Indonesia's Paes and Romeny Naturalizations: The Zero-Fee Deals Shifting the ASEAN Balance

In Jakarta, one February night, a young man born in 2026 placed his hand on a sworn statement. No stadium, no applause, no live broadcast. Just paperwork, an interpreter, and a football federation that had waited months for precisely this moment. A few weeks later, the name Ole Romeny appeared on Indonesia's national team list.

Months earlier, in an office in the Netherlands, Maarten Paes's file closed far more quietly. The goalkeeper, born in 2026, once wore the Netherlands U21 shirt. He carries no indigenous Indonesian blood. He was still eligible to play for the archipelago. His change-of-association procedure was recorded as complete in 2026, according to documentation published by the Indonesian federation.

At the transfer market, every piece believes it is the missing piece. But some pieces are not bought with money — they are bought with a grandfather's birth certificate, with a clause nobody bothers to read until it becomes a competitive advantage.

Two deals. Not a single cent in transfer fees. And a regional balance quietly tilting.

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The deal with no transfer fee

In more than two decades of tracking Southeast Asian football, I have never seen a federation accelerate squad building through administrative channels the way PSSI has over the past two years. No contract signed at an airport. No negotiation with a parent club. Instead: meetings in parliament, files sent to FIFA, and oath ceremonies with no television cameras.

Seen through a sporting director's eyes, this is the most beautiful kind of deal there is: zero transfer fee, wages paid by the parent club, and the player at peak age. The only price is legal cost, administrative cost, and a political capital outlay that cannot be measured in money.

Maarten Paes is a goalkeeper. Ole Romeny is a centre-forward. In any football doctrine, those are the two greatest load-bearing positions in a team. A side can lack midfield ideas and still win. A side cannot win if it loses its keeper and its goalscorer.

That is why I believe Indonesia's squad planning is smarter than it looks from outside. Nobody went out to naturalise a full-back or a winger. They went straight for the spine.

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Two gates, one map

The Leganés shock taught me this: miracles still need a map.

In January 2026 I travelled to Madrid to cover the Copa del Rey quarter-final between Leganés and Real Madrid. Leganés won 2-1 at Butarque with a deep but extraordinarily disciplined defensive block. I described them as "the patience of workmen at dawn." A veteran journalist called immediately to say the piece was flowery and imprecise. I spent two weeks sleepless, re-watching footage, and set myself a rule: a metaphor only survives if its data backbone is solid.

That rule applies perfectly here. To understand why Paes and Romeny qualify, you must pass through two independent gates.

The first gate is Indonesian citizenship law. According to the file, both cases were processed through the state-interest naturalisation mechanism, requiring approval by Indonesia's House of Representatives before taking effect. This is a deliberate route, not an administrative gap.

The second gate is FIFA's eligibility regulation for national-team representation, contained in the regulations governing the application of the FIFA Statutes. The core condition: a player must demonstrate a bloodline link — a parent or biological grandparent born on the federation's territory.

Paes and Romeny both cleared this gate through the grandparent criterion. Their grandparents were born in the Dutch East Indies — territory that is now Indonesia.

One technically important detail: Paes had played for the Netherlands U21 side, so he did not merely need citizenship. He needed a separate procedure — a change of association, meaning a switch of the member federation he represents. That mechanism can be used only once in a career, and only applies to players with youth internationals. Paes's file was recorded as complete in 2026.

Romeny took the other path: naturalisation oath first, national-team call-up second.

Two routes, one outcome.

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Why position matters more than the name

There is a common misreading of Indonesia's naturalisation wave: people count players. Counting is meaningless if you ignore positions.

A national team is structurally unlike a club. Players gather for a few days per window, sometimes a few weeks per year. Under those conditions, cohesion in midfield and defence is nearly impossible to build. The only thing that travels from club to country is individual quality in positions least dependent on a system.

Goalkeeper is such a position. A strong keeper can stabilise a back line that has never played together, simply through command and decision-making.

A centre-forward is similar. A striker who reads space can score in a match where his team is entirely dominated.

Those two positions account for exactly the two most prominent naturalisations. From a personnel risk-management standpoint, this is the highest-yield decision a federation can make.

