The Three Economic Big Issues (7)

In a small coastal town, a local government planned to build a seawall to protect against rising tides. The engineers drew up plans, the economists calculated costs, and the project was approved swiftly. However, shortly after construction began, protests erupted. Fisherfolk complained that the wall blocked access to the sea; elderly residents said no one had consulted them about the sudden noise and disruption; and the town’s Indigenous community pointed out that the wall cut through a sacred ancestral site.

Realising their oversight, the council paused the project and brought together representatives from each group—civic leaders, cultural elders, local business owners, and youth voices. They redesigned the wall with input from all, adding community access paths, relocating key sections, and even incorporating Indigenous art. In the end, the town not only had protection from the sea but also a symbol of shared values and respectful planning.

Viewing equality from multiple perspectives—political, economic, social, and cultural—is immensely beneficial when making decisions, especially those that affect diverse populations. Political equality ensures that everyone has an equal voice in governance, allowing policies to reflect the will and needs of all citizens, not just the privileged few. Economic equality helps prevent decisions that widen the gap between the rich and the poor, fostering sustainable development and social stability. Social equality encourages fairness in everyday interactions and institutions, promoting cohesion and mutual respect. Cultural equality ensures that no group’s traditions, languages, or ways of life are marginalised or erased, enriching decision-making with diverse values and wisdom.

Taken together, these dimensions of equality form a holistic lens that leads to more inclusive, just, and effective decisions—ones that recognise human dignity in all its complexity and protect the rights and opportunities of the many rather than the few.

From a social perspective, equality refers to a condition in which individuals are treated with the same level of respect, dignity, and opportunity regardless of their gender, ethnicity, religion, or background. It emphasises the fair distribution of social rights and access to institutions such as education, healthcare, and justice, ensuring that no group is disadvantaged simply because of their identity.

In the economic realm, equality denotes a situation where individuals have comparable access to economic resources, employment opportunities, and the benefits of economic growth. While complete income uniformity is rarely the aim, the principle revolves around reducing the gap between the wealthy and the poor, and creating a system where hard work is rewarded without being constrained by structural barriers such as class, nepotism, or inherited wealth.

Economic equality is a societal condition in which individuals enjoy a fair and relatively balanced distribution of wealth, income, and opportunities, regardless of the circumstances of their birth. It does not imply that everyone earns the exact same amount, but rather that the disparities between the richest and the poorest are kept within reasonable bounds. In a society where economic equality prevails, people from all walks of life—be they the children of bankers or bus drivers—are granted access to quality education, healthcare, and employment opportunities.

This concept is rooted in the belief that one’s potential should not be limited by poverty, discrimination, or systemic barriers. Economic equality seeks to ensure that every individual has a fair shot at a decent standard of living, and that no one is doomed to lifelong hardship simply because of their starting point in life. It also means that societies invest in safety nets and public services to prevent extreme deprivation and to promote shared prosperity. While complete uniformity is neither feasible nor necessarily desirable, reducing the excessive concentration of wealth and privilege is vital for social cohesion and long-term stability.

"Income and Influence: Social Policy in Emerging Market Economies" is a thought-provoking book written by Ethan B. Kapstein and Branko Milanovic, published by W.W. Norton & Company in 2003. The authors explore the intricate relationship between economic globalisation, domestic income distribution, and the political dynamics that shape social policy choices in emerging market economies. They argue that while globalisation brings economic growth and opportunities, it also intensifies internal inequalities if not managed properly through inclusive social policies.

The book sheds light on how policy decisions in these economies are often influenced less by the needs of the majority and more by powerful domestic interest groups and international economic pressures. This dynamic, according to the authors, results in social policy frameworks that do not adequately protect the most vulnerable citizens. Using comparative data and case studies, they illustrate how income inequality can persist or even worsen despite economic development if the political institutions are weak or dominated by elite influence.

Furthermore, Kapstein and Milanovic discuss how democratic systems, though theoretically designed to reflect the popular will, may in practice fail to deliver equitable social outcomes in these contexts. This failure is often due to a disconnect between electoral politics and real policy-making power, with income and influence becoming closely tied. Ultimately, the book urges for a rethinking of how emerging economies design and implement their welfare systems in a globalised world—calling for policies that are not just economically efficient but also socially just.

In “The Price of Inequality” (2012), Nobel Prize-winning economist Joseph E. Stiglitz delivers a powerful critique of how extreme economic inequality corrodes the very foundations of democratic society. Published by W.W. Norton & Company, the book argues that rising income and wealth disparities are not the accidental by-products of progress, but the result of deliberate political and economic choices that favour the wealthy elite. Stiglitz contends that inequality in the United States—and by extension, in many other capitalist societies—has reached such an extent that it actively undermines democracy, weakens economic performance, and threatens the social contract that binds people together in a functioning society.

According to Stiglitz, the richest individuals and corporations have used their wealth to shape laws, regulations, and even public narratives in their favour. This results in a political system that responds more to campaign donors than to citizens, thereby hollowing out democratic accountability. The rules of the game are rewritten to benefit the top 1%, who increasingly live in a world disconnected from the struggles of the majority. This distortion of democracy ultimately leads to disillusionment and civic disengagement.

Stiglitz presents a searing critique of how modern capitalism has been hijacked by the wealthiest elites. He argues that the system, rather than rewarding innovation, productivity, and genuine hard work, has increasingly evolved into one that rewards rent-seeking behaviour—a term economists use to describe profits gained not through creating value, but through manipulating the system to one’s advantage. In Stiglitz’s analysis, this version of capitalism has drifted far from its ideal form. Instead of functioning as a meritocracy that offers fair opportunity for all, it has become a rigged game tilted in favour of those who are already at the top.

The richest individuals and corporations, he contends, use their wealth to influence politics, write favourable regulations, monopolise industries, and suppress competition. Rather than investing in innovation, they often focus on securing government subsidies, lobbying for tax loopholes, and acquiring assets that guarantee unearned income. This behaviour not only stifles creativity and economic dynamism, but also discourages risk-taking among younger and less wealthy entrepreneurs.

