Transparency in Democracy (2)

In a country where transparency is often promised but rarely delivered, the case of President Joko Widodo’s diploma has become a masterclass in political theatre. The document in question—supposedly issued by Gadjah Mada University—has never been publicly displayed in full, nor subjected to independent verification. Instead, it has been shown selectively to loyalists and a few journalists under conditions that resemble a Cold War intelligence briefing: no cameras, no copies, no questions.

Yet, despite this opacity, the police have confidently named eight individuals as suspects, accusing them of defamation and digital manipulation. The irony is palpable. How can one be charged with falsifying something that has never been transparently confirmed? It’s as if the state is prosecuting people for doubting a ghost—an invisible credential that floats above scrutiny.

Adding to the absurdity is the President’s own moment of confusion when asked about “Salam UGM,” the university’s signature greeting. His hesitation, caught on camera, has become a meme-worthy moment, prompting netizens to ask: “If you really graduated from Hogwarts, wouldn’t you know the school’s spell?”

The satire writes itself. We are witnessing a courtroom drama where the evidence is sacred, the critics are criminalised, and the protagonist forgets his alma mater’s password. It’s Kafka meets TikTok, with a dash of Orwellian flair.

Eight individuals have been named as suspects in the case involving allegations of President Joko Widodo’s diploma, with critics highlighting procedural oddities and raising eyebrows at the uncanny foresight of the President’s legal team.

According to official statements from the Jakarta Metropolitan Police, the suspects are divided into two clusters. Among the most prominent names are Roy Suryo, a former Minister of Youth and Sports; Dr Tifauziah Tyassuma, known as Dr Tifa, a vocal public health commentator; and Rismon Hasiholan Sianipar, a digital forensic analyst. The remaining five individuals have not been publicly identified in full, but are reportedly linked to the dissemination of manipulated documents and unverified claims regarding the authenticity of Jokowi’s academic records from Gadjah Mada University.

What has drawn particular scrutiny is the nature of the evidence and the timing of the legal process. The police claim to have relied on 130 witness testimonies, 22 expert analyses, and over 700 pieces of digital evidence. Yet critics argue that the methods used to determine “manipulation” were not transparently disclosed, and that the threshold for criminal liability in a case involving public discourse remains dangerously vague. The fact that the suspects were accused of using “non-scientific methods” to question a public document has led some to question whether the state is policing dissent under the guise of digital integrity.

Adding to the intrigue is the statement made by President Jokowi’s legal counsel days before the police announcement, in which he confidently predicted that suspects would soon be named. This has prompted speculation about the proximity between the executive and law enforcement, with some observers suggesting that the legal process may have been politically choreographed. While the President’s team insists that their confidence stemmed from the strength of the evidence and the clarity of the case, sceptics see it as a sign of preordained outcomes in a system where power and justice are increasingly intertwined.

For RRT (Roy, Rismon and Tifa), making them suspects was no hindrance; on the contrary, it resembled a war. And for both parties, the anticipation, the waiting, the not knowing — these were the hardest parts, echoing the sentiments that Daniel Abraham is often credited with expressing: “Waiting for a battle was the hardest part. Unless you got a dagger in your gut during the battle. Then that was hardest. Or you got through just fine and saw your men dead around you. Then that was.” The psychological weight of being on the edge of uncertainty mirrors the words of Ernie Pyle, who chronicled the Second World War with brutal honesty, remarking simply, “Anticipation is the worst.”

In modern fiction, Elliot Ackerman reinforces the same notion in Waiting for Eden, stating that the liminal space before action — “the not knowing, the uncertainty, the fear” — can haunt soldiers more than the combat itself. Even the poets of the First World War, like Wilfred Owen in Exposure, understood the cruel patience of waiting, penning lines such as, “But nothing happens,” capturing the oppressive suspension of time that corrodes the nerves. Meanwhile, Erich Maria Remarque’s All Quiet on the Western Front portrays the silent, stretched hours before battle as a slow attrition of spirit, when soldiers wait for morning, for orders, and for a moment that may never arrive.

Through these voices, whether historical, poetic, or fictional, the lesson is unmistakable: it is not merely the act of conflict itself that tests humanity, but the void before it, the stretch of uncertainty where dread festers, imagination runs wild, and courage is quietly forged. In RRT’s case, turning people into suspects becomes a theatre of psychological tension as real and exacting as any battlefield.

Oddly enough, the MUI Chairman joined the commentary. Suddenly, he’s weighing in on the police’s move to charge RRT, as if the moral compass of the nation depends solely on this verdict, while the much larger scandal over the hajj quota quietly simmers in the background. Netizens have been merciless, likening him to a referee blowing his whistle at the wrong match, pointing at RRT while the real goals—corruption, mismanagement, and millions of public funds — sail past unchallenged.

