In recent months, several flagship projects from President Joko Widodo’s administration have come under intense scrutiny, with critics and former officials openly questioning their viability and financial integrity. The high-speed rail project known as Whoosh, once hailed as a symbol of modernisation, has been marred by allegations of extreme budget inflation. According to Prof. Mahfud MD, the cost per kilometre has tripled compared to similar projects in China, raising serious concerns about potential corruption and fiscal mismanagement.Meanwhile, the ambitious plan to relocate Indonesia’s capital to Nusantara has faced significant setbacks. Budget cuts and stalled infrastructure have cast doubt on its feasibility, with some observers suggesting the project may become a stranded legacy rather than a transformative leap.Another troubled initiative is the Getaci toll road, part of the Trans-Java network. Despite being listed as a strategic national project, it has repeatedly failed to attract investors and suffered from unsuccessful tenders, leaving its future uncertain.Compounding these issues is the financial collapse of several state-owned construction firms—Waskita Karya, Wijaya Karya, Adhi Karya, and PP—whose debt ratios have ballooned beyond sustainable levels. These companies, once the backbone of Jokowi’s infrastructure push, now struggle to pay contractors and bondholders, with some teetering on the brink of bankruptcy.Among the most glaring examples of underperforming infrastructure in Jokowi’s era is the Kertajati International Airport in Majalengka, West Java. Despite its grand scale and a staggering investment of Rp 2.6 trillion from the national budget, the airport has remained eerily quiet, operating far below capacity. With annual losses reportedly reaching Rp 60 billion, critics have labelled it a white elephant—a monument to misplaced optimism and poor planning.The airport’s troubles are not merely financial. Its location, far from major urban centres and poorly connected by public transport, has made it unattractive to airlines and passengers alike. Even regional leaders have expressed frustration, with some suggesting the project was doomed from the start due to its lack of strategic foresight.Kertajati is not alone. The JB Soedirman Airport in Purbalingga, Central Java, built for Rp 350 billion, has also struggled to attract consistent traffic. Initially envisioned as a gateway for Umrah pilgrims and regional travellers, it now sits largely idle, its runways echoing with silence.These cases reflect a broader pattern in which infrastructure is prioritised for symbolic value rather than functional necessity. While the ambition to modernise Indonesia is commendable, the execution has often faltered—leaving behind gleaming structures that fail to serve the public effectively.Many of the failed infrastructure projects under President Jokowi’s administration share a common thread: they were politically driven rather than grounded in rigorous feasibility studies. In theory, these projects were “no go”—plagued by poor location choices, inflated budgets, and limited public demand—but they were pushed forward nonetheless, often under the banner of national pride or strategic urgency.The decision-making process frequently sidelined technical assessments in favour of symbolic gestures. Airports were built in remote areas with little traffic, toll roads were planned without sufficient investor interest, and megaprojects like the new capital were launched despite glaring logistical and financial gaps. These initiatives were often framed as legacies, designed to leave a mark on history, rather than as solutions to pressing public needs.Compounding the issue was the reliance on state-owned enterprises (BUMN Karya) to execute these projects, many of which were burdened with unrealistic mandates and insufficient funding. As a result, they accumulated unsustainable debt, leading to financial collapse and stalled construction.In essence, the “go” was not based on readiness, but on rhetoric. The projects became political theatre—grand announcements, ceremonial groundbreakings, and glossy renderings—while the underlying foundations remained shaky.From glossy renderings to ceremonial groundbreakings, Indonesia’s infrastructure dreams were sold like blockbuster trailers—big budget, big ambition, and barely any plot. Behind the scenes, however, the cracks were already showing. Why did these projects “go” when every study said “no”? Because in the theatre of politics, optics often trump logic. Ministers chased legacy, not logistics. BUMNs were cast as heroes, but given scripts they couldn’t afford to follow. This is not just about failed buildings. It’s about a system that rewards spectacle over substance. Welcome to the backstage of Indonesia’s most ambitious misfires.
