Memories are not for Sale

In the silence that follows turmoil, we learn that memories are not for sale, for they dwell not in markets of wealth but in the chambers of the soul, where no hand of greed can reach and no storm of politics can erase.

To say that memories are not for sale is to declare a quiet resistance against the empire of noise. It is to remember that while houses may be looted, and names may be dragged across the dust of anger, the inner sanctuaries of memory remain untouched. Power may sway, governments may fracture, and parades of promises may dissolve into smoke, yet the remembrance of kindness, of shared bread, of whispered prayers in dim rooms, persists like a candle that refuses the wind.

The night after turmoil carries its own kind of silence, a silence that does not forget the noise of the streets but rather absorbs it into the marrow of the land.

In that silence, a nation listens to its own heartbeat, not as the pounding of drums of anger, but as the hesitant pulse of something still alive and yearning.

The faces of power may glow beneath the artificial lights of a press conference, yet the eyes of the people glow differently, like lanterns flickering in a storm.

And in the midst of anger and suspicion, one learns that even disillusion is a form of care, for only those who love deeply can feel betrayed so deeply.

There is a strange poetry in the chaos of democracy, where voices clash like waves, yet somehow the tide still finds its rhythm.

Memories are not for sale, for they are the only treasures no empire can tax, no ruler can confiscate, and no storm of history can wash away.

The weary youth, who marched under the weight of placards and chants, may discover that their footsteps are not lost but etched like carvings on the soul of history.

Meanwhile, the elders who watched from their windows, whispering prayers into the night, remind us that faith is not silence but resilience disguised in stillness.

The question is not whether the storm will return—it always does—but whether the people will have learned how to dance between its raindrops.

Memories are not for sale because they belong to the architecture of the heart, carved quietly in moments of laughter, in wounds of sorrow, and in the whispers of hope that refuse to die.

For peace is not an absence of noise but the presence of meaning, a thread that ties wounds together so they may heal into scars that tell stories.

Memories are not for sale, as they resist the logic of currency, for their worth is measured not in gold but in tears, in smiles, in prayers whispered when the world was too heavy to bear.

Memories are not for sale, for even when the city trembles with chants of protest, even when banners are raised against the iron sky, what remains is not the noise, but the tender recall of why we marched together.

Memories are not for sale, because every human being walks through history not only with their footsteps, but with the echoes of those who walked before them, leaving trails invisible yet eternal.

Memories are not for sale, for they remind us that after the streets are cleared and the microphones are silenced, there will always be a quiet voice inside us, retelling the story of dignity and longing.

Memories are not for sale, because they stitch together the torn fabric of nations, whispering that justice is not a commodity, and that truth, though delayed, cannot be permanently buried.

Memories are not for sale, as they belong not to rulers nor to victors, but to those who endured, those who stood under the rain, those whose silence carried a thousand unspoken words.

Memories are not for sale, for the weight of a mother’s tear, the tremble of a father’s hope, the laughter of children who still dream—these are currencies unknown to markets, but eternal in their truth.

When the tumult has passed and the echo of slogans has dissolved into memory, we will still gather around the table of remembrance. There, stories become bread, and laughter becomes a shield stronger than any decree. Memories are not for sale because they are not commodities; they are sacred inheritances, woven into our souls like threads of light. In them we find resilience, the soft reminder that even in the darkest nights of history, the human spirit continues to remember its dawn.

Memories are not for sale, for they are not minted in coins nor measured by the greed of markets, but are carved into the silent corridors of the heart. In times when streets rage with voices and banners tremble against the wind, it is not the clamour of the crowd that survives the years, but the tender remembrance of what it meant to hope. No thief may steal the fragrance of a childhood dawn, nor can any violence erase the warmth of a mother’s embrace when the world outside burned with unrest.

Memories are not for sale, for they are carved upon the secret walls of the soul where no coin may trespass. They are fragments of sunlight caught in the trembling leaves, whispers of laughter lingering in the corridors of time, and the quiet sorrow of farewells that still echo long after footsteps have faded. No marketplace can measure them, for they dwell beyond the reach of commerce, untouched by the noise of bargain and trade. They are the invisible inheritance that binds us to our own humanity, reminders that even amidst storms of despair, there is a tender thread of meaning that cannot be stolen.

In the aftermath of unrest, when streets still tremble with the echo of chants and smoke clings to the evening air, memories arrive uninvited. They rise not as commodities, but as silent witnesses: a hand held in fear, a tear falling unseen, a smile shared in defiance. They remind us that beyond politics and power struggles, the true currency of life lies in what we carry within—moments of courage, of kindness, of resilience. To forget them would be to sell a part of our very soul, and yet, to guard them is to reclaim dignity from the chaos.

Thus, to whisper “memories are not for sale” is to declare a gentle rebellion against the world’s obsession with possession. It is to hold close the stories that shaped us, not as trophies but as living embers that continue to warm our passage through uncertain days. In them, we find both the ache of loss and the balm of hope, the reminder that life’s worth is not calculated by wealth or fame but by the fragile beauty of what we have lived and felt.

In the quiet after turmoil, one realises that the true wealth of human life is not measured by possessions or fleeting titles, but by the memories we carry within. These are treasures that cannot be bought, nor stolen, nor diminished by the passing of time. To say “memories are not for sale” is to affirm that what is etched upon the heart transcends every marketplace of the world, resisting commodification by power or wealth.

When the streets echo with anger and the air grows heavy with despair, memory becomes a sanctuary. It reminds us of simpler moments, of laughter shared beneath fading sunsets, of voices long gone but still alive in our hearts. In such remembrance lies resilience, for no regime, no riot, no ruin can strip away the fragrance of what once was deeply cherished.

The world may chase after gold, land, or fleeting influence, yet memory is the one currency that resists inflation. It holds its worth across decades, even centuries, passed from one generation to another like whispered prayers. To sell a memory is impossible, for its essence is rooted in the sacred intimacy between life and soul.

