Returning the 4 Aceh Islands: Not Theatrical

At long last, in a rare moment of political clarity amid the usual fog of bureaucracy, President Prabowo has done what many thought impossible: he returned the four disputed islands to Aceh. In doing so, he did not merely redraw lines on a map; he redrew the fragile trust between the central government and a region long accustomed to disappointment.

This gesture, whether borne out of strategic wisdom or a genuine sense of historical justice, carries with it the scent of reconciliation—a signal that perhaps Jakarta is learning that might does not always make right. By restoring these islands to Aceh, Prabowo has offered not just territory, but dignity; not just geography, but an acknowledgement that the soul of a nation lies in listening to its margins.

It may not undo decades of neglect or extinguish every ember of separatist sentiment, but for once, the central government has said more with a map correction than it ever could with a press release. And for that, Aceh and indeed Indonesia deserve to breathe a cautious sigh of relief.

The saga of Aceh’s four islands is far more than a bureaucratic footnote—it is a reminder that in matters of nationhood, maps may be printed in ink, but trust is drawn in blood, history, and the collective memory of a people. The back-and-forth over these islands reveals something deeper: that central governments must tread carefully when dealing with regions that have long felt marginalised or misunderstood.

The lesson here is not just about administrative error or political manoeuvring. It is about how power is perceived, how justice is communicated, and how even small territories can carry the weight of national dignity. The islands themselves may be mere specks on a satellite image, but for Aceh, they symbolise autonomy, identity, and the painful echoes of a past that has never truly been silenced.

President Prabowo’s decision to return the islands is commendable, but the true victory lies in what it teaches us: that governance without empathy breeds resistance, and that sometimes, restoring peace requires a cartographic correction—paired with a very human act of listening.

National unity is not merely a slogan plastered on government buildings or murmured during ceremonial speeches. It is the silent agreement shared by millions to look beyond differences of ethnicity, language, religion, or region, and to believe—perhaps stubbornly—that a common destiny is worth striving for. True unity is not forged in moments of comfort, but in the crucible of crisis, where a nation chooses cohesion over fragmentation, mutual respect over suspicion, and shared progress over selfish gain.

It is not the absence of conflict, but the presence of a shared will to resolve it. National unity does not mean uniformity. It means embracing diversity as strength, not weakness. It is when a Javanese farmer, a Papuan student, a Minangkabau entrepreneur, and an Acehnese fisherman all see themselves, somehow, as part of the same narrative. That they matter. That their voices count. That the republic, in all its imperfection, still belongs to them.

A truly united nation does not demand silence—it demands conversation. It does not erase identities—it celebrates them. And above all, national unity is sustained not by forced loyalty, but by trust: trust that the centre hears the margins, and that the whole country moves forward together, not just those near the palace.

One of the most enduring explorations of national unity can be found in Benedict Anderson’s Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (1983, Verso Books). Anderson suggests that nations are not merely geographic constructs, but socially imagined communities—held together not just by borders, but by shared stories, collective memories, and an agreement to believe in belonging. In a way, unity is a beautiful illusion we all agree to participate in.

In Imagined Communities, Anderson contends that the sense of national unity is not a natural or divine phenomenon, but rather a historical and cultural construction. He argues that nations are “imagined” because members of even the smallest nation will never know most of their fellow citizens, yet in the minds of each lives the image of their communion. This imagined unity serves a profound function—it binds people together emotionally and symbolically, fostering a sense of belonging that transcends tribal, linguistic, or regional loyalties.

The purpose of such unity, Anderson explains, is to create a framework within which modern states can generate legitimacy and coherence. Before the rise of nationalism, allegiance was often to monarchs or religious institutions. But with the decline of divine kingship and the rise of print capitalism (such as newspapers and novels), people began to see themselves as part of horizontal communities—equal citizens sharing a common narrative, rather than vertical subjects under divine rule.

National cohesion, therefore, is nurtured not by shared bloodlines or imposed borders, but by shared stories, languages, rituals, and historical myths. Print capitalism plays a crucial role here: it allows disparate individuals to consume the same information, in the same language, at roughly the same time. This simultaneity gives rise to the collective imagination of “us”—a national "we" that makes cohesion possible despite vast diversity.

Anderson’s insight is clear: unity is not a given, but a carefully crafted narrative. And once people believe in the nation, they are willing to sacrifice, defend, and celebrate it—because they are no longer fighting for a king, but for each other.

Another essential read is Ernest Gellner’s Nations and Nationalism (1983, Blackwell), which argues that nationalism arises from the needs of modern industrial societies to create standardised cultures that can function smoothly. Gellner reminds us that national cohesion often doesn’t emerge organically—it’s constructed, maintained, and sometimes forcefully curated.

Gellner dismantles the romantic notion that national cohesion is some ancient, organic phenomenon bubbling up from the soil of ancestral lands. For Gellner, this idea is not only mistaken—it is dangerously misleading. He asserts that nationalism is not the awakening of nations to self-consciousness, but rather the invention of nations where they did not previously exist. Cohesion, in his analysis, is less about shared bloodlines and more about shared schoolbooks.

Gellner argues that the rise of nationalism is inseparably tied to the needs of modern industrial societies. Unlike agrarian societies, where one could live a full life within the parochial boundaries of one’s village and never learn to read or leave the farm, industrial societies demand a mobile, literate, and standardised workforce. Factories, bureaucracies, and markets all require people who can communicate in the same language, interpret the same signs, and adhere to the same codes of conduct. In short, a functioning industrial state needs citizens who speak the same “cultural language.”

Hence, nationalism arises not from deep historical roots, but from the very practical necessity of creating standardised cultures that can fuel economic productivity and political efficiency. The school system becomes the factory of national identity—churning out interchangeable citizens who salute the same flag, absorb the same history, and follow the same calendar.

National cohesion, then, is not born—it is manufactured. And often, it is maintained through a mix of soft power (education, media, rituals) and hard power (laws, borders, even coercion). It’s not a gentle unfolding of national destiny, but a deliberate campaign to mould disparate groups into a singular “we.”

Gellner's insight is both sobering and profound: nationalism is the operating system of the modern world, and cohesion is its engineered software.

More recently, Why Nations Fail: The Origins of Power, Prosperity, and Poverty by Daron Acemoglu and James A. Robinson (2012, Crown Publishing) offers a powerful examination of how inclusive institutions are the real glue of national unity. They argue that when political and economic power is concentrated in the hands of a few, unity breaks down. Conversely, when institutions are inclusive, people feel represented—and therefore, united.

In Why Nations Fail,  Acemoglu and Robinson paint a crystal-clear picture of what happens when people are allowed to participate meaningfully in shaping the institutions that govern them—and what unfolds when they are reduced to mere spectators in a rigged political theatre.

When citizens are empowered, given a voice, and allowed to challenge, influence, or even replace corrupt elites through inclusive political and economic institutions, the entire society thrives. Innovation blossoms. Wealth circulates. Ambition becomes mobility, and the state becomes an engine of shared prosperity. In such systems, the rules aren’t written to protect the few at the top, but to create opportunities for the many. People work harder because they know they’ll reap the rewards. They invest in education because they believe in a future that isn't already stitched up by the oligarchs. In short, inclusion breeds progress.

