Tom Lembong and the Politics of Lawfare

Recently, in Indonesia, there is a growing sense among political observers and members of civil society that the conviction of Tom Lembong carries with it more than just legal undertones—it reeks of political orchestration. From the very beginning, his close affiliation with Anies "Abah" Baswedan, especially as a key policy advisor during the presidential campaign, placed him in the crosshairs of those uncomfortable with reformist politics. The fact that the court acknowledged he gained no personal financial benefit from the sugar import policy, yet still sentenced him to 4.5 years in prison, has stirred considerable public unease.

Observers are pointing out inconsistencies in the court's reasoning. While the prosecution insisted there was "state loss," it was primarily based on speculative projections rather than clear-cut evidence of embezzlement or bribery. Even the judges admitted there was no self-enrichment on Tom’s part. This raises an uncomfortable question: how can a policy decision—one arguably made in good faith and through proper channels—be criminalised without proving personal corruption? Moreover, the judge’s remark that Tom was "more inclined to capitalism than the Pancasila economy" felt dangerously ideological rather than legal, as if harbouring neoliberal leanings is now grounds for imprisonment.

What adds to the peculiarity is the speed with which the case progressed, especially in contrast to other, far graver corruption cases that have dragged on for years or been quietly shelved. The sudden moral urgency to punish a technocrat who has served under multiple administrations and is internationally respected suggests a political performance more than a pursuit of justice. Many now view this as a message: anyone aligned with the opposition, particularly with Anies Baswedan, is fair game for selective prosecution.

Thus, the case against Tom Lembong may go down not just as a legal trial, but as a tragic episode in Indonesia’s democratic backsliding—where loyalty, not law, determines your fate in the courtroom.

The case against Tom Lembong did not begin under President Prabowo’s administration—it was already set in motion during the previous regime. The investigation, framing of the charges, and early legal manoeuvres all occurred while the previous government was still in power.

What makes this case particularly insidious is that it was engineered under a supposedly democratic government that often boasted about "NKRI harga mati". Instead, it laid the foundation for what appears to be a selective crackdown masked as legal procedure. By the time Prabowo officially stepped into office, the legal machinery was already grinding forward. Whether his administration chooses to continue this momentum or correct course remains to be seen—but the origin of the storm lies squarely with the preceding regime.

This is not merely a matter of legal inheritance—it’s a political legacy. The fact that such a targeted case was able to proceed under the old administration speaks volumes about the erosion of democratic norms long before Prabowo’s rise. It shows that what we’re witnessing now is not a sudden storm, but the climax of a process that had already been brewing beneath the surface for years.

The length of Tom Lembong’s sentence—precisely 4.5 years—raises further suspicions that this was more than a legal decision; it appears strategically calculated. If one traces the timeline, a prison term of four and a half years would effectively sideline Tom until the end of 2029, just in time to neutralise his potential role in Anies Baswedan’s next presidential campaign. It’s almost surgical. Tom, a respected technocrat with international credibility and a reformist economic vision, posed a serious threat to the entrenched interests that benefited from the status quo. Removing him from the public sphere now means silencing not only a voice of dissent but also a strategic mastermind behind a populist and progressive challenge.

This sentence does not merely punish a person—it disarms a movement. It keeps Anies politically orphaned from a trusted advisor and dilutes the intellectual force behind many of his policy proposals. The fact that Tom’s reputation remains untarnished in the eyes of civil society, business circles, and foreign diplomats only intensifies the irony: someone so evidently clean is being locked away, while so many infamous figures roam free. It’s the kind of twist you’d expect from a dystopian screenplay—except it’s real.

Thus, many now see this as a form of political pre-emption. Why wait for the campaign season to begin when you can quietly remove the pieces off the chessboard before the game starts? The sentence becomes not just a number, but a timeline: one that aligns perfectly with the desire to weaken any serious challenge in 2029.

There have been several high-profile cases around the world where technocrats, reformist officials, or political allies were prosecuted under dubious circumstances—raising alarms that the law was being weaponised for political ends rather than pursued for genuine justice. One striking parallel can be drawn to the case of Alexei Navalny in Russia. Though Navalny is more of a political activist than a technocrat, the core issue remains the same: an opponent or critic of the regime is subjected to legal persecution through orchestrated trials. The charges against Navalny—ranging from fraud to extremism—were widely criticised by international watchdogs as lacking credibility and being designed primarily to neutralise a potent political threat to Vladimir Putin.

Another example is Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva in Brazil, who was convicted in 2017 for corruption and money laundering. Though his conviction was initially hailed as a victory for anti-corruption efforts, it later emerged that the judicial process was severely compromised. Private chats between prosecutors and judges were leaked, revealing collusion that undermined Lula’s right to a fair trial. The Supreme Court later annulled the verdict, and Lula returned to politics, eventually becoming president again. Many now view that episode as a strategic takedown engineered to prevent him from contesting elections in 2018—an eerie echo of what’s suspected in Tom Lembong’s case.

Even in Turkey, countless academics, judges, and bureaucrats were imprisoned after the failed 2016 coup attempt, often without proper evidence. These purges were rationalised as national security measures but were, in many instances, targeted at individuals seen as disloyal to the Erdoğan regime.

In each of these examples, the underlying pattern is disturbingly similar: a state apparatus that turns its legal system into an instrument of political control, neutralising threats not with debate or elections, but with courtrooms and prison cells.

The weaponisation of law for political ends—also known as "lawfare" is a political repression through judicial means, or strategic prosecution to eliminate opposition. In “Lawfare: Law as a Weapon of War” (2016, Oxford University Press), Orde F. Kittrie defines lawfare as the use—or misuse—of legal systems and legal tools to achieve military or strategic objectives, often without a single shot being fired. He argues that in the modern era, nations and political actors have begun to recognise the battlefield is no longer confined to trenches and missiles, but can also be found in courtrooms, human rights tribunals, and international legal institutions. Law becomes a strategic instrument, wielded like a weapon to undermine, weaken, or delegitimise an adversary—sometimes by tying their hands through lawsuits, international rulings, or the threat of legal repercussions.

Kittrie offers both positive and negative examples of lawfare. On one hand, weaker states or actors can use lawfare to hold powerful aggressors accountable, turning law into a shield. On the other hand, authoritarian or manipulative regimes can use it to crush dissent, punish political opponents, or gain public relations victories disguised as justice. At its most cynical, lawfare exploits the respect society holds for the law, turning that reverence into a weapon against justice itself.

His work urges policymakers and scholars to take lawfare seriously—not as a metaphor, but as an evolving tool of conflict that can reshape global power dynamics. The danger, Kittrie warns, is when law stops being a neutral platform for justice and starts becoming a calculated tactic of political warfare.

 Kittrie underscores a deeply unsettling paradox: the law, which in theory exists to uphold justice and protect the rights of individuals, can be cunningly manipulated to serve political agendas. Kittrie illustrates how, when wielded by those in power, the legal system can be twisted into a sophisticated apparatus of control and repression. Legal norms and procedures, instead of serving as safeguards for liberty, are repurposed to legitimise persecution, silence dissent, and eliminate political threats—all under the guise of due process.

This perverse use of the law often wears a respectable mask: trials are held, charges are filed, and verdicts are passed, all with the outward appearance of legality. Yet behind this façade, the true motive is not justice but political advantage. Kittrie shows how regimes and actors seeking to maintain dominance can fabricate legal pretexts, exaggerate minor infractions, or exploit vague statutes to ensnare opponents in legal entanglements from which they cannot escape. By doing so, the law becomes a blade dressed in a robe.

Kittrie’s analysis forces us to confront the sobering reality that the strength of a legal system is not merely in its design but in the integrity of those who wield it. In the wrong hands, even the noblest laws can become instruments of oppression—cold, calculated, and devastatingly effective.