In the aftermath of protest and disquiet, it is memory that heals. For when one recalls the faces of loved ones, the warmth of kindness once given, the moments of unity once felt, the wounds of the present begin to soften. The declaration “memories are not for sale” thus becomes both a warning and a comfort: a warning against those who would commodify humanity, and a comfort to those who still believe in its sanctity.

Memories are not for sale, for they are the silent treasures carved upon the walls of the heart, untouched by the noise of markets or the grasp of power. They linger when banners fall, when chants dissolve into silence, when the heat of anger gives way to the stillness of dawn. In the end, what survives beyond the smoke of protest and the dust of conflict are not the ruins of glass or stone, but the fragments of remembrance we carry in our souls.

In a world where voices clash and tempers rise, memories become a gentle resistance, a way of saying: we were here, we felt, we dreamed. They are not traded in coin, nor displayed upon shelves, for they live in the secret folds of time. Each memory whispers of humanity’s endurance, reminding us that even in moments of turmoil, there remains something unbroken, something unbuyable, something sacred.

The chants of the crowd may echo and fade, but the memories of why they gathered will endure. They are etched not only in photographs or recordings, but in the shared pulse of those who stood side by side. And though storms of politics may come and go, memories remain as a quiet archive of truth, resisting the hand that seeks to erase them.

Memories are not for sale, because when all banners have faded and all voices have grown hoarse, what remains is the eternal archive within us, untouchable, unbuyable, unforgettable.

And perhaps, in this fragile season, we may discover that unity is not uniformity but harmony, like different notes daring to belong in the same song.

There comes a moment when sorrow must loosen its grip, when we must rise from the dust of disillusionment and look forward with unclouded eyes. To dwell forever in the ache of yesterday is to chain ourselves to ghosts that cannot build tomorrow. The tears we shed have watered the soil; now let us sow seeds of unity, compassion, and resolve upon it.

The meaning of freedom is not to merely remember the sacrifices of those before us, but to honour them by weaving together a present worthy of their courage. We must gather not in the language of anger, but in the rhythm of shared labour, carrying the nation forward not as fragments, but as one body.

Let us not squander our breath in endless lamentation; instead, let us give that breath to songs of renewal, to efforts of rebuilding, to bridges of understanding between hearts. For independence is never finished; it is an eternal task, renewed in every generation, waiting for hands willing to carry its weight with grace.

So let us move on not by forgetting, but by transforming pain into purpose, fracture into fellowship, and despair into determination. The call of the hour is not division, but togetherness. The horizon awaits us, vast and unbroken, whispering that the story of this nation has yet to be fully written— and it is we who hold the pen.

Bahasa

Between ‘Foolishness’ and the Crisis of Trust

Rocky Gerung amusingly notes that “amok” is one of the rare Indonesian words to have punched its way into the Advanced Webster English Dictionary, implying a kind of global recognition. While he couldn’t recall the second word, scholars—and loanword compendiums—point to “latah” as another psychological term borrowed into English usage, albeit far less common.

Amok, originating from Malay/Javanese-Indonesian amuk, historically describes a sudden violent frenzy or uncontrolled rage, often used metaphorically in English to depict chaos or mass violence. Latah, meanwhile, refers to an involuntary mimicry syndrome triggered by surprise, originating from Southeast Asian cultures, especially in Indonesia.

In our context, “amok” resonates powerfully. The violent protests sparked by both the “stupid” remark from a parliamentary figure and the police’s deadly response captured the emotional equivalent of going “amok”: pent-up frustration and collective fury spilling into the streets. The insult and the tragedy together mobilised emotions that morphed into a frenzy of outrage—a national amok, so to speak.

The term “latah”, though less direct, also carries symbolic weight. It suggests reflexive, unthinking mimicry—in this case, perhaps political gestures or public backlashes that mimic outrage without fully addressing underlying issues. One might argue that some institutional responses—such as rehearsed apologies, perfunctory investigations, or token resignations—unconsciously mimic a façade of accountability. Yet these acts often fail to heal the deeper rupture: a crisis of trust.

Thus, the dual contributions of “amok” and “latah” to English are unexpectedly apt here. One term captures the eruptive energy of public anger; the other hints at hollow, performative responses. Together, they remind us how language borrowed from Indonesia encapsulates our contemporary political drama.

Amok is indeed part of the English lexicon, appearing in well-established dictionaries such as Merriam-Webster. The etymology, its etymological roots are Javanese, then spread through Malay, amuk, meaning “attacking furiously,” and “run amok” has been recorded in English since the late 17th century. This confirms that amok has been fully absorbed into English usage, not merely as a loanword but as an idiomatic expression signifying violent or uncontrolled frenzy.

Likewise, latah also features in English-language dictionaries, particularly in medical and psychiatric contexts. Merriam-Webster describes it as “a neurotic condition marked by automatic obedience, echolalia, and echopraxia observed especially among the Malayan people”. Other dictionaries, such as Collins and Dictionary.com, similarly define latah as a culture-specific startle response characterised by mimicry and reflexive obedience.

Therefore, Rocky Gerung’s reference to amok and latah as Indonesian (or Malay) words adopted into advanced English dictionaries is accurate: both terms are indeed included in established English references, often in specialised or psychological usage.

In the intricate dance of Indonesian politics, the twin words “amok” (or amuck) and “latah” take on hauntingly symbolic significance when applied to the twin crises of parliament and the police. “Amok,” that explosive and uncontrollable burst of rage, mirrors the way ordinary citizens might respond when an elected representative dares to call them “stupid,” or when a police force, sworn to protect, instead crushes them under the wheels of its armoured car. Yet alongside that rage lies “latah,” the nervous and thoughtless repetition of whatever one hears, which mirrors the behaviour of certain lawmakers and police officials who echo hollow narratives without reflection, as though trapped in an involuntary performance. The interplay of “amok” from below and “latah” from above creates a dangerous theatre of mistrust: a society where anger erupts from the grassroots while authority responds with nothing more than knee-jerk mimicry of excuses, deepening the fracture between people and institutions.

