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.

Bahasa

Redenomination

 

"Why shouldn’t Purbaya become popular?" someone asked at the café, while sipping on a suspiciously bright green matcha latte.

"Because the princes simply don’t like it," came the quick reply, whispered as if the secret could shatter the kingdom’s Wi-Fi.

"If Purbaya, the Finance Minister, suddenly became more popular than the princes, the palace—or rather, the corridors of power—would never be the same again. Headlines would run not about royal appearances or gala dinners, but about Purbaya’s latest policy speech trending on social media. Princes might try to photobomb press conferences, only to find that everyone is more interested in how he explains rupiah redenomination than how their crowns sparkle.

Social media would explode with memes: “Purbaya for President of the Internet!” or “Rupiah Redemption Squad: Led by Purbaya.” Even the café baristas would start taking notes on his charisma while serving lattes. The ministers who once commanded attention would have to learn the delicate art of riding the wave of popularity without looking too jealous—or too desperate to retweet him.

So, Purbaya’s rise in popularity could turn policy discussions into viral moments, government corridors into fan zones, and the monarchy of public attention into a surprisingly democratic realm—at least online."

"But why is he so popular then?" piped up a barista who claimed to have a PhD in gossip and espresso art.

"Ah," said one of the regulars, dramatically adjusting their oversized glasses, "because he has this uncanny talent for showing up exactly where everyone is taking selfies. He knows how to photobomb the nobles without them noticing, and somehow every TikTok thinks he invented the dab."

Some councillors suggested he should just step down and enjoy a quiet life of avocado toast and indie playlists. Yet others insisted, "No! He must not retreat. His aura of chaotic charm is the only thing keeping the kingdom’s social media alive!"

And so the debate raged: some argued for Purbaya’s voluntary retreat, others insisted his presence was essential to keep the kingdom’s social media alive. In the end, Purbaya remained a delightful nuisance, the only one who could make princes simultaneously angry, bewildered, and strangely entertained.

Just as Purbaya has become a figure of discussion—sometimes praised, sometimes teased—for his bold ideas and public persona, the real-world headlines reflect the serious side of his responsibilities. ANTARA News reports that the Indonesian government is preparing plans for a redenomination of the rupiah, an initiative intended to simplify transactions and recalibrate the national currency for modern times. While some may joke about whether Purbaya should “step down” from the spotlight, his role in shaping such economic policies shows that even small changes, whether in currency or governance, can spark debate, curiosity, and occasional confusion across the nation.

Redenomination is the process by which a country adjusts the face value of its currency, usually by removing zeros, without changing its real purchasing power. For instance, if a country decides to redenominate its currency by a factor of 1,000, then 1,000 old units become 1 new unit. The aim is often to simplify financial transactions, accounting, and pricing, and to restore confidence in the currency after periods of high inflation. Importantly, redenomination does not alter the actual value of money; it merely changes how it is expressed numerically.

Technically, redenomination and sanering differ fundamentally. Redenomination involves recalibrating the currency's face value by cutting down the number of zeros, but it keeps the real value and buying power intact. Conversely, sanering is a direct cut in the currency's value, which results in a loss of purchasing power. Moreover, redenomination is typically done under stable economic conditions with controlled inflation and aims to simplify transactions and records. Sanering, on the other hand, occurs under severe economic distress such as hyperinflation or fiscal crises, intending to reduce the money supply to stabilise the economy. Redenomination is a planned, well-communicated process, whereas sanering might happen abruptly with significant negative impacts on trust and economic welfare.

The impact of redenomination on prices and purchasing power is fundamentally neutral in terms of actual economic value. Redenomination involves merely simplifying the nominal value of the currency by cutting off zeros, which means that prices and wages will be adjusted proportionally so that the real value remains unchanged. This means that the purchasing power of consumers does not decrease or increase simply because of redenomination. The process aims to make financial transactions and accounting more efficient and less prone to errors caused by handling large numbers with many zeros.

