From Paes to Romeny: Indonesia and the Import Talent Route Built on a Colonial Legacy

In August 2026, I sat in a small cafe in Incheon, my phone screen replaying footage from an FC Dallas match. Maarten Paes stood in goal. Born in 2026, Dutch, and freshly approved by FIFA to switch federations to Indonesia. I was not watching the match to know the score. I was watching because I wanted to know what a man who had just changed his football nationality looked like in the opening seconds of the first half.

The way he shouted at his back line, the way he clapped after a save, the way he bowed his head when the referee blew the whistle. Those small gestures. I once played as a second-tier professional, and I know that when a new goalkeeper arrives, the entire back line has to relearn how to trust one another. At national-team level, that window is far shorter.

Six months later, in February 2026, I read that Ole Romeny had taken the oath of Indonesian citizenship. A forward raised in the Netherlands, now set to wear the Garuda shirt. Two names, two positions — goalkeeper and centre-forward. Two ends of a single spinal line.

In football, those are the positions where one player alone can change a result. Indonesia picked exactly those two slots to fill. What does that mean for the rest of Southeast Asia, Vietnam included?

The context of a wave

Southeast Asia is passing through a phase in which national federations no longer look only to their domestic leagues for players. The Philippines has done this for years with players of Filipino-American descent. Malaysia has names born abroad but rooted at home. Thailand quietly searches its diaspora. Indonesia, over the past two years, has pushed the pace to a different level.

Not long ago, the Football Association of Indonesia (PSSI) was seen as an organisation dogged by scandal. Indonesian football had entered history books through strange cases and internal crises that dragged on for decades. But over roughly three years, under new leadership, the association pivoted hard toward a strategy few Southeast Asian federations pursue at that scale: finding people abroad.

That strategy did not begin with a statement. It began with specific names. Justin Hubner. Rafael Struick. Jay Idzes. Thom Haye. Calvin Verdonk. Eliano Reijnders. And now Maarten Paes and Ole Romeny. The list grows longer, and each name added is another occasion on which PSSI must work across two overlapping legal systems: Indonesian citizenship law and FIFA regulations.

What stands out is the speed. In under two years, Indonesia has brought a generation of Europe-raised players into the national team. Long-time observers of Southeast Asian football may recall a different moment — when Vietnam, built on domestic cohorts, surpassed Indonesia at every level. That picture is now shifting. And it is shifting not because Indonesia has developed players better, but because it found a different road.

Maarten Paes and the federation-transfer problem

Before discussing Paes as a goalkeeper, it is worth discussing how he reached the Indonesia squad at all. Paes was born in 2026 in the Netherlands. He once played for the Netherlands U21 side — meaning he was on record at youth international level. That creates a legal barrier many overlook.

FIFA operates a mechanism called a change of association, available to players who have represented one federation at youth level but never played for that federation's senior national team. Paes needed this mechanism. In April 2026 he acquired Indonesian citizenship. In August 2026, FIFA approved his switch from the Dutch federation to the Indonesian federation.

The gap between those two dates was four months. That may sound short, but for a file requiring documentation of ancestry, administrative procedures in two countries, and a decision by world football's governing body, four months signals that PSSI had prepared well in advance. Indonesian media later reported that PSSI pursued Paes's file "persistently" over a long period. How long exactly was never made clear, but the verb alone is telling.

The interesting part lies elsewhere. Paes played for the Netherlands U21 side when he was 22. At that age, representing a youth national team is ordinary, but it also places a player at the edge of the change-of-association rules. Some Indonesian fans wondered whether Paes was genuinely committed to the national team or merely seizing an opportunity. I do not think so. Goalkeepers raised in Europe often have few options at major national-team level — the Netherlands has many fine goalkeepers. For Paes, Indonesia is a chance to play at the highest level he can realistically reach.

But the question is not motive. The question is impact. A goalkeeper of European-level quality standing in the goal of a Southeast Asian national team produces an effect other positions cannot. I remember the feeling of standing in goal during second-tier matches in South Korea. When the back line in front of you trusts the goalkeeper, it plays differently. It dares to push higher, to press tighter, to leave space behind, because it knows that if it errs, the man behind can save it.