Stiglitz further asserts that when a society rewards financial engineering over scientific discovery, and when inherited privilege matters more than effort, capitalism ceases to be a force for shared prosperity. The outcome is a vicious cycle: economic power leads to political power, which in turn reinforces economic dominance. This not only erodes faith in markets and institutions, but also breeds resentment and instability.

Economically, Stiglitz argues that inequality stifles growth by reducing aggregate demand. When wealth is concentrated at the top, consumption—the engine of economic expansion—slows down, because the rich tend to save more rather than spend. Moreover, the underinvestment in public goods like education, infrastructure, and healthcare—which disproportionately affects the poor and middle class—limits opportunity and innovation. As a result, inequality is not only morally troubling but also economically inefficient.

Stiglitz warns that this level of inequality shreds the social contract. When people feel the system is rigged against them, trust in institutions collapses. Social mobility stalls, resentment builds, and political extremism becomes more attractive. The sense of “we’re all in this together” disintegrates, replaced by division and cynicism. In short, “The Price of Inequality” paints a bleak but urgent picture of a society at risk—one that must act decisively to restore fairness, opportunity, and shared prosperity.

Economic equality is important not because everyone must earn the same, but because without a basic level of fairness in how wealth and resources are distributed, societies begin to break apart. When a small group owns most of the wealth while the majority struggle to meet their basic needs, trust in institutions erodes, social mobility stalls, and resentment festers. It becomes harder to believe in the promise that effort will be rewarded, or that democracy speaks for all.

In a deeply unequal economy, people are not just divided by income—they are separated by access to healthcare, quality education, secure housing, and even political influence. This breeds a sense of exclusion, where millions feel like outsiders in a system designed to favour the few. Economic equality, then, is not simply about economics; it is about dignity, opportunity, and belonging.

Moreover, societies with greater economic equality tend to enjoy higher levels of social trust, lower crime rates, better health outcomes, and stronger civic participation. It’s not just morally right—it’s practically smart. A more equal economy creates a stronger, more stable, and more hopeful society.

Measuring economic equality in a country is not just about counting money—it’s about understanding how fairly opportunities, wealth, and security are shared across the population. One of the most widely used tools is the Gini coefficient, a numerical scale ranging from 0 to 1, where 0 represents perfect equality (everyone has the same income) and 1 means total inequality (one person has everything, and the rest have nothing). The closer a country's Gini score is to zero, the more economically equal it is.

From the most recent World Bank and statistical databases, the five countries with the highest Gini coefficients—indicating extreme income inequality—are:

• South Africa with a Gini of 63.0, the highest globally
• Namibia at 59.1, a long‑standing companion to South Africa in income disparity
• Suriname around 57.9, ranking third globally
• Zambia at approximately 55.9
• Eswatini (Swaziland) at 54.6

These figures reflect persistent inequality challenges in southern Africa and parts of Latin America.

On the other end of the spectrum, the countries with the lowest Gini coefficients—indicating high economic equality—are:

• Norway at 22.7, the world’s most equal economy
• Slovakia with 23.2
• Slovenia at approximately 24.0
• Belarus around 24.4
• Ukraine at 25.6

These nations, mainly in Europe, consistently register among the world’s most economically equal.

In March 2024, Indonesia’s Gini ratio for household expenditures was recorded at 0.379, showing a slight improvement from 0.388 in March 2023 and 0.381 in September 2022. Meanwhile, when calculated as income inequality via national surveys, the World Bank reports a Gini of 0.361 for 2023—higher than the long-run average of 0.334, though still well below the global average of around 0.44 .

These numbers place Indonesia in the moderate inequality range: neither dramatically unequal like South Africa (Gini ~0.63), nor among the most equal societies like Norway or Slovenia (Gini ~0.22–0.24). However, seeing the Gini rising notably in the early 2020s—including a record high of 0.388—signals that economic recovery after the pandemic has disproportionately benefited wealthier households.

What does this mean in practice? A Gini of around 0.36–0.38 suggests that wealth and spending power are unequally distributed—with richer households capturing more gains in income and living standards, while lower-income families struggle to keep up. Although this level of inequality is not extreme, it is a warning sign. If left unchecked, it can fray social unity, limit opportunities for many, and lock entire communities into cycles of limited progress.

But numbers alone don’t tell the full story. To truly grasp economic equality, we must look at real-life access to key services: who gets to attend quality schools, who can afford healthcare, who lives in safe neighbourhoods, and who has stable employment. We also examine social mobility—can a child from a poor family realistically climb the economic ladder?

According to the latest UNDP Education Index and complementary rankings up to 2024, Iceland leads the world with a near-perfect score of 0.960, followed closely by Germany (0.957), Norway (0.937), the United Kingdom (0.936), and Denmark (0.933). These countries demonstrate exceptional performance across multiple education metrics—from universal early childhood enrolment and high literacy rates to strong outcomes in PISA assessments and equitable completion rates at primary, secondary, and tertiary levels.

At the opposite end of the spectrum, several countries—particularly in Sub‑Saharan Africa and conflict‑affected regions—struggle enormously with education access. Nations such as Niger, Central African Republic, Chad, Afghanistan, and Sudan appear consistently among the lowest-ranked globally due to very low school enrolment rates, high dropout levels, staggering illiteracy, and severe shortages of resources or safety.

Indonesia currently holds an Education Index value of approximately 0.68 as of the latest data (2022), placing it in the middle tier globally—behind leading countries like Australia (1.01) and Germany (0.96), yet comfortably ahead of many developing nations. This score reflects a mix of improvements and lingering gaps: adults now attend around eight years of schooling on average, and children are expected to study for about 13 years—both positive steps forward.

However, this middling position also flags important concerns. While primary school enrolment in Indonesia is nearly universal, secondary and tertiary levels see significant drop-offs, and tertiary attainment remains one of the lowest among Asia-Pacific peers. Rural‑urban disparities remain stark, and Indonesian students often underperform in international assessments like PISA, signalling that quality + access is still a work in progress.

Indonesia’s Education Index shows that the country is building a broad educational foundation, yet has further to go in strengthening quality, completion rates, and equity. The number tells a story of promise—but also a reminder that there is significant work ahead to turn basic schooling into world‑class capabilities for all.

