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.

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