The Constitutional Court Adjudicates Quotas
This country is indeed full of surprises. Even for matters of “remaining internet”, the people must climb the ladder all the way to the Constitutional Court (MK).
Imagine, two ordinary citizens—a ride-hailing driver and an online seller—must sue the state just to question one simple thing: “If I buy 10 GB, why does the remainder suddenly disappear?”
It has long been common for people to come to court because their land has been seized. Now, people are coming before the honourable Constitutional Court judges because their “remaining internet” is seized by time or sucked away by operators.
And this is not some wild coffee shop metaphor. This is truly happening at the MK building since the lawsuit was filed on 29 December 2025. The hearing has not yet concluded.
The plaintiffs are a husband-and-wife pair working in the digital sector: Didi Supandi, a ride-hailing transport driver, and Wahyu Triana Sari, an online seller.
They have filed a judicial review against Article 71 paragraph 2 of Law Number 6 of 2023 on Job Creation, which amends Article 28 of Law Number 36 of 1999 on Telecommunications.
The core issue is simple but has a massive impact on millions of people: the regulation is seen as the legal basis for the prepaid data package practice that causes remaining quotas to expire when the active period ends.
In the people’s logic, quota that has been bought is the consumer’s property right. But in the operators’ logic, quota is considered part of a service whose use is time-limited.
Thus, this clash has escalated to a constitutional matter: can the state allow something that the people have already paid for to disappear just because the calendar moves faster than the quota usage?
And the ones suing are not telecom conglomerates, not Silicon Valley tycoons, not low-orbit satellite investors. The ones suing are an ordinary digital worker husband-and-wife pair from the grassroots.
They live from the internet. For them, quota is not a lifestyle, but the breath of their economy. Quota is the petrol for their digital motorbike.
Thus, when quota expires, it feels like buying five kilograms of rice, only cooking four kilos, and the rest suddenly swept away by an official saying: “Sorry sir, the rice’s active period has expired.” That is the absurdity of the logic of our times.
The MK judges themselves are astonished. Judge Guntur Hamzah asked in a tone representing millions of people: “I buy 10 GB, only use 9 GB, why is it already finished?”
A simple question, but it shakes the foundation of the operators’ business logic. Because at that point, the clash becomes clear: the people consider quota as goods, operators consider it a service.
This country is amusing. Even electricity, which is invisible, can be considered “goods”. Flowing PAM water can be measured for usage rights. Even electricity tokens can be passed on to the next month.
But internet quota—bought with real money, with tangible rupiah—suddenly turns into a metaphysical creature: it exists but cannot be fully owned.
This is like buying a bowl of bakso with big writing: “The bakso is fully yours.” But after midnight, the bakso seller comes knocking on the door saying: “Sorry sir, the broth that hasn’t been drunk we take back for the sake of national stability.”
And the people can only gape while checking the remaining quota that disappears faster than campaign promises.
Netizens’ comments have exploded. Some call operators “licensed robbers”. Some compare it to PLN. Some say if the system is time-based, then just make it unlimited internet for a certain period.
These comments are interesting, because ordinary people are not talking doctoral-level telecommunications theory. They are talking the most basic sense of justice: “If I’ve already paid, why don’t I have full rights over what I’ve bought?”