Furthermore, if implemented carefully and with proper regulation, redenomination should not cause inflation or any direct price increases. The key is clear communication and a well-planned transition to prevent any psychological effects that might lead sellers to round prices up unjustifiably. The government’s plan for the rupiah redenomination includes measures to maintain price stability and ensure that the public is not economically disadvantaged. Therefore, the core impact on the economy is to improve usability and confidence in the currency without altering the actual cost of goods or the purchasing power of the people.

The redenomination policy is expected to have primarily positive effects on the middle and lower economic classes in Indonesia. By simplifying the currency, transactions become more straightforward and more efficient, which benefits everyday consumers and small businesses alike. People in these economic groups will find it easier to count, record, and manage money without the confusion of too many zeros. Importantly, since redenomination does not reduce the real value of money, the purchasing power of households, especially those with limited income, will be preserved. The government’s efforts to ensure clear communication and stable prices aim to safeguard the economic welfare of these communities during the transition.

Moreover, the redenomination could indirectly boost confidence in the national currency, which may contribute to greater economic stability, thereby benefiting consumers and traders at the grassroots level. The streamlined monetary system could also reduce operational costs for financial transactions and businesses, potentially translating into more competitive prices or better services. However, the success of these benefits depends on well-managed execution and regulation to avoid price manipulation or confusion that could disproportionately affect vulnerable groups.

The policy of redenomination, while generally beneficial, can have some negative consequences if not managed carefully. One major concern is the risk of price increases due to rounding up prices after the zeros are removed from the currency. For example, prices might be rounded up to simpler figures, which could lead to inflationary pressures. This, in turn, might reduce the actual purchasing power of the people, especially affecting those in lower income brackets. Additionally, the transition requires significant adjustments in transaction systems, including ATMs, payment systems, and accounting software, which incur considerable costs both for the government and private sectors. There is also a need for extensive public education and communication efforts to avoid confusion and panic among the general population, which can cause temporary disruptions in economic activity.

Furthermore, the psychological impact of redenomination should not be underestimated. People may initially perceive the currency as weaker or become uncertain about its value, which could affect confidence and spending behaviour. The government must implement the policy with robust planning, clear communication, and strong regulatory oversight to mitigate these risks and protect the economic welfare of all citizens during the transition phase.

Redenomination can trigger price rounding by merchants due to the psychological perception of smaller nominal values after zeros are removed. For example, a bowl of chicken noodles priced at Rp20,000 before redenomination becomes Rp20 after removing three zeros. Merchants may view Rp20 as a smaller number and decide to increase the price to Rp25 or Rp30. This upward rounding happens because simpler nominal figures make it easier for merchants to adjust prices upwards, while customers may not immediately feel the difference.

Moreover, prices like Rp4,900 may be rounded up to Rp5,000 in the new currency, leading to collective price increases that contribute to inflation. This phenomenon is a form of psychological inflation and one of the main risks associated with redenomination that can affect consumers unless managed carefully. To mitigate this, the government must prepare well with public communication, regulate pricing, and supervise markets during the transition to prevent unfair price hikes.

The short-term inflation risk after redenomination primarily stems from psychological and rounding effects rather than actual economic factors. Although redenomination itself does not reduce the real value of money or directly cause inflation, there is a genuine concern that businesses might take advantage of the situation by rounding prices upward to simpler figures after zeros are dropped from currency denominations. This rounding up can collectively lead to a noticeable increase in the cost of goods and services, contributing to inflation in the short term. Additionally, misinformation or misunderstanding among the public regarding the redenomination may cause panic or altered spending behaviours, which can further exacerbate inflation dynamics.

Experts also caution against rent-seekers—individuals or groups exploiting the redenomination period to increase prices unfairly for personal gain. Such practices, if unchecked, could disproportionately affect lower-income households by eroding their purchasing power temporarily. Therefore, extensive public education, transparent communication, and strict regulatory oversight are essential to minimise these risks during the transition. Historical examples, such as Brazil's Plano Real in 1994, show that effective communication and control mechanisms can successfully mitigate inflationary pressures during redenomination.