Some even joked that this is like watching a TV drama: the latest episode is filled with tension and theatrics, but the real storyline—the missing hajj money—is reduced to background noise. “If the hajj quota scandal were a movie, MUI is busy filming the trailer about RRT,” one witty user wrote in all caps, clearly not holding back. In short, online observers conclude that in this bizarre theatre, RRT can be a headline-grabbing suspect, while systemic corruption remains on a free stroll, and transparency is just a decorative prop in the scene. 

Several critics have expressed concern following the police’s decision to name multiple individuals as suspects in the case involving allegations of President Joko Widodo’s academic credentials. While the police maintain that the investigation was conducted thoroughly—with expert testimony, digital forensic analysis, and confirmation from Gadjah Mada University that the President’s diploma is authentic—many observers argue that the legal response may have broader implications for freedom of expression.

Some legal scholars and civil society advocates have questioned whether the use of criminal charges in this context risks silencing public scrutiny, especially when directed at elected officials. They argue that while misinformation should be addressed, the threshold for criminalisation must be carefully considered to avoid chilling effects on democratic discourse. The inclusion of public figures such as Roy Suryo among the suspects has further intensified debate, with some suggesting that the case reflects a growing tension between digital activism and state authority.

In contrast, the police have defended their actions, stating that the suspects disseminated manipulated documents and made unfounded claims that could damage reputations and public trust. They emphasise that the investigation was not politically motivated but based on evidence and expert analysis. Nonetheless, critics continue to urge caution, warning that the line between defamation and dissent must not be blurred in a democratic society.

Transparency and criticism function as twin pillars because they complement each other in sustaining a healthy, accountable, and responsive governance system. Transparency alone is like opening the windows of a room—it allows light to enter and exposes what is inside, but without criticism, that light may not be used to challenge, improve, or correct what is visible. Criticism, on the other hand, is the active response to transparency; it scrutinises policies, decisions, and actions, pushing institutions to justify, reform, or adjust their conduct. Together, transparency provides the information that makes informed criticism possible, and criticism ensures that transparency leads to real accountability rather than remaining a symbolic gesture. In essence, without transparency, criticism is blind, and without criticism, transparency risks becoming mere decoration—both are indispensable for governance that earns public trust and functions effectively.

In Information, Democracy, and Autocracy: Economic Transparency and Political (In)Stability by James R. Hollyer, B. Peter Rosendorff, and James Raymond Vreeland (Cambridge University Press, 2021) suggested that democracies tend to make economic data more accessible than autocracies because the fundamental logic of democratic governance creates strong incentives for transparency. In a democracy, leaders are accountable to the electorate: their continuation in office depends on the public’s perception of their performance. Citizens need credible information to judge whether incumbents are governing effectively, and elections serve as a mechanism of accountability. Therefore, publishing economic data becomes a strategic necessity: it allows the government to demonstrate competence, justify policy decisions, and gain trust.

By contrast, autocratic leaders are not primarily accountable to a broad electorate. Their survival depends more on controlling elites, patronage networks, or coercive institutions than on mass approval. Excessive disclosure could reveal policy failures or economic vulnerabilities that might empower rivals, foment dissent, or invite international pressure. As a result, autocracies often deliberately withhold, manipulate, or obscure economic information to protect regime stability.

The difference arises from the alignment of incentives: in democracies, transparency is a tool to secure legitimacy and political survival through informed consent, while in autocracies, secrecy is a tool to consolidate control and reduce challenges from potential opponents. The book argues that this structural distinction explains why democracies systematically produce more accessible and reliable economic data than autocracies.

The authors argue that a higher level of information‑disclosure—in the sense of publicly available economic data—plays a crucial role in strengthening both the legitimacy and the durability of democratic governments. 

The authors begin by defining transparency not in vague normative terms but more precisely as the dissemination of credible aggregate economic data, such that citizens (and external actors) can observe how the economy is performing as well as infer how well the government is doing. In a democracy, where the government’s survival depends on elections and the approval of a broad public, this kind of transparency reduces information asymmetries: voters can more readily distinguish between good and bad performance, and policymakers know they are being watched. Because transparency allows voters to make better‑informed decisions, officials are under stronger incentives to perform credibly, and the threat of electoral sanction becomes more meaningful. As a result, democratic governments that publish more economic data tend to be more resilient: they attract investment (which helps economic outcomes) and they reduce the likelihood of breakdown from public discontent. Moreover, transparency bolsters legitimacy: when citizens believe they have genuine information about how their government is doing and trust that data are not simply concealed, they are more likely to accept the outcome of elections, engage peacefully and view the system as accountable. This acceptance in turn reduces the political stress that arises from uncertainty, which otherwise might undermine democratic stability.

Because democratic governments operate in a context of open choice and competitive accountability, information disclosure helps ensure that the accountability mechanisms (elections, public scrutiny) function properly. In the authors’ words, democracies “make economic data more available than do similarly developed autocracies”, and this openness “makes democracies more resilient to breakdown.” Thus, the correlation is that when transparency is high in a democracy, legitimacy is enhanced, and the government is more likely to endure.

