: the idea that “natives” are lazy and need outside capital to make land productive. It is a myth—and a damaging one. Research increasingly shows that smallholder agriculture can generate broader local benefits than large plantations, whose profits often flow out of the region. Yet the myth persists because it serves powerful interests, legitimizing dispossession and the concentration of land in elite hands.
Decolonization unfinished
Indonesia recently replaced its colonial-era criminal code with a new KUHP, a move presented as legal decolonization. But replacing old laws is not enough. Colonialism survives not only in statutes, but in how law is structured, interpreted, and enforced. As long as the state maintains outsized control over land, treats protest as a threat, and aligns itself with corporate interests over citizen rights, colonial patterns will endure.
The uncomfortable truth is that Indonesia’s political and economic elites benefit from these arrangements. Like their colonial predecessors, they profit from controlling land and allocating concessions. That is why reform has been slow.
Land conflicts are not just local disputes; they are symptoms of a deeper problem in Indonesia’s democracy and legal system. A state that cannot protect its citizens’ land rights, but readily protecting corporate claims, undermines its own legitimacy.
Decolonizing law means confronting this history honestly. It requires dismantling legal doctrines that prioritize extraction over justice, reforming land governance, and abandoning colonial assumptions about who deserves rights and who does not. Academics, journalists, and civil society all have a role to play in making these legacies visible, because political will rarely emerges on its own—especially when powerful actors benefit from the status quo.
Colonialism did not end in Indonesia when the Dutch left. It lingered in laws, institutions, and ideas. Until those are addressed, independence remains incomplete.
Prof. Dr. Ward Berenschot is professor of Political Anthropology at the University of Amsterdam. Together with Watchdoc he produced a documentary on palm oil conflicts, which can be watched on Youtube. In Indonesian: Tanah Moyangku
The book Rightless Resistance: Postcolonial Citizenship, Palm Oil, and Land Grabs in Indonesia will be published by Cornell University Press in May 2026.