Nadirsyah Hosen – In Indonesia's villages and small towns, a growing phenomenon is reshaping the public soundscape. Known as sound horeg – a colloquial term for ultra-loud mobile sound systems – these setups often feature towering stacks of homemade speakers, roaring subwoofers, and music blasted well into the night. They accompany everything from weddings to street parades, religious processions and secular celebrations.

To some, sound horeg is a celebration of grassroots joy – a sonic expression of community life. To others, it is the symbol of social dominance: noise weaponised by those with the means to overwhelm those without.

This article explores both sides of the controversy: is sound horeg truly the unheard voice of the people, or has it become a new form of acoustic inequality?

When religious fatwas meet public peace

Several local Islamic scholars and councils have issued fatwas (religious opinions) against 'sound horeg', declaring it impermissible when it causes public disturbance, involves inappropriate social mixing, or facilitates morally questionable entertainment. These rulings are grounded in the jurisprudential maxim l? ?arar wa l? ?ir?r – 'no harm shall be inflicted or reciprocated'.

From this perspective, if a sound system disrupts prayer, interrupts rest, or sparks neighbourhood conflict, it ceases to be a form of culture and becomes a form of injustice.

Still, not all religious responses must rely on outright prohibition. In theory, an alternative fatwa could be developed based on the principle of tadarruj – a gradualist approach in Islamic tradition that favours education over confrontation.

Rather than banning sound horeg altogether, this method would emphasise working with communities to recalibrate their understanding of sound, space, and social responsibility. This perspective draws from a broader tradition in Islamic social jurisprudence, where cultural change is often achieved through persuasion and adaptation – not coercion.

Health risks: terror in high frequencies

Beyond the moral debate, sound horeg poses real physiological risks. Volume levels often exceed 100 decibels – comparable to a jet taking off. Prolonged exposure can cause permanent hearing loss, especially among children and the elderly. Researchers also link excessive noise exposure to sleep disorders, elevated stress hormones, hypertension, and cardiovascular strain.

Yet awareness of these dangers remains minimal. Most horeg operators have no training in safe audio levels, nor do they use sound meters. Local regulations on noise thresholds, where they exist, are rarely enforced, particularly in rural areas.

As a result, public health is left vulnerable to unregulated acoustic environments that treat volume as a measure of festivity rather than a risk factor.

A technological boom with little literacy

The explosion of sound horeg has been enabled by a revolution in cheap, accessible technology. Audio amplifiers can be assembled from inexpensive components; speakers are often custom-built using recycled parts; and software equalisers – many of them pirated – allow even amateurs to mimic nightclub-grade acoustics.

This is, in one sense, a success story. The democratisation of sound technology has empowered communities to create their own entertainment ecosystems. Anyone with basic wiring skills and a smartphone can become a village DJ.

But this empowerment comes without accompanying literacy. There is little public education about the physics of sound, the ethics of shared space, or the need for balance between personal celebration and collective wellbeing. The result is a culture where sound becomes power – measured not by quality, but by decibels.

The illusion of grassroots expression

Defenders of sound horeg often frame it as the voice of the underclass – a symbol of the people reclaiming public space in a society where so much is privatised or restricted. This framing has rhetorical appeal. Many Indonesian villages lack access to affordable public entertainment, and in such contexts, a sound system may feel like the only available stage.

Yet this narrative deserves interrogation. Renting a full sound horeg setup can cost up to 100 million rupiah (A$9,400), an astronomical figure for ordinary villagers. In many cases, the organisers are not the economically marginalised, but local elites: landlords, contractors, village officials, or businesspeople looking to showcase wealth and influence.

In this sense, sound horeg is not always grassroots. It is sometimes the sonic equivalent of a luxury SUV – a symbol of status disguised as mass culture.

Who gets to be loud?

The real victims of sound horeg are often those least equipped to resist it: elderly residents who can't sleep, infants startled awake by midnight basslines, labourers who need rest before early morning work, or mothers recovering from childbirth. Complaining can invite social backlash – or even intimidation – especially when the sound system is backed by a powerful family or local patron.

In effect, sound horeg become an informal acoustic hierarchy. Those with money get to control the village soundscape. Those without must endure it. Noise, once a tool of expression, becomes a weapon of silencing.

Not all noise is created equal

Criticism of sound horeg often comes from the urban middle class, who find the noise unbearable. But here lies another irony. Urban Indonesians also live in constant noise – not from speakers, but from social media. Their lives are flooded with algorithmic chatter, political arguments, and digital virality. They, too, dwell in cacophony, just of a different kind.

Meanwhile, villagers without online influence create literal noise to assert presence. Both classes are loud. The difference is in the platform, not the principle.

From policing to participatory governance

Banning sound horeg altogether is neither feasible nor just. Communities need celebration. Sound has always been part of how cultures express joy, sorrow, transition, and togetherness.

Instead, what is needed is participatory regulation. Local governments should:

• offer technical training on safe sound engineering;
• set reasonable curfews and decibel limits;
• provide incentives for sound system operators who comply with guidelines;
• and, most importantly, create alternative, accessible spaces for celebration that do not depend solely on raw volume.

This is not about silencing communities. It is about reimagining celebration in a way that includes everyone – not just those who can afford to be heard.

Listening to the unheard

Sound horeg is more than a loudspeaker issue. It reflects the deeper social structure of who speaks and who listens, who celebrates and who suffers, who owns space and who inhabits it in silence.

To manage this sound is to manage power. If the state wishes to regulate sound horeg, it must start not with a crackdown, but with a commitment to listening – not only to the loudest voices, but to those whose quiet suffering too often goes unnoticed.

Because in a just society, joy should not come at the expense of someone else's peace.

Source: https://indonesiaatmelbourne.unimelb.edu.au/sound-horeg-when-public-noise-isnt-the-peoples-voice