In Indonesia, when talking about accountability and transparency in Democracy, there is no single law titled specifically “Law on Accountability.” Instead, accountability functions as a fundamental principle embedded across several laws that govern public administration, state financial management, and public service. Laws such as the State Finance Law of 2003, the State Treasury Law of 2004, and the Law on the Examination of State Financial Management of 2004 establish the legal framework for responsible management of public funds and ensure that government officials are answerable to both the parliament and the public. Moreover, the Public Information Disclosure Law of 2008 enhances government accountability by mandating transparency, allowing citizens to access information and monitor state activities. The 2014 Law on Government Administration further reinforces the expectation that public officials must act responsibly and can be held accountable for their decisions and actions. In practice, accountability in Indonesia is thus not confined to a single statute but is a recurring theme in laws that aim to guarantee responsible governance, financial integrity, and openness in public service.

The Indonesian Public Information Disclosure Law (UU 14/2008) serves as a formal legal framework to institutionalise transparency within the country. By establishing the public’s right to access government-held information, the law transforms transparency from an abstract principle into a tangible, enforceable practice. Citizens are empowered to request information regarding policies, budgets, and decision-making processes, while public bodies are obliged to proactively provide accurate and timely data. This legal obligation reduces secrecy and arbitrary control over information, fostering accountability and making it possible for citizens to scrutinise and influence government actions. Essentially, UU 14/2008 operationalises the concept of transparency, ensuring that governmental power is exercised in a way that can be observed, questioned, and trusted by the public.

The Act begins by establishing in its preamble that information is a basic human need and that the right to obtain public information is among the fundamental rights recognised under the Indonesian constitution (Articles 28 F and 28 J of the 1945 Constitution). This constitutional grounding lends the Act a powerful normative status: not only must the state permit access to information, but it is obligated to facilitate it as part of good governance.

Key provisions include:

• Article 7 obliges every Public Body (“Badan Publik”) to provide, furnish or publish public information under its authority, alongside the duty to ensure that information is accurate, true and not misleading. The body must also build and develop an information and documentation system so that its public information is easily accessible.
• Article 11 sets out the types of information that must be made available at all times. These include: a list of all public information under its control (excluding exempted information), results of decisions and their considerations, policies and supporting documents, work plans including budget estimates, agreements of the public body with third parties, statements of public officials in public meetings, procedures relating to public services, and reports on the service of information access.
• Article 14 stipulates the obligation for State‑Owned Enterprises (SOEs) or regionally‑owned enterprises to disclose corporate governance data: names of shareholders, boards of directors, audited annual reports, remuneration, governance mechanisms, legal cases, internal governance policies, etc.
• The Act also provides for information exclusions, mechanisms for requests and appeals, the establishment of the Komisi Informasi (Information Commission) to resolve disputes, and even criminal sanctions for violations in certain cases. 

The implications of these legal provisions are several‑fold. First, they shift information from being a privilege held by state actors into a right held by citizens, thereby rebalancing power. Second, they raise institutional expectations: public bodies must organise their information systems, adopt transparency routines, and respond to information requests. Third, they raise the cost of opacity: if a body fails to publish required data or deals unfairly with requests, it may face administrative sanctions, reputational damage or judicial challenge. Fourth, the corporate governance requirements for SOEs create overlap between commercial accountability and public‑service transparency, thereby exposing entities that straddle private and public spheres. Finally, the presence of sanctions and dispute‑resolution mechanisms means transparency is not purely voluntary—it becomes enforceable, albeit imperfectly.

However, in practice, the implementation remains inconsistent. While the law lays out strong architecture for transparency, many public bodies struggle to build accessible systems, locate documentation, manage exemptions appropriately or embed a culture of openness. The gap between legal mandate and everyday practice means that transparency continues to be more aspirational than realised in many places.

Indonesia, despite being a constitutional democracy that formally embraces openness, struggles with structural and cultural obstacles in governance due to a combination of historical legacies, institutional weaknesses, and socio-political dynamics. Historically, decades of authoritarian rule under the New Order regime instilled a bureaucratic culture that prioritised hierarchy, secrecy, and top-down decision-making. This legacy persists in many government offices, where deference to authority and fear of making mistakes often discourage full disclosure of information.

Structurally, the public administration system is fragmented. Information about policies, budgets, procurement, and public programs is scattered across multiple institutions, agencies, and regional offices, which makes coordinated transparency difficult. Many agencies lack the technical capacity, resources, or standardised information systems to provide timely and accurate access to data. In addition, legal mechanisms like the Public Information Disclosure Law (UU 14/2008) exist, but enforcement varies widely, and oversight bodies such as the Komisi Informasi do not always have the power or reach to compel compliance effectively.

Culturally, Indonesia’s social norms still value hierarchy, relational networks, and patronage systems. Officials may fear public scrutiny, criticism, or political backlash if they fully disclose information. Citizens themselves often have limited digital literacy, making it harder to access, interpret, or use the information that is available. Political interests and partisan pressures further complicate matters, as transparency may reveal inconvenient truths or threaten entrenched networks.