In “Judging Statutes: Using and Abusing the Power of the Law” by James R. Stoner (2019, Liberty Fund), the author argues that when courts cease to function independently, they no longer act as neutral arbiters of justice but become tools of either legislative will or executive control. Stoner warns that this erosion of judicial independence fundamentally undermines the rule of law. Instead of interpreting statutes based on their text, history, and intended purpose, judges may begin bending legal reasoning to suit political expectations or pressures. The judiciary, once a check on the excesses of other branches of government, morphs into a facilitator of those excesses.

According to Stoner, this distortion has profound consequences. When courts are politicised, legal certainty collapses, and citizens lose faith in the impartiality of justice. Laws become unpredictable and selective, applied harshly to some and leniently to others—not because of fairness, but because of favour or fear. He stresses that this betrayal of legal principle erodes civic trust and paves the way for authoritarian tendencies, as the judiciary becomes less a guardian of liberty and more a rubber stamp for those in power.

Stoner calls for a revival of constitutional fidelity and judicial humility, insisting that judges must serve the law, not politics. For only when courts are genuinely independent can they uphold the delicate balance between freedom and order that sustains a functioning republic.

In “The Lula Case: Political Imprisonment in Brazil” (2020, Biteback Publishing), Geoffrey Robertson QC explains that technocrats and reformists, like Tom Lembong, often become targets of legal mechanisms not because of the gravity of their alleged crimes, but because of the threat they pose to entrenched political interests. Robertson uses the case of Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva to demonstrate how the law can be weaponised against individuals who challenge the status quo, particularly those who gain public trust through reformist agendas or technocratic competence. These figures are dangerous to corrupt elites not due to any actual wrongdoing, but because they represent a viable alternative to the political order—and thus must be discredited or removed.

Robertson further illustrates that once legal institutions are co-opted by political actors, the distinction between justice and persecution becomes dangerously blurred. Prosecutors may construct charges on flimsy evidence, judges may abandon impartiality, and trials may become theatre—designed more to shape public perception than to establish truth. In such environments, reformists become symbolic enemies. Their prosecution serves as both punishment and warning: dissent will not be tolerated, and technocratic integrity will not protect you if you step on powerful toes.

Through this lens, Robertson sees legal proceedings as performance pieces in a broader political drama. The courtroom becomes a battleground not for truth, but for narrative control. And in this battle, those who seek to clean up the system may be the first to be silenced by it.

The conviction of Tom Lembong casts a long and chilling shadow over the political landscape in Indonesia. For many reform-minded individuals, it sends a stark message: even the cleanest, most professional technocrats are not immune to prosecution if they align themselves with the “wrong” political camp. This creates a climate of fear, not just for opposition figures, but for civil servants, academics, and business leaders who might consider supporting alternative visions for the nation. The subtle threat is clear—support the status quo, or risk being dismantled, not through debate or elections, but through courtrooms and prison bars.

This case could also lead to a dangerous narrowing of the political arena. If qualified, credible individuals like Tom are weeded out, what remains is a field dominated by the sycophantic and the corrupt—people who say yes to power rather than speak truth to it. It undermines meritocracy and discourages competent Indonesians from entering public service, knowing that loyalty may count more than law or logic. Over time, this kind of political culture doesn't just hurt opposition movements—it poisons the system itself, making governance less about ideas and more about allegiance.

For Anies Baswedan and those around him, Tom’s sentencing is both a political and emotional blow. It disrupts planning, weakens internal morale, and signals that the road to 2029 will be paved with legal landmines. But beyond that, it forces a recalibration: do you retreat in caution, or do you confront the system more boldly? Either way, the prosecution of Tom may become a defining moment—a line in the sand—for Indonesian politics, marking the point where technocratic integrity became a liability rather than an asset.

The case of Tom Lembong echoes a worrying global pattern wherein the law, once designed to shield citizens from tyranny, is increasingly contorted to silence reformists and technocrats who pose political inconvenience. In contexts where judicial independence is under threat, prosecutions often appear less about justice and more about eliminating dissent. When reform-minded individuals like Lembong are punished through prolonged legal entanglements, the public is left to question whether the legal system serves the people or merely protects power.

In societies where “lawfare” becomes a strategy rather than a safeguard, the cost is far greater than a prison sentence—it is the erosion of public trust in institutions. As seen in the cases of Lula da Silva in Brazil and others worldwide, the weaponisation of law corrodes the very ideals upon which democratic governance stands. The long shadow cast by Lembong’s sentencing may not merely haunt him personally, but potentially darken the path of Indonesia’s political future.

Ultimately, this case serves as both a cautionary tale and a rallying cry. For citizens who believe in justice, transparency, and reform, the imprisonment of a technocrat for reasons that appear increasingly political should not be met with silence. It demands vigilance, solidarity, and above all, the courage to hold institutions accountable—not just for what they do, but for what they allow to happen in silence.

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The Meaning and Power of Values in Islam

During the caliphate of Umar ibn al-Khattab (may Allah be pleased with him), a man came to complain about the governor of Egypt, Amr ibn al-As. The man’s son had been struck by Amr’s own son during a horse race, where Amr’s son had arrogantly claimed, “I am the son of the nobleman!” When Caliph Umar heard this, he summoned both Amr and his son to Madinah. Once they arrived, Umar handed a whip to the complainant and said, “Strike the son of the nobleman.” The man did so. Then Umar turned to Amr and said, “Since when do you enslave people when their mothers gave birth to them free?” This statement became a timeless embodiment of Islamic values: justice, humility, and the equality of all people before God, regardless of rank or lineage.

In Islam, values are not optional virtues or cultural traditions—they are divine imperatives. They shape the way a Muslim sees the world, interacts with others, and connects with their Creator. Islamic values are deeply rooted in revelation, not in fleeting trends.

The foundation of Islamic values lies in two sacred sources: the Qur’an and the Sunnah. These texts are not abstract doctrines; they are living guidance for daily life. They don’t just teach what to do, but how to live with meaning and purpose.

Values in Islam aim to elevate both the soul and society. They serve as a framework for personal development and communal harmony. A society that reflects Islamic values becomes just, compassionate, and resilient.

These values are not random or situational—they are universal. Whether in Mecca or Manchester, Jakarta or Johannesburg, Islamic values hold the same moral weight. They are not bound by geography or generation.

One of the most fundamental Islamic values is justice (al-‘adl). Justice in Islam is comprehensive—it encompasses economics, family, legal systems, and even one's inner thoughts. A just person reflects the fairness of Allah.

Another core value is mercy (rahmah), which flows from Allah’s own attribute as the Most Merciful. The Prophet ﷺ was described as a “mercy to the worlds.” Mercy in Islam isn’t weakness—it’s strength in restraint.

Honesty (sidq) is a value that Islam places immense emphasis on. A truthful tongue reflects a clean heart and a sound soul. Lies, on the other hand, are seen as a sign of hypocrisy and spiritual decay.

Sincerity (ikhlas) is what turns a simple act into a form of worship. Even a smile or a glass of water given with pure intention becomes a means to earn Allah’s pleasure. Without sincerity, even large actions lose their value.

Trustworthiness (amanah) is central to all human relationships. Whether it’s a job, a friendship, or a secret—being trustworthy reflects one’s integrity. The Prophet ﷺ was famously known as al-Amin, the Trustworthy.

These values are not decorative—they are functional. They are meant to be lived, not just quoted in speeches or Instagram bios. A Muslim who lives by values becomes a beacon of light in dark times.

The Prophet ﷺ did not teach values through theory alone—he embodied them. His actions, even in private moments, reflected the highest standard of moral conduct. He was the living blueprint of Qur’anic values in motion.