There is indeed a possibility that prices of goods and services could become more expensive following redenomination, although theoretically redenomination should not change the real value of money. This potential price increase arises mainly from psychological and rounding effects. After zeros are removed from currency denominations, sellers may round prices upward to simpler numbers, which can collectively cause inflationary pressure. Consumers might initially perceive prices as ‘smaller’ due to the reduced nominal figures and thus be more willing to accept price increases, which retailers could exploit.

However, government authorities typically plan extensive measures, including public communication and monitoring, to prevent unjustified price hikes. The goal is to maintain price stability so that the general public is not economically disadvantaged during and after the transition. In practice, the speed and manner of redenomination execution, as well as regulatory oversight, will largely determine whether price inflation occurs and how severe it might be.

Redenomination has been carried out in a wide range of countries across different eras, and each case demonstrates that removing zeros from a currency can succeed or fail depending entirely on the stability of the economy that accompanies it. Turkey undertook redenomination in 2005 by removing six zeros from the lira, a move that worked smoothly because inflation had already been brought under control. Russia followed a similar path in 1998 when it removed three zeros after the rouble crisis, while Romania in 2005 and Poland in 1995 used redenomination as a symbol of economic normalisation on their way towards deeper integration with Europe. Several Latin American nations, including Mexico in 1993 and Brazil throughout the late twentieth century, also undertook redenomination to clean up the legacy of long-standing inflation, with Brazil eventually stabilising its system through the Plano Real. A more troubled pattern appeared in Zimbabwe, which attempted redenomination multiple times between 2006 and 2009; each attempt collapsed because hyperinflation was not addressed at its root. Other countries such as Ghana in 2007 and Belarus in 2016 used redenomination primarily to simplify transactions and modernise their payment systems. These examples collectively illustrate that redenomination itself is merely a technical adjustment, and that its success depends on whether the broader economic and institutional environment is ready to sustain public confidence.

Successful cases of redenomination are generally found in countries where the economic foundations were already stable, inflation had been tamed, and institutions were capable of maintaining public trust. Turkey’s 2005 redenomination is widely regarded as one of the most effective examples because it occurred after years of disciplined monetary policy, allowing the removal of six zeros to feel like a natural step towards a more modern and credible currency. Poland’s 1995 reform worked for similar reasons: the country had already introduced structural reforms, stabilised prices, and prepared its financial system for integration with European markets. Romania’s 2005 experience was also smooth because the government communicated transparently, inflation had been significantly reduced, and the banking sector was ready to adapt without confusion. Ghana in 2007 and Belarus in 2016 likewise experienced relatively successful transitions, using redenomination as a technical tool to simplify payments rather than as a desperate measure to rescue a failing economy.

Ineffective or outright failed cases occurred when redenomination was used as a cosmetic fix in the middle of severe inflationary or political turmoil. Zimbabwe’s repeated attempts between 2006 and 2009 are the clearest example of failure, since each removal of zeros collapsed almost immediately as hyperinflation continued to accelerate; the new notes became worthless because the underlying crisis was ignored. Yugoslavia in the early 1990s showed a similar pattern where redenomination meant nothing in the face of political disintegration and astronomical inflation. Argentina and Brazil also went through multiple rounds of redenomination during the late twentieth century, and their early attempts were largely ineffective because inflation was still rampant; Brazil only succeeded once the Plano Real introduced deeper reforms rather than merely changing the numbers printed on the banknotes. These unsuccessful cases demonstrate that redenomination cannot substitute for genuine fiscal discipline, institutional stability, or credible anti-inflation policy.

After the redenomination policy, the position of the rupiah against the US dollar and other foreign currencies is expected to remain largely stable and unchanged in terms of actual value. Redenomination is a technical simplification of currency by removing zeros, which does not directly affect the exchange rate or purchasing power relative to foreign currencies. However, the rupiah's stability will continue to depend on broader macroeconomic factors such as inflation control, trade balance, foreign investment, and monetary policy.

Current economic projections indicate that the rupiah will hover around fairly stable levels against the US dollar, with estimations around Rp16,000 to Rp16,500 per dollar in 2027. Maintaining this stability is crucial to support the redenomination process and investor confidence. Thus, while redenomination simplifies transactions domestically, it does not automatically change the external value of the rupiah.