In combination, these structural and cultural factors create a situation where transparency exists in law but is inconsistent in practice. Government actions may appear opaque, selective, or performative, rather than genuinely open, making citizen oversight and participatory governance more difficult.

One of the key reasons why public information in Indonesia frequently resembles a puzzle spilt across the floor is the fragmentation of data and portals across multiple agencies, levels of government and formats—a phenomenon documented in a policy study published by the Open Contracting Partnership in 2022. According to that study, while Indonesia has made advances in e‑procurement and digitisation, the architecture of disclosure was not designed with external oversight in mind and thus resulted in information being dispersed “across numerous portals and formats”. This dispersion means that a citizen seeking relevant records must locate several different websites, navigate inconsistent metadata or formats, and often piece together partial fragments of data to form a coherent picture. The practical implication is that openness, though legally mandated, becomes effectively opaque to non‑specialist users, thus undermining the democratic purpose of transparency.

Case example of Infrastructure procurement data gaps in Indonesia: The Open Contracting Partnership report Infrastructure procurement risks: What data‑led analysis reveals in Indonesia (2022) highlights that a large number of infrastructure tender notices lacked sufficient detail (e.g., about 70 % of notices had less than 240 characters in description) and that cancelled tenders (~20 %) were not recorded with reasons or subcontractor details. The report points out that Indonesia’s procurement data remains “very fragmented across numerous portals and formats” because the system was designed for internal management rather than public oversight. 

This example shows how, even when data is “out there”, it can be so scattered and inconsistent that the public effectively cannot assemble a coherent view of the process.

Case of local government transparency in procurement: Bima City. The article “Peering Through the Digital Window: Assessing Online Disclosure of the Public Procurement Data in Bima City” (Journal of Governance & Local Politics, 2023) found that the official website of the Bima City Government’s e‑procurement portal did not provide ideal data accessibility or completeness, due to constraints such as budget limitations, staff capacity, and political leadership commitment. This local‐level case confirms that fragmentation is not just about national systems but also about local governance, where even a digital portal exists, but the data is patchy or the interface is weak.

The UU KIP, or Undang-Undang Keterbukaan Informasi Publik (Public Information Disclosure Act), is a law enacted in Indonesia in 2008 to ensure that the public has the right to access information held by government institutions. Its main purpose is to promote transparency, accountability, and participation in governance, allowing citizens to monitor public policies, decisions, and expenditures. By mandating that government bodies provide timely and accurate information, the law seeks to reduce corruption, improve public trust, and strengthen democratic practices in Indonesia. Essentially, UU KIP turns information from a guarded secret into a public resource that citizens can use to make informed decisions and hold authorities accountable.

The intention behind UU KIP is undeniably noble: it aims to empower citizens by giving them access to government information, foster transparency, and reduce corruption. It’s designed to create a more participatory democracy where the public can hold officials accountable. However, in practice, its implementation often falls short. Some government offices are slow to respond, reluctant to share certain documents, or lack proper systems to manage and deliver information. Bureaucratic red tape, limited resources, and sometimes a culture of secrecy can make access spotty. So, while the law is like a bright beacon of hope on paper, the actual experience can feel inconsistent—like a mobile phone signal that drops just when you need it most.

Indonesia’s democratic aspirations are deeply rooted in its post-Suharto transition, when the country moved from authoritarianism toward a system that constitutionally embraces openness, public participation, and checks on power. The 1945 Constitution, along with reforms such as the Law on Public Information (UU 14/2008), reflects a commitment to transparency, accountability, and the protection of citizens’ rights to access government information. In theory, these legal frameworks empower the public to scrutinise and influence government actions, nurturing trust and legitimacy in the democratic process.

Yet, despite these institutional guarantees, Indonesia continues to wrestle with structural and cultural obstacles that cloud visibility in governance. Structurally, bureaucratic complexity, fragmented authority across multiple agencies, and inconsistent enforcement of information laws create “black boxes” where information is delayed, incomplete, or obscured. For instance, public institutions may invoke exemptions under UU 14/2008 for reasons of national security, commercial confidentiality, or internal deliberations, but such exemptions can be overused or misapplied, limiting meaningful citizen oversight.

Culturally, hierarchies, patronage networks, and a historically embedded preference for discretion over openness hinder transparency. Many officials still perceive openness as a potential threat to authority or reputation, leading to selective disclosure. Social norms around deference, face-saving, and avoiding public conflict further reduce the willingness of bureaucrats to proactively share information. Even when citizens demand accountability, the mechanisms for redress can be slow, opaque, or intimidating, perpetuating a gap between constitutional ideals and practical reality.

Indonesia’s democratic aspirations are aspirational and institutionally supported, but visibility in governance remains clouded because legal frameworks collide with entrenched structural inertia and cultural habits that favour opacity. Democracy in Indonesia, therefore, is a work in progress: the rules for openness exist on paper, yet fully realising them requires persistent reforms, cultural shifts, and civic engagement to translate the promise of transparency into everyday governmental practice.