Islamic values are internalised through both learning and practice. It’s not enough to know the value of patience or humility—you must live them, especially when tested. The real test of values is not during peace, but under pressure.

Parents play a vital role in transmitting values to the next generation. Children learn far more from what their parents do than what they say. A home built on Islamic values becomes a school of the heart.

In Islamic education, values are not taught as separate subjects—they are woven into every discipline. Whether one studies science, literature, or history, the ethical lens remains. Knowledge without values is incomplete in Islam.

The goal of Islamic values is not perfection, but sincerity and direction. Allah does not expect flawlessness, but effort and intention. Even when we fall short, living with values keeps the soul aligned.

Modern life often pulls people in the opposite direction of these values. Consumerism promotes greed, social media encourages vanity, and speed kills reflection. Islamic values help centre the soul amidst this chaos.

Values are not static; they guide the believer through changing contexts. In a boardroom or a refugee camp, the values remain the same but are expressed differently. Islam’s moral compass adapts without compromising its principles.

Da’wah becomes more effective when built on visible values. You can win arguments with logic, but you win hearts with character. People may forget what you said, but they remember how you made them feel. The most effective method for conveying Islamic values is one that combines clarity, sincerity, and relevance. To truly reach hearts, values must be shown, not just told. That means the method must blend education (ta’lim), emotional connection (targhib), wisdom (hikmah), and most importantly, personal example (uswah hasanah). People are more likely to adopt values when they see them embodied in someone they trust and admire.

The Sirah Nabawiyah, or the prophetic biography, plays a central role in conveying Islamic values through lived example rather than abstract theory. It is not merely a historical chronicle of the Prophet’s ﷺ life but a practical demonstration of how divine values such as compassion, justice, integrity, humility, and patience are implemented in the real world. Through every chapter of the Prophet’s ﷺ journey—from his dealings with enemies in Makkah to his leadership in Madinah—Muslims are shown how values are not just to be believed in but lived with courage, wisdom, and grace. The Sirah brings values to life, making them tangible, relatable, and powerful tools of da’wah across cultures and generations.

In this digital and distracted age, storytelling, visual media, and social engagement have become powerful vehicles for da’wah. But these tools are only meaningful if they carry a soul—if they transmit values not through preaching alone, but through authentic, lived narratives that demonstrate how Islam beautifies life. Ultimately, the best method is one that bridges knowledge and compassion, intellect and heart, theory and practice.

Values also provide the moral scaffolding for leadership. A leader without values becomes dangerous, no matter how intelligent. Islam demands leaders who fear Allah more than they fear public opinion.

When values are abandoned, society begins to rot from the inside. Corruption, cruelty, and chaos grow when people chase success without principles. Islamic values are the antidote to moral decay.

Every Prophet came not just with theology, but with values. Their mission was to reform hearts and societies through justice, patience, and compassion. Islam is not a religion of rules—it is a religion of values embodied in rules.

In times of crisis, values become the lifeline. When laws fail or systems collapse, it is values like honesty and mercy that sustain humanity. Islam teaches that even in hardship, moral integrity must prevail.

Islamic values foster empathy and reduce arrogance. They remind the believer that everyone is struggling in ways that are unseen. Humility becomes the lens through which one views the world.

Values are what give identity depth. Without values, identity becomes shallow—just labels or fashion. Being a Muslim means something profound and transformative in terms of values.

Youth today are bombarded with conflicting messages about what matters. Islam offers a clear framework to navigate this confusion. Values help them define success not by followers, but by faith and impact.

Even in disagreement, values can preserve dignity. Islam teaches how to disagree without hatred and how to defend without dehumanising. This is the power of values—they protect the soul while facing conflict.

Art, literature, and culture in Islam have long been used to express values. From poetry to calligraphy, the beauty of values was never divorced from beauty itself. Expression was a vessel for virtue. Values also promote environmental stewardship. Islam teaches that the Earth is an amanah—a trust. Wastefulness and destruction are violations of spiritual duty.

Ultimately, values serve as the bridge between belief and action. They connect the heart to the hand. Without them, faith becomes hollow and action becomes directionless. To live by Islamic values is to live with awareness, with dignity, and with purpose. It is not always easy, but it is always worth it. A life of values is a life that echoes in eternity. 

[Bahasa]

Applause and the Hidden Truth

In 1942, as Winston Churchill delivered one of his most stirring wartime speeches to the House of Commons, the chamber erupted in thunderous applause. His words—laden with defiance and hope—were broadcast across the empire, bolstering morale and reinforcing the myth of British resilience. Yet only a few miles away from Westminster, in the poorer districts of East London, families were still digging through the rubble of their bombed-out homes, searching for the bodies of loved ones. The government had delayed publicising the true scale of civilian casualties from the Blitz. The grandeur of Churchill’s oratory, while historic, obscured the anguish on the ground. It wasn’t that his words weren’t sincere—they were—but the applause in Parliament rang louder than the silent grief outside it.

This moment captures the essence of a truth buried beneath applause: that even the noblest rhetoric can coexist with human suffering, and that sometimes, applause is not a reflection of total reality, but a curated fragment of it.

In the grand theatre of society, praise often arrives like a thunderous ovation—loud, dazzling, and contagious. Yet behind the curtain, in the shadows of this spectacle, there frequently lies a quieter truth, one that trembles with sadness or stark contradiction. Philosophy teaches us that appearances are seldom the whole story; Plato’s cave reminds us that what dazzles the eyes may only be shadows of a deeper, unspoken reality. In politics, the leader hailed as a visionary may, in truth, be steering the ship toward dangerous waters, all while basking in applause orchestrated by loyal spin doctors and curated media narratives. Socially, communities may celebrate achievements that, beneath the surface, are built on the silent suffering of the marginalised or the overlooked. Culturally, what is venerated might be a hollow echo of former greatness, propped up by nostalgia rather than lived relevance.

In The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life (1956, Doubleday Anchor Books), Erving Goffman argues that social life is fundamentally theatrical. Individuals—and institutions—perform roles in daily interactions much like actors on a stage. What the audience sees is the “front stage,” a carefully curated space where behaviours, expressions, and symbols are managed to produce a desired impression. Here, people wear metaphorical masks, adjusting their speech, appearance, and gestures to fit the expectations of the situation, whether it be a classroom, courtroom, corporate office, or press conference.

However, behind the scenes lies the “back stage,” a more private realm where individuals or groups can drop the act. This is where frustrations are vented, mistakes admitted, personas removed, and contradictions exposed. Goffman suggests that while the front stage is about maintaining face and social order, the back stage reveals the hidden labour, conflicts, and hypocrisies required to keep that performance running smoothly. For example, a politician may present themselves as calm and decisive in front of cameras, but in the back stage of party meetings, they might express doubt, anger, or panic. Institutions, too, curate a pristine image in public while internally grappling with inefficiencies, internal politics, or ethical compromises.

Goffman delves into the nuanced techniques that individuals use to control how others perceive them during social interactions. He explains that since people are constantly performing, they must also constantly manage the impressions they give off. This involves not only projecting a particular image but also tactfully concealing anything that might contradict it.

Goffman discusses how performers—be they individuals or institutions—rely on various “defensive” and “protective” techniques to uphold their front-stage persona. Defensive practices help the performer avoid embarrassment: for example, rehearsing what to say, managing expressions, or preparing props like clothes or documents. Protective practices, on the other hand, involve the audience being complicit—like politely ignoring a social misstep or pretending not to notice a contradiction in the performance.

What Goffman lays bare is that impression management is an ongoing negotiation, a kind of subtle choreography between the performer and the audience. Both sides have a role to play in sustaining the illusion. He illustrates that failures of impression—like wardrobe malfunctions, slips of the tongue, or awkward silences—can threaten the integrity of the performance, and therefore must be swiftly repaired or hidden. Goffman essentially shows that social life is held together not by truth, but by a shared willingness to maintain appearances.

