When Jokowi Burdens Five Future Generations of Indonesia with Debt

In recent months, several flagship projects from President Joko Widodo’s administration have come under intense scrutiny, with critics and former officials openly questioning their viability and financial integrity. The high-speed rail project known as Whoosh, once hailed as a symbol of modernisation, has been marred by allegations of extreme budget inflation. According to Prof. Mahfud MD, the cost per kilometre has tripled compared to similar projects in China, raising serious concerns about potential corruption and fiscal mismanagement.

Meanwhile, the ambitious plan to relocate Indonesia’s capital to Nusantara has faced significant setbacks. Budget cuts and stalled infrastructure have cast doubt on its feasibility, with some observers suggesting the project may become a stranded legacy rather than a transformative leap.

Another troubled initiative is the Getaci toll road, part of the Trans-Java network. Despite being listed as a strategic national project, it has repeatedly failed to attract investors and suffered from unsuccessful tenders, leaving its future uncertain.

Compounding these issues is the financial collapse of several state-owned construction firms—Waskita Karya, Wijaya Karya, Adhi Karya, and PP—whose debt ratios have ballooned beyond sustainable levels. These companies, once the backbone of Jokowi’s infrastructure push, now struggle to pay contractors and bondholders, with some teetering on the brink of bankruptcy.

Among the most glaring examples of underperforming infrastructure in Jokowi’s era is the Kertajati International Airport in Majalengka, West Java. Despite its grand scale and a staggering investment of Rp 2.6 trillion from the national budget, the airport has remained eerily quiet, operating far below capacity. With annual losses reportedly reaching Rp 60 billion, critics have labelled it a white elephant—a monument to misplaced optimism and poor planning.

The airport’s troubles are not merely financial. Its location, far from major urban centres and poorly connected by public transport, has made it unattractive to airlines and passengers alike. Even regional leaders have expressed frustration, with some suggesting the project was doomed from the start due to its lack of strategic foresight.

Kertajati is not alone. The JB Soedirman Airport in Purbalingga, Central Java, built for Rp 350 billion, has also struggled to attract consistent traffic. Initially envisioned as a gateway for Umrah pilgrims and regional travellers, it now sits largely idle, its runways echoing with silence.

These cases reflect a broader pattern in which infrastructure is prioritised for symbolic value rather than functional necessity. While the ambition to modernise Indonesia is commendable, the execution has often faltered—leaving behind gleaming structures that fail to serve the public effectively.

Many of the failed infrastructure projects under President Jokowi’s administration share a common thread: they were politically driven rather than grounded in rigorous feasibility studies. In theory, these projects were “no go”—plagued by poor location choices, inflated budgets, and limited public demand—but they were pushed forward nonetheless, often under the banner of national pride or strategic urgency.

The decision-making process frequently sidelined technical assessments in favour of symbolic gestures. Airports were built in remote areas with little traffic, toll roads were planned without sufficient investor interest, and megaprojects like the new capital were launched despite glaring logistical and financial gaps. These initiatives were often framed as legacies, designed to leave a mark on history, rather than as solutions to pressing public needs.

Compounding the issue was the reliance on state-owned enterprises (BUMN Karya) to execute these projects, many of which were burdened with unrealistic mandates and insufficient funding. As a result, they accumulated unsustainable debt, leading to financial collapse and stalled construction.

In essence, the “go” was not based on readiness, but on rhetoric. The projects became political theatre—grand announcements, ceremonial groundbreakings, and glossy renderings—while the underlying foundations remained shaky.

From glossy renderings to ceremonial groundbreakings, Indonesia’s infrastructure dreams were sold like blockbuster trailers—big budget, big ambition, and barely any plot. Behind the scenes, however, the cracks were already showing. Why did these projects “go” when every study said “no”? Because in the theatre of politics, optics often trump logic. Ministers chased legacy, not logistics. BUMNs were cast as heroes, but given scripts they couldn’t afford to follow. This is not just about failed buildings. It’s about a system that rewards spectacle over substance. Welcome to the backstage of Indonesia’s most ambitious misfires.

The debt incurred by Indonesia for the Jakarta–Bandung high-speed rail project, known as Whoosh, is estimated at around Rp116 trillion, with a significant portion borrowed from the China Development Bank. While official figures vary depending on the financing structure and interest rates, projections suggest that repayment could stretch over 30 to 40 years, assuming consistent revenue and no major disruptions.

However, the repayment timeline is not merely a matter of arithmetic. The project has faced cost overruns, operational delays, and lower-than-expected passenger volumes, all of which complicate the financial outlook. Moreover, the initial claim that the project would be funded purely through business-to-business mechanisms has eroded, with the state budget now quietly stepping in to cover shortfalls.

In essence, the debt may linger for decades, becoming a fiscal shadow that outlasts the political careers of those who championed it. The question is no longer just “when will it be paid off?” but “who will bear the cost when the applause fades?”

According to senior economist Faisal Basri, the financial outlook for Indonesia’s Jakarta–Bandung high-speed rail project is far more dire than official projections suggest. Based on his calculations, even under optimistic assumptions—such as ignoring operational costs and interest payments—the project would take approximately 48 years to break even. However, when more realistic variables are included, such as maintenance, staffing, and debt servicing, the timeline stretches dramatically.

In fact, Faisal Basri estimates that the project may require up to 139 years to fully recoup its investment, making it a multi-generational burden. This projection transforms the Whoosh train from a symbol of progress into a fiscal time capsule—one that future generations may inherit without ever having asked for it.

The implication is stark: the debt may not only outlive the administration that initiated it, but also the children and grandchildren of those currently footing the bill. It’s no longer just a question of economic feasibility—it’s a question of historical accountability.

If we take Faisal Basri’s projection seriously—that the Jakarta–Bandung high-speed rail project may require up to 139 years to fully repay its debt—then we are looking at a burden that spans at least five to six generations. Assuming a generational cycle of roughly 25 years, the debt would outlive not only the administration that initiated it, but also the children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and even great-great-grandchildren of today’s taxpayers.

This transforms the project from a short-term infrastructure investment into a long-term fiscal inheritance. It’s no longer just a train—it’s a legacy of debt, passed down like an heirloom nobody asked for. The applause at the ribbon-cutting ceremony may fade in a matter of minutes, but the financial consequences could echo for more than a century.

In this light, the Whoosh train becomes less of a symbol of progress and more of a monument to political ambition—one that future generations may remember not for its speed, but for its cost.

If we consider the projected cost of Indonesia’s new capital city, Nusantara, which is estimated to exceed Rp 466 trillion, and factor in the current pace of funding—Rp 48.8 trillion approved until 2029, plus Rp 60.93 trillion in public-private partnerships still in process—it becomes clear that this is not a short-term undertaking. Even under optimistic conditions, the full development of IKN could span several decades, with maintenance, expansion, and debt servicing continuing long after the initial construction phase.

Assuming a generational cycle of 25 years, and considering the long tail of infrastructure upkeep and fiscal obligations, the financial burden of IKN could easily stretch across four to five generations. This means that children born today may still be paying for a city they didn’t choose, and their grandchildren may inherit the responsibility of sustaining it.

In this context, IKN is not merely a capital relocation—it’s a multi-generational commitment. It’s a city built not just with concrete and steel, but with the future tax obligations of citizens who may never live there. The question is no longer “how much will it cost?” but “how long will we carry it?”

If the financial projections for IKN hold true, and the full cost exceeds Rp466 trillion with decades of phased development, then the burden won’t just last a few election cycles—it could stretch across four to five generations. That’s roughly 100 to 125 years of fiscal responsibility, assuming each generation spans 25 years.

This means the city of Nusantara, still under construction today, may only reach full maturity long after its original architects have faded from memory. The children born in 2025 may still be paying for its maintenance in 2100. Their grandchildren might inherit the responsibility of upgrading its infrastructure, managing its bureaucracy, and justifying its existence.

So when we ask “how long will we carry it?”, the answer is: as long as the concrete stands, the budget bleeds, and the political legacy insists. It’s not just a capital city—it’s a century-long commitment.

Imagine this: instead of a gleaming administrative capital, Nusantara becomes Southeast Asia’s largest haunted house attraction—“The Bureaucratic Abyss.” Visitors enter through a foggy corridor lined with ghostly budget spreadsheets and echoing promises of “no APBN.” The air is thick with the scent of unfinished tenders and spectral investor presentations.