Based on the most recent data, approximately 1.3 million children from the poorest 25% of Indonesian households are not currently enrolled in school, despite education being compulsory up to age 15 — a stage they should have completed around junior secondary level. This number represents children who, under the law and spirit of public policy, ought to be in school but are instead left behind. Most of them are from families struggling to afford uniforms, transport, and school supplies, forcing them to work or even marry early to help support their households.

This tragic gap highlights not just individual hardship, but a broader systemic failure. Indonesia's spectacular progress in primary enrolment has not translated into universal secondary attendance. For example, junior-secondary dropouts among the poorest are five times higher compared to the richest . Rural areas, especially provinces like Papua, face even sharper exclusion, with out-of-school rates in some regions reaching up to 22% of children aged 13–15.

Put simply: over a million children who deserve education are missing out—not due to lack of schools, but because economic hardship, location, and social circumstances shut the door on their learning.

Indonesia’s position at the bottom of Southeast Asia in PISA and similar assessments is not a reflection of the inherent intelligence of its people, but rather a consequence of systemic educational shortcomings. Firstly, Indonesian students spend far fewer hours in effective schooling, especially at primary levels—about 555 hours per year compared to 774 in OECD countries—and the classroom time is often devoted to rote memorisation, rather than critical thinking or problem-solving.

Another crucial factor is the quality and professionalism of teaching. Many Indonesian teachers, particularly in rural areas, lack adequate training, do not regularly update their teaching methods, and often fail to provide constructive feedback—over 60% of students reported teachers rarely help them with learning difficulties . As a result, students leave with fragmented knowledge, unable to reason or analyse deeply.

Infrastructure and resource gaps further exacerbate the problem: significant numbers of schools are still without proper classrooms, libraries, laboratories, sanitation, or electricity. Finally, socioeconomic disparities play a critical role, with the most disadvantaged students scoring dramatically lower than their wealthier peers—up to 34 points gap in maths alone.

All these factors combine to create a learning environment where Indonesian students are well-intentioned and often happy, but significantly underprepared to tackle complex problems—hence why they consistently score the lowest in the region.

A high UNDP Education Index is not just a technical achievement—it is a sign that a country is genuinely investing in its people. This index, a core component of the Human Development Index (HDI), reflects how widely and fairly access to education is distributed across the population. It combines indicators such as mean years of schooling for adults and expected years of schooling for children, painting a picture of how education shapes both current and future generations.

When a nation scores high on this index, it means children are not only going to school, but they are likely to complete their education with quality, regardless of whether they live in cities or villages, come from wealthy or modest families, or belong to majority or minority groups. It also suggests that learning is seen not as a privilege, but as a right—and that the system supports literacy, critical thinking, and the kind of knowledge that allows people to participate fully in society.

A high education index means a country is building human capital wisely. It is preparing minds not just to survive, but to innovate, empathise, and lead.

These contrasts highlight more than mere rankings—they reflect how deeply education affects life chances. In the best-performing countries, citizens benefit from early support, lifelong learning, and social equity. In the worst case, entire communities struggle simply to read and write, let alone thrive.

According to multiple global rankings—including the 2023 Legatum Prosperity Index and Expatriate Group’s 2025 list—Japan leads the way with exceptionally strong health infrastructure, preventive care, and outcomes; it is closely followed by Singapore, South Korea, Norway, and Taiwan. These countries stand out for having high life expectancy, plentiful medical resources like hospital beds and doctors, universal coverage, and reliable access to both basic and advanced medical services.

On the other end, several nations consistently rank at the bottom due to chronic shortages in doctors, hospitals, and basic medicines. El Salvador has been labelled the worst healthcare system among 110 countries in recent surveys, with very low clustering of facilities and high rates of preventable deaths. Nigeria follows closely, with severe gaps in infrastructure and primary care . Further down the list are Pakistan, which ranked 124th of 190 countries in access and quality by the WHO’s HAQ index, Haiti, where most rural inhabitants lack any medical support and primary care facilities are sparse, and Oman, noted for the most limited availability and affordability of essential medicines in 2024.

Indonesia has made commendable progress toward Universal Health Coverage (UHC), particularly since the launch of the Jaminan Kesehatan Nasional (JKN) in 2014, which by 2021 covered over 83% of the population through BPJS Kesehatan. The World Health Organization's 2023 UHC report shows that Indonesia’s service coverage index—measuring access to essential reproductive, infectious disease, non‑communicable disease, and health infrastructure services—rose from 42 in 2010 to 56 in 2019, but then slightly declined to around 55 in 2021. Even though catastrophic out‑of‑pocket expenses have greatly reduced—from 0.9% of households in 2017 to 0.4% in 2018—over a million Indonesians still fall into poverty each year due to medical bills.

Yet, a 2024 survey indicates that around 63% of the population lack easy access to hospitals, and 61% lack access to primary healthcare facilities. Although Indonesia ranks around 39th globally in some access metrics—outperforming Malaysia and Thailand—significant disparities persist between urban centres and remote regions like East Nusa Tenggara.

Indonesia’s healthcare system has grown impressively in coverage and structure. However, gaps in quality, regional equity, and financial protection remain stubborn. The coverage stats tell a story of progress with clear challenges: many Indonesians can get insurance, but not everyone can see a doctor easily, especially in rural areas, nor avoid crippling health costs. 

The criticism directed at BPJS Kesehatan stems not from one single failure but from a cascade of systemic issues that collectively undermine service quality. One of the most serious problems is the delayed or disputed claim payments to hospitals. When BPJS withholds payment on certain cases—sometimes due to coding errors, incomplete documentation, or suspicion of unnecessary treatments—hospitals become cautious and may refuse or delay treating patients, even in emergency situations.

Another crucial factor is chronic under-resourcing. Many facilities operate without proper administrative support, have insufficient staff, and rely on outdated infrastructure. This, combined with complex bureaucratic procedures—such as enforced referral pathways and limited daily BPJS appointment quotas—leads to long queues, administrative fatigue, and frequent miscommunication between hospitals and patients.

Additionally, there are deeper concerns around fraud prevention, accreditation enforcement, and system design. BPJS has increasingly implemented AI-powered filters to control fraudulent use, yet the rollout is uneven and poorly communicated, causing many valid claims to be suspended and patient care to suffer. Some hospitals have even lost BPJS contracts because they failed to meet accreditation standards, reducing geographic coverage and forcing patients to travel out of their way for care.

