Imagine a region where powerful leaders have shaped nations through fear and the promise of stability—only to see their legacies twist in wildly different directions today. In Southeast Asia, two such figures, Soeharto of Indonesia and Rodrigo Duterte of the Philippines, stand as stark examples of this paradox, each having risen to power by vowing to banish chaos with a deadly hand. Yet, as we look ahead to 2025, their stories are diverging dramatically, leaving us to ponder the true cost of rewriting history. But here's where it gets controversial: one dictator is being hailed as a hero, while the other faces international justice. Stick around, because this isn't just about the past—it's a lesson for the future that might surprise you.
Pictures courtesy of the State Secretariat of the Republic of Indonesia and the Philippine Government set the scene for these two tales.
In the grand lineup of Southeast Asia's iron-fisted leaders, Soeharto and Duterte share a similar pedestal, built on intimidation and adorned with talk of 'order.' They both pledged to save their countries from turmoil and followed through by unleashing waves of violence. Fast forward to 2025, though, and their posthumous treatments couldn't be more opposite. Under President Prabowo Subianto, Indonesia has officially declared Soeharto a national hero (as reported in this Jakarta Post article from November 10, 2025). Meanwhile, the Philippines, led by President Ferdinand 'Bong Bong' Marcos Jr., has handed Duterte over to face charges at the International Criminal Court in The Hague (details from a Manila Times piece on December 8, 2025). From an Indonesian perspective, this split is more than just eye-catching—it's a harsh indictment of how nations choose to confront their dark chapters.
Soeharto's tenure as a despotic leader stands out for its sheer scope and longevity. His 'New Order' government, which lasted over three decades, relied heavily on force and a technocratic approach—think of it as a system where experts in economics and administration enforced strict control, often through harsh means. The atrocities of 1965–66, which helped him seize power, resulted in the deaths of hundreds of thousands, many of them accused communists or ethnic Chinese (evidence from a University of Melbourne study confirms Soeharto's direct role in orchestrating these killings). On top of that, widespread spying, media censorship, and military crackdowns kept dissent at bay (as explored in a Conversation article on how former political prisoners still grapple with those traumatic memories).
Still, this year on Heroes Day, Prabowo officiated a ceremony that placed Soeharto among the nation's greatest liberators. Officially dubbed a move toward national healing (covered in an Antara News report), it carries a clear undercurrent of historical revisionism. Among the ten honored figures were Soeharto himself, along with ex-president Abdurrahman Wahid (affectionately known as Gus Dur), labor activist Marsinah—who tragically fell victim to violence during the New Order era—and diplomat Mochtar Kusumaatmadja. Juxtaposing Soeharto, the authoritarian, with Gus Dur, a champion of democracy and diversity, was pitched as a fair balance. But in politics, symbols carry real weight: this elevation reframes Soeharto's dictatorship not as exploitation, but as national pride.
For Prabowo, this act is more about claiming a lineage than correcting history. As Soeharto's former son-in-law and a graduate of the same military machine that enforced the New Order's oppression, Prabowo is now boldly reviving that heritage. By glorifying Soeharto, he's essentially endorsing his vision of a more disciplined, unified, and compliant Indonesia. What appears as reconciliation is actually a power grab—a redrawing of ethical lines to favor today's elite.
And this is the part most people miss: the ethical implications run deep. In his 1989 memoir, Soeharto: Pikiran, Ucapan, dan Tindakan Saya (available in the ANRI library), the former general openly admitted to sanctioning Petrus—the 'mysterious shootings' of suspected criminals in the early 1980s. He justified it by claiming crime bred widespread panic and that offenders had crossed into inhumane territory, necessitating 'firm action' from the state. If they fought back, he said, they had to be eliminated, with some corpses left on display as a deterrent. Later investigations by scholars revealed Petrus wasn't random vigilante work but a coordinated government terror campaign, as Soeharto himself described. Indonesia's National Human Rights Commission eventually labeled it a severe violation of human rights.
By crowning Soeharto a hero, Indonesia isn't just brushing aside this violent past—it's repackaging it as bravery and loyalty to the country. Prabowo's backers argue it's all about fostering unity, not forgiveness. But true unity demands honesty; without it, we end up with selective forgetting. For younger generations like Millennials and Gen Z, who didn't experience Soeharto's rule firsthand but navigate a world where viral content often overshadows serious history, this hero-worship sends a troubling message: state-sponsored brutality can be whitewashed if it aligns with current leaders' goals, stability trumps responsibility, and past suffering is up for negotiation.
Across the waters, a contrasting drama unfolds. In March 2025, ex-President Duterte was detained on an ICC warrant after Marcos Jr. resumed cooperation with The Hague (watch this YouTube clip for context). He's now awaiting trial for atrocities linked to his lethal 'war on drugs,' which claimed over 20,000 lives. Much like Soeharto, Duterte justified his savagery with rhetoric about order and control. But Duterte ruled in the smartphone era, where his excesses weren't concealed—they were broadcast live, his rants amplified by social media algorithms.
Yet Duterte's downfall stems not from a sudden moral epiphany, but from political betrayal. The 2022 alliance between Marcos and Duterte (with Marcos' son and Duterte's daughter as vice president) crumbled, stripping Duterte of his protection. Now, a Marcos—heir to another autocratic family—has turned to the ICC to undermine a former ally. While justice here might be authentic, it's also a tool in the power game.
If Sara Duterte, his daughter, ascends to the presidency—a real possibility given her family's strong support—she could potentially halt further ICC involvement and push for her father's domestic comeback. But once in The Hague's custody, no Philippine leader can simply release him. So, the Philippines isn't truly embracing accountability; it's stuck in the same old cycle of elite feuds, where 'justice' is just another weapon in the fight for control.
Even so, this calculated justice shines a light on the differences. Despite the cynicism, the Philippines illustrates that a government can view its tyrants as burdens to discard. Indonesia shows the flip side: a tyrant can be glorified if it advances the ruling class's agenda.
This divide holds special meaning for Indonesia's youth. As school lessons downplay the New Order's horrors and public events glorify Soeharto as a patriot, Prabowo's decision risks endorsing the illusion of kind-hearted authoritarianism. It educates a generation untouched by those years that development and discipline excuse terror—and that holding leaders accountable is merely optional.
Southeast Asia has long embraced its strongmen, from Soeharto and Ferdinand Marcos Sr. to Mahathir Mohamad, Lee Kuan Yew, and Hun Sen, with history often favoring centralized power. But now, the region is fracturing in how it handles these inheritances. The Philippines is cautiously, opportunistically purging a ghost; Indonesia is intentionally enshrining one.
In Jakarta, Soeharto's image graces the Heroes' Hall. In The Hague, Duterte's booking photo joins the ICC records. Both reflect the irony: societies wrestling with their despots, yet unable to function without echoes of their influence.
But the governments' paths couldn't be more distinct. One employs justice as a leash on a past killer; the other revives heroism to bless its own rule.
What do you think? Is glorifying Soeharto a necessary step for Indonesian unity, or does it dangerously excuse atrocities? And in the Philippines, is Duterte's trial genuine accountability, or just political theater? Share your views in the comments—do you agree with elevating tyrants for 'national reconciliation,' or should we always prioritize truth? And here's a provocative twist: could this trend in Indonesia inspire other nations to sanitize their dictators, turning history into a playbook for future abuses? Let's discuss!