Each room offers a different fright. The “Tunnel of Delays” features animatronic ministers endlessly cutting ribbons for projects that never start. The “Ghost of Groundbreaking Ceremonies” floats above a half-built fountain, whispering, “This will be iconic… someday.”

In the “Debt Dungeon,” guests are chased by zombie accountants wielding Rp116 trillion invoices, while the “Legacy Labyrinth” traps you in a maze of press releases and legacy speeches that loop forever.

And for the brave, there’s the “Civic Spirit Séance,” where you try to summon public enthusiasm using only a PowerPoint and a QR code.

It’s not just a haunted house—it’s a living monument to ambition, delay, and the supernatural endurance of political branding. Tickets are free, but the emotional toll is generational.

When the ribbon is cut and the cameras stop rolling, the burden doesn’t vanish—it simply changes hands. The applause may echo for a few minutes, but the invoice lasts generations. The ones who will bear the cost are not the ministers who posed with golden scissors, nor the consultants who drafted glossy blueprints. It will be the everyday citizens, their children, and their grandchildren—those who never attended the groundbreaking, yet will fund the upkeep.

They’ll pay through taxes, through reduced public services, through the quiet erosion of opportunity. The legacy will not be felt in speeches, but in school budgets, hospital queues, and potholes that never get filled. The cost of ambition, once celebrated with fireworks, will be carried in silence by those who had no say. So when the applause fades, the real audience steps in—not to cheer, but to pay.

When a leader’s legacy is paved with unfinished megaprojects, ballooning debts, and promises that evaporate faster than budget allocations, it’s hardly surprising that public sentiment begins to shift from applause to accountability. In recent months, graffiti reading “Try Jokowi” has appeared across urban walls, echoing a growing frustration that transcends political camps.

The call to “put him on trial” is not merely about legal proceedings—it’s a symbolic demand for reckoning. It reflects a desire to interrogate the machinery of power that allowed vanity projects to flourish while public services faltered. It’s about asking: who approved the fantasy blueprints, who ignored the feasibility studies, and who will answer when the invoices arrive?

Whether through tribunals, satire, or civic protest, the public is no longer content with ceremonial ribbon-cutting. They want receipts. And if the applause has faded, then perhaps it’s time for the audit.

In a democracy, accountability is not optional—it is the spine of legitimacy. When a leader presides over ballooning national debt, failed megaprojects, and a steady erosion of democratic norms, it is only natural that citizens begin to demand more than ceremonial farewells. The graffiti reading “Try Jokowi” is not vandalism—it is civic punctuation. A full stop to unchecked power.

Under Jokowi’s administration, Indonesia saw the rise of vanity infrastructure: high-speed trains with century-long repayment plans, airports that echo with emptiness, and a new capital city that risks becoming a monument to ambition rather than functionality. These projects were launched with fanfare, but financed with future generations’ wallets.

Simultaneously, democratic institutions were hollowed out. The Constitutional Court was embroiled in scandal, civil liberties were curtailed, and political dissent was met with surveillance or silence. The very architecture of democracy—checks, balances, and transparency—was repurposed into a stage for executive spectacle.

To demand Jokowi be tried is not to seek revenge—it is to seek reckoning. It is to ask whether leadership can be divorced from consequence. And it is to remind future leaders that applause fades, but accountability echoes.

If five generations of Indonesians are bound to repay the debts of today, then what is truly lost is not just money—it is momentum. These future citizens will inherit obligations before they inherit opportunity. Their taxes will fund past ambitions, not present needs. Their budgets will be haunted by monuments they never asked for, and their dreams will be downsized to fit within fiscal restraints they didn’t create.

What’s wasted is time that could have been spent on innovation, education, and climate resilience. What’s sacrificed is the freedom to choose—because choices will already be made, signed, and sealed in contracts inked decades earlier. The cost of debt is not just economic—it’s existential. It colonises the future with the ghosts of political vanity.

So when we speak of five generations paying the price, we’re not just talking about rupiah—we’re talking about robbed potential, inherited silence, and a future mortgaged to the past. 

History is full of leaders and officials who have attempted to erase the traces of their wrongdoing, hoping that future generations would forget—or never know. This is not merely about denial; it’s about narrative control. From rewriting textbooks to granting amnesty, from silencing victims to staging symbolic reconciliations, the machinery of forgetting is often state-sponsored.

In 2025, the Indonesian government launched a national history rewriting project involving 113 academics, aiming to produce eleven volumes covering everything from prehistory to the Jokowi era. While presented as scholarly, critics argue it risks whitewashing uncomfortable truths.

Globally, similar tactics have been used. In Russia, Stalin’s purges were buried under a patriotic myth. In Chile, Pinochet’s dictatorship was reframed as economic reform. In the US, slavery and Indigenous genocide were long softened in school curricula. The goal is clear: to sculpt legacy, not confess liability.

So yes, many leaders don’t just commit crimes—they curate memory. And when history becomes a stage, forgetting becomes the performance.

To dismantle the machinery of historical erasure, the public must become archivists of resistance. This means refusing to outsource memory to state-sanctioned textbooks, commemorative ceremonies, or glossy documentaries. Instead, citizens must document, debate, and disrupt. Oral histories, independent media, street art, and grassroots education become tools of defiance.

When governments attempt to rewrite history through official volumes—like Indonesia’s 2025 eleven-book national rewrite project—civil society must respond with counter-narratives. As noted by the Aliansi Keterbukaan Sejarah Indonesia (AKSI), the danger lies in a single, state-approved version of the past. The antidote is multiplicity: many voices, many truths, many formats.

Public hearings, digital archives, community theatre, and even memes can serve as historical interventions. The goal is not just to remember, but to make forgetting impossible. Because when memory is democratised, laundering becomes futile.

History is littered with leaders who launched grandiose projects not to serve the public, but to siphon public funds. These so-called “white elephants”—monuments to ego rather than utility—often came with inflated budgets, opaque procurement processes, and suspiciously generous contracts. The true beneficiaries were rarely the citizens. Instead, they were shell companies, cronies, and offshore accounts.

From Ferdinand Marcos in the Philippines to Sani Abacha in Nigeria, the pattern is familiar: build big, borrow bigger, and quietly funnel billions into havens like the Cayman Islands, Switzerland, or Panama. Transparency International has documented how these leaders used infrastructure as camouflage—concrete as cover for corruption.

The projects themselves often remain unfinished, underused, or irrelevant. But the debt? That’s permanent. And the money? It vanishes into jurisdictions where sunlight fears to tread. So yes, history confirms it: some leaders build bridges not to connect people, but to cross into private wealth.

In an age where political volatility and economic uncertainty are sold in bulk, some elites face a dilemma: should they build a bunker beneath their mansion, or quietly wire their wealth to a sun-drenched island with zero tax and maximum secrecy?

The Cayman Islands offer more than turquoise waters and luxury yachts—they provide financial invisibility. Ranked as one of the safest places to store assets, Cayman has dethroned Switzerland in the Financial Secrecy Index. With no income tax, capital gains tax, or corporate tax, it’s not just a paradise for tourists—it’s a sanctuary for spreadsheets.

Unlike a bunker, which merely shelters the body, Cayman shelters the balance sheet. No concrete walls, no biometric vaults—just a discreet offshore account nestled between palm trees and mutual funds. And while a bunker might protect you from riots, Cayman protects you from audits.

So yes, if one must choose between panic architecture and tropical accounting, the answer is clear: forget the bunker, book a flight, and let the beach do the laundering.

And we shall end our discussion with a song lyric from Indonesian Band, Peterpan, ‘Menghapus Jejakmu (Erasing Your Traces)’,

Engkau bukanlah segalaku,

[You’re not my everything,]

Bukan tempat 'tuk hentikan langkahku.

[Not the place where my steps should end.]

Usai sudah, semua berlalu—

[It’s over now, all has passed—]

Biar hujan menghapus jejakmu.

[Let the rain wash away your trace.]

Bahasa

74th Milad Mubarak: Stay Healthy, Mr. Presiden!