The debt incurred by Indonesia for the Jakarta–Bandung high-speed rail project, known as Whoosh, is estimated at around Rp116 trillion, with a significant portion borrowed from the China Development Bank. While official figures vary depending on the financing structure and interest rates, projections suggest that repayment could stretch over 30 to 40 years, assuming consistent revenue and no major disruptions.However, the repayment timeline is not merely a matter of arithmetic. The project has faced cost overruns, operational delays, and lower-than-expected passenger volumes, all of which complicate the financial outlook. Moreover, the initial claim that the project would be funded purely through business-to-business mechanisms has eroded, with the state budget now quietly stepping in to cover shortfalls.In essence, the debt may linger for decades, becoming a fiscal shadow that outlasts the political careers of those who championed it. The question is no longer just “when will it be paid off?” but “who will bear the cost when the applause fades?”According to senior economist Faisal Basri, the financial outlook for Indonesia’s Jakarta–Bandung high-speed rail project is far more dire than official projections suggest. Based on his calculations, even under optimistic assumptions—such as ignoring operational costs and interest payments—the project would take approximately 48 years to break even. However, when more realistic variables are included, such as maintenance, staffing, and debt servicing, the timeline stretches dramatically.In fact, Faisal Basri estimates that the project may require up to 139 years to fully recoup its investment, making it a multi-generational burden. This projection transforms the Whoosh train from a symbol of progress into a fiscal time capsule—one that future generations may inherit without ever having asked for it.The implication is stark: the debt may not only outlive the administration that initiated it, but also the children and grandchildren of those currently footing the bill. It’s no longer just a question of economic feasibility—it’s a question of historical accountability.If we take Faisal Basri’s projection seriously—that the Jakarta–Bandung high-speed rail project may require up to 139 years to fully repay its debt—then we are looking at a burden that spans at least five to six generations. Assuming a generational cycle of roughly 25 years, the debt would outlive not only the administration that initiated it, but also the children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and even great-great-grandchildren of today’s taxpayers.This transforms the project from a short-term infrastructure investment into a long-term fiscal inheritance. It’s no longer just a train—it’s a legacy of debt, passed down like an heirloom nobody asked for. The applause at the ribbon-cutting ceremony may fade in a matter of minutes, but the financial consequences could echo for more than a century.In this light, the Whoosh train becomes less of a symbol of progress and more of a monument to political ambition—one that future generations may remember not for its speed, but for its cost.If we consider the projected cost of Indonesia’s new capital city, Nusantara, which is estimated to exceed Rp 466 trillion, and factor in the current pace of funding—Rp 48.8 trillion approved until 2029, plus Rp 60.93 trillion in public-private partnerships still in process—it becomes clear that this is not a short-term undertaking. Even under optimistic conditions, the full development of IKN could span several decades, with maintenance, expansion, and debt servicing continuing long after the initial construction phase.Assuming a generational cycle of 25 years, and considering the long tail of infrastructure upkeep and fiscal obligations, the financial burden of IKN could easily stretch across four to five generations. This means that children born today may still be paying for a city they didn’t choose, and their grandchildren may inherit the responsibility of sustaining it.In this context, IKN is not merely a capital relocation—it’s a multi-generational commitment. It’s a city built not just with concrete and steel, but with the future tax obligations of citizens who may never live there. The question is no longer “how much will it cost?” but “how long will we carry it?”If the financial projections for IKN hold true, and the full cost exceeds Rp466 trillion with decades of phased development, then the burden won’t just last a few election cycles—it could stretch across four to five generations. That’s roughly 100 to 125 years of fiscal responsibility, assuming each generation spans 25 years.This means the city of Nusantara, still under construction today, may only reach full maturity long after its original architects have faded from memory. The children born in 2025 may still be paying for its maintenance in 2100. Their grandchildren might inherit the responsibility of upgrading its infrastructure, managing its bureaucracy, and justifying its existence.So when we ask “how long will we carry it?”, the answer is: as long as the concrete stands, the budget bleeds, and the political legacy insists. It’s not just a capital city—it’s a