I watched Indonesia beat Saudi Arabia 2-0 in the third round of AFC qualifying for the 2026 World Cup on 19 November 2026 at Gelora Bung Karno. What I remember is not the goals — it is how Indonesia's back line stood. They held an order I had never seen from Southeast Asian sides facing West Asian opponents. Someone behind them kept the rhythm.

That is the value of a goalkeeper, and it never shows on the scoreboard.

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A "buying club" at national-team level

Calling Indonesia a national team operating on a "buying club" model seems fair to me. They import finished products instead of developing them, and they do it systematically.

The list does not stop at the two names in focus. Before Paes and Romeny, PSSI brought in Kevin Diks, Thom Haye, Calvin Verdonk and a broader group of players with Dutch East Indies roots. These are not isolated deals. This is an assembly line.

And that line runs on a very clear economic logic.

Naturalisation is a low-cost substitute for youth development capex. Building an academy capable of producing a European-standard goalkeeper takes fifteen years and a complete coaching system. Finding a goalkeeper with a grandparent born in the Dutch East Indies takes a team of lawyers, a file, and a few meetings.

But here is the point few articles mention: the true cost of this model is that it is not designed to replace youth development — it is competing directly with it.

Every naturalised slot is a starting shirt taken away from a player raised in a domestic academy. Short term, that is an upgrade. Medium term, it sends a signal down to the academies: if the route to the national team narrows, investment in youth development narrows with it.

I have spent many seasons tracking mid-tier La Liga clubs to understand how they build squads. Real Betis, the club I followed through the summer 2026 transfer window, has an unwritten rule: never let a position depend entirely on a single supply source. When that source is cut — by injury, by price, by a competitor — the whole structure collapses.

Indonesia currently has one supply source. And that is their biggest problem.

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A supply that cannot be renewed

This is the detail I consider most important in this entire analysis, and it is the one most articles skip.

Indonesia's naturalisation pipeline is not a pipeline of players. It is a historical event that has already ended.

During the colonial period, a group of Dutch and European settlers lived long-term in the East Indies — known as the blijvers, those who stayed. Their descendants carry European blood but have grandparents born on Indonesian territory — precisely the condition FIFA rules require.

This is a closed historical population. It can only shrink, never grow.

Every successful naturalisation is a piece of that population extracted permanently. Every rejected file is a file gone forever. And there is no mechanism that produces more grandparents.

Indonesia is consuming a non-renewable resource to secure a competitive edge within a ten-year window.

When I raised this with a group of journalist colleagues in Barcelona, someone pushed back: FIFA has other criteria, national civil law offers other routes, there are many paths. I agree. But the path PSSI is using is not a civil path. It is a bloodline path — and bloodlines do not expand on a development plan.

That raises a very concrete strategic question: after that population is exhausted, sometime around 2030, what replaces it?

The only workable answer is academies. And academies take fifteen years.

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Against Vietnam and Thailand

This is the part I must write carefully, because I am Vietnamese.

Indonesia's advantage in this race is structural and historical. Their colonial history is Dutch. Vietnam's is French. The number of professional footballers of Vietnamese descent in Europe, playing at a level sufficient for a national team, is many times smaller than Indonesia's case.

This cannot be fixed by effort. It is a fact.

Thailand is positioned differently. They have a strong domestic game and some Thai-heritage players in Europe, but no historical population large enough to run a naturalisation assembly line. The Philippines moved earlier than Indonesia but with far lower efficiency.

Which means Indonesia holds a very specific competitive advantage. In the region, only Indonesia can tap a supply of ready-made European talent through a legal route, and they are doing it faster than anyone.

The Leganés shock still reminds me of something. That small club beat Real Madrid because they had a map and followed it absolutely. Indonesia also has a map. The only question is whether it is long enough for the whole journey or just one leg.

Looking at recent results, I see both sides.

In the third round of 2026 World Cup qualifying, Indonesia held their own against Japan, Australia and Saudi Arabia — something no ASEAN side had managed before. Their FIFA ranking has climbed into the region of 130, while Vietnam remains around 115.