Not all seeds are meant to be carried by the wind. Some are destined to root where they fall, embracing the soil that first received them. The breeze may whisper of faraway lands, of sunlight that seems gentler elsewhere, but the patient seed knows that true growth does not come from drifting—it comes from surrendering. For in stillness, it discovers strength; in confinement, it learns depth. The wind is freedom, yes—but not all freedoms lead to bloom.

Chairil Anwar wrote “Aku” before “Aku Berkaca.” The poem “Aku”, composed around 1943, stands as the fiery declaration of a young poet who had just found his voice in a world under oppression. It carries the raw defiance of someone who refuses to bow to fate or conformity. Each line bursts with youthful rage and courage, as though Chairil were shouting to the universe that he exists, even if the world chooses not to recognise him.

Aku 

[I]

Kalau sampai waktuku

[When my hour has come at last,]

’Ku mau tak seorang ’kan merayu

[I wish no soul would plead for me]

Tidak juga kau

[Not even you.]

Tak perlu sedu sedan itu

[No need for tears, nor wailing hearts.]

Aku ini binatang jalang

[I am a wild beast,]

Dari kumpulannya terbuang

[Banished from the herd of my own kind.]

Biar peluru menembus kulitku

[Though bullets tear into my flesh,]

Aku tetap meradang menerjang

[Still shall I rage and charge through flame.]

Luka dan bisa, kubawa berlari

[I bear my wounds and venomed pain,]

Berlari

[I run]

Hingga hilang pedih peri

[Till sorrow’s sting is lost in wind.]

Dan aku akan lebih tidak peduli

[And I shall care no more for all of this]

Aku mau hidup seribu tahun lagi.

[I wish to live for a thousand years].

Later came “Aku Berkaca”, written around 1944–1945, when the poet’s tone had shifted from the outward cry to an inward reflection. Here, Chairil seems older, more contemplative, and painfully aware of his own mortality. Instead of screaming against the world, he turns the gaze upon himself — as if facing his own shadow in a mirror. The rebellious fire remains, but it burns more quietly, more tragically, and with greater wisdom.

Aku Berkaca

[I Look Into the Mirror]

Aku berkaca

[I look into the mirror]

Bukan buat ke pesta

[Not for a party]

Ini muka penuh luka

[This face is full of wounds]

Siapa punya?

[Whose is it?]

Kudengar seru menderu

[I hear a roaring sound]

—dalam hatiku?—

[—within my heart?—]

Apa hanya angin lalu?

[Is it just the passing wind?]

Lagu lain pula

[Another song]

Menggelepar tengah malam buta

[Floundering in the dead of night]

Ah...!!!

Segala menebal, segala mengental

[Everything thickens, everything congeals]

Segala tak kukenal...!!

[Everything is unrecognizable...!!]

Selamat tinggal...!!!

[Farewell...!!!]

The progression between the two poems captures Chairil’s evolution as both a man and a writer. In “Aku”, rebellion is an explosion; in “Aku Berkaca”, rebellion becomes endurance. The wildness does not vanish — it deepens. The poet’s language grows leaner, his imagery sharper, his emotion distilled into something timeless. Through this transformation, Chairil Anwar moves from sheer defiance to existential acceptance, from the roar of life to the whisper of immortality.

Between “Aku” and “Aku Berkaca” lies the soul’s long corridor, echoing with two different tempests from the same heart. “Aku” is a declaration — fierce, untamed, and full of defiance. It rises like a storm against fate, against death, against the silence of being forgotten. In that poem, Chairil Anwar roars his existence into eternity; he claims the world, even as it crumbles around him. “I am this tempest,” he seems to cry, “I live, though all else falls.” His “Aku” is the poetry of rebellion — of a man who refuses to be erased.

But “Aku Berkaca” speaks with a quieter, darker voice — it is not the shout of life, but the whisper of recognition. Here, the poet no longer battles the world; he confronts himself. The mirror becomes his battlefield, the reflection his adversary. There are no victories in this gaze, only understanding. The wounds he once wore as proof of courage now appear as signs of weariness, of a self grown strange and heavy with time.

In “Aku”, the poet shouts to live forever; in “Aku Berkaca”, he whispers farewell to what he has become. The first poem is the anthem of resistance, while the second is the elegy of acceptance. Together, they are the inhale and exhale of the same soul — one burning to exist, the other learning to let go.

In reflecting on President Prabowo Subianto’s seventy-fourth birthday, one cannot help but draw a poetic parallel with Chairil Anwar’s timeless verses, “Aku” and “Aku Berkaca.” Like the defiant, searching voice in “Aku”, Prabowo’s journey through decades of service, struggle, and public scrutiny mirrors a relentless pursuit of self-definition and purpose. And as “Aku Berkaca” contemplates introspection and the clarity that comes from facing oneself, so too does a seasoned leader such as Prabowo embody reflection, learning, and a careful measure of action tempered by experience. In this light, his birthday becomes more than a celebration of years; it is a meditation on resilience, self-awareness, and the courage to lead with both conviction and humility.

President Prabowo Subianto was born on October 17, 1951, in Jakarta, Indonesia. He assumed office as the eighth President of Indonesia on October 20, 2024, following a decisive victory in the February 2024 presidential election. At 73 years old, he became the oldest person to assume the presidency in Indonesia's history. Yet, age in his case does not signify weakness, but rather wisdom refined through decades of service and struggle. His presence embodies strength, discipline, and a deep understanding of the nation’s past and future.

Despite his seniority, President Prabowo continues to demonstrate an energy and commitment that rival those of younger leaders. His speeches remain fiery, his handshake firm, and his policies bold in scope. Many view his leadership as a reminder that resilience and purpose matter more than age, and that Indonesia’s future can be shaped by experience just as powerfully as by youthful ambition. His birthday, therefore, is not merely a personal milestone but a moment for the nation to reflect on the enduring power of dedication and patriotism.

One could argue that Prabowo Subianto’s defeats in the 2014 and 2019 presidential elections were not true losses but rather delayed victories in the making. Politically, losing can be as instructive as winning, especially in a country like Indonesia, where public opinion is volatile and alliances shift rapidly. These “defeats” allowed Prabowo to recalibrate his strategy, expand his network, and reposition himself not as a mere challenger but as a kingmaker within the national political arena. In essence, the narrative of postponed triumph suggests that power in Indonesia is not just about immediate ballots, but about endurance, timing, and the ability to shape the story of the nation.

From a psychological and cultural perspective, framing defeat as a postponed victory reinforces Prabowo’s image as a resilient and strategic leader. It conveys that setbacks are part of a larger journey and that true leadership is measured not by immediate success but by the capacity to endure, adapt, and ultimately influence the course of the nation. In this sense, “losing” becomes a narrative device that strengthens his aura rather than diminishes it.

If Prabowo Subianto had won the Indonesian presidency in 2014 or 2019, the geopolitical landscape of Southeast Asia and beyond would likely have experienced a markedly different trajectory. Prabowo, known for his nationalist and militaristic outlook, often emphasised Indonesia’s sovereignty and strategic autonomy. Had he assumed office earlier, his approach to foreign policy might have been characterised by a stronger assertion of Indonesia’s interests, potentially prioritising defence and security partnerships over economic liberalisation and multilateral diplomacy.

A positive aspect of such an early presidency would have been Indonesia’s enhanced regional assertiveness. Under Prabowo, Indonesia might have projected more influence in ASEAN, asserting itself as a decisive power broker in disputes over the South China Sea or in mediating regional conflicts. A Prabowo-led administration could also have accelerated military modernisation and strategic independence, signalling to the world that Indonesia was less susceptible to external pressure, particularly from major powers like China or the United States. From a domestic perspective, this could have cultivated national pride and the perception of a strong, autonomous Indonesia.

However, the negatives of a Prabowo presidency in 2014 or 2019 could have been significant. His nationalist and sometimes protectionist economic policies might have strained relations with global trading partners, possibly slowing foreign investment and complicating integration into the global economy. Western nations, wary of his military background and occasional authoritarian rhetoric, might have adopted a cautious or even adversarial stance, potentially limiting diplomatic and economic cooperation. Furthermore, the internal balancing of democracy, human rights, and civil liberties could have been more challenging, provoking both domestic unrest and international criticism.

