It is a strange moment when a nonviolent act of conscience—refusing to buy a burger, skipping a cup of coffee—draws more concern from public officials than the devastation that inspired it. Indonesia’s Minister of Religious Affairs, Nasaruddin Umar, recently argued that boycotts of companies linked to Israel are “not a solution,” pointing instead to layoffs and economic disruption at home. His remarks reveal a troubling misreading of both history and moral responsibility.

Boycotts are not a new or reckless invention of modern activism. They are among the oldest tools available to ordinary people seeking to exert pressure when governments fail to act. From the anti-war protests in the United States during the 1960s and 1970s to the global campaign against apartheid South Africa, economic non-cooperation has often been the most accessible—and most effective—form of resistance available to civilians. To dismiss boycotts today is to ignore a long tradition in which small, collective acts helped reshape entrenched systems of injustice.

What is happening in Gaza is not an abstract geopolitical dispute. It is a humanitarian catastrophe unfolding in real time, one that has galvanized global outrage. In such moments, people reach for whatever tools they have.

What is happening in Gaza is not an abstract geopolitical dispute. It is a humanitarian catastrophe unfolding in real time, one that has galvanized global outrage. In such moments, people reach for whatever tools they have.

For many, that means participating in the Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions (BDS) movement—an effort to apply economic pressure on institutions seen as complicit in Israel’s policies. Critics often question whether such actions make a difference. But even conservative estimates suggest that BDS could cost Israel billions of dollars annually. Economic pressure, especially when sustained and global, is rarely meaningless.

More importantly, boycotts are not only about immediate economic impact; they are about signalling. They communicate that complicity carries consequences, that consumers are not passive participants in global markets but moral agents. When enough individuals act in concert, corporations notice. And when corporations shift, governments often follow.

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The minister’s concern about layoffs—reportedly affecting thousands of workers in Indonesia—is not trivial. Economic pain is real, and workers should never be treated as collateral damage in political struggles. But this framing presents a false dichotomy: that Indonesians must choose between solidarity with Palestinians and the well-being of their own citizens. In reality, these goals are not mutually exclusive.

History again offers a lesson.

During the anti-apartheid boycott, there were also concerns about economic repercussions, both in South Africa and abroad. Yet the movement ultimately helped dismantle one of the most entrenched systems of racial oppression in modern history.

During the anti-apartheid boycott, there were also concerns about economic repercussions, both in South Africa and abroad. Yet the movement ultimately helped dismantle one of the most entrenched systems of racial oppression in modern history.

It did so not because it was painless, but because it was persistent and morally clear. The question was never whether boycotts would cause disruption; it was whether that disruption was justified in the face of systemic injustice.

Moreover, the assumption that boycotts inevitably harm local economies overlooks a critical dynamic: they can also create space for local growth. As multinational brands face declining demand, domestic businesses often step in to fill the gap. There is already evidence of this in other countries, where local products—from beverages to consumer goods—have seen surges in demand amid boycott campaigns. This is not economic collapse; it is economic redistribution.

Indonesia, with its vast market and entrepreneurial base, is particularly well positioned to benefit from such a shift. Rather than discouraging boycotts, the government could seize this moment to invest in and promote local industries. Supporting small and medium enterprises, strengthening supply chains, and encouraging consumers to “buy local” would not only mitigate job losses but also build a more resilient national economy. Solidarity with Palestinians, in this sense, could go hand in hand with solidarity among Indonesians themselves.

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There is also a deeper issue at stake: the role of the state in shaping moral discourse. When officials criticize grassroots movements for being ineffective or harmful, they risk undermining the very civic engagement that sustains democratic societies. People do not boycott because they believe it is a perfect solution; they do so because it is one of the few levers available to them. To dismiss that effort without offering a credible alternative is to ask for passivity in the face of suffering.

No one claims that boycotts alone will resolve the crisis in Gaza. But to argue that they are “not a solution” misses the point. They are not the solution; they are part of a broader ecosystem of pressure, advocacy and awareness. They are a way for individuals, far removed from the corridors of power, to say: we see what is happening, and we refuse to be complicit.

In moments of profound injustice, neutrality is rarely neutral. It is, more often, a quiet endorsement of the status quo. Indonesians who choose to boycott are not undermining their country; they are exercising their conscience. Rather than questioning their motives, the government should ask how it can align economic policy with ethical responsibility.

Because if refusing to buy a product in protest of human suffering is considered too disruptive, then we must ask: what, exactly, would count as an acceptable form of solidarity?

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The views expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial policy of Middle East Monitor.

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