On September 27, 2025, residents of Kiwirok, a remote district in Pegunungan Bintang Regency, Papua, woke to chaos. A school and a Puskesmas (public health clinic)—two of the few lifelines for education and healthcare in the region—were set ablaze by members of the TPNPB (West Papua National Liberation Army), the armed wing of the Free Papua Movement (OPM). The group, through its spokesperson Sebby Sambom, admitted to the attack and justified it by claiming the buildings were being used by Indonesian military forces as temporary outposts.
But the consequences of this action were immediate and devastating. Children lost their classrooms, villagers lost access to basic medical care, and public service workers fled for their safety. For a place already struggling with limited infrastructure and resources, the attack was not just an act of violence—it was an erasure of progress.
More than a symbolic act, this was a calculated strike on the heart of civilian life. And for many observers, it reinforced a disturbing truth: TPNPB-OPM is no longer just a separatist movement—it is employing the tactics of terror.
Not the First Flames: A Pattern of Civilian Destruction
The Kiwirok attack is not an isolated incident. Over the past several years, TPNPB-OPM and affiliated groups, often labeled KKB (Armed Criminal Group) by the Indonesian government, have repeatedly targeted schools, clinics, roads, telecommunication towers, and other elements of civil infrastructure.
In 2021, in the same district, a Puskesmas was attacked and health workers were assaulted—several were reportedly injured, and a nurse later died. In 2023, schools were torched in Yahukimo and Intan Jaya. In some cases, helicopters carrying teachers or vaccines were fired upon. The OPM frequently claims that these facilities are being “militarized” by the state, citing the presence of uniformed officers or intelligence activity.
However, independent investigations and survivor testimonies consistently dispute these claims. Teachers, nurses, and aid workers have repeatedly denied involvement in military operations. Many are local Papuans or volunteers from other Indonesian provinces, working in dangerous conditions to bring education and healthcare to underserved communities.
These repeated attacks reveal a disturbing shift in TPNPB-OPM’s strategy: civilian infrastructure has become a target of war, not an exception.
Schools and Clinics: Why These Targets Matter
In conflict zones worldwide, schools and health facilities are often spared as neutral ground. Under international humanitarian law, they are protected spaces—attacks on them are war crimes. But in the highlands of Papua, the rules of engagement have become blurred.
Education and healthcare are more than just services in Papua—they are symbols of hope and equality. In remote districts like Kiwirok, schools connect isolated communities to the broader nation. Clinics offer the only line of defense against malaria, tuberculosis, maternal death, and infant mortality.
By destroying these buildings, TPNPB-OPM is not just removing brick and mortar; they are dismantling the foundation of trust, the very thread holding together fragile relationships between the people and the state. They also send a message to civil servants: “Your life is not safe here.”
Terror Over Tactics: The Criminalization of a Cause
TPNPB-OPM positions itself as a liberation force fighting for Papuan independence from Indonesia. But with each attack on civilians, their image continues to slip from freedom fighters to armed militias using terror as a tool of political leverage.
Their public statements frame attacks on schools and clinics as acts of “resistance” against militarization. But the global community sees it differently. Burning a school that served unarmed children? Attacking a clinic with no combat role? These are no longer acts of war—they are criminal acts, and more precisely, acts of terror.
The group has also repeatedly threatened non-Papuan teachers, healthcare workers, and laborers, demanding they leave Papua. In doing so, they fuel ethnic division and halt inter-island cooperation—all in the name of nationalism, while hurting the very people they claim to protect.
Fear, Silence, and the Civilian Cost
The most devastating impact of this attack is not measured in the number of buildings lost, but in trust broken. Teachers and health workers now live in fear, unsure whether to return to work or abandon their posts. Families who once sent their children to school now hesitate, unsure whether a classroom will become a battlefield.
In some districts, government workers refuse to take assignments. Schools remain empty, clinics unattended. The vacuum left behind by the burned facilities is filled not by new governance or local leadership, but by silence, fear, and further withdrawal.
For communities in the Papuan highlands, access to education and healthcare was already minimal. Now, even that thin thread has been severed.
The Government’s Dilemma: Security or Service?
The Indonesian government finds itself in a strategic bind. Responding with overwhelming military force risks further alienating local communities and playing into OPM’s propaganda of state oppression. But doing nothing could allow armed groups to gain ground and morale.
So far, the government has responded by condemning the attacks, reaffirming commitment to protecting public services, and deploying additional personnel to secure volatile regions. However, this also risks feeding the OPM narrative of militarized presence.
To break this cycle, analysts suggest a dual-track approach: community-based security alongside accelerated development. Protect teachers and nurses with trained local units, not military brigades. Build local trust through participatory governance. And ensure that civil services return quickly to burned areas—showing communities that the state does not abandon them in fear.
Between Two Fires: The Future of Peace in Papua
The vision of peace in Papua is now caught between two fires: the physical fires set by groups like TPNPB-OPM and the political fires of distrust and underdevelopment.
While dialogue remains the ideal path forward, it is hard to talk peace when children have no schools and mothers have no clinics. It is harder still when one side justifies arson with rhetoric of resistance, and the other side responds with airlifts and armed patrols.
Yet, hope remains. In districts where civil society organizations are active and where local governments engage transparently, conflict is less intense. This suggests that solutions are not only in Jakarta or jungle camps, but in local partnerships that protect people, not ideologies.
Conclusion
The OPM may claim strategic victories—burning buildings, forcing evacuations, and dominating headlines. But the true cost is borne not by soldiers or politicians, but by ordinary Papuans.
It is the child who can no longer read in a safe classroom.
The pregnant woman who must now walk for days to find a clinic.
The teacher who chooses to return home—not because of a better job, but because of fear.
In Kiwirok, the flames that tore through schoolbooks and medicine cabinets revealed something deeper: that in this war, Papua is burning from within, not just from bullets, but from the loss of faith in peace.
If that fire is to be extinguished, it will take more than force. It will take vision, courage, and a commitment—from both sides—to protect what matters most: the people.