In contrast, the delayed victory in 2024 allowed Prabowo to enter the presidency with a geopolitical environment that had shifted: Indonesia’s economy had grown, alliances had evolved, and regional threats had become clearer. This delay arguably provided a strategic advantage, allowing Prabowo to calibrate his foreign and domestic policies in a way that was less reactive and more calculated. In other words, the postponed victory might have been geopolitically fortuitous, allowing him to consolidate power and navigate international pressures with a more mature and informed approach.

It can be argued that during President Joko Widodo’s tenure, Indonesia exhibited tendencies that could be described as “inward-looking,” though the situation is nuanced. If Indonesia were to hypothetically withdraw or remain absent from the United Nations for an entire decade under Jokowi’s administration, the consequences would be profound, both diplomatically and strategically. The United Nations functions as a global forum where Indonesia has historically exercised soft power, promoted its non-aligned principles, and contributed to peacekeeping missions. Absence would signal a retreat from multilateral diplomacy, diminishing Indonesia’s voice in critical international debates on climate change, maritime law, human rights, and regional security.

Regionally, ASEAN would feel the vacuum. Indonesia has long positioned itself as the de facto leader of Southeast Asia, leveraging its population, economy, and democratic credentials to mediate disputes and shape regional norms. Without Indonesia actively engaging at the UN, other regional powers—Singapore, Thailand, or even external actors like China—might fill the gap, thereby reducing Jakarta’s influence over the narrative and priorities of ASEAN.

Economically, an absence from UN mechanisms could indirectly weaken Indonesia’s leverage in trade negotiations, international development programs, and global financial institutions that often coordinate with UN agencies. It could also signal to foreign investors that Indonesia is stepping back from the rules-based global order, potentially affecting confidence and capital flows.

Domestically, such a move might feed nationalist narratives of self-reliance and sovereignty, but it would risk international isolation and diminish Indonesia’s capacity to shape global agendas that impact domestic priorities, from climate adaptation to maritime security. In short, a decade-long absence from the UN would compromise Indonesia’s diplomatic leverage, reduce its regional leadership role, and potentially slow economic and strategic gains on the global stage.

Today, Indonesia celebrates the birthday of President Prabowo Subianto, a figure whose journey through military service, politics, and national leadership has left a profound mark on the nation. Known for his unwavering focus on sovereignty, national defence, and strategic autonomy, Prabowo has cultivated an image of resilience and determination that resonates with many Indonesians. From his early years in the army to his current role at the helm of the country, his life reflects both the trials and the ambitions of a modern Indonesia navigating a complex world.

As President, Prabowo has sought to strengthen Indonesia from within while positioning the nation as a respected actor on the global stage. His leadership style, blending decisiveness with a keen understanding of domestic and international challenges, continues to shape policies that touch every corner of the archipelago. Today is an opportunity not only to celebrate his personal achievements but also to reflect on the broader vision he carries for Indonesia’s future—a vision that balances unity, security, and progress in a rapidly evolving world.

On this special occasion, Indonesians from all walks of life are reminded of the multifaceted role of the presidency: as a unifying force, a guardian of national interests, and a symbol of the nation’s aspirations. Whether through strategic initiatives, public engagements, or symbolic gestures, Prabowo’s impact is felt far beyond the halls of government, making his birthday a moment to acknowledge both the man and the office he holds.

The President of Indonesia is typically characterised by a combination of political pragmatism, strong public presence, and symbolic authority. Given the nation’s vast archipelago and diverse population, presidents often need to balance competing regional, ethnic, and religious interests while projecting national unity. They are expected to be decisive in domestic policy, especially in economic development, infrastructure, and social welfare, while also navigating the complexities of foreign relations in a strategically vital region.

In addition to administrative and policy skills, Indonesian presidents usually cultivate a personal image that resonates with the public. Charisma, media savviness, and the ability to communicate directly with citizens are essential traits. Many have also relied on a combination of party alliances and personal networks to secure both electoral victories and effective governance. While individual styles differ—some leaning more authoritarian, others more populist or technocratic—the common thread is the necessity to act as a unifying figure capable of guiding the nation through both internal challenges and the shifting dynamics of international politics.

President Prabowo Subianto exhibits many of the characteristics typically associated with Indonesian presidents, though with his own distinct style shaped by his military background and nationalist outlook. Like many of his predecessors, he must balance the diverse interests of Indonesia’s archipelagic population, integrating regional, ethnic, and religious considerations into a cohesive national agenda. In terms of domestic policy, Prabowo’s decisiveness and focus on sovereignty and strategic autonomy align with the traditional expectation that a president be a strong driver of economic development, national security, and social stability.

Prabowo also emphasises a personal image that resonates with certain segments of the population. His military career, combined with his public presence, cultivates an aura of authority and discipline. Unlike some technocratic or populist predecessors, he projects a nationalist, assertive persona that communicates strength and resilience, appealing particularly to voters who value sovereignty, defence, and a strong central leadership.

Diplomatically, Prabowo faces the challenge shared by all Indonesian presidents: to navigate a complex regional and global environment while maintaining domestic credibility. His approach to international relations—balancing assertiveness in defending Indonesia’s interests with measured engagement in multilateral forums—demonstrates an understanding of the traditional presidential role as both a unifying figure and a strategic negotiator on the world stage.

In sum, Prabowo exemplifies the core traits of Indonesian presidents: political pragmatism, domestic decisiveness, and a unifying symbolic presence, but he interprets them through the lens of his military experience and nationalist priorities, resulting in a leadership style that is assertive, disciplined, and sovereignty-focused.

From a political standpoint, Prabowo Subianto’s strength as President lies in his uncanny ability to project both authority and familiarity. He embodies a paradoxical mix of military firmness and populist charm — a man who can command a battalion and still make jokes about fried rice on national television. His political image has evolved from that of a fiery general to a seasoned statesman who understands the art of symbolic power, where silence can be as strategic as speech. This transformation has allowed him to win the trust of different factions, both within the military establishment and among the wider electorate, crafting an aura of stability in a country often divided by personality-driven politics.

Economically, Prabowo’s strength is his focus on national self-sufficiency and food security, themes that resonate deeply in a post-pandemic world anxious about supply chains. His emphasis on agrarian reform and domestic industry, though sometimes criticised as nostalgic or overly nationalist, taps into Indonesia’s collective longing for dignity and independence. He understands the emotional economy of the people — the idea that prosperity must also “feel” Indonesian. In this sense, his economic vision is not merely about numbers and trade balances, but about national pride and psychological sovereignty.

On the diplomatic front, Prabowo has positioned Indonesia as a bridge between East and West, North and South — a kind of geopolitical middle child who knows how to play both sides without losing face. His background in defence has given him the language of power, yet he speaks it with the cadence of peace. By balancing relations with the United States and China, while reinforcing ASEAN solidarity, Prabowo appears to be reviving Sukarno’s old dream of Indonesia as a leader of the Global South — confident, non-aligned, and unapologetically independent.

Culturally, Prabowo’s strength lies in his understanding of Indonesia’s yearning for strong leadership that feels rooted in tradition yet adaptable to modernity. He knows the nation’s psyche is built on symbols of power — the uniform, the horse, the salute — but he also recognises the importance of humour, humility, and the occasional viral meme. In this blend of command and charisma, Prabowo reflects a certain Javanese political philosophy: menang tanpa ngasorake—to win without humiliating. Prabowo appeared composed and elegant, as if quietly reminding everyone, “I am not him.” His actions were deliberate, measured, and carried out with a touch of grace.

The thesis that those who are poorly educated tend to use brute or crude methods to achieve victory, while those who are well-educated employ sophistication and subtlety, finds its grounding not merely in moral judgment but in observable social patterns. Education, in its truest sense, cultivates not only knowledge but also restraint — the ability to think beyond impulse, to strategise rather than strike. Individuals lacking this intellectual discipline often rely on raw force, intimidation, or deceit, because they perceive victory as domination rather than persuasion.

History offers countless illustrations of this dynamic. Authoritarian leaders, for instance, frequently resort to violence or suppression when faced with dissent — a reflection not only of moral deficiency but of intellectual insecurity. In contrast, skilled statesmen and enlightened reformers, from Mahatma Gandhi to Nelson Mandela, demonstrated how education refines the art of influence. They won not by crushing opponents but by outthinking them — transforming resistance into moral strength and conflict into dialogue.