Goffman’s insight is that much of social interaction is not about truth but about managing appearances. What we often take as genuine may, in fact, be a performance designed to sustain legitimacy, protect ego, or manipulate perception.

In his short yet piercingly insightful essay On Bullshit (2005, Princeton University Press), philosopher Harry G. Frankfurt dissects the phenomenon of statements that sound persuasive, even profound, but are in fact entirely devoid of commitment to truth. Frankfurt draws a critical distinction between a liar and a bullshitter. A liar, he argues, at least acknowledges the truth by deliberately attempting to conceal it. The bullshitter, on the other hand, is more dangerous because he is entirely indifferent to whether what he says is true or false. His only concern is whether the statement serves his purpose—whether it persuades, impresses, or performs.

According to Frankfurt, bullshit arises when people speak without regard for the reality of their words. It's not that they are trying to deceive in the traditional sense, but that they simply do not care about truth at all. Their aim is not to mislead someone from the truth, but to construct a narrative that suits their goals, regardless of factual accuracy. This makes bullshit insidious—it is slippery, immune to correction, and thrives in environments where image and impression outweigh substance and integrity.

Frankfurt explains that in a society saturated with performance—where individuals are rewarded more for sounding right than being right—bullshit becomes the dominant currency of communication. Whether in politics, corporate branding, or social media self-promotion, people are often more interested in sounding confident or impressive than in being truthful. The danger, Frankfurt warns, is that when bullshit prevails, the very notion of truth begins to erode. Once truth becomes irrelevant, discourse becomes theatre, and accountability evaporates.

This paradox—of applause concealing agony—is not merely poetic, but a recurring feature of human civilisation. From ancient empires to modern democracies, public praise often masks private suffering. Behind every triumphant image lies a history of compromise, suppression, or exploitation that rarely makes it into the headlines or history books.

We cheer the hero, often uncritically, accepting the narrative crafted for us. But rarely do we pause to ask: whose voices were muted so that this figure could shine? In every grand ascent, there are stories of the discarded—those who were inconvenient to the myth and thus erased from the stage.

History is replete with statues and memorials that proclaim glory, but never mention the bloodied hands that lifted the stones. The grandeur of the monument speaks only to triumph, never to toil. We see the finished product, never the suffering etched into its foundation.

In modern times, the same script continues. We celebrate innovation without reflecting on the burnout it causes. We praise billionaires while ignoring the overworked employees who made their fortunes possible. We broadcast images of prosperity while airbrushing poverty from the frame.

Social media, our digital amphitheatre, thrives on applause. It rewards image over depth, appearance over authenticity. The more curated the life, the louder the claps. Yet behind every polished post, there may be anxiety, loneliness, or quiet despair—realities unfit for the stage.

Politics, too, is drenched in performance. Leaders craft personas that radiate strength, empathy, or intelligence. But behind the press conferences and photo ops lie strategy rooms filled with fear, doubt, and ruthless calculation. The public face is merely a mask, rehearsed and worn for survival.

Even in personal lives, this paradox endures. The friend who always seems cheerful may be crumbling inside. The couple who receives endless praise for their “perfect” relationship might be harbouring unspoken resentments. We rarely look beyond the surface unless something cracks.

Progress itself, that sacred word of modernity, is often built on exclusion. Who benefits from the new? And who is left behind, unmentioned, without access or opportunity? For every city that rises with sleek towers, there are communities that are displaced, disoriented, and disregarded.

In institutions, we see this duality again. A university may boast its diversity figures, while students of colour quietly battle microaggressions and systemic bias. A corporation may parade its social responsibility, while ignoring the environmental damage it exports abroad.

Even art, often hailed as the purest form of human expression, is entangled in this contradiction. The celebrated artist may have exploited collaborators. The revered novelist may have drawn from cultures without acknowledgment. The gallery may display beauty while gatekeeping access.

What Goffman called the “front stage” is ever expanding. It grows into every part of life—our work, relationships, and identities. And as the performance intensifies, so does the labour to maintain it. What remains hidden grows heavier, more corrosive with time.

We have created societies that reward the well-played role, not the truth. The spotlight is blinding, and few dare to step outside of it. The applause becomes addictive. To be seen is to exist. And so the show goes on, even when the soul behind the performance is breaking.

But perhaps the greatest tragedy is not the performance itself, but our complicity in sustaining it. We prefer the illusion. We are more comfortable with the curated. We scroll past pain and pause for perfection. Our gaze helps build the mask.

And yet, within every standing ovation, there is a shadow. A quiet absence. A truth omitted. A cost unspoken. The stage may glitter, but the backstage is littered with fragments—of what was lost to maintain the illusion.

To recognise this paradox is not to reject admiration, but to complicate it. To look deeper. To honour what’s hidden. To remember that the loudest applause often echoes over the softest suffering.

Ultimately, both Goffman’s theatre of impression and Frankfurt’s anatomy of bullshit point to a society increasingly structured around image rather than essence. The value of truth is diminished when performance becomes the norm, and authenticity is replaced by narrative control. What matters is not whether something is true, but whether it appears compelling, inspiring, or strategically useful. In such a climate, the line between sincerity and manipulation becomes dangerously thin.

This does not mean that all performance is malicious or that every persuasive statement is inherently deceptive. But it reminds us that in an age saturated with applause, likes, and curated personas, we must be vigilant. Critical thinking is not a luxury—it is a necessity. To question the polished image, to listen for the silences behind the slogans, and to care about truth even when it’s inconvenient—these are now radical acts of intellectual resistance.

In the end, resisting the lure of bullshit and performance culture is about reclaiming our relationship with truth. It is about choosing to value substance over spectacle, depth over surface, and integrity over applause. In a world where illusion dominates, simply telling the truth—even quietly—is a revolutionary gesture.

In a world increasingly dominated by appearances, the art of saying something without saying anything has become a defining feature of public discourse. The applause that follows a powerful speech, the viral post that garners admiration, or the grand statement that feels profound—all can be saturated with bullshit if they prioritise impression over integrity. As Frankfurt cautions, the real threat lies not in deliberate deception, but in the growing indifference to whether words connect to truth at all.

This culture of performance fosters an environment where sincerity is seen as naïve and manipulation as savvy. Public figures polish their personas, institutions craft their narratives, and even ordinary individuals participate in daily acts of impression management. The boundary between honesty and illusion becomes blurred, and over time, we lose our capacity to care whether a statement is genuine—as long as it’s convincing. The danger is that when bullshit becomes the norm, truth becomes not just inconvenient, but obsolete.

To resist this erosion of meaning, we must relearn how to value truth not for its immediate appeal, but for its long-term substance. It means asking difficult questions, tolerating uncomfortable answers, and accepting that truth may not always be popular—but it is necessary. In a world drowning in performance, choosing honesty becomes a radical act. And perhaps, the quietest truth is worth more than the loudest applause.

[Bahasa]

The Bureaucrats vs Jobseekers in Indonesia

At a lavish seminar on “Youth Empowerment and National Leadership,” a deputy minister took the stage, arriving thirty minutes late. He began his keynote by praising young people as “the heartbeat of Indonesia” and urged them to “seize every opportunity.” The audience, mostly students, nodded politely while sipping water from paper cups. During the Q&A, a student bravely asked, “Sir, with all due respect, how can we seize opportunities if they’re already seized by you?” The minister chuckled, dodged the question, and invited the student for coffee—“to discuss this further, someday.” That “someday” never came. Two weeks later, the same minister was appointed commissioner of yet another state-owned company. Meanwhile, the student got ghosted by three companies after an unpaid internship. It turns out, the heartbeat of Indonesia has arrhythmia—and it's not covered by BPJS.