History is replete with examples of legislative bodies, whether they called themselves Senates, Assemblies, or Parliaments, being swept away by the very people they claimed to represent. One of the most striking cases is that of the French Revolution, when the Estates-General of 1789, originally convened as a platform of representation, quickly transformed into the National Assembly and then became the target of public rage. The deputies were seen as too slow, too self-interested, and too blind to the misery of the commoners, which eventually fuelled the storming of the Bastille and the downfall of the ancien régime. Similarly, in ancient Rome, the Senate, once a body of revered authority, repeatedly lost legitimacy in the eyes of ordinary Romans when it appeared aloof, corrupt, and dismissive of popular needs. Figures like the Gracchi brothers tried to reform it, but their violent deaths only highlighted how far the Senate had drifted from the masses, paving the way for populist leaders and ultimately the collapse of the Republic.

In more modern times, one might look at the Russian Duma of 1917, which failed to respond to food shortages and the demands of workers and soldiers. The discontent did not just simmer; it boiled over, with revolutionary crowds eventually forcing the abdication of the Tsar and sweeping aside the parliamentary experiment altogether. Across these examples, the pattern is consistent: whenever a legislative body grows detached from the realities of ordinary life, treating the populace as a nuisance rather than the sovereign, the people have sooner or later risen in anger, sometimes toppling not only the institution but also the entire political order that shielded it.

Asia, too, has its own powerful reminders of what happens when parliaments or representative bodies lose their credibility. In South Korea during the 1980s, the National Assembly was widely seen as nothing more than a rubber stamp for military rulers. Students and workers filled the streets, furious that their supposed representatives ignored democratic aspirations. The June Struggle of 1987 finally forced the government to concede reforms, transforming the Assembly into a more genuinely representative institution. In Taiwan, a similar story unfolded: for decades, the Legislative Yuan was dominated by Kuomintang figures who claimed to represent the entirety of China but paid little heed to the actual Taiwanese people. By the 1980s and 1990s, mass demonstrations and rising civil society pressure pushed the body towards reform and democratisation.

Even more dramatic is the case of Thailand, where repeated parliaments have been dissolved or overthrown, often after they were perceived to be serving elites rather than the ordinary citizens. Protests, occupations of parliamentary grounds, and even coups emerged as a direct reaction to politicians who acted as though public voices were disposable. These episodes from Asia reinforce the universal lesson that when institutions of representation drift into arrogance or detachment, the people eventually remind them—sometimes with ballots, sometimes with bodies in the streets—that sovereignty lies not in the chamber, but among the citizens.

When one places the Indonesian unrest of August 2025 against the long canvas of world history, the pattern is almost painfully familiar. Just as the French deputies of 1789 hesitated while their people starved, or the Roman Senate grew pompous and detached, so too has the Indonesian House of Representatives been accused of moving in a parallel direction. By proposing an extravagant housing allowance that dwarfs the minimum wage, whilst citizens struggle with inflation, job insecurity, and the rising cost of education, the institution risks being seen not as a guardian of the people’s interests but as a fortress of privilege. The death of Affan Kurniawan in the midst of these protests then became more than a tragedy; it became a symbol of a widening gulf between rulers and ruled.

Like the Korean National Assembly in the 1980s or the Taiwanese Legislative Yuan before reform, Indonesia’s parliament now faces a test of legitimacy. If it chooses to dismiss the outrage as mere noise, it may find that the noise grows into a roar too loud to contain. If, however, it learns from history, it could still reform itself into a body that listens, shares burdens, and earns trust. The lesson from France, Rome, Russia, Korea, Taiwan, and Thailand alike is stark: when parliaments treat citizens as irritants, citizens do not simply retreat—they regroup, and sometimes they rise. The storm outside the chamber is not mere weather; it is a reminder that political roofs collapse when built without foundations of trust.

History carries a grim archive of moments when the police, designed to be guardians of public order, instead became the spark of public fury. In the United States, the year 1992 stands out sharply: the beating of Rodney King by Los Angeles police officers, and their subsequent acquittal, ignited one of the most destructive urban uprisings in American history. Crowds did not simply protest; they stormed the streets, set buildings ablaze, and confronted the very officers who were supposed to serve them. The uniform itself became a symbol of violence rather than protection.

Another example comes from Egypt in 2011, when decades of police brutality and corruption culminated in the spark of the Arab Spring. The police force, notorious for its repression, torture, and arbitrary arrests, found itself directly in the crosshairs of public anger. On 28 January—later called the “Friday of Rage”—police stations were stormed and set on fire, officers were chased from the streets, and the regime’s grip began to unravel. The people’s rage was not simply about politics in the abstract; it was about lived fear of the very force meant to guarantee safety.

Closer to Southeast Asia, one recalls the Philippines under Ferdinand Marcos. In the 1980s, the police, merged with military structures, became infamous for cracking down violently on dissent. The assassination of opposition figure Benigno Aquino Jr. and repeated abuses by security forces triggered the People Power Revolution of 1986. Ordinary citizens flooded the streets, surrounding tanks and police lines with sheer human will, showing how swiftly public trust can collapse when law enforcement turns from guardian into predator.

The thread across these histories is unmistakable: when police forces act as if they are above the people rather than of the people, even a single act—whether a brutal beating, a public killing, or a reckless death under an armoured vehicle—can transform into the lightning rod for mass revolt.

The tragedy of Affan Kurniawan on 28 August 2025 resonates with earlier flashpoints in global history, for it was not simply an accident but a catalyst that unmasked deeper wounds between state power and public trust. In Los Angeles in 1992, the beating of Rodney King and the acquittal of the police officers were not just an instance of brutality; they were proof to many that the system itself was stacked against ordinary citizens. The streets erupted, because people felt that their pain had been dismissed with a shrug from those in authority.