[Part 3]
[Part 1]

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Greedonomics

In recent years, there have been growing concerns in Indonesia about how land expropriation by powerful oligarchs and corporate interests has increasingly targeted ordinary citizens and indigenous communities. One prominent example involves the coastal reclamation project at Pantai Indah Kapuk 2 (PIK‑2) in Banten, where activists claim that large tracts of land and sea-adjacent territory once held under traditional documents (like girik, petuk, kikitir) are being systematically overridden in favour of major development firms. 

The mechanism often cited is the introduction of regulatory loopholes—for example, under Peraturan Pemerintah No. 18 Tahun 2021 and related measures, the older customary or local land titles become less legally effective, thus paving the way for corporations, with the backing of state agencies, to obtain major concessions. In parallel, there are accusations of “land-musnah” or “vanished-land” tactics, especially in coastal zones, which permit reclamation and claim of previously sea-oriented land by business interests. 

Another case that sheds light on how entrenched this phenomenon has become concerns the land of a prominent figure: Jusuf Kalla (JK). Even his company reportedly encountered claims of forced takeover of roughly 16.4 hectares in Makassar. While the details remain contested, advocates say this illustrates the breadth of power wielded by oligarch-corporate networks and their ability to exploit legal systems against ordinary land-holders. 

From a broader historical view, researchers note that the pattern of agrarian dispossession in Indonesia has roots extending back to colonial times, with land transfers first from local communities to plantations, then to state and private holdings, continuing under neoliberal and investment-driven models. The interplay of state policy, corporate expansion, and weakened protections for customary land rights has resulted in what many describe as a systemic loss of land security for common people.

The expropriation of land by oligarch-corporate forces in Indonesia is not limited to one island or sector; it spans coastal reclamation in Banten, disputes in Sulawesi, and plantation or special-economic-zone conversions nationwide. The key issues include weakened customary title protections, regulatory frameworks that favour large investments over local ownership, and collusion or lack of enforcement in state institutions.

When President Prabowo speaks of “greedonomics” (or “serakahnomics”), he is drawing attention to a pattern of economic activity in which powerful actors—whether corporations or oligarchic networks—use their privileged position to extract value from society with minimal regard for the rights, welfare or dignity of ordinary people. In this sense, the large-scale land grab by oligarchy-corporate interests in Indonesia, especially when it involves communities, customary land rights, or weak regulatory protection for small land-holders, becomes one concrete manifestation of the “greedonomics” that Prabowo is warning about.

For example, when land originally held by community or indigenous groups is taken for development without fair compensation, transparency, or due process, the underlying logic is no different from what Prabowo calls “economic vampires” or actors pursuing profit from suffering. In such cases, the state’s ability (or willingness) to protect community rights may be diminished, enabling the extraction of land value by the powerful at the expense of the vulnerable.

Moreover, Prabowo links the notion of greedonomics not only to domestic issues but to international economic dynamics — he warns that corruption, hoarding, market‐manipulation and exploitative extractive practices hinder genuine growth and equity. From this perspective, the phenomenon of land expropriation by oligarchy/corporations can be seen as both an economic and moral challenge: it undermines the foundations of inclusive growth, disrupts trust in institutions, and sustains inequality.

Thus, by framing land-grabbing in Indonesia as part of a broader “greedonomics” problem, one can argue that what is happening is not mere isolated misconduct but part of a systemic pattern—where elites capture land and resources, sideline ordinary citizens, and thereby replicate the very dynamics that Prabowo decries. In doing so, the fight against land dispossession becomes aligned with his agenda of confronting greed-driven economics and reclaiming fairness for the people.

In a world dominated by avarice, one might encounter what could be called Greedonomics. In this economic system, greed is not merely tolerated but celebrated as the primary engine of progress. Within this framework, the accumulation of private wealth is hailed as the ultimate measure of national success, regardless of the price that the poor or the environment must pay. It is a world where the rich get richer, and the rest are merely lectured on morality.

Closely related is Grabonomics, an economy that thrives on the ruthless mantra of “first come, first served,” where ethics and fairness are merely obstacles to be bypassed. Businessmen, politicians, and brokers scramble for projects, positions, and concessions as if caught in an endless game of musical chairs. In this realm, those with access grab it all, unapologetically and without concern for anyone else. Value creation is irrelevant; what matters is value extraction.

Then there is Gluttonomics, an insatiable economy that never knows enough. It resembles a grand feast reserved for a privileged few, while the majority are left starving on the sidelines. Here, excessive consumption and wasteful spending are disguised as signs of growth, as though the gluttony of a few were a triumph for the many. The feast continues, but the famine is real.

Intertwined with these systems is Cronynomics, an economy guided by networks of family ties and political allies. Lucrative contracts and state projects fall into the hands of those “close to power,” not those with competence. In Cronynomics, greed is repackaged as loyalty, and corruption wears the mask of kinship, presenting nepotism as a legitimate business model for the nation.