The long lines of young jobseekers in Indonesia reflect a broader socio-economic phenomenon known as “precariatisation”, in which large numbers of educated individuals find themselves trapped in precarious, insecure labour markets. This trend is further amplified by skills mismatch, where the qualifications and aspirations of graduates do not align with the demands of employers—leaving highly educated youth unemployed or underemployed.

A recent case in point occurred at the end of the first semester and the beginning of the second semester in 2025, when thousands of graduates flocked to large job fairs across Java. For example, at the Bekasi “Pasti Kerja Expo” held in late May, over 25,000 applicants queued for more than 2,500 job openings—leading to overcrowding, fainting, pushing, and significant chaos.  This incident starkly illustrates both desperation and structural failure: too many people chasing too few vacancies, and inadequate systems to manage them.

These long queues are not a seasonal anomaly but a symptom of chronic mismatch between the growing youth population—roughly 17 percent unemployment among those aged 15–24—and a stagnant, underdeveloped formal job sector. Every semester, as new waves of graduates enter the market, they are met with overflowing recruitment events that collapse under sheer demand. Rather than celebrating progress, these scenes underscore the fractures in hope, opportunity, and economic planning.

The stagnation of the formal job sector in Indonesia is primarily driven by a combination of structural economic imbalances, bureaucratic inefficiency, and political favouritism. Despite consistent economic growth on paper, the benefits of that growth have not translated into a proportional expansion of decent, formal employment. Instead, much of the economy remains dominated by the informal sector, where jobs are often unstable, unregulated, and lacking in social protections.

One major cause is the labour market's inability to absorb the country’s growing young workforce. Every year, millions of new graduates enter the job market, but many industries are either not hiring or are preferring short-term contract workers to cut costs. At the same time, overregulation and red tape make it difficult for small and medium enterprises (SMEs)—which should be the backbone of employment—to grow and formalise their operations.

Another critical issue is policy inconsistency and elite capture. Policies that should stimulate job creation are often undermined by vested interests. Budget allocations prioritise infrastructure megaprojects and state-owned enterprise bailouts, rather than long-term investment in skills development, innovation, and SME ecosystems. When political elites hold multiple strategic roles (often through dual office-holding), decision-making becomes self-serving rather than people-oriented.

While the GDP grows, opportunities do not. The system rewards loyalty over innovation, bureaucracy over agility, and status quo over meaningful reform. As a result, formal jobs remain a narrow corridor few can enter—while the rest hustle in the shadows of the informal economy.

In a country as vibrant and complex as Indonesia, the story of ambition, inequality, and political privilege plays out like an ever-repeating opera. Every few years, the actors change, but the script remains painfully the same: the rich get richer, the powerful consolidate more influence, and the hopeful youth are left auditioning for roles that barely exist.

At the centre of this performance stands a class of elites who seamlessly juggle multiple roles, navigating public office and corporate power with remarkable ease. Their lives are marked by polished press conferences, luxury cars with tinted windows, and power breakfasts in hotels where the coffee costs more than a street vendor's weekly income.

It is not uncommon to see deputy ministers holding concurrent positions in state-owned enterprises (BUMN), raising eyebrows about their focus, ethics, and true purpose. These individuals are not multitasking out of necessity—they are hoarding influence, stacking their CVs while preaching sacrifice and public duty.

These roles are not honorary; they come with significant salaries, allowances, and influence, often with little to no transparency. The lines between service and self-enrichment have been blurred so completely that the original purpose of these positions is often lost in layers of protocol and privilege.

This culture of rangkap jabatan (dual-position holding) reveals a deeper problem—a system that rewards political proximity rather than professional merit. To be competent is optional; to be connected is everything. The system no longer asks what you know—it only asks whom you know.

In Why Governments Get It Wrong: And How They Can Get It Right (2022, Pan Macmillan), Dennis C. Grube investigates why modern governments—even in democratic societies—often make poor decisions and fail to serve the public interest. One of the key issues he discusses is the blurring of roles between public service and political patronage, which includes the phenomenon of dual office-holding, where individuals occupy multiple influential roles across government and state-owned enterprises.

Grube warns that the concentration of power in the hands of a few undermines institutional accountability, reduces focus, and breeds conflicts of interest. When public officials simultaneously serve as commissioners or executives in other institutions—often without proper oversight—policies are no longer guided by public welfare but by personal or political gain.

Grube provides case studies from multiple countries, showing how this practice erodes democratic norms, limits transparency, and fuels public distrust. It suggests that governments must adopt structural safeguards to prevent power hoarding, and instead promote dedicated, single-mandate leadership—especially in roles meant to serve the people, not serve personal networks.

Grube argues that as public officeholders accumulate multiple mandates—whether in government, state enterprises, or corporate boards—citizens’ trust in institutions steadily erodes. Empirical studies across Western democracies demonstrate that higher‑level offices are perceived as more corrupt. Moreover, when the revolving door between politics and business becomes routine—with ex-ministers landing lucrative private gigs—public confidence wanes as people realise that civic leadership is little more than a stepping stone to self-enrichment. Put simply, dual office‑holding doesn’t just concentrate power—it corrodes the moral authority of the state and leaves citizens cynical, disengaged, and deeply disillusioned.

While a privileged few seem to dance from one boardroom to another, millions of young Indonesians line up for job fairs with nothing but their résumés and quiet desperation. Some travel for hours, standing in long queues in uncomfortable shoes, clinging to hope in a folder labeled "Curriculum Vitae."

The job market is unforgiving, especially for graduates who are told to dream big but are met with a reality check as soon as they step out of university. For every position posted, there are hundreds—sometimes thousands—of applicants. Hope is rationed out in automated rejection emails.

Even internships—once seen as a stepping stone—have become a cruel extension of free labour, with little promise of future employment. Young people are told it builds character, but what it often builds is exhaustion, frustration, and resignation.

Meanwhile, government responses to these concerns remain either sluggish or entirely absent, as if the system is designed to maintain its imbalance. Announcements are made. Committees are formed. But meaningful reforms remain as intangible as ever.

The silence from those in power grows louder with every social media post showing yet another politically connected figure appointed to a BUMN post. These posts are met with outrage, but the outrage is fleeting. The news cycle moves on, and the appointments stay.

It becomes clear that influence, not integrity, is the currency of advancement in this political landscape. Loyalty is rewarded not with thanks, but with power and privilege. And the public? They are told to be patient, to be understanding, to wait.

Even more disturbing is the inclusion of public figures, influencers, and online “buzzers” into strategic corporate positions, regardless of their qualifications. A TikTok personality becomes a commissioner. A meme-maker is put on a board. The absurdity would be comic if it weren’t so tragic.

The pattern repeats itself: visibility and loyalty to those in power seem more important than competence or experience. What matters is not what you’ve done, but how well you perform in the theatre of politics and perception.

As long as you’re echoing the party line or playing the PR game, doors will open—even if you’ve never handled corporate governance in your life. There is no exam for flattery, no resume required for echoing propaganda.

This practice doesn’t just reflect poor judgment; it actively undermines public trust in government institutions and SOEs. The result is a slow, simmering erosion of faith—a collective disillusionment that seeps into every corner of civic life.

It creates a growing resentment among the educated youth who have followed the rules, paid their dues, and still find themselves excluded. They attend workshops, get certifications, write motivational posts on LinkedIn—and still, nothing.

They were promised a meritocracy, but what they see is a masquerade—where titles are handed out like party favours. The credentials required are not academic—they are political.

