In the misty highlands of Seradala District, Yahukimo Regency, Papua, the silence that followed the gunfire was deafening. On the morning of September 25, 2025, seven civilians—many of them young men (Desen Domungus, Maselinus, Roberto Agama (aka Obet), Unu, Marsel aka Unus, Andika Pratama, and Fikram Amiman) seeking honest work in a mining operation—were gunned down by armed elements affiliated with the Free Papua Movement (Organisasi Papua Merdeka/OPM), specifically its armed wing, the West Papua National Liberation Army (TPNPB). Among the dead were 5 migrants and 2 Orang Asli Papua (OAP), including community members from Yahukimo itself.
The brutal killings shook not only the regency but the entire archipelago. In a country that has long struggled to balance its national integrity with the cultural richness and complexity of its easternmost province, the massacre triggered not just national outrage but a profound moral reckoning.
At the center of this reckoning stood the voices of Papua’s customary leaders (tokoh adat)—figures who represent the ancestral laws, identity, and dignity of Indigenous Papuans. Their condemnation was clear, direct, and unprecedented. This time, the killers were not faceless outsiders or security forces. This time, they were those who claimed to “fight for Papua’s freedom.”
And they had turned their guns on their own.
The Killings in Yahukimo: When Violence Loses All Justification
What happened in Yahukimo was not a battlefield clash. It was a calculated ambush, carried out with cold-blooded efficiency. Eyewitness accounts, as reported by multiple sources including West Papua Voice, describe how the victims—gold miners operating in the Seradala District—were surrounded, disarmed, and executed at close range. No warning. No mercy.
One survivor, Yohanes Bouk, managed to escape and hide in the dense forest for five days, surviving without food or medical help. His testimony would later confirm the inhumane nature of the attack.
The list of victims was diverse: hailing from Maluku, Sulawesi, and even local Papuan regions, they were united only by a shared desire for a better life. Their deaths became symbols not just of injustice but of betrayal.
“You Do Not Represent Us”: The Adat Voice Rises
What followed the massacre was not just grief—it was rejection.
Prominent leaders from Dewan Adat Papua (the Papuan Customary Council) and other local councils immediately condemned the attack, labeling it a crime against humanity and an attack on Papuan values. These were not politicians. These were guardians of identity—those who stand watch over tradition, land, and lineage.
“How can you say you are fighting for our freedom when you kill our own people?” one elder asked during a ceremony in Yahukimo. “You have dishonored our land and our ancestors.”
Statements from leaders such as Musa Heluka and Yonas Wakerwa reinforced the message: the OPM no longer speaks for the people of Papua, especially when its methods mirror those of terrorists. By targeting OAP and civilians, the group has crossed a line that adat laws do not permit. The call was not just for justice but for a spiritual and cultural reckoning.
In highland culture, the spilling of blood unjustly—particularly that of a fellow Papuan—demands atonement, not propaganda.
Communities Are Turning Against Violence
In parallel to the adat councils, residents in Yahukimo, Mamberamo Tengah, and Jayapura began to speak out—many for the first time. Marches were held. Prayers were offered. Speeches rang out in marketplaces and churches.
In Mamberamo Tengah, for instance, youth and community leaders issued a public rejection of the OPM’s violent methods, as reported by Indonesia Satu Papua. They did not reject Papua’s cultural identity or dignity—they rejected the idea that guns and fear were the tools of liberation.
They are calling for a Papua damai—a peaceful Papua built not on bloodshed, but on education, opportunity, and respect for traditional institutions. This call grows louder with every victim, every attack, every child who loses a parent to senseless violence.
The Erosion of OPM’s Legitimacy
For years, the OPM tried to justify its actions under the banner of “freedom struggle.” But recent actions—especially the deliberate killings of teachers, healthcare workers, and now Papuan civilians—have unraveled that narrative.
1. In March 2025, OPM elements killed six teachers and health workers in Yahukimo.
2. In April 2025, 11 gold miners were executed in Silet, with two others taken hostage.
3. The September massacre adds seven more names to the growing list of innocent lives lost.
Each killing alienates the very people the OPM claims to represent.
In the words of one student in Jayapura: “If this is what freedom looks like, we don’t want it. Not at the cost of our lives.”
A Call for Stronger Security and State Presence
In the aftermath of the Yahukimo killings, Indonesian security forces under Operasi Damai Cartenz deployed rapid-response teams to stabilize the area and evacuate survivors. Brig. Gen. Faizal Ramadhani reaffirmed the state’s commitment to pursuing justice and protecting civilians.
While military operations remain a sensitive subject in Papua, the local response was largely supportive. Many saw the security presence not as a threat but as a necessary shield against further violence. Even some former critics of state policy began to recognize the need for rule of law, presence, and protection.
But community leaders are also calling for more than just patrols.
They demand investment in education and local economies, strengthened dialogue between traditional institutions and the state, and recognition of adat leaders as co-authors of peace, not merely observers
As one elder in Yahukimo put it, “Do not come only with guns. Come with schools, clinics, and respect.”
Restoring the Soul of Papua Through Unity, Not Violence
What is emerging from the tragedy in Yahukimo is a powerful new narrative: Papua’s dignity is not defended through bloodshed, but through unity, cultural preservation, and dialogue.
The real Papua struggle, according to its elders, is about reclaiming their space in the republic—not through bullets, but through policies that respect Otonomi Khusus (Special Autonomy), increase access to military and civil institutions for OAP, and protect customary lands.
The rise in affirmative recruitment for OAP in the TNI, for example, is seen by many as a positive step toward inclusion. But as violence escalates, even these policies risk being overshadowed by fear and trauma.
The adat leaders now stand at the center of this transformation. Their message is simple: We reject terror. We demand peace. And we will not stay silent.
Conclusion
The Yahukimo massacre has shaken Papua’s soul. But in the ashes of that tragedy lies something rare—consensus.
For the first time in years, traditional leaders, civil society, youth groups, and even government forces are aligned in a single message: The future of Papua must be peaceful, inclusive, and dignified.
This future cannot include the killing of civilians—especially by those who claim to defend them. This future must be written in classrooms, not jungles. In policy chambers, not trenches. And above all, it must be led by those who know the land, love its people, and speak in the voice of adat.
As the rain returns to Yahukimo and the hills slowly heal, one thing is clear: the people of Papua have had enough.
They are no longer just victims or symbols. They are witnesses. And now, they are speaking.