But the moment the masses are sidelined—when they are pacified with slogans, distracted by spectacle, and stripped of real power—extractive institutions take root. These institutions concentrate wealth and decision-making in the hands of a few. The economy becomes a casino rigged by the house. The courts turn into theatres of farce. The ballot box becomes ceremonial, not consequential. And the people? They're told to clap, vote, smile—and leave the real decisions to the grown-ups behind the curtain.

Acemoglu and Robinson don’t mince words: nations fail not because they lack resources, but because they lack the will to share power. Inclusive systems are difficult to build, yes. But letting the people decide is not a romantic gesture—it’s the most practical strategy for long-term stability and prosperity.

Lastly, Martha Nussbaum’s The Cosmopolitan Tradition: A Noble but Flawed Ideal (2019, Harvard University Press) pushes the concept of unity further. She writes about how national loyalty must coexist with universal human dignity. Real unity, she argues, isn’t about turning away from difference—it’s about integrating it into the idea of belonging.

Lastly, Martha Nussbaum’s The Cosmopolitan Tradition: A Noble but Flawed Ideal (2019, Harvard University Press) pushes the concept of unity further. She writes about how national loyalty must coexist with universal human dignity. Real unity, she argues, isn’t about turning away from difference—it’s about integrating it into the idea of belonging.

In The Cosmopolitan Tradition: A Noble but Flawed Ideal (2019, Harvard University Press), Martha Nussbaum masterfully unpacks the fallacy that unity requires sameness. She argues, with philosophical precision and moral urgency, that genuine unity is not achieved by erasing differences, but by weaving them into the very fabric of a shared human dignity.

For Nussbaum, the cosmopolitan ideal isn’t about flattening the world into one monoculture, nor is it about forcing everyone into a singular national mould. Instead, it’s about recognising each person—regardless of background, culture, or creed—as a citizen of the world, with equal moral worth and a voice that deserves to be heard. Unity, in this tradition, is not a military parade of identical minds, but a symphony of plural voices playing in respectful harmony.

She warns that any unity based on conformity is brittle and authoritarian. It silences the marginalised, rewards uniformity, and breeds resentment. Real strength, she insists, comes when a nation dares to embrace complexity—when it sees its differences not as threats, but as sources of insight, resilience, and even joy.

Nussbaum draws from Stoic and Enlightenment traditions to revive a kind of patriotism that’s not blind or tribal, but critical, inclusive, and aspirational. In a truly just society, unity is achieved not by making people less themselves but by ensuring that no one is too small to matter.

If Martha Nussbaum were watching Indonesia today from her ivory tower at Harvard, she might gently—but firmly—raise an eyebrow at our feverish attempts to brand “unity” as a national costume parade in which everyone must dress, think, and speak alike. Her work reminds us that true unity is not a matter of cosmetic sameness but of moral recognition: to see every citizen, whether from Aceh, Papua, or Java, as equal in dignity and voice.

The current discourse around national cohesion in Indonesia too often confuses conformity with solidarity. When leaders insist that regional dissent—or even disappointment—is a threat to the nation, they forget that democracy is not about manufacturing obedience, but about orchestrating diverse opinions into a functioning republic. Unity, in Nussbaum’s view, flourishes not by silencing difference, but by giving it a seat at the table.

She would likely ask: is our version of "Bhinneka Tunggal Ika" a living principle or just a slogan we chant while quietly excluding those who don’t fit the central script? When Acehnese citizens protest the shifting of islands to North Sumatra, or when Papuans voice concern over extractive policies, we cannot brand these grievances as rebellion. Instead, we must see them as what they are: democratic cries for inclusion in a nation that has too often responded with paternalism and suspicion.

If we are to be united as Indonesians—not merely as administrative units under a flag—we must practise the kind of empathy and moral imagination that Nussbaum champions. National unity must be the outcome of listening, not lecturing. Of recognising, not reducing. Of embracing our rich mosaic, not repainting it in a single shade of beige.

The concept of unity, as embedded in the third principle of Pancasila—“The Unity of Indonesia”—is far more than a lofty ideal scribbled in a founding document. It is the glue that holds together a nation astonishingly vast in its diversity. With over 17,000 islands, hundreds of ethnic groups, and a cacophony of languages, Indonesia is not so much a country as it is a continent in disguise. And yet, Pancasila stands at the heart of this archipelagic miracle, whispering insistently that what binds us must be stronger than what divides us.

Unity in the Pancasila sense does not demand uniformity. It does not ask the Batak to become like the Bugis, or the Javanese to think like the Dayak. Instead, it urges Indonesians to find common purpose amidst difference, to see the nation as a shared home built on mutual respect rather than assimilation. It is unity in harmony, not unity in erasure.

This principle also serves as a quiet but powerful safeguard against the spectres of division—be it sectarianism, separatism, or political tribalism. When truly internalised, the third principle becomes a compass, steering national discourse away from the cliffs of polarisation and towards the middle path of shared dignity.

In short, the unity enshrined in Pancasila is not about silencing diversity, but about orchestrating it—like a national symphony where each instrument plays a different note, but all are tuned to the same melody of belonging.

But, is it accurate to call President Prabowo's decision populist? President Prabowo’s reversal of the decision to transfer the four Acehnese islands certainly aligns with the playbook of populist leadership—swift, public-facing, and unafraid to buck the bureaucratic tide. The move positions him as the champion of Aceh’s dignity, standing up not only to the technocratic decree but also, implicitly, to the old guard symbolised by the “Mulyono” faction and their dynastic agenda.

In doing so, President Prabowo taps into a deep vein of regional sentiment, employing rhetoric that says less about laws and maps and more about honour, belonging, and political theatre. He effectively outmaneuvers those seen as the establishment—Mulyono included—by listening directly to Aceh’s grievances and issuing a presidential decision that puts people before procedure. That is textbook populism: the leader bypassing intermediate layers of control to deliver directly to the people, each action framed as a moral imperative.

So yes, his plunge into this dispute smacks of popular politics. But it is not mere theatrics. It also represents a calculated assertion of presidential power: an unmistakable signal that Jakarta will not tolerate machinations driven by dynastic patronage or hidden agendas. In that sense, it may be populist—but it also reaffirms that under Prabowo, leadership means action, not appeasement.

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Let's Talk About Poverty (2)

One chilly morning in a crowded European city, a young boy no older than ten stood by a bakery window. His clothes were tattered, his hands trembling from the cold, and his eyes fixed on a loaf of bread that had just come out of the oven. Inside, people laughed over warm pastries and coffee, unaware of the child’s silent desperation.

After a few moments, the baker noticed him. Instead of chasing him away, he stepped outside and asked gently, “Are you hungry, son?” The boy nodded, too proud to beg but too hungry to pretend otherwise.

The baker handed him a small loaf, still warm. The boy took it with both hands, eyes wide, and whispered, “Thank you, sir.”

Later that day, someone asked the baker why he gave bread to someone who couldn’t pay. He simply replied, “Because hunger should never be punished.”

That simple gesture—barely noticed by others—was more than charity. It was a quiet rebellion against a world where poverty is often treated as a crime.