Education equips the mind with the tools of subtle warfare — rhetoric, diplomacy, empathy, and foresight. The uneducated may win a battle through noise and chaos, but the educated win the war through clarity and composure. Thus, the thesis holds: knowledge civilises ambition, while ignorance brutalises it.

Therefore, in leadership, sound education — accompanied by broad insight, critical reasoning, emotional intelligence, and ethical grounding — becomes not merely desirable but essential. A well-educated leader not only understands the mechanics of governance but also the psychology of people, the rhythm of society, and the dynamics of the global order. Education sharpens discernment, allowing a leader to distinguish between what is popular and what is right, between fleeting applause and lasting progress.

A leader with intellectual depth and wide perspective is less likely to be driven by ego or impulse. Instead, they tend to lead through reflection, dialogue, and empathy — qualities that prevent chaos and nurture stability. Their decisions are guided not by instinct alone, but by analysis, foresight, and an awareness of history’s long arc. This is why nations led by educated minds often endure crises with composure and emerge stronger, while those led by the unlearned frequently crumble under the weight of short-term thinking and unchecked emotion.

Leadership, at its highest form, is not about dominance but direction — not about ruling over people, but guiding them towards something greater. And only an educated mind, fortified by moral wisdom and cultural awareness, can steer that course with grace, strategy, and vision.

Throughout history, nations have flourished or faltered depending on the intellectual and moral calibre of their leaders. Education does not guarantee perfection, but it equips leaders with the wisdom to choose stability over chaos and vision over vanity. In the world stage, one finds compelling examples: Franklin D. Roosevelt, despite his physical limitations, guided the United States through the Great Depression and the Second World War with strategic intellect and calm resolve. Lee Kuan Yew transformed Singapore from a struggling port into a global hub through a leadership style grounded in discipline, meritocracy, and an educated understanding of governance. Angela Merkel, trained as a physicist, navigated the European crises with logic, patience, and humility — qualities that earned her global respect.

In Indonesia, too, the impact of education on leadership is unmistakable. Sukarno, with his exposure to Western political thought and eloquent oratory, inspired a generation to believe in independence and national pride. His successor, Suharto, though less ideologically trained, utilised administrative pragmatism to stabilise a fragile post-colonial economy — albeit at the cost of political freedom. Later, figures like B. J. Habibie, with his mastery of aeronautical engineering and technological vision, showed that a leader with academic brilliance could steer Indonesia toward reform and innovation. Each of these leaders, in their own way, reflected how education — formal or experiential — becomes a compass guiding leadership through uncertain tides.

Education, then, is not merely a certificate but a discipline of the mind and the heart. It is what transforms authority into wisdom and power into purpose. The uneducated may lead with noise and fear; the educated lead with clarity, confidence, and conscience. And in a world so easily swayed by spectacle, that difference makes all the difference.

From a psychological standpoint, Prabowo Subianto’s greatest weakness stems from the same fire that fuels his charisma — his temperament. His emotional intensity, once a hallmark of military decisiveness, sometimes translates into impulsive reactions or theatrical displays that blur the line between passion and volatility. In moments of pressure, this intensity can seem less like leadership and more like a storm brewing behind the podium. It is the double-edged sword of his personality: his strength in command can also be his vulnerability in consensus.

Politically, Prabowo’s weakness lies in the over-centralisation of power and the cult of personality that tends to form around strong figures. His leadership style, forged in the rigid hierarchy of the military, sometimes struggles to translate into the collaborative, consultative rhythm of civilian politics. This creates a perception that loyalty is valued above competence, which can slow innovation and blunt critical voices. Indonesia’s democracy, already fragile, risks becoming too dependent on one man’s myth rather than the strength of its institutions.

Economically, his vision for national self-sufficiency, though noble in spirit, risks veering into protectionism. By prioritising domestic production over global integration, Indonesia could isolate itself from vital technological and trade opportunities. While Prabowo’s rhetoric of sovereignty inspires patriotic pride, it may also create an inward-looking mindset that limits growth. The challenge is to balance the hunger for independence with the necessity of interdependence — a balance that requires more technocracy than ideology.

On the diplomatic front, Prabowo’s pragmatic balancing act — between the West, China, and regional partners — can sometimes appear as indecision or opportunism. His efforts to please all sides risk diluting Indonesia’s moral voice on global issues such as human rights or climate justice. Diplomacy, after all, is not just about manoeuvring but about meaning. A nation that tries to be everyone’s friend may end up being no one’s ally.

Culturally, his old-school nationalism occasionally clashes with the digital generation’s demand for transparency and authenticity. Younger Indonesians, raised on memes, podcasts, and satire, often interpret traditional gestures of authority — the salute, the grand speech, the military march — as performance rather than sincerity. Prabowo’s challenge, therefore, is not just to rule effectively, but to translate his language of power into one that resonates with a generation that mistrusts grandeur.

Why speak of Prabowo’s frailties, one might ask? Because within them lies his most human truth. Strength may build a leader, but it is his vulnerability that reminds us he, too, is flesh, bound by hope and flaw alike. Is it not the very philosophy of our nation — humanity that is just and civilised — to see both might and mercy as parts of the same soul? To recognise his power is to prepare for the future; to reflect upon his weakness is to refine the path ahead. For only through honest scrutiny does greatness learn to endure.

In the end, Prabowo Subianto’s presidency is not merely the story of a man who rose to power — it is the story of a nation negotiating its identity between discipline and democracy, between pride and pragmatism. His strengths and weaknesses are woven from the same fabric: his conviction, his charisma, and his commanding presence. Where he brings order, he sometimes stifles debate; where he inspires unity, he risks uniformity. Yet, in the vast, restless landscape of Indonesian politics, his figure stands as a symbol of continuity — a leader who, for better or worse, embodies the country’s yearning for strength in uncertain times.

In truth, Prabowo’s presidency reveals an Indonesia caught between nostalgia and necessity. The nostalgia for order, glory, and grandeur — and the necessity for reform, innovation, and inclusion. If he can reconcile these two impulses, he may yet redefine what it means to be a strong leader in the 21st century: not by ruling through fear or spectacle, but by transforming power into purpose.

On this day, the wind carries whispers of honour — for a man whose footsteps have echoed across the fields of duty and the corridors of power. Prabowo Subianto, born of Jakarta’s restless heart, now stands as the guardian of a nation’s dream. Seventy-four years of breath and battle, yet his spirit remains unbroken, like steel that bends only to strengthen. Age has not dimmed his flame; it has deepened it, turning fire into light and passion into wisdom.

He walks not as one burdened by time, but as one refined by it. His words weigh with the gravity of history, yet rise with the hope of tomorrow. In his gaze, the archipelago finds its reflection — vast, fierce, and full of promise. Today, as the Republic salutes him, it is not only the man they celebrate, but the endurance of faith, courage, and devotion that he represents. For leaders may come and go, but conviction, once born of sincerity, lives beyond the years.

And as a closing, in the quiet dawn of existence, the Prophet ﷺ spoke of two treasures that slip like sand through heedless fingers — health and time. He warned that many walk upon the earth rich with strength and hours, yet poor in gratitude. Health, he said, is a vessel of divine mercy — a silent blessing that allows the soul to bow, the hands to give, and the heart to hope. When the body ails, even gold feels weightless; when the veins pulse with life, even a crumb tastes like a feast.

To awaken each morning in safety, to breathe without pain, to eat without fear — such is the unseen kingdom of contentment. The Messenger ﷺ declared that whoever possesses safety, health, and sustenance for a day has, in truth, been granted the whole world. It is not marble palaces or crowns that define fortune, but the quiet rhythm of a heart still beating, a mind still clear, and limbs still obedient to purpose.

Thus, health is not merely the absence of pain; it is the presence of divine favour. It is a reminder that our bodies are not our own but borrowed trusts — gardens to be tended with gratitude, not wasted in neglect. The wise see health as time’s twin: fleeting, precious, and irreplaceable. And only when the candle flickers near its end do most realise how radiant its flame once was.