Finally, the mismatch between policy and practice fuels frustration. BPJS theoretically provides comprehensive coverage, but patients and doctors report real-world issues—seeing limited drug supplies, delayed visits with specialists, confusing bureaucratic demands, and inconsistent service quality depending on the hospital. For citizens, it often feels like a cheap insurance card that gives basic protection—but not the seamless care system they deserve.

BPJS Kesehatan remains a vital lifeline for many Indonesians, but until these structural issues—funding flows, bureaucracy, equity, and technology—are resolved, the frustrations it faces are unlikely to disappear.

Many Indonesian citizens express frustration with BPJS Kesehatan for reasons that go beyond mere inconvenience, pointing to deep-seated issues with doctors, paramedics, and hospital infrastructure. One frequently voiced complaint is service discrimination: BPJS patients often receive slower, lower-priority care compared with privately insured or self-paying patients. They may be limited to certain doctors, with many reporting that those doctors frequently arrive late or have restricted consultation slots, creating uncertainty and delays in care .

Another major grievance is the bureaucratic complexity and inconsistent administrative processes. Patients must navigate complicated referral systems, endure long queues (sometimes waiting three to four hours just to register), and frequently experience mismatches between their BPJS card information and the services they need . The sheer volume of BPJS patients also overwhelms many facilities, causing delays in lab tests, pharmacy pick-ups, and specialist visits.

Criticism also extends to medical staff and paramedics, who are sometimes perceived as unfriendly or overworked. Patients report nurses missing IV lines, doctors failing to explain treatment clearly, and staff providing inadequate information in pharmacies.

Furthermore, censures focus on poor infrastructure and resource shortages. Hospitals, especially in rural areas, often lack suitable waiting areas, inpatient rooms, essential medical equipment, or drugs, forcing patients to purchase medication externally—even amid claims that they are covered .

These issues are compounded by a lack of transparency in claim processing and unpredictable audits. Delayed claim payments to hospitals and unclear, retroactive policy changes frustrate both providers and patients, leading to partnership distrust.

While BPJS was designed to enable universal health coverage—a worthy ambition—it often feels to users more like access with barriers: long waits, limited choices, inconsistent treatment, and facilities that fall short. For many, the BPJS card opens the door—but what follows often leaves them navigating a maze rather than entering a well-functioning system.

Continued investment in facilities, workforce, and targeted policies will be essential if Indonesia hopes to fully deliver on UHC and truly guarantee health as a universal human right. 

Access to healthcare is not merely a service—it is the foundation of human dignity and national resilience. When citizens are able to receive timely, affordable, and quality medical care, they are empowered to live fuller, more productive lives. Healthy individuals are better able to work, study, support their families, and contribute to the economy. In this sense, health is not a private matter alone—it is a public good that shapes the well-being of society as a whole.

For the nation, widespread access to healthcare is a sign of moral maturity and economic foresight. Countries that invest in inclusive health systems experience lower poverty rates, higher life expectancy, and greater social trust. They also spend less on long-term medical emergencies, because prevention is always cheaper than cure. Moreover, when healthcare is seen as a right rather than a privilege, citizens feel more connected to their government, and democracy itself gains strength through compassion and credibility.

Ultimately, ensuring health access is about more than avoiding sickness—it’s about building a country where people can thrive, not merely survive.

According to the 2025 Global Peace Index (GPI)—a globally respected measure that evaluates societal safety, ongoing conflict, and militarisation—Iceland has claimed the title of the safest country for the seventeenth year in a row, thanks to its low crime, minimal military presence, and strong social trust. Joining the top five are Ireland, New Zealand, Austria, and Switzerland, all of which share traits like political stability, equitable governance, and effective public services.

On the other end of the spectrum, the GPI lists the least peaceful—and thus most dangerous—countries as Yemen, Sudan, South Sudan, Afghanistan, and the Democratic Republic of Congo. These nations suffer from ongoing civil war, failing institutions, widespread violence, and humanitarian collapse.

These rankings use rigorous metrics, including homicide rates, terrorism impact, refugee flows, and military spending, to gauge real-world safety.

Iceland’s reputation as the safest country on Earth is no accident. It is the product of decades of deliberate policymaking, strong institutions, and a deeply rooted culture of peace. Iceland has no standing army, virtually no gun crime, and one of the lowest incarceration rates in the world. Policing is based on community trust, with officers rarely carrying firearms. Social cohesion is also high—inequality is low, education is universal, and most citizens know their rights and feel heard in the democratic process. Importantly, Iceland spends its public money wisely, with excellent healthcare, transparent governance, and investment in mental health and well-being. Violence is not just rare—it’s almost culturally unthinkable.

Yemen, on the other hand, offers a heartbreaking contrast. Once known for its rich history and architecture, Yemen has become one of the most dangerous places on Earth due to a brutal civil war that erupted in 2014. Since then, the country has fractured into warring territories controlled by different factions, with devastating consequences for civilians. Hospitals have been bombed, schools destroyed, and millions displaced. The collapse of basic infrastructure—water, food, electricity—has led to famine and disease. Trust in government is non-existent, as public institutions have crumbled and lawlessness dominates. For many Yemenis, survival has become a daily gamble.

These two cases show that safety is not simply about having more police or military might—it’s about building a just, compassionate, and functional society where people trust each other and their government.

What does this mean?

• If a country is safe, residents enjoy freedom from fear, can trust law enforcement and public systems, and move around securely.
• Conversely, dangerous nations often struggle with daily survival—where venturing outside can be life-threatening, governance has collapsed, and basic services are disrupted.

Indonesia ranked 48th out of 163 countries in the 2024 Global Peace Index, achieving a score of 1.857, which places it in the category of nations considered "high peace". In Southeast Asia, it performs reasonably well—surpassing countries like Vietnam and Philippines—but trails behind regional peers such as Singapore (ranked around 5th), Malaysia (18th), and Thailand (103rd).