There were no claps, no thunderous cheers. No headlines carved his name in gold. No digital tide carried it to the world’s feed. Mulyono—hailed like a messiah just for donning thrifted shoes and a budget blazer—basked in hollow praise from his faithful herd. Until, like an illness that knows no disguise, the truth emerged: unfiltered, unkind, undeniable.

And yet, the baker? With nothing but warm bread and a gentler heart, he mounted a quiet rebellion—against a world far too fond of punishing the poor for the crime of being poor.

In System of Economic Contradictions: Or, the Philosophy of Poverty (1846), Pierre-Joseph Proudhon embarks on a bold and intricate journey through the contradictions of capitalist political economy. He argues that the economic system, as it stands, is inherently self-defeating and riddled with internal conflicts. Each concept that appears to be a solution—such as the division of labour, competition, property, or credit—inevitably gives rise to its own problems, creating a vicious cycle of poverty and inequality.

Rather than calling for immediate revolution or centralised socialism, Proudhon proposes a form of mutualism—a society based on reciprocal relationships and voluntary associations among free individuals. He critiques both laissez-faire capitalism and authoritarian communism, believing neither can resolve the contradictions embedded in the system. For Proudhon, progress lies not in destroying the system entirely, but in transforming it through justice and balance.

Importantly, he also critiques the way economists glorify poverty as a necessary part of economic development. He labels this attitude as "the philosophy of poverty"—a cynical justification of suffering. In contrast, Proudhon believes true social science should aim to eliminate poverty altogether.

Proudhon does not offer a single, rigid definition of poverty in purely philosophical terms. Instead, he unpacks the concept through its socio-economic implications and moral contradictions. For Proudhon, poverty is not merely the absence of wealth or material comfort—it is a structural condition, deeply rooted in the very mechanisms of capitalist production and exchange.

He sees poverty as an outcome of systemic contradictions: each economic advance simultaneously generates a new form of deprivation. For instance, technological progress increases productivity, but it also displaces workers and creates instability. Property enables individual security, yet it breeds inequality. In this sense, poverty becomes the inevitable shadow of wealth—a necessary by-product of an unjust system.

Proudhon calls this the "philosophy of poverty" not because he believes in it, but precisely to criticise the way bourgeois economists romanticise, justify, or even rationalise poverty as an essential feature of economic development. He mocks their detached intellectualism that turns human suffering into an abstract variable. His own “philosophy” is actually a counter-philosophy: a passionate argument that poverty should not exist, and that justice and reciprocity must replace exploitation.

As a foundational figure in both anarchism and early socialism, Proudhon interrogates the very foundations of property and labour in The Philosophy of Poverty as central to understanding the persistence of poverty. He challenges the traditional liberal notion that private property is a natural right and the cornerstone of freedom. Instead, he famously declares, “Property is theft,” arguing that when one person owns the means of production—land, tools, or capital—they are able to extract profit from the labour of others without contributing equivalent labour themselves.

Proudhon sees this unequal relationship as fundamentally exploitative. The worker, who possesses only his labour, is compelled to sell it to survive, often under conditions where the value he creates far exceeds the wage he receives. Thus, labour, under capitalism, becomes a source of alienation and servitude rather than empowerment or dignity.

He also critiques how the property system consolidates power in the hands of the few, allowing capital to dominate labour and perpetuate systemic poverty. In his view, it is not enough to reform wages or redistribute income superficially. The entire structure of ownership and labour relations must be rethought around mutualism—where each person retains the full fruits of their labour and economic exchange is based on reciprocity, not exploitation.

In Poor Economics (2011), two Nobel Laureates, Abhijit V. Banerjee and Esther Duflo challenge many of the traditional assumptions held by economists and policymakers about poverty. Rather than viewing the poor as passive victims or irrational decision-makers, they present detailed empirical evidence—drawn from years of field experiments and Randomised Controlled Trials (RCTs)—to show that the poor often make decisions that are entirely rational within the complex constraints they face.

For instance, the authors highlight that the poor often do not invest in health or education not because they undervalue them, but because of uncertainty, poor infrastructure, and the absence of reliable services. Similarly, when the poor spend money on festivals, TVs, or sugary food rather than nutrition or savings, it is not necessarily out of ignorance or irresponsibility, but because small pleasures provide psychological relief in lives filled with stress and insecurity.

Banerjee and Duflo argue that the poor do not lack intelligence or ambition; they lack access to stable institutions, consistent incentives, and the safety nets that the middle and upper classes take for granted. Their core message is that combating poverty requires a bottom-up approach, grounded in understanding real behaviour, not just economic theory. In this way, they replace sweeping generalisations with careful, localised interventions.

Ruby K. Payne's A Framework for Understanding Poverty (1996, aha! Process Inc.), presents a compelling argument that poverty is not merely a financial condition, but a cultural reality governed by a distinct set of unspoken social rules. Payne contends that people living in generational poverty operate with a different worldview from those in the middle or upper classes—differences that often cause misunderstandings, especially in educational settings where middle-class norms prevail.

One of the book’s central contributions lies in its identification of what Payne calls “hidden rules”—the unwritten expectations and behavioural norms that shape how people navigate the world, whether in conversation, conflict, time management, or family roles. For example, in middle-class culture, future planning is prioritised, whereas in poverty, the focus may be on survival and the immediate present. These cultural codes, Payne argues, are rarely taught explicitly, yet they profoundly affect success in institutions like schools and workplaces.

Payne proposes that to genuinely understand and address poverty, one must look beyond material lack and instead consider poverty as a complex system of lived experiences shaped by hidden rules, values, and resources. Her framework is built around the idea that different economic classes—poverty, middle class, and wealth—function with their own unwritten codes of behaviour, which influence everything from language and relationships to discipline, decision-making, and aspirations.

Payne introduces eight categories of resources that go far beyond money: emotional, mental, spiritual, physical, support systems, relationships/role models, knowledge of hidden rules, and financial resources. She argues that sustainable change for those in poverty requires access to these resources, not just financial aid. For instance, emotional strength—the ability to withstand difficult circumstances without falling apart—is just as critical as having money in the bank.

Furthermore, she distinguishes between generational poverty, which is ingrained through at least two generations of experience, and situational poverty, which results from a specific crisis such as illness, job loss, or divorce. Generational poverty, she claims, forms its own culture, complete with unique norms, values, and survival strategies.

At the heart of her framework lies the concept of "hidden rules"—the tacit understandings that guide behaviour within each class. While the middle class may value achievement and long-term planning, people in poverty may prioritise relationships and survival in the present moment. Payne insists that these hidden rules must be taught explicitly to help individuals successfully navigate institutions designed around middle-class norms—particularly schools and workplaces.

Payne’s framework is especially focused on education. She argues that schools operate under middle-class values, and students from poverty are often unfairly penalised simply for not knowing the rules. By understanding the hidden rules of poverty and building bridges between cultural expectations, teachers can better support student learning and engagement.

Ultimately, her framework invites professionals—especially educators and social workers—to shift from blaming individuals for their poverty to recognising the systemic barriers and cultural differences at play. It’s not just about teaching people how to "act middle class"; it’s about equipping them with the tools to succeed without erasing their identities.