Happy Birthday, Mr. President. May health accompany you always, and may your leadership guide this nation with unwavering strength toward the noble dreams envisioned by our founding fathers. May every step you take be blessed, every decision enlightened, and every effort fruitful. Amen, O Lord of all worlds.

Bahasa

Guardians of Order or Mirrors of Power? (4)

Shakespeare’s insights into power, morality, and justice remain remarkably relevant. His plays offer timeless reflections on authority, corruption, and the ethical dilemmas inherent in leadership — issues that resonate deeply with the modern challenges faced by police institutions.

Consider Macbeth. Here is a man granted power without checks, whose ambition leads to tyranny, fear, and societal chaos. In the context of policing, Macbeth’s trajectory serves as a cautionary tale: when authority is unaccountable, those entrusted to protect can become oppressors, eroding public trust instead of safeguarding it.

In King Lear, we witness the perils of misjudgment and misplaced loyalty. Leaders who cannot discern truth from flattery invite disorder and injustice. Police institutions, too, face this risk: promotion without merit or favouritism without accountability can destabilise the very system meant to uphold law and fairness.

Hamlet presents another lesson. Confronted with a corrupt court, Hamlet wrestles with moral choices — a struggle mirrored by officers who must navigate systemic misconduct while trying to act ethically. Reform, therefore, is not merely procedural; it is philosophical, requiring both conscience and courage.

Finally, Measure for Measure speaks directly to the tension between law and virtue. The Duke disguises himself to observe his officials, demonstrating the necessity of oversight, transparency, and integrity. Modern policing reforms echo this principle: a badge must not be merely symbolic, but aligned with ethical behaviour and public accountability.

Shakespeare reminds us that authority carries responsibility. As Indonesia pursues police reform, his works offer both caution and inspiration: unchecked power corrupts, moral judgment is essential, and integrity is the foundation of legitimacy. Before exploring the history and philosophy of policing, it is fitting to pause with the Bard, whose stories illuminate the human dimension behind every institution of authority.

When Shakespeare wrote Measure for Measure in the early seventeenth century, he was not simply telling a story about love and justice; he was holding up a mirror to the machinery of power itself. The play is set in Vienna, where law and order have grown lax, morality has decayed, and authority has become little more than a rumour. When the Duke pretends to leave and appoints the zealous Angelo in his place, chaos follows—not because laws are absent, but because they are suddenly enforced without wisdom or mercy. Shakespeare, in his poetic mischief, suggests that justice without compassion is tyranny in disguise, and mercy without justice is negligence dressed in virtue.

It is from this tangled moral theatre that we can draw our first reflection on policing as an institution: it is never merely about enforcing laws, but about interpreting humanity through them. The policeman, like Angelo or the disguised Duke, is always caught in a paradox—he must act as both the sword and the conscience of society. A state that builds its police purely on authority will soon discover that fear is a brittle foundation, while one that builds it solely on sympathy will drown in disorder.

To reform the Indonesian National Police, or Polri, is therefore not merely to reorganise its bureaucracy, but to reimagine the very soul of its service. We are not just adjusting uniforms or reshuffling ranks; we are confronting centuries of inherited power, colonial discipline, and post-reform anxiety. If Shakespeare had walked through Jakarta’s humid streets today, perhaps he would have smiled at the irony that his questions about justice and power still haunt us in a republic four centuries later.

Like Angelo, some officers may be driven by the illusion that order comes from fear. Like Isabella, some citizens cling to virtue but feel voiceless in a system too vast to hear them. And like the Duke, perhaps our leaders often choose disguise—rhetorical reforms, symbolic visits, televised empathy—rather than the courage of genuine transformation. Yet as Shakespeare reminds us, the stage of governance is never free from the audience’s gaze. The people are watching.

The history of policing, then, is not a tale of batons and badges, but of how a civilisation chooses to balance power and morality. In London, the birthplace of the modern police, Sir Robert Peel’s Nine Principles of Policing (1829) insisted that “the police are the public and the public are the police.” Shakespeare would have nodded in agreement; for him, justice divorced from humanity is tragedy, and law without legitimacy is farce.

Sir Robert Peel, often regarded as the father of modern policing, articulated nine foundational principles in 1829 when establishing the Metropolitan Police in London. Collectively, these principles are known as the “Peelian Principles”. They were revolutionary at the time, as they framed policing not as a tool of repression, but as a service to the public, emphasising accountability, prevention, and moral legitimacy. Peel insisted that the effectiveness of a police force depended on public approval, that prevention of crime was superior to punishment after the fact, and that the police are fundamentally members of the community they serve, rather than an occupying authority. These principles underscore that policing must be ethical, community-oriented, and reliant on consent rather than coercion. Over time, the Peelian Principles have become a cornerstone of modern law enforcement philosophy worldwide, influencing police reforms from London to Jakarta.

Sir Robert Peel’s nine principles of policing are not just rules on paper; they are a philosophy that transforms law enforcement into a service rooted in ethics and community. The first principle states that the basic mission of the police is to prevent crime and disorder, rather than merely to react after the fact. Peel understood that proactive engagement builds trust and reduces harm, much like a gardener tending to plants before weeds take over.

The second principle emphasises that the police must maintain public approval to perform effectively. A force that is feared but not trusted will crumble; legitimacy comes from consent, not coercion. Peel argued that the police are the public, and the public are the police. This means officers are part of the community fabric, not outsiders imposing rules.

The third principle insists that police must secure willing cooperation from the public, rather than relying solely on legal authority. Enforcement without consent is fragile, like building a house on sand. The people must see the police as allies, not adversaries.

The fourth principle reinforces that the degree of cooperation of the public diminishes proportionally to the use of force. Overzealous enforcement erodes trust and makes communities defensive. Peel reminded officers that persuasion is better than compulsion; empathy outweighs intimidation.

The fifth principle states that the police seek and preserve public favour, not through pandering or bribery, but by unobtrusive and impartial service. Fairness, consistency, and transparency create lasting legitimacy.

The sixth principle declares that police should use physical force only when persuasion, advice, or warning is insufficient. Force is a last resort, never a first tool. Peel likened unnecessary force to turning a shield into a weapon against those one is meant to protect.

The seventh principle is that police, at all times, must maintain a relationship with the public that gives reality to the historic tradition that the police are the public and the public are the police. Visibility, approachability, and dialogue reinforce this truth daily.

The eighth principle reminds officers that impartiality and absence of favoritism are essential. Justice cannot be selective; a law that protects some and ignores others will always breed resentment.

Finally, the ninth principle asserts that the test of police efficiency is the absence of crime and disorder, not the visible evidence of police action. In other words, a police force succeeds when society feels safe and law-abiding behaviour is normal, not merely when arrests and prosecutions are high.

Taken together, the Peelian Principles form a moral compass for policing: one that balances authority with accountability, enforcement with empathy, and power with service. They remain a blueprint for reforming modern police forces anywhere, including Indonesia.

If this topic begins with Shakespeare, it is not out of literary vanity, but because he understood something timeless: every system of justice eventually reveals the soul of its society. To reform Polri is, therefore, to rewrite our collective script—to decide whether we shall play tyrants, hypocrites, or true guardians of peace.

The story of policing begins not with uniforms and handcuffs, but with the ancient fear of chaos. Long before Sir Robert Peel founded the London Metropolitan Police in 1829, people already sought ways to guard their fragile sense of order. In the dusty streets of ancient Mesopotamia, there were “watchmen of the night,” whose duty was not only to protect merchants but to maintain peace among restless citizens. In Greece, the astynomoi ensured the cleanliness and discipline of the city. And in Rome, the vigiles patrolled the alleys with torches, guarding both safety and reputation.

But these early guardians were often extensions of power rather than its balance. They protected emperors, not people. They upheld decrees, not justice. It was only when cities began to rise from the spirit of citizenship—Athens, Florence, London—that the idea of policing started to shift from domination to duty. The philosophical seed was planted: that security is not an instrument of rulers, but a right of the ruled.

Fast-forward to seventeenth-century England, the very world Shakespeare inhabited. London was noisy, dirty, and alive—a city of merchants, thieves, and moralists. With no formal police, justice depended on constables and watchmen paid by local parishes. It was an era when moral sermons were louder than sirens. Yet even then, the question Shakespeare asked in Measure for Measure—“Who will guard the guardians?”—echoed through the cobblestones.