This ranking translates into real-world implications. On one hand, Indonesia is relatively safe compared to global conflict zones, and it even saw improvements in recent years thanks to effective counter-terrorism measures—including reducing terrorist incidents to almost zero in the last several years. On the other hand, its position still reflects ongoing challenges: robbery, urban crime, communal unrest, and uneven rule of law in certain areas.

Indonesia’s status as a “high-peace” nation means that while it is not a conflict hotspot, it still grapples with non-war-related safety issues. For most citizens, daily life is secure—but there is clearly room for improvement in areas like policing standards, local conflict resolution, and community trust.

By early 2025, Surabaya stands out as the safest major city in Indonesia, scoring 80/100 on travel-safety indexes—surpassing even Bandung (78) and Denpasar (60), with Jakarta not far behind. Smaller cities like Yogyakarta and Semarang also score well in terms of low crime, social stability, and community trust.

On the flip side, Medan, Depok, Tangerang, Bekasi, and parts of Jakarta (often its southern outskirts) are frequently listed as the most dangerous. Medan, in particular, is notorious for street crime, vehicle accidents, and corruption, earning the nickname “Gotham City” in candid online accounts.

For residents in safer cities like Surabaya and Bandung, life feels more secure day-to-day. They can go out after dark, trust public services, and enjoy urban amenities with peace of mind. Meanwhile, in higher-risk areas such as Medan or Depok, everyday concerns include theft, bribery, aggressive driving, and inconsistent law enforcement. The danger isn’t warzone‑level—but it’s enough to impact quality of life, sense of security, and community well‑being.

In essence, we measure economic equality not only by data, but by stories—who thrives and who is left behind. A country with tall buildings and fast internet may look developed, but if millions are trapped in low wages or informal jobs without protection, equality remains a distant dream.

[Part 8]
[Part 6]

Bahasa

The Three Economic Big Issues (6)

Moral clarity is not the fruit of isolated contemplation, but the offspring of dialogue. It emerges not in the silence of certainty but in the friction of ideas, where convictions are tested and empathy is awakened. Truth is seldom found in solitude; it reveals itself in the shared pursuit of meaning.

There’s an old anecdote from a university ethics class that illustrates this perfectly. A professor once gave her students a seemingly simple question for their final exam: “Is it ever right to lie?” Expecting deep, individual essays, she was surprised when one student turned in a blank page, except for a single sentence: “It depends—let’s talk about it!”

Initially, she considered failing the student for not writing a proper essay. But as she thought about it, she realised the response captured something profoundly true: moral clarity often emerges not from solitary conclusions, but from shared dialogue. The best answers aren’t always born in silence or certainty, but in the messy, human act of talking things through—especially when our values and principles collide.

The student ended up passing, not because the answer was complete, but because it was honest. It reminded the class that ethics is less about memorising rules and more about learning to listen, to question, and to reason together.

The idea that moral clarity often arises through conversation rather than solitary reflection is central to the tradition of public reason and deliberative democracy. It holds that understanding what is right or just isn’t something we can always achieve alone, through private thought. Instead, we refine our moral compass through dialogue with others—by listening, questioning, disagreeing, and being challenged. This process allows us to confront different perspectives, test our assumptions, and develop a more thoughtful, empathetic understanding of justice.

A key reference that explores this idea is “Democracy and Its Critics” by Robert A. Dahl (1989). In it, Dahl argues that democratic legitimacy depends not only on voting or institutions but on the ongoing public discussion of values and principles. Another important work is “The Idea of Public Reason Revisited” by John Rawls (1997), where he explains that in a pluralistic society, people must justify their political decisions in terms others can reasonably accept—not just from private belief, but through shared, public reasoning.

The point is: when we engage in conversation, we open ourselves to the moral insights of others, and in doing so, we often discover parts of our own convictions that we hadn’t fully understood. Dialogue doesn’t always bring instant agreement, but it deepens the way we think about right and wrong—and that, in itself, is clarity.

Now, let's return to our topic of equality. 

Equality, from a social and cultural perspective, refers to a condition in which individuals or groups are afforded the same status, rights, and opportunities, regardless of their background, identity, or position within society. It means that no one is seen as inherently superior or inferior due to their race, gender, religion, ethnicity, class, sexuality, or cultural heritage. Social equality is not merely about laws and policies but about creating environments where all people feel valued and included, where their voices are heard, and their identities respected. Cultural equality, on the other hand, recognises the richness and worth of diverse traditions and ways of life, promoting mutual respect and the right to cultural expression without fear of marginalisation or discrimination. In essence, it’s about levelling the playing field—not by making everyone the same, but by ensuring everyone is treated with fairness and dignity.

Social equality refers to a state in which all individuals within a society enjoy the same rights, responsibilities, and opportunities, regardless of their background or social identity. It means that everyone should have fair access to education, healthcare, employment, and political participation, without being hindered by discrimination or prejudice. Social equality does not imply that everyone must live the same life or achieve the same outcomes, but rather that the system itself must not favour one group over another. It seeks to eliminate structural barriers and ensure that power, resources, and opportunities are distributed justly. Ultimately, social equality is about creating a society where every person has the chance to thrive with dignity and freedom.

One highly regarded reference that explores the concept of social equality in depth is “The Spirit Level: Why More Equal Societies Almost Always Do Better” by Richard Wilkinson and Kate Pickett (2009). In this work, the authors argue that societies with greater income equality tend to perform better across a wide range of social and health indicators, including education, crime rates, mental well-being, and community trust. Drawing on a wealth of statistical evidence, they demonstrate that inequality is not merely a matter of economic disparity, but a social condition that influences almost every aspect of our collective life. The book has become a cornerstone for understanding the broader implications of social equality and continues to inspire discussions among policymakers, educators, and activists. It pushes the idea that true progress as a society isn’t just measured by how rich a country is, but by how fairly that wealth is shared among its people.

Another influential book that examines the idea of social equality is “Justice: What’s the Right Thing to Do?” by Michael J. Sandel (2009). In this thought-provoking work, Sandel explores philosophical and practical questions surrounding justice, fairness, and the common good. While the book is grounded in political philosophy, it strongly emphasises how social structures and policies affect people's ability to live dignified and equal lives. Sandel invites readers to think critically about what we owe one another as members of a shared society and challenges the notion that justice is simply about individual freedom or market fairness. Instead, he argues that a just society must ensure equal respect and meaningful participation for all, especially the marginalised. Through real-world examples and moral dilemmas, the book encourages a richer understanding of what true social equality entails.