Finally, Scamonomics exposes the dark art of economic deception, where trickery and outright fraud are elevated into a national pastime. Schemes, shady deals, and creative accounting flourish while the public bears the losses and insiders pocket the gains. In Scamonomics, the con becomes commerce, and everyone else is merely the mark.

Together, these -nomics reveal a portrait of an economy where greed, opportunism, and deception are not anomalies but the very pillars of the system itself.

Greedonomics, at its core, is not merely an economic model but a reflection of a deeper ideological shift in society. Ideologically, it champions individual accumulation of wealth as the ultimate moral and social good, redefining success in purely materialistic terms. In this worldview, the pursuit of personal gain is elevated above collective welfare, and ethical considerations are secondary at best. Greed is glorified as ambition, and ambition is equated with virtue.

Politically, Greedonomics thrives in systems where power is concentrated and accountability is weak. Leaders may justify extreme wealth accumulation as a driver of national growth, masking inequality under the rhetoric of development and efficiency. The political narrative often shifts blame onto the poor, framing them as lazy or undeserving, while the wealthy are portrayed as visionary and industrious. Elections, policymaking, and regulatory frameworks are subtly shaped to serve the interests of the rich, perpetuating cycles of privilege.

Socially, Greedonomics fosters stratification and alienation. Communities are fractured between those who prosper under the system and those left behind. Trust, once the glue of society, erodes as people perceive that connections and influence outweigh competence or merit. Social mobility becomes a myth, and resentment simmers quietly among the majority, who witness the elite dining lavishly while their needs are ignored.

Culturally, Greedonomics permeates everyday life through media, education, and popular culture. Consumerism and material success are celebrated as markers of status, while philanthropy and social responsibility are often framed as optional or performative. The culture of “more is better” infiltrates attitudes toward work, family, and social relationships, creating a society where appearances and wealth dictate value. Over time, this economic ideology shapes not just markets, but mindsets, redefining what it means to be successful, ethical, or even human.

Greedonomics is more than just an economic system; it is a lens through which ideology, politics, society, and culture converge, glorifying personal gain while masking its human and environmental costs..

In Indonesia, Greedonomics has found a fertile ground where oligarchs, politicians, and bureaucrats often treat the nation as their personal playground. Ideologically, it manifests in a culture that equates wealth with virtue and influence with wisdom, as if the ability to accumulate assets automatically grants moral authority. Public discourse frequently celebrates “success stories” of tycoons and political elites, while quietly ignoring the millions left struggling in informal sectors, rural villages, or urban slums.

Politically, Greedonomics thrives on networks of patronage and power. Policies are crafted not to uplift citizens but to safeguard the interests of those already in control. Projects, contracts, and public funds are channelled toward those who can navigate the corridors of power, rather than those who possess skill or merit. Elections and media narratives often highlight loyalty to powerful figures as a sign of civic virtue, while dissenting voices are dismissed as ungrateful or disruptive. The system transforms governance into a theatrical performance, where the wealthy and well-connected are always on stage, and the rest merely watch from the cheap seats.

Socially, the consequences are stark. Communities fracture as inequality becomes the norm rather than the exception. Education and employment opportunities are skewed in favour of children of the elite, leaving the majority struggling to climb a ladder that is both short and brittle. Trust erodes as people realise that influence, not competence, drives outcomes, creating an atmosphere where survival often depends on knowing the right person rather than working hard. Social resentment simmers quietly, occasionally erupting in protests or viral memes that mock the absurdity of the system.

Culturally, Greedonomics infiltrates everyday life. Popular media, from television shows to TikTok influencers, glorify luxury, ostentation, and conspicuous consumption. Consumerism becomes a cultural badge of honour, while ethical responsibility is trivialised or commodified as philanthropy for the cameras. Even language evolves: buzzwords like “strategic partnerships” and “value creation” often cloak self-interest and exploitation. In essence, greed is not just tolerated—it is celebrated as a national trait, woven into the very fabric of social identity.

Ultimately, Greedonomics in Indonesia is more than an economic pattern; it is an ideology, a political strategy, a social reality, and a cultural phenomenon. It glorifies accumulation, rewards loyalty over competence, and masks the cost borne by ordinary citizens and the environment, creating a society where wealth and influence determine not just opportunity, but dignity itself.

Several books echo the themes implied by President Prabowo’s notion of Serakahnomics, particularly those that criticise greed-driven capitalism and explore how unbridled economic ambition can distort societies. One such book is Capital in the Twenty-First Century by Thomas Piketty (Harvard University Press, 2014), which offers a thorough historical analysis of wealth inequality and warns that without regulation, capitalism tends to concentrate wealth in the hands of a few, thereby threatening democracy and social stability.

Thomas Piketty’s Capital in the Twenty-First Century delivers a striking and comprehensive analysis of wealth and income inequality over the past few centuries. The central message of the book is that when the rate of return on capital consistently exceeds the rate of economic growth, wealth becomes increasingly concentrated in the hands of a small elite, creating a self-perpetuating cycle of inequality. Piketty argues that this process is not merely a temporary anomaly but a structural feature of capitalism unless countered by deliberate policy interventions, such as progressive taxation on wealth. He also challenges the idea that meritocracy alone can produce fair economic outcomes, emphasising that inherited wealth and systemic advantages often overshadow individual effort. The book ultimately serves as both a historical survey and a warning: if the trend continues unchecked, societies risk entrenching extreme disparities that undermine social cohesion and democratic principles.