century-long commitment.Imagine this: instead of a gleaming administrative capital, Nusantara becomes Southeast Asia’s largest haunted house attraction—“The Bureaucratic Abyss.” Visitors enter through a foggy corridor lined with ghostly budget spreadsheets and echoing promises of “no APBN.” The air is thick with the scent of unfinished tenders and spectral investor presentations.Each room offers a different fright. The “Tunnel of Delays” features animatronic ministers endlessly cutting ribbons for projects that never start. The “Ghost of Groundbreaking Ceremonies” floats above a half-built fountain, whispering, “This will be iconic… someday.”In the “Debt Dungeon,” guests are chased by zombie accountants wielding Rp116 trillion invoices, while the “Legacy Labyrinth” traps you in a maze of press releases and legacy speeches that loop forever.And for the brave, there’s the “Civic Spirit Séance,” where you try to summon public enthusiasm using only a PowerPoint and a QR code.It’s not just a haunted house—it’s a living monument to ambition, delay, and the supernatural endurance of political branding. Tickets are free, but the emotional toll is generational.When the ribbon is cut and the cameras stop rolling, the burden doesn’t vanish—it simply changes hands. The applause may echo for a few minutes, but the invoice lasts generations. The ones who will bear the cost are not the ministers who posed with golden scissors, nor the consultants who drafted glossy blueprints. It will be the everyday citizens, their children, and their grandchildren—those who never attended the groundbreaking, yet will fund the upkeep.They’ll pay through taxes, through reduced public services, through the quiet erosion of opportunity. The legacy will not be felt in speeches, but in school budgets, hospital queues, and potholes that never get filled. The cost of ambition, once celebrated with fireworks, will be carried in silence by those who had no say. So when the applause fades, the real audience steps in—not to cheer, but to pay.When a leader’s legacy is paved with unfinished megaprojects, ballooning debts, and promises that evaporate faster than budget allocations, it’s hardly surprising that public sentiment begins to shift from applause to accountability. In recent months, graffiti reading “Try Jokowi” has appeared across urban walls, echoing a growing frustration that transcends political camps.The call to “put him on trial” is not merely about legal proceedings—it’s a symbolic demand for reckoning. It reflects a desire to interrogate the machinery of power that allowed vanity projects to flourish while public services faltered. It’s about asking: who approved the fantasy blueprints, who ignored the feasibility studies, and who will answer when the invoices arrive?Whether through tribunals, satire, or civic protest, the public is no longer content with ceremonial ribbon-cutting. They want receipts. And if the applause has faded, then perhaps it’s time for the audit.In a democracy, accountability is not optional—it is the spine of legitimacy. When a leader presides over ballooning national debt, failed megaprojects, and a steady erosion of democratic norms, it is only natural that citizens begin to demand more than ceremonial farewells. The graffiti reading “Try Jokowi” is not vandalism—it is civic punctuation. A full stop to unchecked power.
Under Jokowi’s administration, Indonesia saw the rise of vanity infrastructure: high-speed trains with century-long repayment plans, airports that echo with emptiness, and a new capital city that risks becoming a monument to ambition rather than functionality. These projects were launched with fanfare, but financed with future generations’ wallets.
Simultaneously, democratic institutions were hollowed out. The Constitutional Court was embroiled in scandal, civil liberties were curtailed, and political dissent was met with surveillance or silence. The very architecture of democracy—checks, balances, and transparency—was repurposed into a stage for executive spectacle.
To demand Jokowi be tried is not to seek revenge—it is to seek reckoning. It is to ask whether leadership can be divorced from consequence. And it is to remind future leaders that applause fades, but accountability echoes.
If five generations of Indonesians are bound to repay the debts of today, then what is truly lost is not just money—it is momentum. These future citizens will inherit obligations before they inherit opportunity. Their taxes will fund past ambitions, not present needs. Their budgets will be haunted by monuments they never asked for, and their dreams will be downsized to fit within fiscal restraints they didn’t create.What’s wasted is time that could have been spent on innovation, education, and climate resilience. What’s sacrificed is the freedom to choose—because choices will already be made, signed, and sealed in contracts inked decades earlier. The cost of debt is not just economic—it’s existential. It colonises the future with the ghosts of political vanity.So when we speak of five generations paying the price, we’re not just talking about rupiah—we’re talking about robbed potential, inherited silence, and a future mortgaged to the past.
