[Part 4]Many critics of Joko Widodo, often referred to simply as Jokowi, argue that his so-called "sins" are not the small errors of a well-meaning leader, but rather deep structural betrayals of democratic trust. They accuse him of manipulating state institutions to secure power for his family, most notably through the controversial rise of his son, Gibran Rakabuming Raka, to the vice presidency, which many see as blatant dynastic politics undermining Indonesia’s reformist spirit. They also highlight the weakening of anti-corruption bodies, particularly the emasculation of the Corruption Eradication Commission (KPK), which has left a bitter taste among those who once believed him to be a clean leader. Furthermore, his government’s reliance on excessive debt and extractive economic projects is seen as a burden passed to future generations, while environmentalists condemn his administration for siding with oligarchic business interests at the expense of ecological sustainability. For these reasons, his detractors argue that Jokowi does not merely deserve to be criticised but should be held accountable in court, even imprisoned, for betraying the democratic aspirations of Indonesia.In the eyes of his critics, one of Jokowi’s major “sins” lies in the way he managed, or rather mismanaged, large-scale infrastructure projects. While these projects were initially framed as the backbone of Indonesia’s future growth, many ended up plagued by ballooning costs, delays, questionable feasibility, and a reliance on foreign loans, particularly from China. Instead of becoming engines of sustainable development, several of them turned into symbols of debt dependency, leaving Indonesia more vulnerable to external pressures. This connects directly to the national budget (APBN), as debt repayments consume an increasingly large portion of state expenditure, limiting fiscal space for social welfare, education, or healthcare. The long-term fear, as many economists warn, is that if these projects fail to generate sufficient returns, Indonesia will be saddled with “white elephants”—glorious in appearance but financially ruinous. Thus, for critics, Jokowi’s obsession with mega-projects is not just poor planning, but a grave error that could jeopardise the resilience of Indonesia’s economy for decades to come.
One of the most emblematic examples of what critics call Jokowi’s “white elephant projects” is the Jakarta–Bandung high-speed rail. Marketed as a symbol of modern Indonesia, the project was beset by cost overruns, technical delays, and questions about whether the 142-kilometre line could ever be commercially viable given the short distance and ticket prices. Instead of being a profitable showcase of progress, it became a burden, financed largely by loans that increased Indonesia’s debt exposure.In recent times, the Whoosh high-speed railway project has come to embody both national pride and fiscal peril. Initially conceived as a symbol of progress, the Jakarta–Bandung line instead carved a gaping wound in the books of State-Owned Enterprises. In 2024, the project’s consortium vehicle, PSBI, logged losses of around Rp 4.195 trillion, followed by a further Rp 1.625 trillion in the first half of 2025. As the dominant shareholder, PT KAI was forced to shoulder nearly Rp 951 billion of these losses, driving its balance sheet into the red.At the surface, government accounts may attempt to paint a picture of fiscal stability, but beneath the sheen, the numbers tell a harsher tale. Surplus can become a mask, concealing the deep deficits that emerge when investments choke the system. Taxes, levied from the people with the promise of progress, now feed the gaping maw of loss — not into new bridges or schools, but into debt servicing, interest repayments, and obligations to foreign lenders.Thus, taxation transforms from being the lifeblood of public infrastructure into a liquid asset drained by the very projects meant to advance it. The people pay; the narrative sells the dream of modernity. Yet the budget grows thin, and the promise of surplus rings hollow while deficits deepen.Another controversial case is the new capital city project, Nusantara. While Jokowi presented it as a visionary solution to Jakarta’s overcrowding and sinking land, sceptics argue that it diverts enormous funds away from urgent national priorities and risks becoming an elitist playground for developers and politicians. Beyond these, a range of toll roads, ports, and industrial zones were launched with great fanfare but often lacked integration into the wider economy, raising concerns that they exist more to satisfy political legacies than genuine developmental needs. For critics, these projects are not merely miscalculations but betrayals of fiscal prudence, making the state hostage to debt while everyday Indonesians continue to struggle with basic necessities.
The reliance on foreign financing, particularly from China, has deepened the perception that Jokowi’s grand projects have quietly eroded Indonesia’s bargaining power. The high-speed rail is often cited as a case study in how Beijing’s influence grows when a host nation becomes dependent on its loans and contractors; Indonesia was pushed to renegotiate cost overruns on terms that favoured Chinese lenders, highlighting an uncomfortable imbalance. Similarly, the new capital city project has been packaged as an opportunity for global investors, but sceptics argue that the country risks mortgaging its sovereignty by offering generous concessions, tax breaks, and land rights to foreign partners. What worries critics most is not just the debt figures but the structural dependency being created, where Indonesia’s economic future seems tethered to external stakeholders rather than driven by domestic strength. For them, Jokowi’s legacy may be less about building infrastructure and more about quietly selling off the nation’s autonomy in exchange for short-term political glory.