Another relevant work is The Price of Inequality by Joseph E. Stiglitz (W.W. Norton, 2012), in which the Nobel laureate economist critiques how policies shaped by the wealthy elite have skewed the economy to benefit the rich while hollowing out the middle class. Stiglitz argues that this isn't just unfair—it’s economically inefficient and ultimately self-destructive.

Stiglitz argues that economic inequality is not merely a social injustice but also an economic inefficiency that harms everyone, including the wealthy. The core message is that when wealth and power are concentrated in the hands of a few, the rules of the economy are distorted to serve their interests, often through lobbying, favourable regulations, and tax policies. This concentration undermines competition, reduces social mobility, and slows overall economic growth. Stiglitz emphasises that extreme inequality erodes democracy itself, because political influence becomes tied to financial power rather than the will of the majority. Essentially, the “price” of inequality is multifaceted: it is the cost of slower growth, weakened social cohesion, wasted human potential, and the subtle yet profound corruption of democratic institutions.

Similarly, Naomi Klein’s This Changes Everything: Capitalism vs. the Climate (Simon & Schuster, 2014) targets the same structure of unchecked profit-seeking, but focuses on its environmental consequences. She contends that the logic of endless growth and corporate greed is incompatible with ecological survival, making climate change a crisis born out of economic ideology.

Imagine, if you will, that every coastline of Indonesia has been swallowed by reclamation projects, each sandy strip, each mangrove bay, now stamped with the logos of tycoons, oligarchs, and political allies. Through the lens of Naomi Klein’s This Changes Everything (2014, Simon & Schuster), one cannot help but see this as the ultimate triumph of Greedonomics over human and ecological common sense. Ideologically, the nation has been transformed into a theatre where wealth is worshipped above all else. The sacred idea of public space—once a playground for fishermen, families, and communities—is now redefined as private property, where only the holders of capital have the right to breathe the sea air.

Economically, the spectacle is both dazzling and horrifying. Reclaimed beaches become exclusive resorts and yacht clubs, while the traditional livelihoods of millions vanish beneath tonnes of concrete. The GDP may rise, investors cheer, and glossy reports celebrate the growth of “national assets,” yet for the majority, daily life becomes a survival game on the margins. One can almost hear the accountants cheering while fishermen, street vendors, and small traders scrounge for scraps along artificially narrowed coastlines. Wealth is concentrated, inequality is amplified, and the economy—ostensibly booming—thrives on dispossession.

Politically, the scene is a masterclass in power theatre. Policies, zoning laws, and environmental regulations are quietly rewritten to serve private interests. Politicians flaunt their roles as facilitators of “progress” while quietly collecting campaign contributions from the very same developers who now own the sand under citizens’ feet. Public consultation becomes a ceremonial nod; dissent is either co-opted or criminalised. In the Parliament, debates may continue, but along the shores, the message is clear: if you are not wealthy, you have no say.

Socially, the human cost is stark and surreal. Entire communities, once rooted in coastal traditions, are displaced. Children grow up learning that the beach is a commodity, not a playground; grandmothers lament mangroves that no longer exist, and fishermen teach their grandchildren how to navigate permits instead of tides. Trust, solidarity, and collective memory erode, replaced by resentment, envy, and a sense of exclusion. The social fabric becomes a patchwork of privilege versus dispossession, where neighbourly bonds are replaced by guarded access codes and private security patrols.

Culturally, the coastlines are now the stage of hyper-consumerism. Instagrammable luxury towers, infinity pools, and golf courses replace traditional festivals and community rituals. Even folklore about the sea becomes a marketing asset: mythical spirits are rebranded as mascots for real estate projects. The cultural narrative shifts from “our shared heritage” to “your personal experience,” commodifying nature, history, and memory alike. Greed becomes culture, and culture becomes a shopping mall with a view of the ocean.

In short, through Naomi Klein’s eyes, a fully reclaimed Indonesia is a nation where ideology, economics, politics, social structures, and culture all bend to the will of capital, leaving ordinary citizens stranded on the margins, their history submerged beneath concrete and ambition. The climate is ignored, the commons are lost, and the sea, once a symbol of life and livelihood, is now a playground for the few.

President Prabowo’s concept of Serakahnomics or Greedonomics and the book Freakonomics by Steven D. Levitt and Stephen J. Dubner (2006, B de Bolsillo) both explore the hidden mechanisms that drive human behaviour, but they do so from markedly different perspectives and with distinct intentions. Freakonomics applies the tools of economic analysis to uncover surprising patterns and incentives behind everyday actions. Levitt and Dubner ask unusual questions—such as why sumo wrestlers and teachers might cheat or how a person’s name can influence life outcomes—to reveal that human behaviour is often shaped by incentives in ways we do not immediately recognise. It is playful, investigative, and data-driven, aiming primarily to illuminate the hidden logic of the world rather than to moralise.

