"When Mulyono first stepped onto the political stage, people fell in love. Finally, a leader who wasn’t a general, wasn’t a tycoon’s son, and didn’t belong to a political dynasty. His life story sounded like a Netflix underdog series—carpenter-turned-mayor, then governor, and somehow, president. He seemed humble, casual, always "blusukan" into traditional markets and alleyways, sitting at warungs talking about chilli prices. People were hooked. The media dubbed him "the man of the people." But slowly, the blusukan started to feel... staged. There were cameramen before him, his social media team in tow, and every step looked like it had been planned for the perfect Instagram post. What was once genuine began to look like content.
As president, Mulyono went full throttle on infrastructure. Toll roads, airports, ports—even a whole new capital city. On TV, it looked glorious—"Finally, a working president!" But beneath the glitz: land evictions, indigenous displacement, skyrocketing debt, and half-baked projects that stood like awkward monuments. Still, mainstream media clapped loudly.
And democracy? That got a quiet burial. When students protested draconian laws that weakened the anti-corruption commission and civil liberties, the response was brutal. Some students died. National TV, however, aired cooking shows. People began to whisper: “Is this still reform, or have we returned to the New Order—but in soft launch?”
Then came the dynasty twist. He once said, “I’m not part of a political dynasty.” Yet suddenly, his son became a mayor. His son-in-law became a regional head. And not long after, his son was nominated as vice president—despite being too young. But no worries, the Constitutional Court magically adjusted the age rules. And who was the Chief Justice who passed that rule? His brother-in-law. Bravo, plot armor!
Online, Mulyono still shines like a K-pop idol. Trending, loved, buzzed. But on the ground—from Papua to the villages whose lands were seized—the story is different. Many now whisper: “This is no longer a man of the people. This is a man of the brand.”
And now, a new episode: The Diploma Saga. Rumors have long floated that his university diploma might be... fictional. But it doesn’t stop there. Some now claim his high school diploma might also be fake. At first, two people came forward, saying, “I went to that school. There was no Mulyono.” Back then, people thought: "Ah, conspiracy theorists." But now, more whistleblowers are stepping up—armed not with hashtags, but documents and academic records.
What did Mulyono’s camp do? Clarify openly? Invite a public audit? Nope. Instead, critics and whistleblowers are quietly discredited, threatened, or made to look like lunatics. The plot thickens. If the diplomas are real, why not show them?
This brings us to the deeper problem: we live in an era where image matters more than substance. Leadership is judged not by integrity, but by vibes. Politics has become a Netflix season, and we, the people, are reduced to viewers—cheering for characters, forgetting to read the script."
In the long term, populist leaders pose a dual threat: they may act swiftly to erode democratic values in the short term while planting the seeds of authoritarianism that grow quietly over time. Their appeal to emotion and manipulation of media make them especially potent in the digital age.
In Twilight of Democracy (2020, Doebleday), Anne Applebaum argues that populist regimes corrode civil service and judicial independence by replacing neutral, professional bureaucrats and judges with loyalists who serve the ruling party’s interests. Rather than respecting institutional norms and the rule of law, populist leaders often prioritise personal loyalty over competence, undermining the integrity of government functions. They attack independent courts, discredit judges who do not align with their agenda, and manipulate public institutions to cement power. This process gradually turns democratic institutions into tools of authoritarian control.
Populists may gradually desensitise the public to authoritarian behaviour—mass surveillance, censorship, or repression—by packaging it in nationalist rhetoric and emotional storytelling. In Democracy for Realists (2016, Princeton University Press), Christopher Achen and Larry Bartels argue that emotional narratives often override rational policymaking because voters are not the hyper-rational decision-makers that classical democratic theory assumes. Instead, people tend to vote based on group identity, loyalty, and emotional resonance rather than detailed policy analysis. The authors show that political decisions are shaped more by psychological attachments—like partisanship or tribal instincts—than by careful evaluations of government performance or policy outcomes.