Andrew Shepherd and Julia Brunt’s framework, as articulated in Chronic Poverty: Concepts, Causes and Policy (2013, Palgrave Macmillan), offers a comprehensive lens for understanding poverty that persists not just for years, but for generations. Unlike transient poverty, which may result from temporary setbacks, chronic poverty is characterised by its durability, its deep entanglement with social exclusion, and its resistance to economic growth alone. Shepherd argues that chronic poverty is not simply about low income, but about powerlessness, voicelessness, and the structural conditions that trap people at the margins of society.

At the heart of Shepherd and Brunt’s framework is the notion of poverty dynamics—a focus on how people move in and out of poverty over time, and why some never escape. This dynamic understanding breaks away from static measures of income or consumption, and instead asks: What causes people to fall into poverty? What keeps them there? And crucially, what helps them escape?

The framework identifies three broad processes that drive chronic poverty: assetlessness, adverse incorporation, and capability deprivation. Those in chronic poverty typically lack tangible assets—land, education, secure jobs—and are often trapped in exploitative or marginal economic relationships (adverse incorporation), such as insecure wage labour or caste-based exclusion. Moreover, they experience capability deprivation: a lack of access to education, healthcare, political participation, and social recognition.

On the policy front, Shepherd and Brunt advocate for a multi-layered response. First, they argue for long-term social protection systems, not just emergency relief. These should include predictable cash transfers, pensions, and child support grants to help families stabilise their lives and make long-term decisions. Secondly, they stress the need to build assets among the poor—access to land, livestock, education, and credit—as a foundation for escaping poverty.

They also emphasise the importance of inclusive growth strategies, which ensure that economic expansion translates into real opportunities for the poorest. This means not only job creation but ensuring the poorest can access those jobs. Finally, they highlight the need to tackle structural inequalities—such as gender discrimination, ethnic exclusion, and violent conflict—that reproduce poverty across generations.

In sum, Shepherd’s framework is not just a diagnosis of poverty; it is a call for transformational change—for policy-makers to confront the deep social and political structures that allow chronic poverty to persist, and to empower the poor not only economically, but as citizens with agency and dignity.

David Pilling’s The Growth Delusion: Wealth, Poverty and the Well-Being of Nations" (2018, Tim Duggan Books) is a sharp, engaging, and at times amusing critique of one of modern economics’ most sacred cows: Gross Domestic Product (GDP). With a journalist’s flair and a sceptic’s eye, Pilling questions why GDP—a measure invented during wartime to account for national production—has come to dominate our understanding of success, progress, and even happiness.

Throughout the book, Pilling argues that our obsession with economic growth has led us to ignore the very things that make life meaningful. GDP, he notes, does not distinguish between good and bad growth. A flood that destroys homes but spurs construction boosts GDP. A rise in cancer rates increases medical spending, and thus GDP rises—yet no one would call that progress.

Moreover, GDP overlooks unpaid work, like caregiving or volunteering, which forms the social glue of communities. It doesn’t capture inequality, mental health, or environmental degradation. In short, GDP measures activity, not well-being. And what it doesn’t measure, governments tend to neglect.

Through a mix of storytelling, interviews, and data, Pilling travels across the world—from the informal economies of sub-Saharan Africa to the booming but toxic metropolises of China—showing how blind allegiance to growth can lead to policies that hurt rather than help.

Rather than merely criticising, he explores alternative approaches. He looks at efforts by countries like Bhutan with its Gross National Happiness index, New Zealand’s well-being budget, and indicators like the Human Development Index or the Genuine Progress Indicator. These, he believes, provide a richer, more humane picture of how nations are faring.

Gross Domestic Product (GDP) was never meant to be the ultimate measure of a nation's well-being; instead, its origins lie in a time of urgent national crisis. As a response to the Great Depression in the 1930s, Simon Kuznets developed national income accounting to help governments monitor economic health. By the Second World War, policy-makers needed reliable data to direct resources toward the war effort—specifically, GDP—to know how much of the economic “pie” could be allocated to weapons, troops, and national defence.

In the early Cold War, GDP became a badge of ideological strength. Leaders such as JFK and Khrushchev publicly asserted that economic growth would demonstrate the superiority of their respective systems—capitalism versus communism. Thus, GDP shifted from being a pragmatic wartime tool to a symbol of national success.

David Pilling explores this transformation in The Growth Delusion, showing how GDP’s expansion into peacetime policymaking entrenched it as the dominant indicator of progress. He recounts how its narrow focus on measurable output meant that much of what truly matters to quality of life—like leisure, environmental health, or unpaid work—fell outside its scope. While Pilling acknowledges GDP’s historical usefulness in lifting nations out of poverty, he warns against its elevation to an unquestioned measure of success. As a result, he argues that we should complement GDP with a broader dashboard of metrics that capture well-being, sustainability, and justice.  

The National Happiness Index—often referenced in the context of Bhutan’s pioneering Gross National Happiness (GNH) model—represents far more than mere material wealth or economic growth. Unlike traditional measures like GDP, the GNH framework captures a holistic picture of well-being, aiming to reflect how people truly experience their lives.

This index is composed of several key dimensions: psychological well-being, health, education, time use, cultural diversity and resilience, good governance, community vitality, ecological diversity, and living standards. Each of these components is carefully measured through surveys and indicators that assess both subjective happiness and objective conditions.

Psychological well-being includes metrics such as life satisfaction, positive emotions, and spiritual practices. Health is not just the absence of illness, but also access to healthcare and mental well-being. Education considers not only years of schooling but also lifelong learning and cultural knowledge. Time use measures how much time people have for leisure or family life, while cultural resilience values the preservation of heritage and identity.

Importantly, the GNH model acknowledges that economic prosperity is just one part of a fulfilled life. A truly happy society is one where people feel connected, respected, and empowered—not just productive. As such, this index represents a quiet but radical challenge to the global economic system that prioritises profit over people.

Finland currently holds the title of the happiest country in the world, according to the latest World Happiness Report, which compiles data from 2022 to 2024. For the eighth consecutive year, Finland has secured the top position, thanks to consistently high scores across factors such as trust in others, optimism about the future, strong social support, freedom and minimal well‑being inequality. These Nordic values are reflected in the self‑reported life evaluations of Finnish citizens. Following closely behind are its Nordic neighbours Denmark, Iceland and Sweden, while other top‑ten spots are taken by the Netherlands, Costa Rica, Norway, Luxembourg and Mexico

Ultimately, The Growth Delusion is a call to rethink what we value and how we measure it. If growth becomes the only goal, we risk building societies that are economically bloated but spiritually bankrupt.

[Part 3]
[Part 2]

Bahasa

Let's Talk About Poverty (1)

The concept of poverty has deep roots across human history and reflects more than just the absence of money—it is a multidimensional condition shaped by economic, political, social, cultural, and philosophical forces. At its core, poverty refers to a state in which individuals or communities lack the material resources necessary to maintain a minimum standard of living. However, this definition evolves depending on who defines it and in what context.

From a general theoretical standpoint, poverty has often been seen as either absolute—lacking the basic necessities of life such as food, shelter, and healthcare—or relative, meaning people are poor when they are significantly worse off than the average standard in their society.

Philosophically, poverty has been explored through questions of justice, morality, and human dignity. Thinkers from Plato to Marx have grappled with why poverty exists and whether it is a product of natural inequalities, personal failure, or systemic injustice. Some argue that poverty challenges the ethical structure of societies, as it reveals imbalances in how resources and opportunities are distributed.