In the context of redenomination, the exchange rate itself does not change in real terms because redenomination is merely a technical adjustment that removes zeros from the currency's nominal values. For example, if the exchange rate before redenomination is 1 USD = Rp 16,500, after trimming three zeros through redenomination, the nominal exchange rate becomes 1 USD = Rp 16.5. The actual purchasing power and value of the rupiah compared to the dollar remains the same. This means that redenomination simplifies the way the currency is expressed and calculated, but it does not affect the underlying economic value or the exchange rate dynamics.

Therefore, the effect of redenomination on the exchange rate is a change in the numerical expression only, making it simpler and easier to handle, without altering the real value of the currency against foreign money.

In practical terms, when the redenomination changes 1 USD = Rp16,500 to 1 USD = Rp16.5, and you exchange your 1 USD in cash, the fractional amount, such as 0.5 rupiah, cannot be physically given because currency units no longer have decimal subdivisions smaller than 1 rupiah after redenomination.

In real transactions, this fractional difference is typically handled through rounding. The exchanged amount would be rounded to the nearest whole unit of the new currency. For example, if the conversion results in Rp16.5, it would be rounded either up or down to Rp16 or Rp17, according to rounding rules agreed upon and regulated by the central bank or monetary authority. This rounding process is standard in currency conversions globally, where fractional units smaller than the smallest physical denomination exist, and mechanisms are in place to ensure fairness and minimise inconvenience.

The government and financial institutions should clearly communicate these rounding rules and procedures in advance to prevent confusion and maintain transactional fairness during the redenomination.

The most relevant comparisons for Indonesia are Turkey in 2005, Poland in 1995, and Romania in 2005, because all three conducted redenominations in conditions of relative economic stability, used long transition periods, and relied heavily on public communication and institutional readiness. Indonesia today shares several similarities with these countries: inflation is manageable, pertumbuhan ekonomi relatif stabil, dan sistem pembayaran digital sudah cukup maju. Because of that, their experiences offer clearer guidance than cases like Zimbabwe or Yugoslavia, where redenomination was an emergency response that inevitably failed.

Turkey is a strong benchmark because it removed six zeros only after inflation had been consistently reduced, making redenomination feel like a normal administrative step rather than a crisis manoeuvre. The Turkish government also ran a long dual-price period, allowing old and new lira to coexist so that people could adjust without anxiety. Poland’s example is similarly instructive because the transition was carefully planned, banks were trained early, and the state repeatedly explained that the process would not change the real purchasing power of citizens. Romania’s case adds the lesson of clarity: they ensured that public institutions, retailers, and media spoke in the same language about the redenomination so that no contradictory narratives confused the population.

Based on these comparisons, several policy lessons stand out for Indonesia as it prepares for 2027. First, the government needs to ensure the macro conditions remain stable so that redenomination is understood as a technical simplification rather than a sign of economic distress. Second, there must be a comprehensive dual-pricing period in which prices in rupiah lama dan rupiah baru ditampilkan bersamaan, allowing the public to adapt gradually and reducing the risk of opportunistic price manipulation. Third, banks, retailers, and local governments must receive early training so that every institution applies the same conversion system without room for misinterpretation. Fourth, Indonesia must complement redenomination with strong anti-corruption and anti–money laundering controls, especially by tightening reporting thresholds for large cash transactions, improving digital payment adoption, and supervising the temporary circulation of two versions of the currency. Fifth, and perhaps most crucially, there must be clear, consistent, and repeated public communication, because uncertainty is the main factor that causes social confusion, panic buying, or speculative behaviour during currency changes.

And finally, why do people worry that redenomination could lead to corruption and money laundering? Criminals often prefer cash transactions because of the anonymity they provide. If the “face value” of money is smaller, it becomes easier to carry and transfer the same real value in different notes or coins, potentially making cash payments more convenient. Money laundering threat reports consistently note that cash remains a key instrument precisely because it offers anonymity. In theory, therefore, operational risks could increase if they are not properly managed.