In Cairo in 2011, the so-called “Friday of Rage” became a turning point when years of police repression found their moment of reckoning. Police stations were overrun, and the institution itself was treated as illegitimate. The protests did not simply demand political change in the abstract; they demanded freedom from the very fear instilled by uniformed men who had ceased to be trusted.

Indonesia’s 28 August carries the same heavy symbolism. Affan’s death beneath the wheels of an armoured police vehicle was not viewed as a mere mishap but as an emblem of arrogance and indifference. Just like the images of Rodney King’s beating or the storming of Cairo’s police stations, the incident has crystallised public anger into something larger than grief: a statement that the police are accountable not to themselves but to the people they serve. The parallel is haunting: in every case, the spark is sudden, but the fuel has been stored for years in the form of neglect, contempt, and repression.

History records several striking moments when lawmakers or political elites insulted their own people, dismissing them as ignorant, foolish, or unworthy, only to discover that such contempt can ignite fury far more dangerous than opposition alone. In pre-revolutionary France, many nobles and deputies mocked the Third Estate—the commoners—as ignorant peasants incapable of understanding governance. Pamphlets and speeches ridiculed their demands for bread and fair taxation. That sneer of superiority became one of the sparks that pushed crowds to storm the Bastille, proving that calling a people “stupid” is often the last mistake a regime makes.

In Britain during the 19th century, elements of Parliament ridiculed working-class activists in the Chartist movement, branding them “rabble” and “uneducated mobs.” Rather than silencing them, such insults only gave the Chartists greater unity, strengthening their demand for voting rights. Though initially dismissed, the reforms they sought eventually became cornerstones of British democracy.

In more recent times, during the Arab Spring, politicians and state figures in Tunisia and Egypt were often heard describing protesters as “children” or “simpletons manipulated by outsiders.” That arrogance only inflamed the streets further. The Tunisian parliamentarians who belittled Mohamed Bouazizi’s act of despair as “pathetic” could not foresee that within weeks the insult would echo across the Arab world and topple presidents.

The lesson is clear: when representatives openly call their people “stupid,” they may think they are silencing dissent, but in reality they are writing the opening lines of their own downfall.

When one traces the line from France in 1789, through Britain in the nineteenth century, across Tunisia in 2011, and into Indonesia in 2025, a striking parallel emerges: whenever those entrusted with representing the people choose to insult them instead, contempt becomes the seed of rebellion. In France, nobles and deputies dismissed the commoners as ignorant and incapable, only to discover that their supposed “foolish peasants” could bring down a monarchy. In Britain, Chartists were ridiculed as a rabble of uneducated dreamers, yet it was their dream that later redefined democracy itself. In Tunisia, politicians laughed at Bouazizi’s desperate act, branding it meaningless, but his flames lit the spark that burned across an entire region. And now in Indonesia, a lawmaker’s casual branding of citizens as “stupid” has poured salt on wounds already raw with economic hardship and political disillusionment.

The pattern is unmissable: arrogance in the mouths of the powerful transforms frustration into fury, and fury into movements that reshape nations. The insult may be delivered with a smirk in a parliamentary chamber, but it echoes loudest in the streets, where the real power resides. History whispers the same warning again and again—that mocking the people is not a show of strength, but the overture to collapse.

Insults hurled across parliamentary benches and violence spilling from police lines are not random bursts of temper but rather symptoms of a far deeper malady: the erosion of trust. When citizens begin to suspect that parliamentarians see them as pawns rather than equals, and that police officers view them as obstacles rather than people under their protection, the fragile social contract trembles dangerously. Trust is the invisible currency of democracy; once it is squandered, even the grandest institutions find themselves exposed, stripped of legitimacy before their people.

In an age where technology has made information travel faster than ever before, Indonesian officials must exercise caution in the statements they deliver to the public. Words that once might have been swallowed whole by an uninformed society are now dissected, scrutinised, and fact-checked within minutes by citizens armed with smartphones. The habit of underestimating the intelligence of the people through vague promises, misleading narratives, or careless remarks no longer works in an era of digital transparency. What might appear to be a passing phrase can quickly spiral into a national controversy, exposing incompetence, arrogance, or even deception. Thus, it is not merely advisable but essential for those in power to speak with accuracy, humility, and respect, lest their words become the very tools of their own undoing.

However, between the foolishness of careless words and the crisis of a broken trust lies the chance for redemption. A parliament might rediscover humility, a police force might return to its sacred duty of protection, and a nation might be restored to its unity. Yet, if arrogance continues to reign, history has shown with chilling precision that the people will one day declare that enough is enough.

Amidst the clamour of citizens clashing with both Parliament and the police, a curious declaration emerged, framed with almost theatrical defiance: “Prabowo cannot maintain security, therefore he must step down.” The words did not come from a neutral civic movement or a coalition of reformist voices, but from a group styling themselves as the Laskar Cinta Jokowi—a name that blends the language of romance with the ambitions of politics. Their proclamation sounded less like a genuine appeal for national stability and more like a calculated provocation, designed to stoke unease and suggest that disorder was not merely a symptom but a verdict. In choosing such a label, they wrapped their manoeuvre in an aura of loyalty and passion, yet beneath the affectionate branding lay the hard steel of political gamesmanship, hinting at a narrative where chaos is engineered not to be resolved but to justify a reshuffling of power.

Remembering the Hollywood movie Air Force One (1997), the Vice President portrayed by Glenn Close does not directly overthrow the President, yet the film strikingly demonstrates how a Vice President can find themselves in an acutely precarious position—caught between unwavering loyalty to the President and the compelling, sometimes unavoidable, pull of assuming authority during a crisis. This cinematic tension mirrors real-world politics, where the office of the Vice President is never immune to suspicion. In turbulent moments, the public and political insiders alike often perceive the Vice President not merely as a supportive deputy but as a silent heir-in-waiting, ready to step into the void should the machinery of leadership falter. It is in this delicate intersection of loyalty and ambition that politics resembles a meticulously staged theatre, every gesture, glance, and word scrutinised as an indication of latent intent.

