Erick Thohir and the Anxiety of Passports Ahead of FIFA ASEAN Cup 2026

On the evening of September 14, in Jakarta, as the last buses carrying The Jakmania pulled away from the Gelora Bung Karno area, I stayed behind on the sidewalk. A coconut vendor looked toward the stadium and said something in Indonesian that took me a few seconds to fully grasp: "This year it has to be different." He did not ask about the score. He did not mention the coach's name. He only spoke about a fear that had become a habit.

Three months earlier, Indonesia had left the AFF ASEAN Cup in disappointment, and that night, thousands still sang until the stadium lights went dark. On the evening of September 14, PSSI chairman Erick Thohir stood before the media and admitted what many in Jakarta had already sensed before he did: Indonesia is entering a home tournament without being certain it is the strongest team. He worries about Malaysia. He worries about Vietnam. And he worries most about the new passports.

To understand this anxiety, we have to return to the structure of a tournament being reshaped. The FIFA ASEAN Cup 2026 does not copy the traditional AFF ASEAN Cup template. It is a FIFA-backed competition, with Indonesia as host, and Group A featuring Malaysia, Singapore, and Bangladesh. On paper, this is a group Indonesia can navigate with relative comfort.

But Erick Thohir is not talking about the group. He is talking about Malaysia pushing to naturalize 5 to 7 players, and Vietnam — the reigning ASEAN Cup 2026 champion, the team that beat Indonesia itself — adding two more naturalized faces, one of them of African origin. Those data points do not live in tactical reports. They live in the registration list. And in Southeast Asian football, the registration list sometimes matters more than the tactical diagram.

I once sat at Gelora Bung Karno in 2026, for Persija against Bali United, when Ismed Sofyan scored from a throw-in nobody could fully explain. That night I wrote "The Song That Never Stopped." The lesson I kept was not the goal, but the feeling that Southeast Asian football is always decided by things outside the shot. A passport is one of those things. Naturalization in Southeast Asia has become an industrial mechanism: a talent supply chain running from diaspora markets, through the agent system, into national registration lists, and finally appearing in the stands as names fans must learn to pronounce.

I have spent most of my time in Jakarta watching how Southeast Asian federations build their national teams. In thirteen years of observing this industry, I have never seen the naturalization current as dense as it is ahead of the FIFA ASEAN Cup 2026. What matters is not the quantity, but the structure.

Malaysia, according to Erick Thohir, is targeting 5 to 7 naturalized players. If those 5 to 7 faces materialize, it is not merely a squad supplement. It is an intervention in squad depth — a strategy to raise the talent ceiling, not a tactical innovation. In Southeast Asia, the positions where domestic development pipelines are thinnest are the center-forward and the tall center-back. Those are exactly where naturalization is usually aimed. A Brazilian-born striker can change how a Southeast Asian national team attacks, but it does not change that team's playing identity. It raises the ceiling; it does not elevate the system. What federations actually buy through naturalization is not goals. It is time for the youth development system to catch up.

Vietnam walks a different path. Two new naturalized faces, one of them of African origin, reveal a more selective policy. Indonesian fans may know Michael Olaha, a Nigerian-born player who has naturalized for Vietnam, one of the cases CNN Indonesia cited when analyzing the opponent's strength. Vietnam does not buy a squad. Vietnam fills the exact gap. That is the difference between a long-term strategy and a short-term reaction, and it explains why a federation like PSSI, historically hesitant on naturalization for political and identity reasons, now feels left behind.

There is a point I consider important but rarely discussed. Erick Thohir's anxiety is not purely sporting. It is messaging. When a federation chairman publicly "warns" about opponents before a home tournament, he is doing two things at once. First, he is preparing the public with an explanation if the result goes wrong — that Indonesia lost because opponents had stronger naturalized squads, not because Indonesia's system was weaker. Second, he is opening the door for Indonesia's own naturalization wave, if result pressure grows too heavy.

I witnessed something similar in 2026, when Persikabo 2026 nearly collapsed under unpaid wages. Back then, the question was not whether the team had talent, but whether they dared change how they worked. After two weeks of fundraising, we raised 500 million rupiah and paid seven young players' wages. Naturalization is not fundraising, but the psychology is the same: it is a way to buy time when the system has not yet matured. When we cannot sing, we learn to listen to the team's breathing — and that breathing, in Jakarta this season, is more urgent than in any year.

What is notable is that Indonesia is not without naturalization. The problem is speed. While Malaysia and Vietnam actively review diaspora lists and negotiate with clubs, Indonesia remains a beat behind. And at a home tournament, one beat behind can mean the opportunity is gone.

There is a common misunderstanding about naturalization in Southeast Asia, and I want to say it plainly: naturalization is not a shortcut. It is an investment with risk. Many fans look at a naturalized player and think of a guaranteed goal. But Southeast Asian history shows the opposite. There are naturalized players who arrive, play a few matches, then vanish from the squad because they cannot adapt to the climate, the culture, or the pressure of the stands.

There is also a downside. When a national team relies on naturalization to fill gaps, it may unintentionally send the message that domestic players are not good enough. That is why many Indonesians oppose naturalization. The fire on the stands never goes out, it only changes color into arms — and those arms want to see their own people score. A heavily naturalized national team can win, but it can lose its connection to the stands in a way no scoreline can measure.

There is a drumbeat that still sounds after so many seasons of football have gone silent. That drumbeat in Jakarta does not ask where a player was born. It only asks whether the team fights for the shirt. And that is something no passport can answer on anyone's behalf.

In ninety minutes on the pitch, anything can change. But a passport, a registration list, a negotiation with a parent club — those are the matches played before the ball rolls. Indonesia has the home ground, the stands, The Jakmania. But there are things a home ground cannot buy. What Indonesian fans are waiting for is not an answer about whether their team is strong enough to win. What they are waiting for is whether their federation is ready to change how it builds a national team before the opening whistle blows.