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.