Achen and Bartels explain that voters respond strongly to symbolic cues, charismatic leaders, and emotionally charged stories, which tap into their identities and feelings. As a result, political messages that appeal to fear, pride, or resentment often have more influence than complex policy discussions. This dynamic leads to a democracy where emotional appeals win elections, while nuanced policymaking takes a back seat.
One of the most dangerous long-term impacts of populist leadership is the gradual weakening of civil society—the networks, organisations, and associations that allow citizens to organise, voice concerns, and hold power to account. While it may not be as flashy as social media wars or mass rallies, this erosion is often deliberate, strategic, and deeply harmful to democracy. In How Democracies Die (2018, Crown Publishing), Steven Levitsky and Daniel Ziblatt highlight how populist leaders tend to politicise or discredit non-governmental organisations (NGOs), watchdog groups, and activist communities. They often label these groups as “foreign agents” or accuse them of serving elite interests, undermining their credibility.
Nancy Bermeo, in her 2016 article On Democratic Backsliding (Journal of Democracy), explains that civil society is frequently the first target of “executive aggrandisement,” a process where populist leaders quietly expand their power. These leaders pass laws restricting NGOs, limit foreign funding, and create red tape that suffocates civic participation.
Sheri Berman also explores this in her essay Civil Society and the Collapse of the Weimar Republic (1997). She argues that when civil society is hijacked or manipulated by anti-democratic forces, it loses its role as a watchdog and becomes a tool of the regime.
Finally, in The Spirit of Democracy (2008, Times Books), Larry Diamond warns that democracy cannot thrive without a vibrant and independent civil society. Populists often perceive such groups as a threat and either try to control them through co-optation or crush them through repression.
In short, populist leaders don’t always use tanks and tear gas. Sometimes, they just choke off democracy’s lungs—civil society—until no one can breathe freely anymore.
If populism is a slow-burning virus infecting our democracies, is there a cure? Thankfully, not all hope is lost. Around the world, scholars, citizens, and communities are discovering ways to build resistance, revive institutions, and reclaim the democratic spirit before it’s too late.
Resisting the slow decay caused by populist leadership requires more than just voting differently at the next election—it demands a revival of democratic spirit through institutional strength, public vigilance, and civic courage. Scholars like Steven Levitsky and Daniel Ziblatt, in How Democracies Die (2018), argue that defending democracy starts with reestablishing “guardrails”: norms like mutual toleration and institutional forbearance. These unwritten rules help prevent political actors from abusing power just because they legally can.
At the same time, Sheri Berman reminds us in her work on civil society that democracy is strongest when people are actively involved—not just as voters, but as organisers, volunteers, journalists, watchdogs, and more. Populism thrives when the public becomes passive and political engagement is replaced by fan culture. So, resisting this decay means empowering citizens to organise beyond party lines, especially in defending civic institutions and independent media.
Education also plays a central role. Ruth Ben-Ghiat, in Strongmen: Mussolini to the Present (2020), emphasises how autocrats rewrite history and manipulate national identity to maintain control. To fight back, societies must invest in critical thinking, historical literacy, and media literacy—teaching people how to question narratives, detect propaganda, and recognize manipulation even when it wears a smile.
Lastly, resistance must be joyful, creative, and inclusive. Dictators fear humor, music, protest art, and satire because these tools unite people across ideologies and break the illusion of invincibility. As history shows, democratic renewal doesn't always begin in the halls of power—it often starts in classrooms, coffee shops, memes, and community halls.
In short, democracy dies when people stop defending it. But it thrives when citizens dare to care out loud.
The antidote to populism isn’t one silver bullet—it’s a collective immune system built from informed citizens, resilient institutions, strong civil society, honest media; and leaders who govern with substance, not just slogans. The challenge is cultural as much as political. But with awareness, critical thinking, and a willingness to protect what matters most, democracies can push back against the populist wave.
We will discuss these in the next part. InshaAllah.