It’s a truth universally acknowledged—at least in the land of popcorn and plot twists—that the Vice President is never just a loyal understudy. No, in Hollywood’s political imagination, the second-in-command is a ticking time bomb of ambition, poised to pounce the moment the Commander-in-Chief stumbles.

Take Absolute Power (1997), where Clint Eastwood navigates a presidential inner circle so riddled with intrigue, it makes Westminster look like a knitting club. The Vice President may not be the one sharpening the knives, but the message is clear: when those closest to the throne have hidden agendas, the crown sits perilously askew.

Then there’s 24, that adrenaline-fuelled soap opera for the paranoid patriot. Across its many seasons (2001–2010), we’re treated to a Vice President who doesn’t just dream of power—he practically sends out engraved invitations to his own coup. It’s a masterclass in Machiavellian manoeuvring, where betrayal isn’t a bug in the system, it’s the feature.

Hollywood adores this narrative because it’s deliciously dramatic: the deputy who might be a saviour… or a saboteur. The Vice President, that supposed pillar of continuity, becomes a cypher for ambition, duplicity, and the ever-present possibility that the real threat to power isn’t external—it’s sitting one heartbeat away.

Bahasa

The Barracuda Tragedy: Indonesian Police Crisis

On the evening of August 28, 2025, Jakarta was shaken by a harrowing incident that has since become a focal point of national outrage. During a demonstration near the Pejompongan area, an armoured police vehicle, known as a Barracuda, ran over and killed an online motorcycle taxi driver, Affan Kurniawan. Disturbing footage circulating on social media shows the vehicle continuing to move forward, dragging the victim several metres, while bystanders attempted to intervene. The vehicle did not stop, and no immediate assistance was provided to the victim. This incident has raised serious questions about the conduct and accountability of law enforcement in Indonesia.

The tragedy has ignited widespread public anger. Social media platforms have been flooded with condemnations, and civil society organisations have called for justice. The incident has highlighted long-standing issues within the police force, including excessive use of force, lack of accountability, and a perceived culture of impunity. The public's trust in law enforcement has been severely eroded, and demands for systemic reform are growing louder.

International media outlets have expressed significant concern over the Barracuda incident in Jakarta, highlighting issues related to police conduct, human rights violations, and the broader implications for Indonesia's democratic institutions.

Global news organisations have reported extensively on the incident, emphasising the severity of the situation and its potential impact on Indonesia's international reputation. For instance, Al Jazeera covered the violent clashes between Indonesian police and students protesting against lawmakers' salaries, noting the use of tear gas and water cannons to disperse demonstrators. While this coverage did not directly address the Barracuda incident, it underscores ongoing concerns about police tactics and the treatment of civilians during protests.

Reporters Without Borders (RSF) condemned police violence against journalists covering protests, highlighting incidents where journalists were assaulted and their equipment damaged by police officers. This context suggests a pattern of aggressive police behaviour that may be relevant to understanding the Barracuda incident.

Additionally, Reuters reported on acts of intimidation against the Indonesian magazine Tempo, which received mutilated animal carcasses. Such incidents point to a broader environment of hostility towards press freedom and civil society organisations, which may influence public perception of police actions.

Human rights organisations have expressed alarm over the incident, viewing it as a violation of the right to life and a breach of international human rights standards. The apparent lack of accountability and transparency in the aftermath further exacerbates concerns about systemic issues within Indonesia's law enforcement agencies.

Legal experts argue that the incident warrants a thorough investigation and appropriate legal action against those responsible. The failure to hold individuals accountable could undermine public trust in the justice system and embolden further misconduct.

In response to the incident, both domestic and international observers are calling for comprehensive reforms within Indonesia's police force. These reforms include enhanced training on human rights, the establishment of independent oversight mechanisms, and stricter accountability measures for law enforcement personnel.

International partners and human rights advocates are urging the Indonesian government to take decisive action to address the underlying issues that led to the Barracuda incident. The effectiveness of these reforms will be closely monitored by the international community.

The Barracuda incident has garnered widespread international attention, with media outlets and human rights organisations highlighting concerns about police conduct and the need for systemic reform in Indonesia's law enforcement agencies.

The Barracuda incident can be classified as a human rights violation, particularly regarding the right to life. Under international human rights standards, every individual has the fundamental right to life, safety, and security. When a law enforcement officer or institution acts in a manner that deliberately or recklessly endangers a civilian’s life—especially when there is a failure to provide aid after causing harm—it constitutes a serious breach of these rights.

From a legal perspective, the act of running over a civilian and failing to render assistance can be seen as an arbitrary deprivation of life, which is prohibited under both international human rights law and Indonesia’s domestic regulations on human rights and criminal law. Moreover, the apparent impunity and lack of accountability in this case exacerbate the violation, as it signals that state actors can commit acts that endanger citizens without facing proper consequences.

In short, the incident is not just a criminal act but also a violation of the fundamental human right to life, and it demands both criminal investigation and human rights accountability mechanisms.

One of the most concerning aspects of this crisis is the reluctance of Indonesian officials to step down in the face of serious allegations. In many democracies, public officials who are involved in significant controversies or failures often resign to take responsibility and preserve public trust. However, in Indonesia, such resignations are rare. Cultural and political norms often discourage officials from stepping down, even when their actions or inactions have led to public harm.

This reluctance to resign is not just a matter of individual accountability but also reflects deeper issues within the political system. It suggests a lack of a robust culture of accountability and a failure to uphold the principle that public officials are ultimately responsible to the people they serve. The absence of resignations in the face of serious incidents like the Barracuda tragedy sends a troubling message: that those in power can evade responsibility without consequence.