The policy context is crucial. Both IMF guidance and policy literature emphasise that redenomination is a technical process that must be accompanied by appropriate operational arrangements.

Bahasa

Memory Hole in the Archipelago

In George Orwell’s 1984, the concept of the Memory Hole is a device through which inconvenient documents, news reports, and archival evidence are literally destroyed. Anything that contradicts the official narrative is consigned to this figurative abyss, effectively erased from public record and, over time, from the collective memory of society. Alongside this, Orwell introduces the notion of Doublethink, the mental capacity to simultaneously accept two contradictory truths. Doublethink ensures that citizens can internalise the Party’s version of history even when it conflicts with their own lived experiences or obvious realities. In this way, the psychological dimension reinforces the structural mechanisms of memory control, making the laundered version of the past more readily accepted.

Moreover, Orwell repeatedly emphasises the importance of control over the past as a tool for political power. His famous line, “Who controls the past controls the future. Who controls the present controls the past,” captures the essence of historical revisionism, showing that manipulation of records and narratives does not merely obscure inconvenient facts; it actively shapes how future generations perceive and understand reality. Taken together, the Memory Hole, Doublethink, and the Party’s systematic rewriting of history create a framework in which collective memory can be cleansed, redirected, and moulded to serve the authority’s needs. 

The process of shaping collective memory in Indonesia could bear striking parallels to the mechanisms George Orwell imagined in his dystopian novel 1984. In Orwell’s world, the Party exercises absolute control over history and memory, constantly rewriting documents, newspapers, and textbooks to ensure that every citizen perceives the past in a way that legitimises the ruling authority. Similarly, the state’s elevation of Suharto could create a framework in which economic achievements, political stability, and nation-building are emphasised, while the darker episodes of his rule — authoritarianism, corruption, and the mass violence of the New Order — are minimised, reframed, or quietly relegated to the margins of public consciousness. Over time, repeated exposure to these curated narratives through schools, media, and cultural commemorations could lead to a situation analogous to Orwell’s “Memory Hole,” where inconvenient truths are gradually erased or distorted in the collective mind.

The notion of “Doublethink” in 1984 is also particularly relevant. Citizens in Orwell’s society are trained to accept contradictions: they are expected to believe official narratives even when these conflict with their personal memories or obvious facts. In the Indonesian context, younger generations could be taught to celebrate Suharto as a heroic figure, while simultaneously internalising the idea that past abuses were either justified or negligible. Over time, this cultivated ability to accept both the heroic framing and the suppressed reality could normalise a collective amnesia that subtly reshapes societal values, expectations of leadership, and perceptions of justice.

Orwell’s emphasis on the control of language and media further underscores the parallels. In 1984, controlling the words citizens use to describe events directly shapes their understanding and memory of reality. Similarly, through carefully edited textbooks, state-approved documentaries, commemorative events, and media campaigns, the Indonesian state could manipulate the vocabulary and imagery associated with Suharto, embedding a heroic narrative into everyday discourse. Social media, entertainment, and cultural production could amplify these signals, ensuring that repeated exposure consolidates the new, state-sanctioned memory over the decade.

However, as Orwell implicitly recognised, memory manipulation is rarely absolute. In 1984, personal memory, hidden diaries, and fleeting doubts provide cracks in the Party’s control, even if they rarely challenge the dominant narrative successfully. In Indonesia, civil society organisations, historians, victim networks, and independent digital archives could function as similar fissures, preserving alternative memories and challenging the sanitised version of history. These counter-narratives might be marginalised in the public eye, but they ensure that collective memory remains contested, creating a dynamic tension between the official story and lived experience.

Ultimately, drawing this analogy with Orwell highlights both the potency and the limits of memory laundering. A decade of institutional reinforcement, media repetition, and curated curricula could dramatically shift how generations of Indonesians perceive Suharto, normalising his heroic image while downplaying historical abuses. Yet, just as in 1984, the persistence of alternative records, personal recollections, and scholarly work means that memory can never be entirely cleansed. The struggle over history is ongoing, a contested terrain where power, narrative, and human agency interact in complex and unpredictable ways.