Politically, poverty is often both a cause and consequence of power dynamics. Governments and elites may shape policies in ways that benefit the few while marginalising the many. Poverty becomes a political issue when it is tied to rights, representation, and the responsibility of the state to provide social welfare.

Economically, poverty is the product of unequal distribution of wealth, unemployment, inflation, and lack of access to markets or credit. Economists debate whether poverty results from structural problems within capitalism, or whether it can be solved through better fiscal policy, foreign aid, or economic reforms.

Socially and culturally, poverty is not only a matter of income but also of exclusion, stigma, and identity. In many societies, being poor carries a social shame that can affect how people see themselves and how they are treated by others. Culture can both alleviate and perpetuate poverty, depending on values such as mutual aid, individualism, or community solidarity.

Ultimately, poverty is a mirror. It reflects how a society is structured, what it values, and what it chooses to ignore. It is not just about lacking things—but about lacking access, voice, and dignity.

The concept of poverty has existed for as long as human societies have been stratified. Although hunger and hardship are as old as civilisation itself, the recognition of "poverty" as a distinct social problem emerged gradually as societies developed more complex structures.

Philosophically, reflections on poverty can be traced back to ancient times. In Classical Greece, thinkers like Plato and Aristotle acknowledged the existence of inequality and questioned the moral foundations of wealth and deprivation. However, poverty was often regarded as a natural or even necessary feature of society—something that allowed others to be rich. It wasn’t until later religious and ethical traditions, such as Christianity and Islam, that poverty was reframed not just as a fact of life, but as a moral issue demanding justice and compassion.

Politically, the concept of poverty gained sharper definition with the rise of state systems and laws. In medieval Europe, for instance, poor laws were enacted not necessarily out of empathy, but to control vagrancy and protect social order. It was during the Enlightenment and post-industrial revolutions that poverty began to be seen as something the state had a duty to alleviate—leading to early welfare systems and public debates about the rights of the poor.

Economically, the concept of poverty only became measurable in the modern sense during the rise of capitalism in the 18th and 19th centuries. When wealth began to be quantified in wages, property, and productivity, poverty could now be calculated—often as the opposite of economic success. Thinkers like Adam Smith and later Karl Marx identified poverty as either a failure of individual productivity or a by-product of systemic exploitation.

Culturally, poverty evolved from being a condition to a label. In tribal or agrarian societies, being poor may have been a temporary or cyclical experience. But as urbanisation and industrialisation advanced, poverty became stigmatised. Literature and popular media began to portray the poor not only as suffering, but as dangerous or shameful—especially in Victorian England. This cultural framing has lingered to this day.

In sum, while the experience of poverty is ancient, the concept of poverty—as something to be defined, measured, addressed, and even politicised—arose alongside civilisation itself, intensifying during religious reformations, economic revolutions, and the modern nation-state.

Where and who first articulated the concept of Poverty? The concept of poverty was not born in a single place or from a single thinker. Rather, it emerged gradually across civilisations, as humanity began to question inequality, justice, and survival. Each tradition—philosophical, political, economic, social, and cultural—gave rise to its own understanding of what it means to be poor.

Philosophically, some of the earliest recorded reflections on poverty come from Ancient Greece. Plato, in works like The Republic, alluded to the dangers of both excessive wealth and extreme poverty in undermining harmony in the state. Aristotle took it further in Politics, arguing that a healthy society should avoid large gaps between rich and poor, for imbalance breeds resentment and instability. Yet even earlier, in ancient Eastern thought, Confucius in China and the sages of the Indian Vedic tradition discussed poverty in moral and social terms, often linking it to virtue, duty, and cosmic order.

Politically, the concept of poverty as a state concern emerged most clearly during the late medieval period in Europe. The English Poor Laws, especially those under Queen Elizabeth I in the late 16th century, institutionalised poverty as something to be managed by the state. But even before that, Islamic governance during the Abbasid Caliphate in Baghdad had developed sophisticated systems of zakat (almsgiving) and bayt al-mal (public treasury) aimed at redistributing wealth and addressing the needs of the poor—arguably one of the first welfare models in the world.

The Abbasid Caliphate in Baghdad established one of the most sophisticated and morally driven financial systems in medieval history. At its heart was the institution of Baitul Mal, the public treasury, which was not merely a vault for collecting taxes, but a dynamic, ethically-rooted mechanism for wealth redistribution. Combined with the compulsory charity system of zakat, it created a welfare structure far ahead of its time.

What made it remarkable was the intention and scale. Zakat was treated not as a random act of kindness, but as a legal and spiritual obligation enforced by the state. Wealth was not seen as a private luxury, but as a social responsibility. The Baitul Mal carefully managed funds from zakat, kharaj (land tax), jizyah (non-Muslim tax), and spoils of war, and channelled them towards public infrastructure, hospitals, schools, roads, orphanages, and direct aid for the poor and needy.

Unlike many modern systems, the Abbasids had a real-time, decentralized record of who was poor and what they needed. There are historical accounts of zero poverty zones, where zakat officers couldn't find anyone eligible to receive funds. This speaks to a level of social equity rarely seen even in today's most developed welfare states.

Moreover, the system was backed by religious ethics, legal scholarship, and administrative innovation. Islamic jurists and economists debated how to improve it. Caliphs appointed ministers specifically tasked with ensuring that no one fell through the cracks. The aim wasn’t just to relieve poverty temporarily—but to eradicate it structurally.

This holistic blend of faith, governance, and public service made the Abbasid system of zakat and Baitul Mal a blueprint of social justice. It wasn't perfect, but it was centuries ahead of many later models.

Economically, Adam Smith in 18th-century Scotland helped frame poverty in measurable terms. In The Wealth of Nations, he argued that poverty was not merely a lack of money but the inability to participate fully in society. Later, Karl Marx in Germany reframed poverty as a direct outcome of capitalist exploitation. According to him, poverty wasn’t accidental; it was engineered by a system that enriched the few while extracting labour from the many.

Socially and culturally, the concept of poverty became more pronounced with urbanisation and industrialisation. Writers such as Charles Dickens in Victorian London gave poverty a human face, portraying the struggles of the working class with empathy and moral outrage.

Charles Dickens was a master at portraying the harrowing nature of poverty in 19th-century London. The following is a brief story drawn from one of his most heart-wrenching works, Oliver Twist: "In the grey, soot-stained corners of industrial London, a little boy named Oliver Twist was born into nothingness—no family, no warmth, no future. His first cry echoed not in a home, but in a cold, heartless workhouse, where the poor were treated more like burdens than human beings.

One of the most haunting scenes comes when Oliver, gaunt and trembling from hunger, approaches the workhouse master with a tin bowl in his tiny hands. His voice, barely above a whisper, delivers the line that made literary history:

“Please, sir, I want some more.”

The room falls silent. The masters are scandalised. How dare a poor orphan ask for more food?

This single moment captures the cruelty of a system where asking for basic sustenance was seen as rebellion. Dickens forces readers to feel the desperation—not just of Oliver, but of thousands like him, who lived under the heel of Victorian poverty, where charity was cold, institutions were soulless, and a child’s hunger was considered an inconvenience.