Freakonomics, written by Steven D. Levitt and Stephen J. Dubner, is a provocative and unconventional book that explores hidden aspects of everyday life through the lens of economic theory. Rather than examining traditional economic topics like inflation or trade, the authors investigate surprising questions using data analysis and behavioural insights. For example, they explore what schoolteachers and sumo wrestlers have in common, why drug dealers often live with their mothers, and how a person's name might affect their future success.

The core idea of Freakonomics is that incentives drive human behaviour and that, by digging beneath the surface, one can uncover the real motives behind actions that at first seem irrational. The authors argue that economics, at its heart, is not just about money, but about understanding how people respond to incentives, cheat, take risks, or act against their own interests.

The book blends storytelling with statistics, using real-world case studies and quirky experiments to illustrate its arguments. It challenges conventional wisdom and encourages readers to question everything—especially so-called experts. In doing so, Freakonomics becomes not just an economics book, but a book about thinking differently.

In contrast, Serakahnomics is a politically charged concept that focuses on the dangers of unbridled greed in economic systems. By coining this term, President Prabowo draws attention to how excessive self-interest, whether among corporations, elites, or policymakers, can corrode social trust, amplify inequality, and undermine the well-being of ordinary citizens. While Freakonomics dissects behaviour to understand why people act in certain ways, Serakahnomics condemns certain behaviours when they become systemic and destructive. Both approaches share an interest in revealing what lies beneath the surface: one through curiosity and empirical investigation, the other through moral and political critique.

Taken together, these two frameworks highlight the interplay between incentives and consequences. Freakonomics teaches that human actions often have hidden motives, while Serakahnomics warns that when greed becomes institutionalised, these motives can produce harmful societal outcomes. In this sense, reading Levitt and Dubner alongside Prabowo’s concept can enrich our understanding of human and economic behaviour, combining analytical insight with ethical reflection.

Together, these works provide a broader intellectual backdrop to the warning embedded in Serakahnomics—they all share a moral concern for the consequences of greed and advocate for systemic rethinking to restore balance between economy, equity, and ethics.

And in closing, viewed through the lens of Prabowo’s so-called Serakhnomics, the total reclamation of Indonesia’s coastlines becomes the ultimate showcase of “strategic wealth maximisation.” Here, the accumulation of private property and coastal assets is not just tolerated—it is actively celebrated as proof of economic vitality. Ideologically, the narrative suggests that the success of a few tycoons is, by extension, a sign of national strength, and any inconvenience to ordinary citizens is a necessary sacrifice on the altar of progress. In this worldview, greed is not a vice but a tool for nation-building.

Economically, Serakhnomics interprets concrete-strewn beaches as productivity in action. GDP figures rise, investor portfolios shine, and “national assets” expand under the careful stewardship of those who know how to grab first and grab big. The millions of displaced fishermen and small traders are quietly reframed as collateral damage—a minor inconvenience in a system where the growth of the elite is conflated with the growth of the nation. Reclamation is not destruction; it is development, and development is always good if it is controlled by the right hands.

Politically, Serakhnomics justifies the rewriting of laws, regulations, and zoning policies. Public consultation is reduced to a ritual checkbox, dissent is dismissed as naïveté, and loyalty becomes the currency that counts. Leaders become facilitators of the “creative redistribution” of coastline wealth, and the performance of governance focuses on the optics of growth and power consolidation rather than the well-being of ordinary citizens.

Socially, the impact is framed as a necessary recalibration of society. Communities displaced by luxury resorts are simply repositioned within the hierarchy of a Serakhnomic order. Education, opportunity, and mobility are selectively distributed, privileging those already close to capital, while the majority adjust to life on the margins. Alienation, resentment, and envy are treated as inevitable background noise in the theatre of national progress.

Culturally, the coastal transformation is celebrated in media, architecture, and lifestyle branding. The private ownership of formerly public beaches is marketed as modernity, sophistication, and status. Instagrammable luxury developments replace folklore and communal ritual, and greed is reframed as visionary entrepreneurship. In short, Serakhnomics turns what might otherwise be scandal or catastrophe into a badge of national pride, making exclusion, dispossession, and inequality look like the triumph of strategy.

In the end, Serakhnomics is more than an economic philosophy—it is a mirror reflecting the triumph of ambition over empathy, of accumulation over community, and of spectacle over substance. It turns public spaces into private prizes, social bonds into transactional relationships, and cultural heritage into marketable assets. The ideology glorifies those who can grab the most while teaching the rest to admire from the sidelines, to accept that the world’s riches are never meant for everyone. In this theatre of greed, morality is optional, fairness is a relic, and privilege is the only currency that truly matters. Serakhnomics, in all its audacious glory, reminds us that when greed becomes the measure of success, society itself becomes the collateral.

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