The official recognition of Suharto as a National Hero marks more than a ceremonial honour; it signals a profound recalibration of Indonesia’s collective memory. By elevating his achievements in economic development, political stability, and national unity, the state effectively frames the narrative through which citizens are invited to view the past. Yet in doing so, the darker chapters of his New Order era — the authoritarian practices, systemic corruption, and the mass violence of 1965–1966 — risk being overshadowed, reframed, or quietly consigned to the margins of public consciousness. As this heroic narrative is embedded across schools, media, museums, and public commemorations, generations of Indonesians may come to absorb a streamlined story, one in which moral complexity is softened and dissenting interpretations struggle to survive. This marks the beginning of what one might term a decade-long process of “memory laundering,” in which official recognition, repeated narratives, and institutional reinforcement subtly transform the nation's memory of its past.

Suharto's inauguration as a National Hero would carry far more weight than a mere symbolic gesture, because it would inevitably begin to shape the collective memory of Indonesia in ways that are both subtle and profound. By officially honouring him, the state signals to the public that Suharto's legacy is one worthy of admiration, framing him as a nation-builder, a stabiliser of the country, and a figure who contributed positively to Indonesia's development. This act of recognition, however, risks overshadowing or even erasing the darker elements of his rule, including the authoritarian practices, widespread corruption, and the human rights violations associated with the events of 1965–1966 and the repression that followed. The narrative promoted by the state, if repeated in schools, media outlets, museums, and official commemorations, could normalise a version of history in which the troubling aspects of his governance are minimised, reframed, or rendered invisible.

Over time, such institutional and cultural reinforcement has the potential to change how generations perceive Suharto and his era. Younger Indonesians, who rely largely on formal education and mainstream media for historical knowledge, may come to view him primarily as a heroic figure, focusing on economic growth, political stability, and national unity, while the memory of repression, injustice, and corruption gradually fades from the public consciousness. The process is not necessarily immediate; it is gradual and cumulative, aided by textbooks, televised documentaries, commemorative events, and online narratives that repeatedly frame his life in a positive light. In effect, this constitutes what one might term “memory laundering,” whereby morally complex or troubling historical events are repackaged into a palatable, official narrative, sanctioned by the authorities, and gradually accepted as the collective memory.

This transformation of memory has profound social and political implications. It risks polarizing the population, creating generational divides between those who remember the harsh realities of Suharto's rule and those whose understanding is shaped by the officially sanctioned heroic narrative. It could also weaken accountability, as the sanitisation of past abuses makes it culturally and politically more difficult to confront historical injustices. In the long term, such a process would represent a subtle but powerful form of historical engineering, in which collective memory is curated, filtered, and presented in a way that benefits the prevailing political narrative, reshaping not only how Indonesians remember the past but also how they interpret the present.

The immediate effect will be an unmistakable reorientation of public symbols and state-sanctioned narratives, because such a designation is not merely ceremonial but functions as an authoritative cue to citizens about how the past is to be valued and taught; the announcement itself — delivered through presidential channels, celebrated in official ceremonies, and defended by ministers and state media — will serve to elevate particular episodes of Suharto’s decades-long rule (his role in centralising authority, steering economic programmes, and projecting order) while providing convenient cover for minimising or reframing the manifold abuses, corruption scandals, and the mass violence associated with the New Order era, and those political dynamics and public reactions have already been visible in contemporary reportage and protest across the archipelago.

In the months that follow the bestowment of a national title, the state’s apparatus for shaping historical memory will begin to operate more visibly and with greater intensity, since the legal and administrative machinery that governs the awarding of national honours moves through a sequence of submissions, research and ministerial recommendation before presidential ratification. Once the presidency affirms a figure as exemplary it becomes far easier for ministries, provincial administrations and state‑funded cultural institutions to prioritise celebratory exhibitions, televised retrospectives, and public commemorations that reinforce the heroic frame while permitting competing narratives to be sidelined or treated as marginal. 