In The Tyranny of Merit: What’s Become of the Common Good? (2020), Michael J. Sandel challenges the idea that meritocracy is a fair and just organising principle for modern societies. He argues that while societies which take pride in being merit-based often claim to reward talent and effort, they tend to overlook the deep-rooted structural inequalities that determine who even gets the chance to compete in the first place. Access to quality education, stable family environments, social networks, and inherited privilege play a decisive role in shaping opportunities. Sandel contends that this blindness to structural barriers allows the successful to believe they solely earned their place through hard work, while those left behind are implicitly blamed for their failures. This belief not only fuels resentment and humiliation among the excluded but also erodes the bonds of solidarity necessary for a thriving democratic society. He suggests that the moral hubris of meritocracy blinds the winners to their dependence on luck and societal structures, thereby undermining the common good.

Sandel does acknowledge certain virtues of meritocracy in The Tyranny of Merit: What’s Become of the Common Good?. He recognises that the ideal of meritocracy—where positions and rewards are distributed based on talent and effort—can appear deeply attractive, especially when contrasted with systems based on birthright, caste, or nepotism. Meritocracy promises fairness, social mobility, and a kind of moral legitimacy, because it suggests that people are getting what they deserve. Sandel concedes that these ideals have inspired reforms and policies aimed at expanding opportunity, such as access to education and anti-discrimination laws. However, his main concern lies in how the ideal has been distorted in practice, turning merit into a kind of moral judgement and intensifying inequality. He warns that even if meritocracy begins with good intentions, it can drift into arrogance and division unless it remains rooted in humility, empathy, and a shared sense of the common good.

When scholars critique meritocracy, they do not usually call for its wholesale abandonment, but rather for a reimagining of how societies define fairness, success, and collective responsibility. Alternatives often proposed are not rigid systems to replace meritocracy entirely, but rather frameworks that rebalance it with values such as solidarity, social justice, and democratic equality. Michael Sandel, for instance, argues for a “humility-based ethic,” where society acknowledges the role of luck, family background, and structural conditions in individual success. Others suggest strengthening the social safety net, providing universal basic services—like healthcare, education, and housing—and recognising diverse forms of contribution beyond academic or professional achievement. Participatory democracy, cooperative ownership models, and even certain aspects of deliberative democracy are also floated as ways to increase inclusion and shared power. The goal is not to deny effort or talent, but to prevent societies from becoming cruelly stratified and morally self-righteous. These alternatives aim to foster a sense of interdependence, mutual respect, and a more meaningful common good.

The civil service, once considered a noble path of service, is now viewed with cynicism and disbelief. The dream of serving the country has been replaced with the dream of surviving it.

The disconnect between the powerful and the people is no longer a gap—it is a chasm, wide and deep. It is no longer about being unheard; it is about being deliberately ignored.

Social mobility, for many, has become a myth; the escalator is broken, and only those already at the top seem to have access to the lift. For the rest, it’s a never-ending climb with no guarantee of a landing.

This is not just a story of economic inequality—it is a moral crisis that seeps into every aspect of national life. It’s about fairness, decency, and whether the future is genuinely open to all—or just a select few.

When deputy ministers and senior bureaucrats are allowed to hold multiple public positions—such as also serving as commissioners in state-owned enterprises (BUMN)—the result is an erosion of governance integrity at both ministerial and corporate levels. Divided attention leads to diluted responsibility. Instead of focusing on their primary mandate, these officials become entangled in overlapping interests, blurred accountability, and rampant conflicts of interest.

In the cabinet, such arrangements weaken institutional discipline and chain of command. Deputy ministers may become more loyal to corporate boards than to national policy goals, leading to fragmented agendas, politicised budgeting, and the prioritisation of profit over public service. Ministries begin to look like talent pools for elite networking, rather than engines of public service and reform.

At the level of BUMN, the consequences are equally corrosive. Commissioners with political ties often lack technical competence and may prioritise political interests or personal loyalty over financial and operational performance. This not only undermines the professionalism of state-owned enterprises, but also exposes them to inefficiencies, corruption, and reputational damage.

In the long run, a governance structure built on ranks, favouritism, and side-hustles ceases to function as a merit-based system. It becomes a circus of competing agendas, with ministers moonlighting as board members and commissioners playing bureaucrat-for-a-day. The public ends up paying the price: through higher service costs, bloated budgets, slower reforms, and a state that no longer serves its citizens—but itself.

It sends a message: loyalty is rewarded, not effort; allegiance is prized, not expertise. If you want to rise, bow first.

It tells a young generation that credentials, ethics, and hard work may not be enough to succeed. That playing the game matters more than playing it well.

And yet, this generation is watching. They see the contradictions. They feel the betrayal. They are not just angry—they are awake.

They are tired of smiling politicians who pose as reformers while clinging to outdated hierarchies. Their speeches are polished, their policies vague, their results invisible.

They are exhausted from job rejections while influencers-turned-commissioners enjoy executive perks. The injustice is not abstract—it is personal.

They are beginning to realise that the system isn’t broken—it was built this way. And those benefiting from it have no incentive to fix it.

And in that realisation lies both danger and possibility. A generation betrayed can become a generation that demands transformation.

In many Indonesian cities today, being an ojol driver is not just a side hustle—it has become a default survival strategy for those excluded from more stable, formal employment. It is not the dominant sector by numbers, but it is quickly becoming the most symbolic profession of Indonesia’s youth unemployment crisis.

Becoming an online motorcycle taxi driver, or ojol, is not officially categorised as the dominant employment sector in Indonesia, but it has undeniably become one of the most visible and fastest-growing occupations in the country—particularly for urban youth and informal jobseekers. As Indonesia struggles to expand its formal employment sector, millions of people turn to gig-based work, and ojol stands at the centre of that shift.

While the agricultural and manufacturing sectors still account for the largest portions of national employment, they are either shrinking or stagnating, especially in urban areas. In contrast, the rise of ojol platforms like Gojek, Grab, and Maxim has created a new type of work—digitally managed but structurally informal. This model appeals to many because of its accessibility, flexibility, and the illusion of independence. However, the reality is often harsh: long hours, inconsistent income, lack of social protection, and complete dependence on platform algorithms.

As of 30 June 2025, Indonesia had approximately 4.2 million online motorcycle taxi (ojol) drivers registered across the country, according to the Asosiasi Driver Online Indonesia (ADOI). These drivers are predominantly concentrated in major urban centres such as Jakarta, Surabaya, and Medan.

Roughly 2 million are classified as exclusive ojol drivers under BPJS Ketenagakerjaan records, yet only about 320,000 are registered with social insurance. These figures attest to both the massive scale and the informal, often under‑protected nature of urban transport gig work in Indonesia.

While the online motorcycle taxi (ojol) sector provides short-term income opportunities for millions of Indonesians, it also generates long-term concerns that negatively affect the nation's overall welfare. The rise of this gig economy model reinforces a culture of informality and economic survivalism, where workers are pushed into unstable, unprotected jobs without prospects for career development or upward mobility.

Most ojol drivers work without contracts, pensions, or social safety nets. They are not classified as formal employees but as “partners,” which exempts platform companies from providing basic labour rights. This blurs the boundary between employment and exploitation, allowing major corporations to profit while shifting all risks—fuel, health, maintenance, accidents—to the workers themselves.

Furthermore, the overdependence on the ojol sector distracts from much-needed structural reforms in education, manufacturing, and job creation. It creates an illusion of employment while masking a deeper jobs crisis. When highly educated youth resort to ojol because no other options exist, the country suffers from wasted human potential, mental health deterioration, and declining productivity across sectors.

In the long run, if this trend continues unchecked, it could create a generation of precarious workers trapped in a loop of hustle culture with no security, no growth, and no rest. Welfare is not merely about having “a job”—it’s about the quality, dignity, and sustainability of that work. And in this sense, the proliferation of ojol as a default career path represents a quiet social emergency.

Will the government finally act to fix this unjust concentration of power, or will it let the dance continue, while the music of public suffering plays on? 

