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.