Rujukan lain yang juga punya pengaruh gede dalam bahas kesetaraan sosial adalah “Justice: What’s the Right Thing to Do?” karya Michael J. Sandel (2009). Karya ini ngajak pembacanya mikir soal apa itu keadilan, apa itu kebaikan bersama, dan gimana struktur sosial serta kebijakan bisa nentuin apakah hidup orang-orang berjalan setara dan bermartabat. Walau bahasannya banyak ngulik filsafat politik, Sandel tetap ngebawa topik ini ke level kehidupan nyata dengan gaya yang relatable. Doi ngajak kita bertanya: sebagai sesama warga dalam satu masyarakat, sebenarnya kita punya tanggungjawab apa satu dengan yang lain? Sandel juga ngebantah gagasan bahwa keadilan cuma soal kebebasan pribadi atau keadilan pasar. Menurutnya, masyarakat yang adil itu yang bisa ngasih ruang, penghormatan, dan kesempatan buat semua orang, apalagi yang sering disingkirkan sistem. Jadi, karya ini tuh semacam peta moral buat ngebayangin ulang dunia yang benar-benar setara.

Sandel opens the conversation by posing a classic moral dilemma known as the trolley problem. He asks readers to imagine a situation where a runaway trolley is about to kill five people tied to the tracks. You are standing nearby and have the power to divert the trolley onto another track, where it would kill just one person instead. This ethical puzzle sets the tone for the entire book, raising the question: is it morally right to sacrifice one life to save five?

Sandel uses this example to introduce two major philosophical approaches to justice—utilitarianism, which supports the greatest good for the greatest number, and deontological ethics, which focuses on duties and moral principles regardless of the consequences. He doesn’t offer easy answers but instead invites the reader into a journey of moral reasoning. By starting with this dilemma, Sandel shows that justice is not only a political or legal issue but a deeply human concern, grounded in the decisions we make every day. He encourages us to examine not just what we do, but why we do it, and whether our choices align with deeper principles of right and wrong.

According to Sandel, justice is not merely about following rules or enforcing laws; it is about reasoning together as a society to decide what is morally right. For Sandel, justice involves more than personal freedom or individual rights—it is deeply connected to the idea of the common good. He argues that a just society is one in which people actively engage in public life, debate ethical questions, and make collective decisions about what values should guide their communities. True justice, in this view, is not neutral or detached; it requires us to consider our responsibilities to others and to take a stand on moral issues. Justice means treating people with dignity, ensuring fairness in social arrangements, and creating conditions in which everyone can flourish—not in isolation, but as members of a shared moral and civic community.

Liberalism and the Limits of Justice is one of Michael J. Sandel’s most influential and intellectually rigorous works, first published in 1982. In this book, Sandel offers a deep critique of the liberal philosophy of John Rawls, particularly Rawls’ theory of justice as fairness outlined in A Theory of Justice. Sandel argues that Rawls’ vision of the self—as a free, rational individual detached from personal attachments, values, and communal ties—is too abstract and unrealistic.

Sandel explains a core idea of liberal political philosophy—particularly the version advocated by thinkers like John Rawls. According to this liberal view, a just society should not force its citizens to adopt a single definition of the good life. Instead, the role of the state is to ensure that people are free to choose their own values, goals, and beliefs, without being coerced into living a life they did not choose.

For that reason, the laws and principles that govern society must be neutral—they cannot assume that one religious, moral, or cultural view is superior to others. Justice, under liberalism, must be detached from specific conceptions of what a meaningful or virtuous life looks like. This neutrality is meant to protect individual freedom and pluralism, allowing diverse ways of living to coexist peacefully.

However, as Sandel explores throughout the book, this attempt at neutrality can also be problematic. He argues that it’s often impossible—and perhaps undesirable—to completely separate justice from moral and cultural values, because our sense of right and wrong is shaped by the communities we belong to. So while this passage reflects the liberal aspiration for fairness through neutrality, Sandel invites us to question whether such neutrality is truly achievable or even morally sufficient.

Sandel insists that we are not isolated individuals choosing our moral commitments from a neutral standpoint. Rather, we are already shaped by histories, communities, traditions, and identities that give our choices meaning. Therefore, he claims, a just society cannot be built on a purely individualistic idea of freedom and neutrality. Justice, in Sandel’s view, must account for the moral and cultural ties that bind people together. His work helped to reignite the debate between liberal and communitarian thought, challenging the assumption that justice could ever be fully neutral or detached from context.

The work is deeply connected to the concept of equality, but it approaches the topic from a philosophical angle rather than a strictly economic or legal one. Michael J. Sandel challenges the liberal notion that equality can be achieved by treating individuals as abstract, autonomous agents who are all entitled to the same rights and opportunities, regardless of their social or moral backgrounds.

For Sandel, true equality cannot be separated from the communities and moral ties that shape people’s lives. He argues that a just society must not only ensure equal treatment but also recognise the shared values, histories, and identities that give meaning to our choices. In other words, justice—and thus equality—is not only about distributing resources fairly, but about acknowledging who people are and where they come from.

This communitarian view suggests that equality should not ignore the social fabric that binds us. Instead of pretending we’re all just neutral citizens floating in a vacuum, Sandel calls for an understanding of equality that respects the real conditions in which people live, including their sense of belonging and mutual obligation.

Sandel challenges us to ask not only “What’s fair?” but also “What kind of society do we want to live in?” He argues that true justice cannot be detached from moral reflection and civic engagement. It must consider the values that unite us, the obligations we have to one another, and the shared responsibilities that come with living in community. For Sandel, justice is not merely a question of individual rights or efficiency, but of nurturing a society where the common good is actively pursued and where people are treated not as isolated consumers, but as citizens with dignity and purpose.

Culturally, equality promotes the recognition and respect for diverse traditions, languages, and ways of life. It promotes the idea that no culture is inherently superior to another, and that diversity should be celebrated rather than suppressed. In this sense, cultural equality challenges stereotypes, fosters inclusion, and demands space for all identities to thrive on their own terms.