The impact of dual office-holding on state-owned enterprise (BUMN) employees is deeply demoralising and structurally unjust. While ordinary employees are frequently urged to tighten their belts in the name of “efficiency,” senior bureaucrats sitting on BUMN boards collect multiple streams of income, often with little accountability or direct contribution to the company’s day-to-day operations.

This glaring disparity creates a culture of resentment and cynicism within the organisation. Workers are told to accept stagnant wages, increased workloads, and fewer benefits, all while watching political appointees receive generous salaries, bonuses, and allowances simply for attending board meetings or signing off on decisions prepared by others. The message is clear: loyalty and hard work are secondary to political proximity.

Such inequality also distorts internal performance culture. When board seats become political rewards, rather than positions earned through expertise, the professional morale of employees deteriorates. Mid-level managers and staff who have dedicated years to the company feel invisible in the presence of short-term appointees who wield influence without understanding the business.

This dual-track system fractures trust in leadership, fuels disengagement, and undermines the long-term health of the company. For employees asked to sacrifice in the name of cost-cutting, it is not just unfair—it’s offensive. It is hard to build a culture of excellence when the top is busy cashing in while the base is told to "do more with less."

If Indonesia fails to address its workforce challenges—especially youth unemployment and informal labour dependence—the long-term consequences will be both economically devastating and socially corrosive. A poorly managed labour force means a generation trapped in low-skill, low-security jobs, with no clear path to growth, stability, or prosperity. Productivity stagnates, innovation declines, and social inequalities harden into permanent divides.

This failure becomes even more tragic in light of Indonesia’s so-called “demographic bonus”—the brief period where the working-age population outnumbers dependents. Rather than becoming a golden window for economic transformation, this demographic advantage risks turning into a demographic burden. If the youth are not given decent jobs, they will not become economic assets but frustrated liabilities—highly educated, deeply disillusioned, and increasingly alienated.

Satirically put, Indonesia may go down in history as the country that hosted the world’s biggest job fair but forgot to print the jobs. A nation that boasted about its demographic bonus on international stages, while at home, its youth queued for hours to hand in CVs that would never be read. In this twisted version of progress, diplomas pile up like unused parking vouchers—official, impressive, and utterly useless when there’s no space to park your future. 

The question is not rhetorical—it is existential. Until then, the elites waltz in polished halls, sipping power like champagne, while the people queue under the sun, still waiting for a chance.

[Bahasa]

The Bars Fell, the Republic Rose

Imagine it like this: the 14th of July is kind of like France’s version of Independence Day mixed with a national music festival. Back in the day, they stormed the Bastille prison because they were absolutely fed up with rulers who acted like kings of the universe. Now, every year, they celebrate that moment in full style: awesome parades, public parties, and fireworks that light up the Parisian sky in the most aesthetic way.

So it’s not just about history—it’s a whole vibe where the people say, “We fought back then, now we’re free – long live croissants and democracy!”

If Indonesia has the 17th of August, France has Bastille Day. The only difference? Over there, there’s probably more wine and dancing... but the spirit is the same: resist oppression, celebrate freedom.

Bastille Day, celebrated on July 14th in France, commemorates two historically significant events that together shaped the identity of modern France. First and foremost, it marks the storming of the Bastille prison on 14 July 1789, a pivotal moment in the French Revolution. This dramatic uprising was not simply an attack on a fortress, but a powerful symbol of the people’s resistance to monarchical tyranny and their demand for liberty and justice. Though only a few prisoners were actually freed, the fall of the Bastille represented the collapse of absolute royal authority and the rise of the people’s voice.

The day also honours the Fête de la Fédération, which took place exactly one year later, on 14 July 1790. This event was a massive celebration of national unity, held on the Champ de Mars in Paris, where citizens and political leaders gathered to show collective hope for a constitutional monarchy and peaceful transformation. It was a moment filled with optimism, envisioning a new France founded on liberty, equality, and fraternity.

Together, these two events—one revolutionary, one reconciliatory—are commemorated in Bastille Day as a celebration not only of freedom from oppression but also of the shared spirit of a nation striving toward unity and democratic ideals.

The background of Bastille Day is deeply rooted in the political, economic, and social turmoil of late 18th-century France. At the time, France was ruled by an absolute monarchy under King Louis XVI, whose lavish spending, heavy taxation, and failure to reform had led to widespread poverty, hunger, and resentment among the common people. The country was on the brink of collapse—economically drained by years of war and socially divided by class inequality. The nobility and clergy lived in privilege, while the vast majority of the population, known as the Third Estate, bore the weight of taxation and hardship.

Tensions reached a boiling point when the king attempted to suppress political dissent by increasing military presence in Paris. In response, on 14 July 1789, thousands of citizens took to the streets. They saw the Bastille, a medieval fortress and prison in the heart of Paris, as a powerful symbol of royal oppression and absolute authority. By storming the Bastille, the revolutionaries sent a clear message: the people would no longer be silenced or controlled by force. Though the prison itself held only a handful of inmates, its fall was a psychological and political victory that ignited the flames of the French Revolution.

This act of rebellion signified the beginning of a new era. The monarchy would soon fall, and radical changes—such as the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen—would reshape France into a republic. Bastille Day, therefore, is not merely about a building being attacked; it is about the moment when ordinary citizens stood up against centuries of oppression and declared that power must belong to the people.

The Bastille was originally built in the late 14th century, during the reign of King Charles V, as a fortress to defend the eastern walls of Paris from English invasion during the Hundred Years' War. With its massive stone walls, deep moat, and imposing towers, it was a military stronghold designed to project power and protect the capital. However, over time, its role evolved. By the 17th century, under the rule of Louis XIII and Cardinal Richelieu, the Bastille had been converted into a state prison used to detain individuals without trial—often by lettres de cachet, secret royal orders signed by the king himself.

The Bastille became infamous not because of the cruelty of its conditions (though it was far from pleasant), but because it symbolised arbitrary royal authority. It was where political dissidents, writers, critics of the monarchy, and even noblemen who had fallen out of favour could be imprisoned indefinitely, with no legal recourse. The secrecy surrounding its inmates, the mystery of who was inside and why, turned the Bastille into a symbol of fear, injustice, and despotism.

By the time of the French Revolution in 1789, the Bastille was no longer a heavily populated prison—only seven prisoners were held there when it was stormed. Yet that hardly mattered. To the people of Paris, it wasn’t about the number of prisoners—it was about what the Bastille stood for: the suffocating grip of monarchy, censorship, and unaccountable power. When the crowd took it down brick by brick, they weren’t just demolishing a building—they were tearing down centuries of oppression.

The reason why the Bastille was chosen as the target of the people's rage on 14 July 1789 was deeply symbolic and strategic. Though it was no longer the most important prison in France, the Bastille remained a powerful emblem of royal tyranny and oppression. It represented everything the revolutionaries wanted to dismantle: absolute monarchy, injustice, secrecy, and the silencing of dissent. The mere presence of that grey stone fortress at the heart of Paris reminded citizens daily that the king’s will could overrule law, freedom, and dignity.

At the time, Paris was boiling with tension. The king had dismissed Jacques Necker, a popular finance minister who sympathised with the common people, and had begun amassing troops around the capital, which made citizens fear a royal crackdown. In desperation, the people took up arms. They needed gunpowder—and the Bastille had a large stockpile of it. So the Bastille was not only a symbol of repression, but also a practical target: it held the means to defend the revolution.

Storming the Bastille was therefore both an act of necessity and defiance. It sent a thunderous message to the monarchy: the people were no longer afraid. In toppling its walls, the revolutionaries declared the end of passive obedience and the beginning of active resistance. From that moment forward, the tide of history turned—and it was the people who were steering it.