The Barracuda incident is not an isolated event but part of a broader pattern of issues within Indonesia's law enforcement and political systems. Simply issuing an apology is not sufficient in a case as serious as the Barracuda incident. While an apology may acknowledge wrongdoing and express remorse, it does not address the systemic failures, legal accountability, or the loss of life involved. The public and victims’ families require more than words—they need concrete actions such as thorough investigation, legal prosecution of those responsible, disciplinary measures, institutional reform, and steps to prevent similar tragedies in the future.

In essence, an apology without meaningful action may even be perceived as superficial or insincere, potentially deepening public distrust. True accountability demands tangible measures that combine moral responsibility, legal justice, and institutional reform.

To restore public trust and ensure accountability, comprehensive reforms are necessary. These should include:

• Strengthening Oversight Mechanisms: Independent bodies should be empowered to investigate and hold law enforcement accountable for misconduct.
• Enhancing Transparency: Police operations and decision-making processes should be made more transparent to the public.
• Promoting a Culture of Accountability: Public officials should be held to high ethical standards, and there should be clear consequences for misconduct.
• Encouraging Resignations When Appropriate: Officials should be willing to step down when their actions have led to public harm, setting a precedent for accountability. 

The Barracuda tragedy serves as a stark reminder of the challenges facing Indonesia's law enforcement and political systems. It underscores the need for urgent reforms to address issues of accountability and transparency. Only through such institutional reforms can public trust be restored and the integrity of public institutions upheld.

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Lord Acton's Maxim: Power Tends to Corrupt ... (4)

Imagine three friends deciding where to eat dinner. The first level of power is obvious: one of them simply insists, “We are going for pizza,” and the others reluctantly agree. The second level is subtler: before the discussion even begins, another friend quietly removes all menus except the one for the burger place, so pizza is never even an option. The third and most radical level is invisible: the last friend has, over time, convinced the others that eating sushi is too expensive, too strange, or simply “not for people like us,” so they never even think of suggesting it. This anecdote captures Lukes’ three faces of power—the open decision, the hidden agenda, and the deep shaping of beliefs and desires—revealing how control can operate far beyond the surface of everyday choices.

In his influential work Power: A Radical View, Steven Lukes, particularly in its second edition published in 2005 by Palgrave Macmillan, expands his original 1974 analysis of power by offering a deeper and more nuanced account of how power operates not only in its visible, decision-making form, but also in its hidden and insidious dimensions. He distinguishes between different "faces" of power: the overt ability to make decisions, the covert capacity to control the agenda and prevent certain issues from even being discussed, and the most radical level, the shaping of desires, beliefs, and perceptions in such a way that people accept a reality which may not serve their true interests. The second edition enriches these arguments by responding to critics and engaging with contemporary debates, making the book a cornerstone for anyone studying politics, sociology, or philosophy of power. What makes Lukes’ contribution so significant is his insistence that power is not merely about observable conflicts but also about the silent shaping of consent, which often renders domination invisible.

Picture a scene in Indonesian politics where three different levels of power are at play. The first level is the most visible: a politician stands before the cameras and declares, “This is the policy we will adopt,” leaving little space for public disagreement. The second level is quieter: before any parliamentary debate can happen, influential figures behind the scenes decide which issues are worthy of being tabled, ensuring that sensitive topics—such as corruption cases involving their allies—never make it into the formal agenda. The third level is the most subtle and powerful of all: through years of orchestrated media campaigns, education narratives, and cultural messaging, citizens are led to believe that questioning authority is disrespectful, even dangerous, so they self-censor before a single protest is voiced. This is precisely how Lukes’ three faces of power manifest in real life, reminding us that control is not only about commands, but also about shaping the very boundaries of what people imagine to be possible.

In The Anatomy of Power (1983, Houghton Mifflin), John Kenneth Galbraith sought to strip away the mystique surrounding authority and to reveal its essential mechanisms. He argued that power does not exist as a single, monolithic force but instead manifests in three distinct styles. The first is condign power, which relies on the capacity to punish or inflict pain, forcing compliance through fear of negative consequences. The second is compensatory power, which secures obedience by offering rewards, whether material or symbolic, making individuals act not out of fear but for gain. The third is conditioned power, which is more subtle, shaping belief, perception, and preference so thoroughly that people obey without recognising that they are being directed. Galbraith’s typology made clear that modern societies increasingly lean on conditioned power, where media, education, and cultural institutions mould thought more effectively than mere threats or payments. In doing so, he provided a framework that still resonates in analysing how governments, corporations, and even individuals exercise influence in contemporary life.

In The Craft of Power, Ralph Siu draws a sharp distinction between what he calls “persons of power” and “conventional executives.” A conventional executive, in his description, is essentially a functionary: someone who administers policies, oversees routines, and executes tasks within the framework already provided by others. Such figures may be efficient, loyal, and even respected, but their scope is confined by the structures they inhabit. By contrast, a person of power operates beyond mere management. He or she is concerned with shaping the very environment in which executives function, manipulating the rules rather than simply following them, and using foresight, influence, and strategy to create opportunities where none existed before. The executive maintains order within a system; the person of power alters the system itself. Siu insists that this difference is not one of hierarchy alone, but of orientation: one manages stability, while the other engineers change and thus commands the true levers of influence.

When Ralph Siu speaks of “The Craft of Power” in his book, he is deliberately framing power not as a vague abstraction nor as a crude struggle for dominance, but as a disciplined art that can be studied, refined, and consciously practised. For him, power is not merely something one stumbles upon by accident or inherits by birth; it is a craft, much like music, architecture, or warfare, requiring both technical skill and philosophical depth. To master this craft is to understand the mechanics of influence, the psychology of persuasion, the role of timing, and the necessity of self-control. It involves both the creation and the preservation of authority, the careful balancing of force and subtlety, and the ability to turn circumstances into opportunities. In essence, “The Craft of Power” is Siu’s way of teaching that true command lies not in raw aggression or position alone, but in the cultivated discipline of treating power as an art form that shapes both the wielder and the world around him.