Through Oliver's eyes, Dickens showed a society that punished the poor for being poor. But he also showed the resilience of the human spirit, and the possibility of kindness in the darkest corners."

In France, thinkers like Émile Durkheim analysed poverty not just as deprivation, but as social isolation and the breakdown of collective support systems. Émile Durkheim, one of the founding figures of modern sociology, is best known for his work Suicide: A Study in Sociology (Le Suicide: Étude de sociologie, first published 1897, English edition first published 1952 by Routledge & Kegan Paul Ltd.), which explores themes of poverty, alienation, and society.

In the quiet corners of late 19th-century France, Émile Durkheim wasn’t telling bedtime stories—he was telling society about itself. He wasn’t interested in individual gossip or politics of the day. He wanted to know why, in a world that seemed increasingly modern and connected, so many people still felt utterly alone.

Durkheim told a different kind of story—one written in numbers, in patterns, in lives lost silently. His work Suicide shocked the world, not because it spoke of death, but because it showed that something deeply social was at play. He uncovered that even something as private and tragic as suicide was influenced not just by mental health or poverty alone, but by the invisible threads of how society holds—or fails to hold—its members.

He found that people living in poverty were not always the ones most likely to take their lives. Strangely, it was often the wealthy, the educated, or the urban individual, cut off from family or tradition, who were at risk. This wasn’t a story of money—it was a story of disconnection.

Durkheim introduced us to terms like anomie, a state of normlessness where the social glue breaks apart. In such a society, people float untethered—without purpose, without belonging. He showed that modernity’s speed and progress could leave behind a deeper loneliness.

In the end, Durkheim gave us a message: that to solve personal despair, we must heal social fractures. That poverty is not just economic—it is moral, relational, and institutional. His stories didn’t have villains or heroes, but they made us ask the right questions about how we live together.

While no single person or place can be credited with "inventing" the concept of poverty, key figures and civilisations across history have helped define it—each adding a layer of depth to how we understand human deprivation and inequality.

In Indonesian history, the issue of poverty has been at the heart of the national struggle—long before the country even achieved independence. It was never merely seen as an economic problem, but as a symptom of colonialism, injustice, and systemic exclusion. Various Indonesian intellectuals, activists, and political leaders have tackled poverty not only as a condition to be alleviated, but as a manifestation of oppression to be resisted.

Sukarno, Indonesia’s founding president, was among the earliest and most passionate voices to define poverty in political and ideological terms. He argued that colonialism was the root cause of mass poverty in the archipelago. In his speeches—especially in Indonesia Menggugat—he framed poverty not as a failure of the people, but as the deliberate result of a system designed to exploit them. For Sukarno, national independence was not meaningful unless it came with social justice, economic equality, and the eradication of poverty.

Mohammad Hatta, the nation’s first vice president and a staunch cooperative economist, had a slightly different but complementary approach. He saw poverty as something that could be tackled through cooperative enterprise and economic democracy. For Hatta, the spirit of gotong royong (mutual cooperation) and economic self-reliance were vital in building a society free from poverty and dependency. His writings envisioned a just economy that empowers the poor rather than marginalises them.

Tan Malaka, often remembered as a revolutionary and Marxist thinker, took a radical view of poverty. In his seminal work Madilog, he linked poverty in Indonesia to imperialism and capitalist structures. He believed true liberation required not just political independence but also economic transformation. For him, the peasants and labourers—the poorest of society—were the real engines of revolution.

Later, figures like Abdurrahman Wahid (Gus Dur) highlighted poverty through a more humanistic and cultural lens. As both a scholar and a president, he often reminded Indonesians that poverty could not be solved merely through numbers and policies—it required empathy, inclusivity, and the dismantling of discrimination, especially toward minorities and the disabled.

To this day, the discourse on poverty in Indonesia continues to evolve, shaped by a mix of political will, cultural wisdom, and grassroots activism. Yet the legacy of these national figures reminds us that poverty in Indonesia has never been a purely economic issue—it is deeply entwined with the nation's history of struggle, identity, and hope.

Sukarno once poignantly remarked, "I was born amidst poverty and grew up in poverty. I did not own shoes. I did not bathe in water from a tap. I did not know about forks and spoons," reflecting on his early hardships and highlighting that personal suffering fuels his empathy for the poor. Moreover, he declared, “The primary reason for colonisation is shortage of sustenance,” emphasising that colonial exploitation was driven by resource deprivation rather than lofty ideals .

Mohammad Hatta encapsulated his vision for economic justice with the phrase, “Kurang cerdas dapat diperbaiki dengan belajar. Kurang cakap dapat dihilangkan dengan pengalaman. Namun tidak jujur itu sulit diperbaiki,” which, while not directly about poverty, underscores the moral foundation needed to uplift the poor.

Tan Malaka, in his book Madilog, offered a searing insight into deprivation: “Lapar tak berarti kenyang buat si miskin. Si lapar yang kurus kering tak akan bisa kita kenyangkan dengan kata ‘kenyang’ saja, walaupun kita ulangi seribu kali,” emphasising that merely offering platitudes cannot fill the empty stomachs of the impoverished .

Abdurrahman “Gus Dur” Wahid didn’t leave a single iconic sentence specifically about poverty, but his life and actions spoke volumes: as a leader, he championed the destitute, the marginalised and the voiceless.

The concept of poverty is crucial not simply because it reflects a lack of material wealth, but because it is a mirror to the moral, social, and political structure of a society. To understand poverty is to understand how a community treats its most vulnerable. It forces us to confront uncomfortable truths about inequality, injustice, and exclusion.

Poverty is not just about empty stomachs or the absence of shelter. It speaks of restricted opportunities, voicelessness, and systemic neglect. When a society fails to acknowledge and address poverty, it risks stagnation, unrest, and ultimately, moral bankruptcy. Recognising poverty as a concept allows policymakers, thinkers, and citizens to name the problem, study its roots, and work toward solutions that go beyond charity—toward dignity, rights, and inclusion.

Furthermore, poverty affects everything. It determines access to education, health care, decent work, and even the ability to dream. The concept gives shape to suffering that is otherwise invisible. It is a tool for justice—because if we can name it, we can fight it.

[Part 2]

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When Aceh is Disappointed (Again): Separatism Forever? Quid Pro Quo

Ah yes, the Prophet Mulyono. It’s truly heartwarming to witness modern political fan fiction in action. Next thing we know, someone will claim he split the MRT line with his bare hands or fed an entire village with two boxes of nasi padang and a bottle of Teh Botol, and it turned out that it was just a hoax, in reality, they were pork barrels.

This PSI cadre, Dedy Nur, has clearly confused a statesman with a saint, or perhaps Google Translate rendered ‘popular president’ as ‘divinely appointed messenger.’ No worries — soon we’ll have hadiths about Jokowi's jacket collection and the miracle of riding a folding bike through traffic.

And for the grand finale: a new surah, revealed at a groundbreaking ceremony, titled Surat Beton: Verses of Infrastructure. Maybe we should rename the Cabinet as The Twelve Sahabat, and call Bappenas the “House of Divine Planning.”

