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]