Reputational Crisis in Indonesia’s Digital Public Sphere of Public Emotion, Perceived Injustice, and Trust, 2024–2026

In the modern world, a reputation is no longer just a static badge of honor that an organization wears; it is a living conversation that happens in real time. For decades, institutions like governments or large corporations believed they could control their own stories by issuing press releases and following strict rules. However, the rise of digital media has changed the rules of the game. Today, the public does not just wait for an official statement; they react instantly, share their own interpretations, and collectively decide whether an institution is trustworthy. This shift means that a crisis is not simply a bad event that happens to a group, but a dynamic process where the public's feelings and the institution's response constantly interact. If a government or company speaks in cold, legal language while the people are hurting, the message often fails, not because the facts are wrong, but because the emotional connection is broken. Understanding how these conversations evolve is crucial, because when trust erodes, it can lead to widespread anger and a loss of faith in the very systems meant to protect society.

A team of researchers from universities in Indonesia and Malaysia set out to map this complex landscape by studying a specific period of unrest in Indonesia between 2024 and 2026. They did not look at a single event, but rather watched how a series of public complaints grew and changed over three years. By analyzing documented digital discourse, official statements, and public trust surveys, they traced a clear path from simple economic frustration to a deep crisis of confidence. Their work reveals that the way people feel about a problem changes over time, and if an institution keeps using the same type of response, it can accidentally make the situation worse.

The story begins with a shift in what the public was actually angry about. In the early stages, around 2022 and 2023, people were complaining about concrete economic issues, such as rising prices and the cost of daily life. These were practical grievances. However, as the years passed, the conversation transformed. By 2024, the focus had moved from simply asking why things were expensive to asking why the burden was being shared unfairly. The public began to see these economic struggles not just as bad luck, but as a sign that the system was broken and that the people in charge were not acting justly. This change in perspective is critical because it turns a policy problem into a moral one. When people feel a situation is unfair, they stop asking for explanations about how a rule works and start demanding to know who is responsible and why the rules are being applied to them.

As this shift in thinking occurred, the emotions of the public also evolved in a predictable pattern. In 2024, the dominant feeling was anger. People were furious that rules seemed to be changing or being ignored, and they demanded certainty and clear enforcement. The researchers noted that during this time, digital symbols like the "Garuda Biru" (Blue Garuda) became rallying points for this collective frustration. But by 2025, the mood had darkened. The anger gave way to a sense of humiliation and grief. This shift was triggered by specific tragedies, including the death of a young man named Affan Kurniawan and the continued pressure of economic hardship. The public no longer just wanted rules enforced; they wanted justice, accountability, and proof that the legal system was working. They felt a deep sense of loss and demanded that the institutions acknowledge their suffering.

By 2026, the emotional landscape had shifted again, this time into fatigue. The public was exhausted from years of crises and broken promises. The demand for more statements or apologies had faded. Instead, people were tired of words and wanted to see evidence of action. They began to compare current promises with past failures, looking for measurable progress rather than new explanations. This progression from anger to grief to exhaustion shows that a crisis is not a single moment but a journey, and the public's needs change at every step. What worked to calm an angry crowd in 2024 would likely fail to comfort a grieving public in 2025, and neither would satisfy a skeptical public in 2026.

The researchers found that many institutions failed to keep up with these changing needs. Instead of adapting their communication, they fell back on six recurring habits that often made the crisis worse. One common mistake was early denial, where officials would reject claims before all the facts were known, only to have to admit the truth later when evidence became public. Another was responding to deep emotion with cold procedure. When people were grieving, institutions would explain administrative steps or legal processes, which felt insensitive and dismissive. They also frequently used legalistic language, insisting that actions were "in accordance with regulations," which sounded like a shield rather than a human response.

Other patterns included blaming a single "rogue actor" to avoid taking responsibility for the whole organization, or using security measures like barriers and police presence as a form of communication, which the public interpreted as repression rather than protection. Finally, institutions often delayed their clarifications until after the public had already formed a strong narrative. By the time the official explanation arrived, the trust was already gone. The researchers describe this mismatch as "procedural–emotional misalignment." It happens when an institution follows all the correct rules and procedures but fails to address the human feelings and moral questions that the public is actually asking. The institution thinks it is being correct by following the law, but the public feels it is being evasive because it is not showing empathy or accountability.

The consequences of this misalignment were visible in the data. The researchers observed that conversations related to protests increased by 271 percent compared to the previous year, indicating that online frustration was turning into organized digital mobilization. More importantly, they tracked a sharp decline in public trust in the Indonesian House of Representatives. Trust levels dropped from 64 percent in January 2025 to 47 percent by October of the same year. This decline suggests that once trust is lost, it is very difficult to regain. The study emphasizes that negative feelings on social media are not just noise; they are a warning sign that the relationship between the people and their institutions is fraying.

The study concludes that for an institution to survive a reputational crisis, it must do more than just be factually correct. It must be emotionally and morally aligned with the public. The researchers suggest three key qualities are needed to rebuild trust: speed, empathy, and evidence. Speed means responding quickly enough to shape the story before rumors take over. Empathy means acknowledging the human pain and suffering behind the statistics, rather than hiding behind legal jargon. Evidence means showing, not just telling, that real progress is being made. These three elements must work together. Being fast without empathy feels dismissive; being empathetic without evidence feels like empty promises; and having evidence without speed means the message arrives too late.

Ultimately, this research offers a clear lesson for how institutions should handle crises in the digital age. A crisis is not solved by a single press conference or a perfect legal defense. It is a long process that requires listening to how the public feels and adapting the response as those feelings change. If an institution ignores the emotional journey of its people, focusing only on its own rules, it risks losing its legitimacy entirely. The path to restoring trust lies in understanding that the public is not just asking for information; they are asking for recognition, justice, and proof that they matter.