Let’s all take a deep breath and remember — the last Prophet is Muhammad ﷺ. The rest? Just campaign season hallucinations dressed in messianic flair. But, hmmm, is Mulyono worthy of being called a statesman? According to my neighbours, he is just a con artist. The swindler shall in time be swindled. A con artist will inevitably end up being conned.

However, there is news that is no less exciting.

In the grand theatre of Indonesian nation-building, Aceh has often played the part of the dutiful but ever-disappointed understudy — forever promised leading roles, yet repeatedly left waiting in the wings. Cast your mind back: once, Indonesia’s founding fathers wooed Aceh with sweet-talking pledges of Islamic autonomy to secure its help in the fight against the Dutch—only to sweep it under North Sumatra’s carpet before the ink was dry on the independence documents .

Later, during the early years of the republic, the Old Order Government’s much-vaunted “special status” for Aceh proved to be as fleeting as a summer breeze, evaporating while Aceh’s plea for Sharia implementation was dismissed with cries that this was a “Pancasila nation” — not a theocracy . And when the gas fields at Arun beckoned, Jakarta siphoned off Aceh’s treasure trove of resources — let us call it “Javanese neocolonial generosity” — whilst trundling in troops to suppress any dissent, leaving locals impoverished and angry.

The New Order period then raised the stakes: Aceh was declared a military operation zone and became the theatre for a brutal counterinsurgency campaign. Villages burned, civilians executed or disappeared — all in the name of national unity — and Aceh became, if you will, the state’s test kitchen for repression.

Of course, the 2004 tsunami delivered an apology in the form of global attention and a peace deal, yet the triumphant reconstruction was undercut by unfulfilled promises: Aceh still cannot fly its own flag, control its own oil, and now finds itself chastised by Sharia police rather than sweet-talked by Jakarta bureaucrats. Even the newly empowered Sharia thugs, equipped with canes and zeal, remind locals that tradition is now enforced with whippings and moral panic .

Thus, the Acehnese have endured a lifetime of rhetorical flourishes, resource plunder, military repression, and moral policing — all while being told they’re part of one big happy family. And yet, the family gestures paused at every turn, delivering pain instead of promises.

And in a stroke of bureaucratic brilliance — or perhaps cartographic comedy — the Ministry of Home Affairs has managed to redraw provincial boundaries with all the finesse of a child doodling on a map with crayons. Kepmendagri No. 300.2.2‑2138/2025 has ignited not just raised eyebrows, but flaming protests from Aceh, whose government and citizens alike now wonder whether their autonomy is printed in disappearing ink.

Naturally, the local government of Aceh, along with its regional parliament and assorted political forces, were less than amused. They’ve accused Jakarta of engaging in that classic pastime: ignoring Aceh’s special autonomy, enshrined in Law No. 11/2006, as though it were merely a decorative trinket gifted post‑conflict but never meant to be taken seriously. The people of Aceh, it seems, were not expecting their islands to be treated like items on a clearance sale — "Four for the price of zero consultation!"

History and culture, too, make their entrance like ignored relatives at a wedding. Acehnese leaders claim the islands are more than just dots on a map — they are ancestral lands, cultural sanctuaries, and economic lifelines. But in Jakarta, such considerations are perhaps secondary to the logistical poetry of "administrative efficiency."

Then there’s the legal fog. Constitutional experts — those tragic romantics of rule-of-law — are whispering that one doesn’t simply shuffle provincial boundaries with a single ministerial decree. A Government Regulation (PP), perhaps? A Parliamentary debate? Public consultation? Alas, such formalities are apparently so last season.

Meanwhile, on the streets and coasts of Aceh, fishers and villagers are wondering if they need passports to access waters they've navigated for generations. Identity politics, always lurking in the wings, now steps forward under the spotlight — because nothing stirs a province with a history like Aceh’s quite like the scent of centralised overreach.

It appears that the true motive behind the sweeping transfer of those four Acehnese isles is not tourism nor administrative trivialities—but the tantalising gleam of hydrocarbons. The islands sit amidst offshore zones rich in oil and gas, embedded within the famed Andaman and Singkil-Meulaboh blocks that promise reservoirs of epic proportion.

The Ministry of Energy and Mineral Resources has described the Andaman I, II, and III blocks — extending off Aceh’s shores — as potential global game-changers, each possibly harbouring six trillion cubic feet of gas. In addition, the Meulaboh and Singkil offshore areas, directly linked to these islands, reveal estimated reserves of 800 million barrels of oil with 4.8 TCF gas, and 1.4 billion barrels with 8.6 TCF respectively. Moreover, historical data show that Pulau Panjang’s structure once yielded tens of thousands of cubic metres of oil and millions of cubic feet of gas during its heyday.

Which leads us to the comfortable smile on North Sumatra’s governor. By acquiring these islands, the provincial government gains not only territorial prestige but also a potential stake in lucrative upstream resource licensing and revenue streams. Offshore exploration contracts are often parceled out by provincial jurisdictions in collaboration with national regulators. The governor stands to oversee or influence bidding rounds, local allocations, and possibly signature bonuses and production-sharing agreements—a delicious entree for any ambitious regional leader.

In short, this transfer creates a geopolitical windfall: North Sumatra could sit at the front of the queue for oil and gas exploitation, while Aceh is left looking skyward and empty-handed. For the governor, it's not just about the maps—it’s about access, authority, and abundance. 

Sumatra Utara, of course, is all smiles. Tapanuli Tengah is rolling out the welcome mat for its newly gifted archipelago, while some local leaders have the decency to at least hope it doesn’t cause too much trouble. How thoughtful.

The Home Affairs Minister’s decree—Kepmendagri No. 300.2.2‑2138 of 25 April 2025—identifies and administerially transfers four small islands from Aceh to North Sumatra. Per official records, they are: Pulau Panjang, Pulau Lipan, Pulau Mangkir Besar (also known as Mangkir Gadang), and Pulau Mangkir Kecil (Mangkir Ketek).

But one wonders—does the Minister’s pen hold the legal might to redraw provincial boundaries so lightly? Politically and legally, such border shifts tend to demand far more than a single decree: a Presidential Regulation (Perpres) at the very least, or even a revision to the governing law (such as UU 11/2006 on Aceh’s special autonomy), and ideally consultation or approval from Parliament. Yet, we observe none of these. The decree ought to be buttressed by a Perpres and alignment with the MoU Helsinki (2005) and the 1956 reference map, which were agreed upon to uphold Aceh’s territorial integrity .

Politically, this raises serious questions. Aceh’s government insists it holds compelling evidence—dating back to 1965 documents, 1992 boundary agreements, plus visible infrastructure on the islands—that these territories belong to Aceh. Moreover, Acehnese leaders argue this decree conflicts with both the special autonomy law and the spirit of the Helsinki Accords.

Meanwhile, North Sumatra’s governor defends the decree as rooted in geospatial data, field surveys, and multilateral meetings—and signals openness to collaborative governance over the islands’ resources.

So, as it stands: the decree identifies and transfers the four islands, but legally and politically, the matter appears far from settled. Without higher‑level decrees, legislative backing, or judicial review, the action seems more administratively expedient than constitutionally robust. The matter may ultimately land in a State Administrative Court (PTUN) or require active Presidential and Parliamentary engagement—perhaps even a re‑negotiation under the autonomy laws Aceh holds dear.