At national-team level, where players meet for only a few days before each match, that trust matters even more. A good goalkeeper does not need perfect understanding with his back line if he is good enough to compensate for the gaps created by unfamiliarity. Paes, at 27, is in the mature phase of a goalkeeper's career. Goalkeeping is the position where peak years arrive late and last longer than elsewhere.

If Paes becomes Indonesia's first-choice No.1, his stabilising effect on the back line is predictable. But that is inference, not proven fact. What I know for certain is that Indonesia has just filled the position with the highest single-player leverage on the pitch.

Ole Romeny and the other end of the spine

If Paes anchors the defence, Ole Romeny anchors the attack. Romeny was born and raised in the Netherlands, developed inside European academy systems, and took the oath of Indonesian citizenship in February 2026. He is a forward — the position expected to score.

What catches my eye about Romeny is not his skill but his position. Centre-forward is where Southeast Asian national teams struggle most. Domestic leagues in the region tend to produce more midfielders and defenders than strikers. A striker of international standard usually has to be developed abroad. By this route, Indonesia need not wait for its domestic system to produce a centre-forward; it finds one already trained elsewhere.

But like Paes, Romeny's story is not free of tension. He is one of the most prominent names among the naturalised players, which means the reputational load on his shoulders is heavier. If Indonesia fails in a major match, if Romeny does not score, the story quickly shifts from "who does he score for" to "does he belong here at all".

I have seen that many times. The crowd disperses, but the roar stays behind in every player's eyes. A naturalised player always carries a question a locally born player does not: do I truly belong here? That question is not answered by goals. It is answered only by time.

The two legal gates Paes and Romeny had to pass

To understand why these two players can wear the Indonesia shirt, one must understand two overlapping rule systems. This is the part journalists often call a "legal loophole" — a label I consider technically inaccurate, though I will return to that point shortly.

The first gate is Indonesian citizenship law. Under Law No. 12 of 2026, a foreign national can acquire Indonesian citizenship not only through ordinary routes (marriage, long residence) but also through a mechanism called naturalisation "in the national interest". That mechanism, set out in Article 20 of the law, allows the government to grant citizenship to individuals deemed to contribute to the country. Such cases must be approved by Indonesia's House of Representatives (DPR). For footballers, "national interest" is understood as contributing to the national team and the country's image.

There is no indigenous-blood requirement here. This is the crux. Indonesian citizenship law permits a person to naturalise without indigenous Indonesian ancestry, provided other conditions are met and the case is approved in the national interest. Paes and Romeny have no indigenous Indonesian blood. Under Indonesian law, that is not required.

The second gate is FIFA's rulebook. Here there is a concept called "substantial connection" — a rule allowing a player to represent a national federation if a parent or biological grandparent was born on that federation's territory. This sits in the FIFA Regulations Governing the Application of the FIFA Statutes (RGAS). For Paes and Romeny, the criterion is satisfied through grandparents born in the Dutch East Indies — territory that is now Indonesia.

Crucially, FIFA's rule also does not require indigenous blood. It requires only the birthplace of an ancestor. A Dutchman whose grandfather was born in Batavia, for instance, is eligible to play for Indonesia — even if that ancestor was a colonial Dutch settler with not a drop of indigenous Indonesian blood. This is where fan intuition and the letter of the law diverge.

Legally, Paes and Romeny passed both gates validly. They are fully eligible. There is nothing unlawful about their cases.

The Dutch East Indies legacy and a finite resource

To understand why Indonesia can do this at scale, one must understand the history. For more than three centuries, the Dutch East Indies was a Dutch colony. During that time, a community of Dutch and Dutch-Indonesian mixed-heritage people formed and lived across the archipelago. After Indonesian independence in 2026 and especially after the Netherlands recognised sovereignty in 2026, many in this community emigrated to the Netherlands. They are known in some usages as "blijvers" — those who stayed — or simply as Indo people.