In Game of Thrones, the conventional executive is someone like Ser Davos, loyal and competent, but always functioning within the limits set by greater forces. By contrast, a true practitioner of the Craft of Power resembles someone like Tyrion Lannister or Littlefinger, who view politics as a game of strategy in which words, alliances, and timing are weapons as sharp as swords. They do not merely follow the rules; they bend, twist, or rewrite them. Similarly, in Naruto, the ordinary ninja who masters only basic techniques represents the conventional executive, while a character like Shikamaru embodies the Craft of Power—he does not possess overwhelming brute force, but he consistently outmanoeuvres opponents through intelligence, patience, and foresight. The lesson Siu wants us to grasp is that real mastery of power lies not in being the loudest or strongest, but in treating influence as a craft—an art form where discipline, subtlety, and calculation matter more than brute aggression.

In The End of Power (2013, Basic Books), Moisés Naím argues that we are living in an age where the barriers to acquiring power have been drastically lowered, yet the capacity to sustain and exercise it has simultaneously diminished. He explains that globalisation, technological advancement, and the diffusion of information have eroded the traditional monopolies that once allowed rulers, corporations, and institutions to consolidate authority over long periods. Today, almost anyone with determination, access to digital tools, and a compelling idea can disrupt established hierarchies and momentarily seize influence. However, precisely because power is more dispersed, those who achieve it soon find themselves besieged by challengers, constrained by transparency, and undermined by the rapid pace of change. What Naím underscores is a paradox of modernity: power is easier to grasp but far more fragile, fleeting, and contested than in the past.

Corruption, as Moisés Naím’s reflections would suggest, is not always born out of intoxication with authority or the arrogance of office, but can just as easily be the by-product of fragile and fragmented power. In a world where influence is easier to seize but far harder to consolidate, leaders and officials often operate in an atmosphere of uncertainty, fearing that their hold on authority could dissolve overnight. This volatility can tempt them into corrupt practices, not merely to indulge in greed, but as a desperate attempt to cement loyalty, buy stability, or secure a fleeting advantage in a constantly shifting political landscape. Thus, corruption emerges not only as the excess of unchecked power, but also as the symptom of its instability.

Therefore, it could well be argued that the case of the Deputy Minister of Manpower serves as a timely reminder for President Prabowo to reconsider the composition of his cabinet and inner circle. If someone who has only just entered office is already showing signs of misconduct, then it is reasonable to worry about those who have sat in power for far longer, for the corrosive effects of authority deepen with time. Of course, it would be unfair to deny that several long-serving ministers have demonstrated remarkable competence and dedication, yet the old maxim still resounds with sobering clarity: absolute power corrupts absolutely. Thus, renewal is not merely a matter of political strategy but of safeguarding the moral health of governance itself.

When an individual remains in the same position of authority for too long, the natural checks and balances of democracy begin to erode. What should be a system of rotation, renewal, and accountability instead hardens into a structure of personal rule. Over time, the distinction between public office and private entitlement becomes blurred, and the language of service shifts into the language of possession. In such an environment, democracy quietly transforms into a form of modern feudalism, where loyalty is owed not to institutions but to personalities.

Moreover, meritocracy, which ideally rewards ability and competence, becomes undermined by networks of favouritism. The longer someone holds on to power, the more incentives they have to surround themselves with loyalists rather than the most capable individuals. This tendency breeds nepotism—favouring family members—and cronyism—rewarding close associates regardless of merit. History offers ample examples: monarchies that began as elective positions turned hereditary; revolutionary leaders who promised liberty yet built dynasties; or post-colonial rulers who converted republics into private fiefdoms. The conclusion is clear: prolonged tenure corrodes democracy’s spirit and subverts meritocracy into systems of kinship and personal allegiance.

Through the lens of Lord Acton’s maxim, the continuation of old ministers under President Prabowo would not merely be a matter of administrative continuity, but rather a structural risk to the moral and political health of the state. If power, by its very nature, inclines towards corruption, then retaining ministers who have already been deeply embedded in the habits, networks, and loyalties of the former regime means that corruption ceases to be an aberration and instead becomes institutionalised practice. In such a situation, Prabowo’s government risks being less a fresh mandate for reform and more a continuation of entrenched interests dressed in new clothing. What Lord Acton warns us about is not only the corruption of the ruler himself, but the creeping corruption of the entire apparatus of power when it is left unchallenged, unrotated, and unaccountable. Thus, the legacy of old ministers in a new administration may serve as proof that the gravitational pull of power is stronger than the will of change, leaving meritocracy and democratic renewal overshadowed by the inertia of cronyism.

In the long shadow of Lord Acton’s maxim, the presence of entrenched ministers and officials within President Prabowo’s administration is not merely a matter of continuity, but a profound risk to the vitality of governance itself. Their prolonged occupancy of power, coupled with loyalty networks rooted in the previous regime, creates a structural tension where accountability bends before allegiance, and reform becomes stifled by inertia. Instead of injecting new energy and legitimacy, such figures tend to guard old privileges, erect invisible walls around policy-making, and slowly drain away the oxygen of democratic renewal. In this sense, they are not neutral caretakers of the state but potential custodians of stagnation, whose very permanence corrodes the meritocratic promise of leadership and quietly replaces it with the whisper of cronyism. For Prabowo, the danger lies not only in inherited inefficiencies, but also in the risk that the government becomes hostage to insiders who thrive on maintaining their own positions rather than serving the nation.