Scholars and observers are calling for clarification — some even daring to suggest dialogue. Others speak of constitutional review, or perhaps even the need for, heaven forbid, mediation. But until then, the four islands float in limbo, somewhere between a bureaucrat’s folder and Aceh’s collective indignation.

Moreover, the Governor will be Mulyono's son-in-law. There is a scent of Dynasty Politic, Quid pro quo and collusion. Corruption? No need to ask!

[Bahasa]

Raja Ampat: Paradise Loved, Paradise Lost (3)

Why do environmental problems exist? At the heart of this question lies a tangled web of human behaviour, ideology, and power. One major reason is the dominance of economic systems that prioritise endless growth over ecological balance. Capitalism, especially in its late-stage, thrives on the exploitation of nature as a resource to be extracted, commodified, and consumed. This mindset sees forests as timber, rivers as waste channels, and the Earth itself as an infinite warehouse for human desires.

Another reason is disconnection—many people have grown distant from the natural world, living in urban environments where nature feels like something “out there” rather than something we’re part of. Cultural narratives have long promoted human supremacy over nature, reinforcing the belief that it’s ours to dominate. Political inaction, corporate greed, and weak environmental regulation further fuel this crisis.

But there’s also a deeper philosophical reason: the idea that humans stand above and apart from nature, rather than within it. This illusion of separation has led to choices that favour short-term gain over long-term survival. In truth, the “why” of environmental destruction reflects not only flawed systems, but also flawed worldviews. Healing the Earth will require us to question not just what we do, but how we think.

When we ask “Where do environmental issues occur?”, the truthful answer is: everywhere. Environmental degradation knows no borders. It happens in the Amazon rainforest when trees are felled for cattle grazing; it unfolds in the Arctic where melting ice signals climate collapse; it manifests in cities where polluted air chokes residents; and it thrives in the oceans where plastic and oil spills suffocate marine life. However, it is also essential to note that while environmental harm is global, it is not distributed equally. The Global South, home to some of the planet’s richest ecosystems, often suffers the worst consequences of pollution, extraction, and climate change—despite contributing the least to the problem. Meanwhile, industrialised nations have historically outsourced their environmental burdens to poorer countries through trade, waste dumping, and resource extraction. “Where” also includes our own homes, supermarkets, fashion choices, and mobile phones—all seemingly ordinary places and objects tied to complex environmental chains. In truth, the environment is not “out there”; it is all around us.

When we ask “Who is responsible for the environment?”, the answer is layered and complex. It is not just one group or profession, but a collective of actors, ranging from governments and multinational corporations to local communities, farmers, scientists, activists, and everyday individuals. Policymakers wield immense influence by shaping environmental laws and regulations, while corporations often hold the power to either degrade or protect ecosystems through their business practices. Yet, grassroots movements, indigenous peoples, and environmental defenders play a crucial role in resisting exploitation and preserving biodiversity. Scientists and educators contribute by raising awareness and offering sustainable solutions, whereas consumers, through their daily choices, reinforce either harmful or regenerative systems. Ultimately, responsibility is shared, though not equally. Those with the most power and resources bear the greatest burden, while those most affected—often the poor and marginalised—are frequently the least to blame.

How can we address environmental issues? The answers are as layered and complex as the problems themselves. It begins with recognising that environmental repair is not merely a scientific or technical challenge—it is a moral, cultural, and political undertaking. Practically, it requires a shift away from extractive economies towards regenerative ones: systems that replenish what they use, that value circularity over waste, and that centre ecological well-being rather than corporate profit.

This means investing in renewable energy, rethinking agriculture, rewilding landscapes, protecting biodiversity, and embracing sustainable living not as a trend, but as a norm. However, it also means dismantling the systems that cause harm: fossil fuel dependency, deforestation, exploitative mining, and the unchecked power of industries that pollute with impunity.

But deeper than policy, the “how” must also reach the heart. We need new stories—narratives that reimagine our relationship with the Earth not as masters, but as caretakers. Change happens when people care, and people care when they feel connected. Education, art, local activism, indigenous wisdom, and youth movements all have powerful roles to play in awakening this connection. In the end, “how” is not only about tools and technologies—it’s about values, vision, and courage.

What is happening in Raja Ampat is not simply a localised environmental mishap—it is a textbook example of how paradise can be compromised by short-sighted decisions. Once praised as one of the most biodiverse marine ecosystems on Earth, a true underwater Eden, Raja Ampat is now facing mounting ecological stress. This includes coral reef damage, illegal fishing, pollution from tourism, and most controversially, extractive mining operations that were greenlit under the pretext of “development.”

Who is responsible? It's a tangled web. Local communities have long lived in harmony with the environment, but decisions made by powerful state actors, corporate interests, and investors—often far removed from the islands themselves—have triggered many of the recent ecological disturbances. These decisions were often made without proper consultation or consent from indigenous Papuan communities, turning them into spectators in their own ancestral waters.

Where this is unfolding is a region so ecologically sacred that Jacques Cousteau once called it one of the last underwater Edens. Raja Ampat is situated off the coast of West Papua, Indonesia, and has long been a crown jewel in marine conservation circles. Yet, ironically, it's precisely this ecological richness that has made it a target for exploitation—from mass tourism to mining permits.

When did things start to turn? Although environmental concerns have existed for years, a turning point came in the late 2010s when mining concessions were granted by the government, notably in 2017. These licences opened the floodgates for land clearing, forest degradation, and subsequent threats to both terrestrial and marine life. The timeline coincides with increased tourism campaigns that, while economically beneficial, brought with them a wave of ecological strain.

Why is this happening? At its core, it reflects a systemic tension between economic growth and environmental preservation. Governments and corporations often chase GDP figures, job creation, or “development” narratives, ignoring the long-term cost to ecosystems and the people who depend on them. It is a clash of value systems: one that sees nature as capital to be mined, and another that sees it as sacred and interconnected.

How can we respond? By demanding transparency, empowering indigenous communities, and rejecting the false choice between prosperity and preservation. Sustainable tourism, stricter environmental regulations, and a return to indigenous ecological wisdom offer viable paths forward. But perhaps most importantly, it requires us to change the dominant narrative—from one of domination over nature to one of reverence and responsibility.

Environmental degradation is not merely an accidental by-product of modern progress—it is the result of a long-standing disconnection between humans and nature, fuelled by systems that prioritise profit over planetary health. Through our exploration of the “what”, “who”, “where”, “when”, “why”, and “how” of environmental issues, we’ve uncovered a complex web where science meets politics, economics clashes with ethics, and cultural narratives shape the way we see and treat the Earth.

Solving these problems requires more than eco-friendly apps or greenwashing campaigns. It calls for a profound cultural and systemic shift—a reimagining of humanity’s place in the web of life. Whether inspired by Fritjof Capra’s systems thinking, Rachel Carson’s ecological warnings, James Lovelock’s Gaia hypothesis, or Vandana Shiva’s fight for indigenous knowledge and justice, the message is clear: healing the Earth is not just a technical challenge; it is a cultural revolution. And that revolution begins in the stories we tell, the values we uphold, and the courage we muster to choose a different path.

[Part 1]

[Part 2]

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