That community, and its descendants, now lives mainly in the Netherlands. Many of them have grandparents born in the Dutch East Indies. That is precisely the condition both Indonesian law and FIFA require. Indonesia can therefore find in the Netherlands a pool of players with a special historical origin.

This is an advantage other Southeast Asian nations lack. Vietnam, with its French colonial history, has a Vietnamese community in France, but that community is far less tied to football. Thailand has a diaspora, but few cases where ancestors were born in Thailand and the descendants matured inside a strong European football system. The Philippines shares Indonesia's advantage — American colonial history produced a Filipino-American community — and has tapped that resource for years.

But there is a caveat to this strategy. The resource is non-renewable. The Dutch East Indies community, whose members have ancestors born on Indonesian territory, is a closed historical population. No one else will be born in the Dutch East Indies, because that territory no longer exists. Each player drawn from this pool is one fewer for the future. Over time, the resource will run dry.

That means Indonesia, if it relies only on this route, faces a fork in the road. It can exploit the diaspora for a few more generations, but at some point it must return to its domestic development system. And if, during the diaspora-harvesting years, it neglects investment in youth development, it will struggle once the resource is exhausted.

This mirrors a club that buys players rather than develops them. The club can climb the table fast, win fast, but if it does not invest in its academy, when the purchased players age out or depart, it has no replacement pipeline. A national team built on naturalisation is the same.

Vietnam, seen from Incheon

I write these lines from Incheon, a few hours by air from Vietnam and a few more from Jakarta. This geography gives me a specific angle on Southeast Asian football — not as someone inside the region, but as an observer from outside it.

From this angle, I see Vietnam and Indonesia taking two different roads. Vietnam, over roughly a decade, has successfully built a relatively stable youth-development system. Cohorts such as Nguyen Quang Hai, Nguyen Cong Phuong, Do Hung Dung, and later Nguyen Hoang Duc and Nguyen Tien Linh, all matured from domestic academies. Vietnam's model grows from the base. It is slow, but it is durable.

Indonesia is taking the opposite route. It imports players already developed in Europe, brings them into the national team, and fills its weakest positions. This route is fast, but it depends on an external resource.

In the short term, Indonesia's route may deliver results faster. If Paes keeps clean sheets and Romeny scores, Indonesia can beat Vietnam in some key matches. If Indonesia reaches a World Cup qualifying stage and Vietnam does not, Vietnamese fans will ask why.

But I do not think the story is that simple. National-team football is not merely the sum of the best players. It is also understanding, mutual recognition, and identity. A squad made entirely of Europe-raised players may be technically superior, but it also needs time to learn how to play together. And at national-team level, time is the scarcest thing there is.

I have watched many Incheon United matches, where domestic and foreign players must learn to play together across a season. There they have months, dozens of matches, hundreds of training sessions. At national-team level, they have days before each match. Every call-up restarts from zero. Chemistry must be built another way — through individual adaptability, tactical intelligence, and experience in varied environments.

Players like Paes and Romeny have that experience. They have played in different settings, and they can adapt quickly. But that is a different skill from collective chemistry. And in football, a team can play well if it has adaptable individuals. It can play excellently if it has a collective that understands itself. Indonesia is trying to secure the first, and hoping the second arrives.

The contrarian angle: a "loophole" is not a loophole

Now I want to address how Indonesian media frame these cases. Many reports call Paes and Romeny "exceptional cases" and describe their route as exploiting a "legal loophole". That framing seems plausible to an average reader, but technically it is wrong.

A legal loophole is something outside the lawmaker's intent — a gap one can slip through. The grandparent-birthplace criterion in FIFA rules is not a gap. It is a designed criterion. When FIFA wrote this rule, it knew it would allow people without indigenous blood to qualify. It knew the descendants of migrants, colonists, and overseas workers would benefit. That was the point.

Likewise, Indonesian citizenship law's national-interest naturalisation mechanism was designed to let the country invite people with potential contributions. It is not a loophole. It is a tool.