By the time the Industrial Revolution arrived, cities had swollen with people and poverty, and crime no longer looked like a moral failure but a social symptom. That was when Sir Robert Peel stepped forward, proposing the idea that police must serve not as a force of oppression but as a body of public service. His nine principles became the philosophical cornerstone of modern policing. Among them, the most revolutionary was this: “The ability of the police to perform their duties is dependent upon public approval of police actions.”

Shakespeare would have applauded that sentiment—because what Peel described was nothing less than the transformation of authority into accountability. Justice, to endure, must be seen to be just. The policeman was no longer the state’s enforcer, but the citizen’s mirror.

When this idea travelled across oceans, it met different histories, different wounds. In colonies, policing became a weapon to suppress, not to serve. The Dutch, in the East Indies, built a system not for public trust but for control. The veldpolitie and inlandsche politie were designed to keep the native population obedient to European order. The moral theatre of justice was replaced by a bureaucratic drama of surveillance.

Indonesia inherited this divided legacy: a police born from the ashes of colonialism and the smoke of revolution. When the Republic was proclaimed in 1945, one of the earliest tasks was to unify these scattered fragments of colonial police into a force that served a free people, not foreign masters. Yet the ghosts of its past still lingered. The baton that once enforced colonial rule now had to learn compassion. The uniform that once represented obedience now had to represent trust.

And so began a long journey—a struggle not just of power, but of philosophy. What does it mean for a policeman to be of the people and for the people? What kind of justice does a nation aspire to when it builds its police? These questions, echoing from the stages of Shakespeare to the streets of Jakarta, remain as urgent as ever.

There is an old anecdote from the early years of Indonesia’s independence. A villager once told a young officer, “Nak, dulu kami takut sama polisi. Sekarang kamu katanya polisi rakyat—jadi kami harus sayang atau tetap takut?” The officer smiled awkwardly, unable to answer. That confusion, gentle yet profound, captures the soul of our institutional dilemma.

Policing, at its heart, is a philosophical act. It is the daily rehearsal of justice. It asks not merely how we enforce the law, but why we do so. A society gets the police it deserves, not the one it demands. When citizens lose their moral compass, even the most ethical force will stumble. And when police lose their conscience, even the most democratic system will rot.

From Shakespeare’s Vienna to modern Jakarta, the moral of the story remains the same: law and mercy must dance together, or both will fall. To reform Polri is to teach this dance anew—to remind both the rulers and the ruled that power, untempered by virtue, is always on the verge of tragedy.

When Indonesia declared its independence in 1945, it was not only a proclamation of freedom but a declaration of self-definition. Among the institutions that had to be reinvented from colonial ashes stood the police — a force that had once served foreign masters but was now expected to serve a free people. The irony was stark: the uniform was the same, the batons unchanged, but the soul behind them had to be reborn.

In the early days of independence, policing was more of a moral duty than an organised profession. Many officers were veterans of war, men who traded rifles for rules, revolutionaries suddenly asked to act as guardians of peace. They were brave, patriotic, and idealistic—but they were also human, struggling to balance old habits of command with the new spirit of democracy. Some villages joked, “Dulu Belanda yang patroli, sekarang anaknya pejuang yang patroli—tapi bedanya, dulu takut, sekarang bingung harus hormat atau curhat.”

The 1950s were a period of experimentation. Indonesia was finding its rhythm as a young republic, and so was its police. There was no single identity yet—only fragments of colonial systems stitched together with nationalist enthusiasm. The police were tasked not just with maintaining order but also with helping to build a sense of nationhood. They were protectors, counsellors, and sometimes, reluctant politicians.

Then came the 1960s—an era of suspicion and ideological tension. The police found themselves caught between political storms and military dominance. During the Guided Democracy of Sukarno, the line between civilian authority and political allegiance began to blur. The police were torn between serving the constitution and surviving within the machinery of power. Many officers, though loyal to their oath, were quietly aware that justice often bowed to politics.

The New Order under Suharto institutionalised this dynamic. The police were integrated into the Armed Forces (ABRI), under the doctrine of Dwifungsi—the dual function of defence and security. In theory, this meant coordination; in practice, it meant subordination. The military led, the police followed. The law became a tool of stability, and stability often silenced dissent. Justice wore a uniform, but its conscience was muffled.

Still, beneath that rigid surface, a quiet yearning for reform persisted. Some officers began to whisper about professional independence, about the need to rebuild public trust. They knew that a police force without moral legitimacy was merely a state apparatus—efficient perhaps, but never respected.

Then came 1998, the year the streets spoke louder than the guns. The fall of Suharto was not just a political shift but a moral awakening. The people demanded not only democracy but dignity. Among the cries for reform — in parliament, in universities, in protests—was a simple yet profound demand: “Polisi bukan alat, tapi pelindung!”

In 1999, that demand found institutional form. The police were officially separated from the military, becoming an independent force under civilian oversight. It was a rebirth—though not without pain. Overnight, the police had to redefine themselves: from enforcers of power to guardians of justice; from order-keepers of the regime to servants of society.

But reform, like repentance, is never instant. The early 2000s saw the police struggle to find a balance. They gained autonomy, but also exposure. Every action was now scrutinised, every mistake magnified. The media, once silent, became loud. The public, once fearful, became demanding. “Kalau dulu takut sama polisi, sekarang malah tagihannya banyak,” a senior officer once joked. “Katanya reformasi, kok laporan masyarakat makin numpuk.”

Still, this discomfort was healthy—it meant accountability was taking root. From traffic control to terrorism response, from village mediation to cybercrime, the police had to evolve. Reform was no longer about slogans but systems—ethics training, community policing, internal affairs. Yet progress was uneven, often tangled in bureaucracy, politics, and habit.

Philosophically, this transition was profound. The Indonesian police were no longer just upholders of written law but guardians of social trust. The true test of reform was not in the number of arrests, but in the depth of respect. A policeman who listens patiently does more for democracy than one who fires swiftly.

As Indonesia enters a new era under President Prabowo, the promise of reform echoes once again. The challenge is no longer merely institutional, but moral: how to build a police force that embodies both firmness and fairness, both discipline and empathy. Reform must not be cosmetic—it must reach the conscience.

Perhaps, as Shakespeare might say, “Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown”—or in this case, the badge. Authority is heavy, not because it commands, but because it must constantly justify itself.

By the way, long before the band Sukatani went all out critiquing the police with their anthem “Bayar Bayar Bayar”, Iwan Fals had already taken a cheeky jab with his song “Kereta Tiba Pukul Berapa",

Traffic light aku lewati,

[I passed the traffic light,]

lampu merah tak peduli

[ignoring the red]

Jalan terus

[Kept moving]

Di depan ada polantas

[Ahead, there was a traffic cop]

Wajahnya begitu buas

[His face looked fierce]

Tangkap aku

[Caught me]

Tawar-menawar, harga pas, tancap gas

[Bargain the price, agreed, then hit the gas]

If the early police guarded the streets, the reformed police must now guard the soul of the Republic.

[Part 5]

[Part 3]

Bahasa

Guardians of Order or Mirrors of Power? (3)

Jokowi’s tenure has featured some ambitious megaprojects, several of which have drawn the kind of satirical commentary usually reserved for political sketch shows. The construction of the new national capital (IKN) was meant to be a dazzling legacy—a city rising from the rainforest, full of promises and multimedia renderings. Instead, delays, environmental criticism, and budget overruns have made it Indonesia’s equivalent of a blockbuster sequel that fails to recapture the original’s magic, with even the President missing his own “premiere landing” on the unfinished runway for Independence Day.​​

Similarly, the Jakarta-Bandung high-speed rail project became a plot twist worthy of a soap opera: celebrated as a leap into the future, but soon bogged down by protests, forced evictions, flooding, legal disputes, and costs that soared past their intended mark. The airport projects, too, became memes within public discourse—started with fanfare, but mired in delays and technical setbacks that made their completion as uncertain as a reality show elimination.​

Jokowi’s moral responsibility, both now and in years to come, is to reckon with the expectations he set and the impacts felt by ordinary Indonesians. The comic-tragic arc of his megaprojects will follow him, with media and critics retelling the story whenever grand plans meet harsh realities. 