As the process becomes institutionalised over several years, changes in the educational curriculum and public heritage projects will be among the most consequential vectors of transformation, because textbooks, teacher training materials and school syllabuses are potent transmitters of collective memory: when successive editions of school history place renewed emphasis on economic development, stability and unity associated with Suharto’s name, and when museums and monuments are refurbished to accentuate those themes, a younger cohort of Indonesians will increasingly absorb a streamlined story in which complexity and atrocity are either occluded or explained away as necessary costs of state-building, and that slow sedimentation of a state‑sanctioned narrative will be reinforced by popular culture, mainstream broadcasting and online platforms that echo official cues.

Over the medium term, the social consequences of this curated remembrance will manifest as a widening generational and political divide: older citizens and victims who retain personal memories or archival evidence of repression and injustices will find themselves at odds with new adults whose reference points were shaped by cleansed curricula and celebratory media, and that divergence will not merely be an intellectual disagreement but will shape civic norms, legal expectations and political mobilisation — for instance, debates over accountability, reparations or public commemoration may lose traction as the symbolic capital of the national hero status works to normalise impunity and weaken the moral urgency of transitional justice claims.

Yet the story will not be uni‑directional or complete: the same decade will also produce counter‑currents that complicate the state’s effort to monopolise memory, because civil society groups, victim organisations, independent scholars, and digital archivists will resist re‑packaging by producing alternative histories, publishing survivor testimonies, litigating for access to records, and creating counter‑memorials and online repositories that keep contested facts alive; these forms of resistance — uneven, persistent and often transnational — mean that memory will be contested in multiple arenas, and the eventual settlement of public memory will be the product of both the state’s institutional leverage and the resilience of dissenting archives and networks rather than a simple, irreversible “washing” of the past. 

In sum, across ten years the declaration of Suharto as a National Hero would be likely to set in motion a complex choreography of official framing and social pushback in which the mechanics of “memory laundering” — selective emphasis, institutional endorsement, curricular change, and media repetition — gradually reconfigure what many citizens accept as the authoritative public story, even as memory remains contested in streets, courtrooms and online; whether this results in a durable, majority‑accepted rewriting of Indonesia’s collective memory will depend on the balance of institutional power, the tenacity of victims and scholars who insist on difficult truths, and how younger generations encounter and interrogate both the official script and the counter‑narratives that refuse to be erased. 

In the first year following Suharto’s official recognition as a National Hero, the immediate wave of state-sanctioned celebration will manifest through a series of highly visible ceremonies, media coverage, and official statements, all of which emphasise his contributions to national stability, economic development, and unity. Newspapers, television broadcasts, and online platforms will repeatedly highlight these achievements, while political leaders carefully frame his legacy as exemplary, glossing over the authoritarian and violent dimensions of his rule. The public will be inundated with a carefully curated narrative, and even dissenting voices, though present, will find themselves marginalised by the sheer volume and authority of the official messaging. In effect, the first year will serve as the announcement phase of memory laundering, signalling to all citizens which aspects of history are to be celebrated and which are to be quietly sidelined.

By the second and third years, these narratives will begin to infiltrate educational institutions more systematically. School curricula, textbooks, and teacher training materials will increasingly emphasise Suharto’s economic and political achievements, while presenting his more troubling actions as necessary evils or as unfortunate missteps committed in the context of maintaining national stability. Museums, exhibitions, and public monuments will be refurbished or newly installed to reinforce this heroic image, ensuring that children and adolescents encounter a version of history in which moral complexity is softened and dissenting interpretations are minimally visible. Social media influencers, entertainment programmes, and documentary series will echo these themes, repeating the official narrative in ways that make it increasingly familiar and comfortable to the public consciousness.

In the fourth through sixth years, the process will solidify further as successive cohorts of students internalise the curated version of history and as generational memory begins to shift. Online platforms will play a crucial role, with algorithmic amplification ensuring that celebratory content about Suharto dominates discussions, while critical analyses or archival revelations struggle to reach mass audiences. Public commemorations, anniversaries, and state-funded media projects will continue to normalise the heroic narrative, and political figures who challenge it may find themselves portrayed as divisive or historically misinformed. The effect will be cumulative: over a few years, the “official” story will gain authority, and ordinary citizens may increasingly accept it as the uncontested truth, even if it contradicts personal or familial memories of the New Order era.