But at the 2026 ASEAN Cup, Indonesia were eliminated in the group stage after fielding a young squad. Vietnam won that tournament. The contrast says a lot about priorities: Indonesia are staking everything on the continental stage, while Vietnam protect their regional standing first.

Both are rational strategies. They will meet somewhere.

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The contrarian angle: "loophole" is the wrong word

Here I have to be firm.

Some commentary calls the Paes and Romeny cases an exploitation of a "legal loophole". I think that framing is wrong in its terminology and wrong in its consequences.

The grandparent-born-on-territory criterion is not a defect in FIFA's rules. It is a deliberately designed criterion, long-standing, applied equally to every member federation — from France naturalising players of African descent to Morocco calling up players born in Rotterdam.

If that is a loophole, then world football has been living inside a loophole.

The core legal point needs to be stated plainly: being eligible and having indigenous blood are two different things. FIFA rules govern territorial connection, not ethnic lineage. That is not an oversight. It is a design choice meant to let football reflect how people moved in the twentieth century.

What worries me is not the Paes or Romeny files. Both passed through two independent control systems and were approved.

What worries me is the knock-on effect.

Indonesia's biggest risk in this story is reputational, not legal. The way media frame "exceptional cases" and "no indigenous blood" creates a layer of pressure that law cannot resolve. If either player's form dips, if Indonesia stumble in a crucial qualifier, the story will merge: naturalisation policy will take the blame for an individual's failure.

And here is the weakest point legally, even though the outcome was approved: Paes's file sits at the edge of the change-of-association rules. He played for Netherlands U21. The change-of-association mechanism is a once-in-a-career instrument, and every use triggers strict document verification. This file was approved. But it is the kind of file around which any future dispute would revolve.

There is another detail most articles skip: Indonesia applies a single-nationality norm. Naturalised players must renounce their original citizenship. That is a real personal cost, not an administrative one, and it typically produces internal debate that never reaches the papers.

On the morning of 12 June 2026, I sat at Parken and watched thirteen minutes stop ticking. Christian Eriksen collapsed, and Denmark's players formed a human wall around their teammate. After that day I permanently struck words like "battle", "annihilation" and "conquest" from my vocabulary. But more importantly, I learned something else: a peak is not found in a contract. It is found in whether people stand around each other.

Indonesia currently have a stronger squad. They may not yet have a more connected team. Those are two different variables, and the second takes far longer than the first.

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How Vietnam should read this

I once sat in a circle of twelve commentators from twelve countries in Lusail, on the night of the 2026 World Cup final, when Argentina and France drew 3-3 and Argentina won the shootout 4-2. Each told the match through a different heart. That night I understood: the stands are a giant transfer market, and every flag is a contract signed on deposit.

For Vietnam, PSSI's acceleration is a direct competitive signal, not a curiosity to read over coffee.

There are three responses, ranked by the effectiveness I believe they have.

First, do not try to copy the naturalisation model. Vietnam has no equivalent historical population. Chasing it would pour resources into a road that leads nowhere.

Second, push hard on exactly what Indonesia is neglecting: youth development and national-team cohesion. Over the next decade, as Indonesia's naturalisation supply runs dry, the side with the academy will stand. It is a long race, and Vietnam start with an advantage.

Third, apply pressure at the level of rules. I do not mean lobbying to change FIFA's laws — that is hard and unnecessary. I mean ensuring transparency in naturalisation files across the region, so every federation plays on the same pitch.

And one more thing, which I consider the most important: Vietnam should drop the assumption that the regional order will stay the same.

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Takeaway

I do not give the match a voice; I only open the door so it can speak for itself.

The door Paes and Romeny just opened is not a legal door. It is a strategic door. It shows a federation can shift its regional standing without a single cent in transfer fees, without a flagship academy, without fifteen patient years — needing only files, persistence, and a group of people who understand the rules better than everyone else.

But that door also teaches us something about limits. This supply is history, pre-packaged. The day it runs dry, Indonesia must return to where every football nation must return: academies, coaching, and a generation that grows up on its own.

They do not run for a star; they run for a place to embrace after the finish line.

The question for Southeast Asia, and for Vietnam, is not how much stronger Indonesia has become. The question is: during the decade Indonesia spends importing, what will we spend it building?