In theory, the government should only bear the cost of a loss-making project if that project serves a clear public interest or creates positive externalities that the private sector would have no incentive to provide. When a project generates social benefits—such as improving access to health services, education, or basic infrastructure—its economic justification is not based on profit but on welfare. In such cases, the state’s role is to subsidise, support, or directly fund it because its value to society exceeds its financial return.

However, if a project is purely commercial or benefits only a narrow group of private actors, then having the government shoulder the losses would distort market incentives, promote inefficiency, and encourage moral hazard. In sound public financial theory, taxpayers’ money must not be used to rescue failing ventures unless there is a legitimate public purpose or systemic risk that threatens the economy as a whole.

Certain fundamental characteristics or prerequisites justify government support for a project or programme, even if it is unprofitable. Primarily, such initiatives must serve a significant public interest, addressing needs that the private sector would neglect owing to the absence of commercial incentives. These needs often include vital social infrastructure, universal access to essential services, or programmes that produce long-term externalities like improved public health, environmental protection, or educational attainment. In addition, the intervention should be cost-effective and carefully targeted, ensuring that government support is not wasted on inefficiency or captured by special interests. The public expenditure must demonstrably deliver benefits to society that exceed its fiscal costs, and governments must remain vigilant to avoid moral hazard, systemic inefficiency, or chronic losses that are politically motivated rather than functionally justified.

Governments decide to support loss-making projects through a structured evaluation of the project's economic, social, and strategic value. First, officials assess whether the project delivers benefits that are essential for public welfare, such as broad access to healthcare, education, or infrastructure, which the private sector typically fails to provide profitably. Decision-making relies on cost-benefit analysis, examining if the long-term societal gains justify the financial outlay. The process also considers project bankability, the viability of attracting private investment, and the likelihood that public intervention will catalyse further economic activity or enhance service delivery. Governments typically use mechanisms such as grants, loans, equity investment, guarantees, and risk mitigation tools, ensuring that their support is judicious, well-targeted, and aligned with broader development strategies. They remain mindful of fiscal capacity and the dangers of encouraging inefficiency or dependency, so support is tailored to truly high-priority, impactful initiatives that could not proceed without public backing.

Governments apply a variety of explicit criteria when choosing which projects to fund. The process typically reviews whether the project aligns with national priorities and addresses beneficiary needs, such as filling a gap in public services or supporting development goals. Another major criterion is relevance, meaning the project’s objectives should fit with overarching strategies for development, public welfare, or policy priorities. Effectiveness is also considered, evaluating how likely the project is to achieve its intended outcomes and what impact those outcomes will have. Efficiency measures whether project resources are used optimally to deliver results with minimal waste or duplication. Cost-effectiveness and economic justification are analysed to ensure that public funds deliver substantial benefits relative to their expense. Lastly, governments assess transparency, equal treatment, accountability, and stakeholder participation throughout the evaluation, ensuring fair and open decision-making.

For a state-funded programme or project designed for public benefit to succeed, several interlinked conditions must be met. The project must start with clear, well-defined objectives that align with national strategic priorities and genuinely address community needs. Deep stakeholder engagement is essential throughout the project lifecycle—not only involving government officials, but drawing in community voices and expert partners to ensure buy-in and relevance. Rigorous planning, transparent governance, and robust risk management foster resilience, while a focus on measurable outcomes and long-term sustainability yields a lasting impact. Performance should be regularly reviewed and criteria adapted as needed, optimising resource use, maintaining public trust, and ensuring that both tangible and intangible benefits are realised. Ultimately, genuine success arises when a project enriches society, delivers desired change, and stands up to accountability and democratic scrutiny.

The question one must now ask is whether Jokowi will ever be forgiven for his marvellous parade of misadventures. Forgiveness is off the table for our industrious statesman, whose impressive resume features everything from public fibbing and questionable diplomas to a thrilling catalogue of grand projects whose only legacy is national migraine and hardship. Far from earning applause, Jokowi’s greatest hits have left the public positively fatigued—with future presidents destined to inherit the drama of his unfinished symphonies, so spectacularly orchestrated yet forever out of tune.

Although a president is rarely prosecuted for building failed projects, moral accountability remains profoundly significant both in the short and long term. In the immediate aftermath of a failed public enterprise, a president faces intense scrutiny and criticism from the media (even though it is genuinely disappointing, rather than being the Fourth Estate, some Indonesian mainstream media are willing to become the 'utterly subservient' ones and their roles are mostly replaced by netizens), civil society, and political opposition—and must contend with the erosion of credibility and public trust. This scrutiny is fuelled by the populace’s expectation of stewardship and good faith in managing state resources, and presidents are obliged to justify their decisions with transparency and remorse where failure has cost the public dearly. Over the long term, the legacy of a failed project can shadow a president’s reputation, influencing how history judges their leadership qualities, ethical standards, and commitment to public welfare. Moral accountability continues through ongoing discourse, academic analysis, and popular memory, serving as a warning to future leaders and a measure of presidential integrity.

Now let's return to the topic of police reform that President Prabowo is currently considering.

The idea of policing has never been static; it has evolved with civilisation itself. From the clay tablets of Mesopotamia to the digital dashboards of today’s police command centres, the journey of law enforcement reflects humanity’s ongoing negotiation with power, order, and justice. While the tools have changed, the central question remains: how can authority be exercised without oppression?

Philosophically, policing was born out of necessity — the need to manage human behaviour in groups larger than family or tribe. As Thomas Hobbes wrote in Leviathan (1651), without a common power to keep all in awe, life would be “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.” In other words, without law and those who enforce it, chaos reigns. John Locke, in his Two Treatises of Government (1689), softened that stance by suggesting that legitimate authority comes from consent, not fear. The police, then, were not meant to dominate the people, but to serve as their collective expression of mutual protection.

Centuries later, this philosophy was institutionalised in Britain with Sir Robert Peel’s founding of the Metropolitan Police in 1829. Peel believed that “the police are the public and the public are the police.” His goal was revolutionary: to transform the image of law enforcement from an arm of tyranny into a guardian of trust. As Alan Wright (2002) notes, modern policing began not when the first officer walked the streets, but when the public accepted that officer’s legitimacy.

Anecdotes from that period still amuse historians. One early London constable, fresh from his village, was so proud of his new blue coat that he spent his first patrol checking his reflection in shop windows — until he missed a robbery happening just behind him. The story spread quickly, a light-hearted reminder that professionalism is more than appearance; it is awareness and accountability. As Herbert L. Packer (1968) warned, “effective policing balances authority with accountability to prevent abuse.”

Globally, the rise of modern policing in the nineteenth century mirrored industrialisation and urban growth. As cities expanded, so did inequality, crime, and political unrest. From Paris to New York, police forces became both protectors and symbols of state control. Clive Emsley (1996) observed that wherever the police lost legitimacy, reform became inevitable. Reform, he said, is not merely a bureaucratic shift but a moral one — a way to realign power with the principles of justice.

In Indonesia, the story of policing took its own dramatic path. The roots stretch back to colonial rule, when the Dutch established their police force (Politiedienst) not to protect the people, but to secure imperial order. The early Indonesian police were instruments of surveillance, not service. Yet, even within that system, seeds of professionalism were quietly sown. After independence in 1945, the fledgling Republic inherited not just the colonial structure, but the moral question of what policing should mean in a free nation.

The transformation began with a vision: to build a police force that serves rather than commands, that protects rather than intimidates. Over the decades, reforms have come in waves — from the nationalisation of the force in the 1950s to the separation of Polri from the military in 2000, each representing an effort to redefine authority in line with democratic ideals. As Peter K. Manning (2008) put it, “modern reform is about using knowledge and technology to align police practice with societal values.”

Today, under President Prabowo’s vision, the question resurfaces: can the Indonesian police reclaim the spirit of Peel, the conscience of Locke, and the vigilance of modern accountability? True reform, as history shows, is never merely administrative. It is philosophical — a renewal of purpose. The aim is not to create fear but to restore faith, not to display power but to prove integrity.

And perhaps, in another century, a young historian might look back and tell a new anecdote — not about a constable distracted by his uniform, but about a generation of officers who looked beyond the mirror of authority and saw, instead, the reflection of the people they vowed to protect.

[Part 4]
[Part 2]

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