So why do journalists call it a "loophole"? I think there are two reasons. First, the label makes a more compelling story. A "loophole exploiter" is a more interesting character than a "user of a lawful, designed mechanism". Second, the label reflects an underlying discomfort about identity. When a player without indigenous blood wears a national shirt, some people feel something is off, even where the law is entirely clear. The word "loophole" is how that feeling gets expressed.

What needs saying is this: eligibility does not equal indigeneity. A player can be eligible to represent a national team without carrying that nation's blood. This is a legal fact FIFA and many national citizenship laws recognise. Calling it a loophole is a moral overstatement, not a legal description.

None of this means the naturalisation strategy has no problems. It does. Those problems lie elsewhere — in the finite resource, in identity friction, in the effect on domestic development. But branding naturalisation itself a "loophole" confuses a legal question with a moral one.

I write about players' mental health with particular respect, and I think it applies here. Players like Paes and Romeny are doing what the law permits. Questioning their "loyalty", their "blood", is a form of pressure they do not deserve. They are doing their jobs. If anyone should be questioned, it is the rule-makers, not the players.

Southeast Asia's arms race

When one nation finds an effective route, others follow. Southeast Asia is in that phase with naturalisation.

The Philippines led the way. Malaysia has similar cases. Thailand is searching. And if Indonesia succeeds with its model, pressure will mount on other regional federations to do the same.

This can produce a race in which every nation hunts for players with roots abroad. Such a race has one feature: it creates no new value. It only redistributes players who already exist. If Indonesia takes a player from the Netherlands, Malaysia cannot take the same one. But if both are searching the same finite pool — people with Southeast Asian ancestry raised in Europe — the pool will eventually run dry.

In such a race, Vietnam is in a harder position. With French colonial history and a diaspora less tied to football, Vietnam lacks the same resource to tap. That means if the naturalisation race becomes decisive, Vietnam will be at a disadvantage.

But there is another reading. If every nation in the region is trying to import players, the differentiator will not be who has more naturalised players, but who builds a better collective. And on that measure, Vietnam has an edge in its experience of building a national team from a cohort that matured together.

I do not think the answer is settled. Indonesia may pull ahead over the next few years. Vietnam may hold its standing through stability. Both may coexist in a region where more nations are simply stronger than before. Southeast Asian football may become more competitive, and that, in the end, may be good for everyone.

Internal signals to watch

What I will track in the coming months is not Romeny's goals or Paes's saves. I will watch other things.

First, whether Indonesia continues to naturalise. If it does, it believes in the model and will keep investing in it. If it stops, it may have recognised the model's limits.

Second, how the Indonesia national team plays as a collective. Naturalised players may perform well individually, but they need to perform well together. If I see them passing to each other, moving for each other, understanding each other without a word — that is a sign the model is working. If I see them playing as separate individuals, the model has a problem.

Third, how other regional nations respond. If Vietnam begins searching for players with roots abroad, that is a sign the pressure has spread. If others follow, it is a sign of a regional trend.

And finally, I will watch the silences. A dressing room is never silent; we are simply not still enough to hear it. When a national team holds players from many cultures, those silences can say a great deal. They may speak of tension, of distance, or of an understanding quietly forming.

I do not know the answer. I only know I will keep sitting in cold stands, noting small details, and trying to understand what is truly happening in Southeast Asian football.

Because far from home, every goal is a thread tying back to where you came from. And when Indonesia scores through a player born in the Netherlands, that thread stretches across a complicated history — colonial history, migration history, the history of people searching for a place to belong. Football in Southeast Asia is not just about balls. It is about people trying to name their own home.

What I want to leave is not whether Indonesia was right to naturalise Paes and Romeny. What I want to leave is this: if Southeast Asian football keeps walking this road, what happens to the players who matured in domestic academies — the ones with no grandparent born in a colonial territory, the ones with only one country to call home?

Perhaps the answer arrives in the next few years, when the next generation enters the national team. Then we will know whether the naturalisation route is a solution, or merely a way of postponing a deeper problem. I will be here, in Incheon, still watching. An empty stadium still echoes with the sound of two years ago — and in this case, that echo is the sound of a question without an answer yet.