The danger of retaining ministers and officials loyal to the previous regime is not merely administrative but profoundly structural. These figures, while outwardly pledging allegiance to the new president, often carry within them the habits, alliances, and vested interests of the old order. Lord Acton’s maxim becomes instructive here: the longer power is held without rotation or renewal, the more it bends towards corruption. If Prabowo surrounds himself with such holdovers, his government risks being trapped in an echo chamber where true accountability is diluted, and real reform suffocated by the inertia of those who benefited under the previous system. The very essence of democracy – the idea that leadership must serve the people rather than perpetuate itself – begins to decay when the same hands cling too long to the levers of influence. Instead of forging a fresh mandate, the government could unwittingly become a mere extension of the past, its stability undermined by the ghosts of loyalty to another master.

One of the most telling historical illustrations comes from post-Suharto Indonesia itself. When Suharto resigned in 1998, many expected sweeping changes that would sweep away the cronies and loyalists who had buttressed his rule for decades. Yet, large portions of his network – generals, businessmen, and bureaucrats – remained in positions of power. This continuity diluted the spirit of Reformasi, as the same elites merely adapted their language and posture to survive under a new dispensation. The result was a hybrid system: outwardly democratic, but inwardly dominated by entrenched oligarchic interests. The lesson is clear – unless new leadership decisively distinguishes itself from the apparatus of the past, it risks being seen as merely the next act in the same long play.

A striking foreign example comes from post-apartheid South Africa. When Nelson Mandela became president in 1994, the world celebrated the end of a brutal and segregated regime. Yet, many of the economic structures, corporate elites, and bureaucratic figures who had thrived under apartheid remained firmly in place. This continuity severely limited the new government’s ability to redistribute wealth or radically change economic power dynamics. Mandela himself prioritised political reconciliation over economic upheaval, which preserved peace but also cemented deep inequalities that persist to this day. The outcome shows how new leaders, even with revolutionary legitimacy, can find themselves shackled by old institutions and vested interests.

In Latin America, the cycle of new leaders being restrained by old institutions has been particularly vivid. When Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva first took power in Brazil in 2003, he promised sweeping social change to lift millions out of poverty. While he did succeed in expanding welfare programmes and reducing inequality, his government was constantly entangled with an entrenched political class and powerful business elites who resisted deeper structural reforms. Similarly, in Argentina, successive presidents who campaigned on promises of radical transformation often found themselves colliding with the judiciary, the military, and entrenched networks of oligarchic wealth. The pattern is clear: even when the face of leadership changes, the invisible scaffolding of power often resists demolition, and governments risk being consumed by the very institutions they hoped to reform.

In Eastern Europe after the collapse of the Soviet Union, a wave of leaders came to power with promises of freedom, democracy, and prosperity. Yet, many of them found themselves restrained by the very institutions and networks that had survived from the communist era. In Russia, Boris Yeltsin initially appeared as a reformer who would dismantle the old structures, but soon the oligarchs and remnants of the Soviet bureaucracy bent the system to serve their interests. In countries like Ukraine and Romania, revolutions and elections promised change, yet the judiciary, security services, and business elites often proved to be deeply resistant to transformation. What unfolded was not the clean break from the past that many had hoped for, but rather a slow recycling of power under new labels, leaving citizens with the bitter taste of déjà vu.

Lord Acton’s famous dictum that “power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely” remains perhaps the most cited warning in political thought. It is not merely a sharp epigram but a moral compass, reminding rulers and the ruled alike that unchecked authority breeds arrogance, distortion, and moral decay. What Acton gave the world was not just a statement of politics, but a diagnosis of human nature under the intoxication of power.

In many ways, Acton’s warning is more urgent today than when he first voiced it in the nineteenth century. The structures of governance have grown more complex, the technologies of influence more invasive, and the temptations of unchecked control more alluring. To ignore his warning is to invite the slow erosion of freedom and the gradual enthronement of fear.

Yet Acton was not merely cynical about power; he was profoundly idealistic about liberty. He believed that history was not only a chronicle of rulers and wars, but a test of how much humanity could preserve its moral integrity in the face of ambition and dominance. His vision was one where liberty had to be defended constantly, not as a gift from above, but as a discipline of conscience from within.

If anything, his dictum forces us to hold leaders accountable while also examining ourselves. For corruption is not only a disease of kings and ministers; it is a temptation in every corridor of influence, from the local office to the global stage. To invoke Acton is to accept a responsibility: never to revere power for its own sake, but to measure it against justice and truth.

In the end, Lord Acton gave us more than a warning; he gave us a principle of vigilance. His words survive because they capture a universal danger and a universal duty. Wherever power gathers, suspicion must follow, not out of malice but out of wisdom. The health of any society depends not on how much power it can concentrate, but on how well it can restrain it.

Lord Acton’s maxim is not merely a witty observation but a sober warning for every society that dares to entrust power to human hands. It reminds us that institutions must always be stronger than individuals, and that even the most virtuous leaders require boundaries, accountability, and a constant reminder of their fallibility. Without such safeguards, power inevitably transforms from a tool of service into a weapon of domination.

In the heart of democracy, the maxim serves as a moral compass, signalling that no office, however noble, should be immune from scrutiny. It emphasises that loyalty to the people must surpass loyalty to one’s own circle, and that public trust must never be exchanged for personal gain. When leaders forget this, they not only betray their mandate but corrode the very foundations of the system that elevated them.

At the same time, Lord Acton’s words remind us that corruption is not always born from malice, but often from prolonged comfort with unchecked authority. Power breeds familiarity, and familiarity breeds the illusion of permanence. When a leader refuses to step aside, democracy quietly slips into feudalism, and the promise of equality is replaced by the cold hand of privilege.

Therefore, the true guardians of freedom are not merely leaders, but citizens who demand accountability with vigilance. Lord Acton’s maxim is a call to the public: never allow admiration to blind you to excess, never let gratitude silence your criticism, and never forget that even the greatest leaders remain human and therefore corruptible.

In the end, the maxim is not a prophecy of despair but a map of caution. It tells us that power will always be dangerous, yet danger can be managed with transparency, rotation, and the courage to let go. If societies take these lessons seriously, power can remain a servant of justice rather than its master.

[Part 1]
[Part 3]

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