Between the seventh and eighth years, subtle tensions will begin to surface between older generations who retain vivid memories of the human rights violations, political repression, and corruption of the New Order, and younger generations whose understanding is shaped almost entirely by the laundered narrative. Debates over accountability, memorialisation, and transitional justice will emerge sporadically in public forums, yet they will often be met with resistance or indifference, as the symbolic power of Suharto’s National Hero status continues to reinforce the state’s preferred memory. Media coverage may selectively amplify supportive voices while downplaying or framing dissent as fringe, further entrenching the generational divide.

In the ninth and tenth years, the process of memory laundering will reach a mature stage, but it will never be complete or uncontested. Independent scholars, civil society organisations, digital archivists, and victim networks will continue to challenge the official narrative, preserving testimonies, archives, and counter-memorials that keep difficult truths alive. The official narrative will coexist alongside these counter-narratives, and the public’s perception of Suharto will be increasingly stratified by generational and ideological lines. In the end, the ten-year arc will demonstrate that memory laundering is not about creating a unanimous perception of the past, but rather about shifting the dominant frame, embedding official stories in institutions, curricula, media, and cultural symbols, while contested memories persist in parallel spaces, creating a complex and layered public memory landscape.

As the decade progresses, the long-term effects of Suharto’s official recognition will become increasingly visible. Younger generations, educated under the revised curricula and exposed to repeated media portrayals, will internalise a simplified narrative in which the challenges, abuses, and controversies of the New Order are either minimised or framed as necessary sacrifices for national progress. This generational shift in perception will gradually solidify a dominant narrative, one that casts Suharto’s leadership in a heroic light, even as older citizens and critical observers continue to remember and recount the more troubling realities of his rule. The resulting divergence in historical perception will not merely be an academic concern; it will shape civic norms, public debates, and the very ways in which Indonesians understand justice, accountability, and the moral dimensions of political leadership.

Yet the story of memory laundering is never entirely linear or complete. Counter-narratives will persist, driven by scholars, civil society groups, victims’ organisations, and digital archivists who refuse to allow uncomfortable truths to vanish. Testimonies, archival materials, and alternative memorial projects will continue to surface, challenging the state-sanctioned narrative and ensuring that the past remains contested. The existence of these parallel narratives demonstrates that memory laundering does not create total consensus, but rather shifts the dominant framework, producing a complex and layered landscape of public memory where official stories coexist alongside resistance.

By the end of the decade, the dominant memory of Suharto will likely be substantially altered for a significant portion of the population. For many young Indonesians, his image will be inseparable from the concepts of nation-building, stability, and economic achievement, while the darker dimensions of his rule may fade into the periphery of awareness. This does not erase history entirely, but it does highlight the power of institutional framing, repeated storytelling, and media amplification in shaping what is remembered, how it is interpreted, and whose perspectives are amplified or silenced.

The broader implications of this process are profound. When the collective memory of a society is curated in ways that emphasise heroism and downplay wrongdoing, accountability and critical reflection are inevitably weakened. Political legitimacy may be reinforced for those who benefit from the official narrative, while demands for justice, reparations, or historical reckoning may struggle to gain traction. Memory, in this sense, becomes both a tool and a terrain of power, where competing versions of the past are fought over in classrooms, media platforms, and public spaces.

Ultimately, the story of Suharto’s posthumous heroism illustrates the delicate interplay between history, memory, and authority. A decade of memory laundering may reshape collective perceptions, but it cannot entirely erase lived experience, archival evidence, or the resilience of those committed to truth. The Indonesian public will continue to navigate a landscape of competing narratives, where official versions of history are mediated by lived memories, scholarly work, and grassroots efforts to preserve and recount what truly occurred. In this contested arena, memory is never fully cleansed, but it is constantly negotiated, rewritten, and reinterpreted in ways that reflect both the power of institutions and the persistence of human agency.

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