History is full of leaders and officials who have attempted to erase the traces of their wrongdoing, hoping that future generations would forget—or never know. This is not merely about denial; it’s about narrative control. From rewriting textbooks to granting amnesty, from silencing victims to staging symbolic reconciliations, the machinery of forgetting is often state-sponsored.In 2025, the Indonesian government launched a national history rewriting project involving 113 academics, aiming to produce eleven volumes covering everything from prehistory to the Jokowi era. While presented as scholarly, critics argue it risks whitewashing uncomfortable truths.Globally, similar tactics have been used. In Russia, Stalin’s purges were buried under a patriotic myth. In Chile, Pinochet’s dictatorship was reframed as economic reform. In the US, slavery and Indigenous genocide were long softened in school curricula. The goal is clear: to sculpt legacy, not confess liability.So yes, many leaders don’t just commit crimes—they curate memory. And when history becomes a stage, forgetting becomes the performance.To dismantle the machinery of historical erasure, the public must become archivists of resistance. This means refusing to outsource memory to state-sanctioned textbooks, commemorative ceremonies, or glossy documentaries. Instead, citizens must document, debate, and disrupt. Oral histories, independent media, street art, and grassroots education become tools of defiance.When governments attempt to rewrite history through official volumes—like Indonesia’s 2025 eleven-book national rewrite project—civil society must respond with counter-narratives. As noted by the Aliansi Keterbukaan Sejarah Indonesia (AKSI), the danger lies in a single, state-approved version of the past. The antidote is multiplicity: many voices, many truths, many formats.Public hearings, digital archives, community theatre, and even memes can serve as historical interventions. The goal is not just to remember, but to make forgetting impossible. Because when memory is democratised, laundering becomes futile.History is littered with leaders who launched grandiose projects not to serve the public, but to siphon public funds. These so-called “white elephants”—monuments to ego rather than utility—often came with inflated budgets, opaque procurement processes, and suspiciously generous contracts. The true beneficiaries were rarely the citizens. Instead, they were shell companies, cronies, and offshore accounts.From Ferdinand Marcos in the Philippines to Sani Abacha in Nigeria, the pattern is familiar: build big, borrow bigger, and quietly funnel billions into havens like the Cayman Islands, Switzerland, or Panama. Transparency International has documented how these leaders used infrastructure as camouflage—concrete as cover for corruption.The projects themselves often remain unfinished, underused, or irrelevant. But the debt? That’s permanent. And the money? It vanishes into jurisdictions where sunlight fears to tread. So yes, history confirms it: some leaders build bridges not to connect people, but to cross into private wealth.In an age where political volatility and economic uncertainty are sold in bulk, some elites face a dilemma: should they build a bunker beneath their mansion, or quietly wire their wealth to a sun-drenched island with zero tax and maximum secrecy?The Cayman Islands offer more than turquoise waters and luxury yachts—they provide financial invisibility. Ranked as one of the safest places to store assets, Cayman has dethroned Switzerland in the Financial Secrecy Index. With no income tax, capital gains tax, or corporate tax, it’s not just a paradise for tourists—it’s a sanctuary for spreadsheets.Unlike a bunker, which merely shelters the body, Cayman shelters the balance sheet. No concrete walls, no biometric vaults—just a discreet offshore account nestled between palm trees and mutual funds. And while a bunker might protect you from riots, Cayman protects you from audits.So yes, if one must choose between panic architecture and tropical accounting, the answer is clear: forget the bunker, book a flight, and let the beach do the laundering.And we shall end our discussion with a song lyric from Indonesian Band, Peterpan, ‘Menghapus Jejakmu (Erasing Your Traces)’,
Engkau bukanlah segalaku,[You’re not my everything,]Bukan tempat 'tuk hentikan langkahku.[Not the place where my steps should end.]Usai sudah, semua berlalu—[It’s over now, all has passed—]Biar hujan menghapus jejakmu.[Let the rain wash away your trace.]