Cultural equality refers to the recognition, respect, and fair treatment of all cultural identities and traditions within a society. It means that no culture is seen as superior or more “civilised” than another, and everyone is given the freedom to express their heritage, language, values, and beliefs without fear of discrimination or marginalisation. Cultural equality is not about making every culture the same, but about making sure every culture has equal space and voice in the public sphere. It challenges the dominance of any single cultural narrative and encourages a society where diversity is seen not as a problem to be managed, but as a strength to be celebrated. At its core, cultural equality is about belonging—about ensuring that people from all walks of life feel seen, heard, and respected in the shared spaces we call home.

In “Multicultural Citizenship: A Liberal Theory of Minority Rights” (1995, Oxford University Press), Will Kymlicka argues that justice in diverse societies requires more than equal individual rights—it also requires the recognition of cultural group rights. He makes the case that members of minority cultures should have special protections and support to preserve their identities, languages, and traditions within the wider society. For Kymlicka, cultural equality is not about erasing differences, but about respecting them and ensuring all cultural groups can flourish equally under a shared political framework.

Kymlicka introduces the idea of the politics of multiculturalism as a way of addressing the challenges that arise in liberal democracies when culturally diverse groups live together under a shared political system. He argues that traditional liberalism, which emphasises equal individual rights, often fails to account for the unique needs and vulnerabilities of minority cultures—especially indigenous peoples and national minorities.

The politics of multiculturalism, according to Kymlicka, means recognising that justice sometimes requires more than treating everyone the same. It calls for group-differentiated rights—special legal or political rights granted to cultural minorities so they can preserve their identity, language, and way of life. This might include autonomy over education, recognition of traditional land rights, or protection of minority languages in public institutions.

Kymlicka insists that these rights are not privileges, but tools to ensure real equality. Without them, minority groups are often forced to assimilate into the dominant culture, losing their distinctiveness and dignity in the process. The politics of multiculturalism, then, is about rethinking equality—not as uniformity, but as inclusion that respects difference.

According to Kymlicka, liberal democracies have traditionally focused on individual rights, such as freedom of speech, religion, and personal autonomy. However, in culturally plural societies, this focus can unintentionally privilege the majority culture while undermining the survival of minority groups.

Kymlicka’s view on individual rights and collective rights is a distinctive feature of his theory of multicultural citizenship. He argues that these two types of rights are not inherently opposed but can—and often must—work together to achieve true justice in diverse societies. 

Kymlicka introduces the idea of group-differentiated rights, which are collective rights granted to minority communities to protect their distinct cultural identities. These rights may include self-government, language preservation, or special legal recognition, and are designed to level the playing field between dominant and minority cultures. Crucially, he insists that collective rights should not violate the individual rights of members within those groups. Instead, they should support individual autonomy by preserving the cultural context in which people find meaning and identity.

Kymlicka believes that collective rights, when carefully defined and limited, can enhance rather than threaten liberal individual rights. They provide a framework for inclusion that respects both personal freedom and cultural belonging.

Kymlicka’s work is a powerful call to rethink the liberal tradition in the context of multicultural societies. He does not reject liberalism outright, but he believes that classical liberalism—built on the ideal of a neutral state treating all citizens as isolated individuals—fails to address the deep cultural and identity-based inequalities that exist in real-world democracies. Kymlicka argues that liberalism must evolve beyond its abstract commitment to sameness and individualism, and instead recognise the importance of culture in shaping people’s choices, values, and sense of self.

For Kymlicka, rethinking the liberal tradition means acknowledging that freedom and equality are not always achieved by pretending everyone starts from the same place. Some groups, especially minorities and indigenous peoples, face structural disadvantages that cannot be solved through individual rights alone. To be truly fair, liberalism must accommodate group-differentiated rights—a shift that doesn’t betray liberal values, but fulfils them more honestly in diverse societies. In this way, Kymlicka reimagines liberalism not as colour-blind or culture-blind, but as actively inclusive and culturally aware.

Kymlicka argues that freedom and culture are deeply intertwined, and that genuine individual freedom is not possible without access to a meaningful cultural context. In traditional liberal thought, freedom is often seen as the ability to make choices independently, without interference. But Kymlicka challenges this by pointing out that the ability to make meaningful choices depends on having a cultural framework—a shared language, history, and set of values—that gives those choices significance.

He explains that people don’t make decisions in a vacuum. Our sense of what’s possible, desirable, or worthwhile is shaped by the culture we grow up in. Therefore, when minority cultures are marginalised or eroded, the individuals within them lose more than traditions—they lose the very tools that allow them to exercise freedom meaningfully.

For Kymlicka, protecting cultural communities isn’t about freezing cultures in time or avoiding change. It’s about ensuring that individuals have a stable cultural space from which they can choose, adapt, or even reject aspects of their heritage. True freedom, he says, is the ability to navigate life from within a cultural home—not from nowhere.

Kymlicka’s view on justice and minority rights is rooted in the belief that a fair society must go beyond treating everyone identically—it must also recognise the specific needs and vulnerabilities of cultural minorities. For Kymlicka, justice is not blind to difference; rather, it requires us to engage with difference thoughtfully and respectfully. In diverse societies, he argues, treating everyone "the same" can actually reinforce inequality, because it assumes that all individuals have equal access to cultural recognition, social power, and public voice—which is rarely the case.

Kymlicka believes that justice demands the protection of minority rights, particularly when it comes to indigenous peoples, national minorities, and immigrant communities. These rights are not about giving special privileges—they are about creating the conditions under which minorities can live with dignity, maintain their cultural identity, and participate equally in public life. Justice, in his view, means enabling all groups to flourish—not just survive—within the larger society.

His theory is a challenge to traditional liberal models that often favour a one-size-fits-all approach. Instead, Kymlicka advocates for a justice that listens, adapts, and includes—especially for those whose voices have been historically ignored.

Kymlicka strongly believes that ensuring a voice for minorities is essential to a genuinely democratic and just society. He argues that in pluralistic states, minority groups are often politically marginalised—not because they lack intelligence or ideas, but because their perspectives are filtered out by dominant institutions, languages, and cultural norms. Simply having the right to vote or speak isn’t enough if the system itself is not designed to hear or understand minority voices.