Throughout history, prisons have often been used not merely as places to detain criminals, but as tools of power by those in authority who deviate from justice. When rulers feel threatened by dissent, they frequently resort to imprisonment to silence opposition, suppress free thought, and instil fear in the population. In such cases, prisons cease to be instruments of law and become instruments of control—spaces where legal processes are bypassed, and punishment is wielded like a political weapon.

This misuse of incarceration transforms the prison from a symbol of justice into a symbol of tyranny. Under corrupt or authoritarian regimes, people are not always jailed for what they’ve done, but for who they are or what they believe. Intellectuals, activists, artists, journalists—even ordinary citizens—have all found themselves behind bars, not because they broke the law, but because they dared to speak truth to power. This is when the prison becomes more than a place—it becomes a warning: “Fall in line, or disappear.”

Such abuse reveals the fragility of freedom when the law is bent by those meant to uphold it. A prison should serve justice—not crush the human spirit. But when it becomes a tool for silencing truth, it tells us that the bars are not just around the prisoners—they are around society itself.

In the opening chapter of Citizens: A Chronicle of the French Revolution (1989, Penguin Books), Simon Schama does not begin with barricades or guillotines, nor with fiery rhetoric in the Assembly or cries from the hungry streets of Paris. Instead, he starts with geography—symbolic geography. The chapter title, “Two Kinds of Places,” is not merely a reference to topography, but to two opposing worlds within the same nation: Versailles and the rest of France. These were not just different in space, but in meaning, in tempo, in belief, and in destiny.

Versailles was not simply a palace—it was a theatre of power, a museum of monarchy, a spectacle of grandeur and control. In Schama’s hands, it becomes almost a character in its own right: glittering, elegant, and utterly detached from the lives of the people whose taxes paid for its gold-leafed splendour. Life there followed rituals, governed by the ceremonial gravity of the ancien régime, and smothered by the weight of tradition.

In contrast, there was France outside the gilded mirrors. Schama brings us into the world of villages, of bustling city quarters, of artisans and lawyers, merchants and peasants—people who lived real lives, with rising frustrations and ambitions. These were not passive victims but active participants in a society straining for change. Here, ideas were fermenting—about justice, about equality, about citizenship.

Bastille Day is far more than a commemoration of a prison break—it is the annual heartbeat of a revolution that reshaped not just France, but the modern world. The fall of the Bastille symbolised the collapse of the monarchy's unchecked power and the rising voice of the people. It remains a powerful reminder that even the mightiest walls can crumble when confronted by a united will for justice, freedom, and dignity.

The birth of the republic was not simply the result of broken bricks and open gates—it was the consequence of a collective awakening. When the people realised they were not mere subjects, but citizens with the right to shape their own destiny, the foundations of republicanism were laid. A republic does not promise perfection, but it demands participation. It is a system that rises or falls on the shoulders of those who believe that power must serve the public, not rule over it.

At its core, a republic is a form of government in which power does not reside in a monarch or a hereditary elite, but rather in the hands of the people and their elected representatives. The very idea of a republic is built on the rejection of absolute rule, inherited privilege, and unaccountable authority. It upholds the principles of liberty, equality, and popular sovereignty—that is, the belief that the legitimacy of government comes from the people themselves, not from divine right or bloodlines.

In the context of the storming of the prison and the rise of the people, the collapse of the prison walls symbolises the end of fear, silence, and arbitrary power. The people, once shackled by oppression and denied a voice, physically dismantled the structure that embodied their subjugation. It was more than just bricks falling; it was a declaration that no authority should imprison truth, justice, or human dignity. From those fallen stones rose a new idea—a society where the people were no longer subjects, but citizens.

The birth of the republic, therefore, is inseparable from the people’s act of resistance. When the prison fell, it wasn’t just the gates that opened—it was the collective imagination of a nation that began to dream of freedom, rights, and representation. A republic is not simply a political system; it is the embodiment of a people’s refusal to be ruled without consent, and their demand to govern themselves with justice and dignity.

By presenting these two symbolic “places”—Versailles and the broader France—Schama sets up the Revolution not as a sudden eruption of chaos, but as the violent collision between two incompatible realities. One was built on display, ritual, and hierarchy. The other on motion, imagination, and a new sense of self. In that tension, the Revolution becomes not just a political event but a psychological and cultural earthquake.

Simon Schama argues, rather controversially, that the French Revolution was not merely accompanied by violence—it was fundamentally shaped by it. The bloodshed was not a by-product of liberty; it was often a performance of it. Revolutionary violence, he insists, was ritualistic, a theatre of purification, a declaration that the old world had to be physically dismantled before the new could be born. The guillotine, in this context, was not a flaw but a feature—a sacrament of the new secular religion.

Schama also introduces the idea that revolutionaries, especially the Jacobins, cultivated a heroic self-image. Figures like Robespierre saw themselves as moral surgeons, slicing away corruption with icy virtue. The revolution was no longer about legal change, but moral cleansing. This belief lent the Revolution a terrifying clarity: only those who were pure enough could belong to the new order, and the rest had to be purged. That clarity, of course, made it murderous.

Schama portrays the fall of the monarchy not as an abrupt break, but as a series of humiliations endured by a monarchy already on life support. He writes vividly of the October Days, when women marched to Versailles not only for bread, but to drag the king back to Paris—to where the people could keep an eye on him. It was not yet the death of kingship, but its demotion.

Later, the flight to Varennes becomes the monarchy’s death rattle. Louis XVI’s failed attempt to flee in disguise shattered any remaining illusion that the king was one with his people. He was caught, like a criminal, by ordinary citizens. At that moment, Schama suggests, the symbolic order of divine kingship collapsed. Louis was no longer “Father of the Nation”—he was just a man in a hat trying to run.

As the Revolution reached its peak, Schama turns to the Reign of Terror—a period when revolutionary ideals devoured their own champions. The Republic of Virtue, as Robespierre imagined it, required constant purification. In order to protect liberty, they had to suspend it. In order to establish equality, they had to silence dissent.Schama is clear-eyed about this paradox. He suggests that the more the Revolution obsessed over purity and unity, the more it fragmented and collapsed under its contradictions. Revolutionaries became consumed by fear—of betrayal, impurity, and hidden enemies. The Revolution, which began with calls for universal brotherhood, ended with brothers killing brothers.

Schama presents The Terror and the Republic of Virtue as the culmination of a tragic contradiction at the heart of the French Revolution, and in many ways, he frames it as a failure—not simply in practical terms, but as a moral and philosophical collapse. He does not deny the Revolution's ambitions or its energy, but he repeatedly emphasises that it ended by consuming its own children, suffocating the very ideals it claimed to defend. The Revolution, Schama suggests, did not lose its way in the Terror; rather, the Terror was a logical outcome of its obsession with moral purity, unity, and the redemptive use of violence.

The pursuit of a perfect republic—an abstract, idealised vision of virtue—became the Revolution’s own undoing. Robespierre and his fellow Jacobins, in trying to build a society free of corruption, turned to paranoia, surveillance, and public execution as tools of purification. In doing so, they sacrificed liberty in the name of liberty. Schama portrays this not as a betrayal of the Revolution, but as its inner logic carried to its brutal conclusion.

Schama sees in The Terror a profound failure—not because the revolutionaries didn’t mean well, but because their means became indistinguishable from tyranny. In the end, their dream of emancipation was drowned in blood. The very republic that was supposed to free men ended up treating suspicion as justice and murder as virtue.

To celebrate Bastille Day, then, is not just to honour the past—it is to recommit to the present. It is to remember that every generation must defend the principles of liberty and accountability anew. The republic is not a finished product, but an ongoing project—one that asks each citizen, then and now: will you build with courage, or will you watch from the sidelines?

[Bahasa]