Kymlicka advocates for structural inclusion—mechanisms like guaranteed political representation, language rights, and community self-governance—that go beyond formal equality. Giving minorities a real voice means creating spaces where their concerns, identities, and visions of the good life can be heard on equal footing. It also means recognising that silence isn’t neutrality—it’s often the result of being historically silenced.

Ultimately, Kymlicka sees democracy not just as majority rule, but as inclusive dialogue. A democracy that doesn’t actively include minorities is not truly democratic; it’s merely procedural. Giving minorities a voice, for Kymlicka, is not about favouritism—it’s about fairness.

Kymlicka approaches the concept of toleration with a clear understanding of both its importance and its limits. He acknowledges that toleration—respecting and allowing cultural differences—is a fundamental principle in liberal democracies. However, he warns that toleration alone is not enough in societies marked by deep cultural diversity. Simply “putting up with” differences can sometimes mask indifference, condescension, or passive exclusion.

Kymlicka argues that toleration should not be confused with justice. Tolerating a minority’s existence doesn’t automatically mean they are treated fairly or included meaningfully. True multicultural justice, for him, involves more than non-interference; it requires active recognition, structural accommodation, and policies that empower minorities to maintain their identities and participate fully in public life.

He also explores the limits of toleration. While respecting diversity is vital, there are boundaries—especially when cultural practices violate basic human rights or individual freedoms within the group itself. Kymlicka insists that multiculturalism must not be a shield for oppression. A just society must be willing to draw lines when group traditions harm the vulnerable, such as women or children. Toleration, then, is not unlimited acceptance—it is measured, principled, and balanced with liberal values.

As a response to what he saw as a serious gap in liberal political philosophy, Kymlicka developed the concept of “the ties that bind” . Traditional liberalism tends to view individuals as autonomous agents who can form and revise their life plans regardless of their background. But Kymlicka noticed that this idealised image ignored the lived realities of people who are rooted in specific cultural and historical contexts. He believed that liberalism, in trying to be “neutral” about culture, had unintentionally erased the importance of identity, belonging, and shared meaning in people’s lives.

His background in both political theory and real-world issues of minority rights led him to realise that many groups—especially indigenous peoples, national minorities, and immigrant communities—were being excluded from full citizenship, not because of a lack of rights, but because the system didn’t acknowledge the deep ties that shaped their identities. For these communities, justice wasn’t just about freedom from interference, but also about recognition, respect, and the space to be who they are.

Thus, Kymlicka introduced “the ties that bind” to push liberalism toward a more inclusive, realistic, and culturally sensitive model. He wanted to show that far from being a threat to freedom, cultural ties are what make freedom meaningful. His work emerged from both philosophical critique and a moral urgency to address the silent erasure of minority voices in modern democracies.

Will Kymlicka’s reflections on “the ties that bind” centre around the idea that individuals are not free-floating agents, detached from history or community. Instead, he argues that people are deeply shaped by the cultural, linguistic, and historical contexts in which they are raised. These “ties” are not chains that restrict freedom, but roots that provide identity, meaning, and a sense of belonging. For Kymlicka, recognising these bonds is crucial to building a just and inclusive society.

He challenges the liberal assumption that justice requires total neutrality toward people’s cultural affiliations. In his view, a fair society must respect and support these ties—especially for minority groups—so that individuals can flourish within the cultural frameworks that shape who they are. The ties that bind us, such as shared language, traditions, and memories, do not prevent freedom; rather, they enable people to make choices that are meaningful and grounded.

Kymlicka sees multicultural rights not as exceptions, but as necessary tools to preserve these bonds in the face of assimilation and cultural erasure. To ignore the ties that bind is to ignore what makes people whole.

In “Culture and Equality: An Egalitarian Critique of Multiculturalism” (2001, Harvard University Press), Brian Barry is more critical of certain aspects of multiculturalism, he still engages deeply with the question of how to ensure equality in culturally diverse societies. He argues that true cultural equality must involve universal access to rights and resources, and that cultural practices should not be used to justify social inequalities. His work challenges us to think carefully about how culture intersects with justice, and how societies can promote both fairness and diversity without compromising either.

Barry introduces the idea of the abuse of culture to criticise how cultural arguments are sometimes used to shield unjust or harmful practices from scrutiny. He argues that some groups invoke “cultural rights” not to protect meaningful traditions, but to excuse behaviours that would otherwise be considered unacceptable—such as gender inequality, religious intolerance, or child neglect. For Barry, this is a misuse of multiculturalism, one that undermines the very idea of justice.

Barry contends that culture should never be treated as a moral sanctuary that places its members beyond criticism. He warns that when culture becomes an untouchable justification, it can be used to silence internal dissent and protect the powerful within a community at the expense of the vulnerable. He is especially critical of liberal theorists who, in the name of respecting diversity, fail to challenge practices that clearly violate universal human rights.

Ultimately, Barry calls for a multiculturalism that is compatible with basic liberal values—where cultural diversity is welcomed, but not allowed to override equality, individual rights, and democratic accountability. For him, the abuse of culture happens when we confuse respect with moral relativism.

Barry argues that a just society must be built on the foundation of equal rights, equal opportunities, and shared civic responsibilities—regardless of cultural differences. Unlike multicultural theorists who advocate for special group-based rights, Barry believes that justice requires treating all citizens under the same legal and political standards. His central claim is that fairness is undermined when the state begins to accommodate different cultural practices with different rules. For Barry, that kind of multiculturalism risks fragmenting society and weakening the common ground needed for solidarity.

Barry acknowledges the reality of cultural diversity, but he insists that public policy should prioritise socio-economic equality over cultural recognition. He argues that what disadvantaged people really need is access to quality education, healthcare, and employment—not symbolic gestures or legal exceptions based on identity. A just society, in his view, empowers individuals as equals, not as representatives of separate cultural blocs.

He doesn't deny that culture matters, but he warns against making it the primary lens through which justice is understood. To build a fair society in a culturally diverse world, Barry proposes a firm commitment to universalism: the same rules, the same protections, and the same opportunities for all—no matter where you come from.

[Part 7]
[Part 5]

Bahasa