The social consequences of Jokowi’s mega-project obsession, critics argue, are far more painful than the glossy brochures ever admitted. While skyscrapers rise, highways stretch, and railways are unveiled with ribbon-cutting ceremonies, the benefits rarely trickle down to the ordinary Indonesian. Farmers displaced by land acquisition, urban poor pushed further into the margins, and workers locked into precarious jobs see little of the prosperity promised. Instead, inequality deepens, as the gains flow disproportionately to political cronies, contractors, and oligarchs with stakes in these projects. The heavy debt burden further tightens the state’s fiscal space, leaving less room for subsidies, affordable healthcare, and education that the poor depend upon. In this way, the very projects advertised as nation-building triumphs become symbols of exclusion, where the glittering facades of development mask the widening gulf between elites and citizens. For critics, this is the cruel irony of Jokowi’s leadership: a future built on concrete and steel, but one that leaves behind the very people it was supposed to uplift.
For many of his fiercest critics, the irony of Jokowi’s rule—grand development for the few, debt and exclusion for the many—crosses the line from poor governance into the realm of moral and even legal accountability. They argue that when state resources are systematically directed to benefit elites while ordinary citizens are left struggling, this is not simply mismanagement but a betrayal of the public mandate. Some even frame it as an abuse of power, where public office is used not to serve the people but to cement dynastic politics and enrich a narrow circle of allies. In their eyes, this kind of leadership is not just disappointing; it is dangerous, because it sets precedents where corruption is dressed up as progress and democracy is hollowed out in the name of development. This is why demands for Jokowi to face trial or even imprisonment resonate so strongly: it symbolises not only a reckoning for one man, but also a warning that betrayal of the people’s trust should carry consequences in a republic that still claims to stand for reform.
Around the world, history shows that leaders who feel their legitimacy slipping often turn to monumental projects as a way of masking political fragility. In countries like Argentina under Perón, Egypt under Mubarak, or even contemporary regimes such as China’s Belt and Road showcase, grand infrastructure has frequently been less about serving citizens and more about projecting power, legacy, and control. These spectacles create the illusion of progress, but beneath the surface, they often hide crumbling institutions, weakened rule of law, and disillusioned populations.
In China, while it is true that on this Bamboo Curtain Land retains the death penalty for certain high-level corruption offences—particularly embezzlement or bribery involving extraordinarily large sums—this harsh punishment often serves less as a genuine measure to eradicate corruption and more as a potent display of political theatre.In the case of high-ranking bankers in China, the death penalty often functions more as a theatre of discipline than as a genuine moral reckoning with corruption. The spectacle of a bank chief being paraded in the media, threatened with execution, and denounced as a traitor to the nation, allows the state to project an image of unflinching toughness, as though it were cleansing itself of vice. Yet if one examines closely, many of these trials are highly selective, striking primarily those who have lost political protection or who have become inconvenient to more powerful actors. Thus, the looming threat of execution is less a deterrent to systemic corruption and more a reminder to elites of their dependence on loyalty to the ruling apparatus. The punishment may be draconian, but the structure of corruption itself remains untouched, reproducing itself quietly within the folds of state-owned enterprises and political networks.One of the most notorious examples is Lai Xiaomin, the former chairman of Huarong Asset Management, who was swiftly executed in early 2021. Condemned for accepting vast bribes worth about US $277 million and guilty of bigamy, his case was processed in mere weeks—from trial to execution—without even a two-year reprieve, marking it as a particularly severe and rapid spectacle of punishment. His image, complete with safes stuffed with cash, became a symbol of the regime’s uncompromising stance.Similarly, Bai Tianhui, another senior Huarong executive, received a death sentence for taking $151 million in bribes, even though he cooperated with investigators. This signals that cooperation hardly softens penalties when a high-profile fall is on stage.Others, like Tian Huiyu—the former president of China Merchants Bank—were handed a death sentence too, but with a two-year reprieve that effectively means life imprisonment, given he must remain behind bars without parole.These examples show that the death penalty in China’s corruption cases is less about proportional justice and more about sending a chilling message. The punishment is assigned selectively, with theatrics playing a central role—both to intimidate the elite and to reassure the public that the state is “tough on corruption.”Critics of Jokowi argue that Indonesia is now trapped in the same pattern: the highways, railways, and a brand-new capital are not merely about development, but about covering up a deeper legitimacy crisis born from nepotism, corruption, and declining trust. In this light, the comparison is less flattering than tragic, because it suggests that Indonesia risks joining a long list of nations where concrete monuments were built, but democracy was quietly dismantled in the shadows.
In the long course of his presidency, Joko Widodo has been known for delivering statements that are often simple, colloquial, and framed as words of encouragement for the people. Yet beneath the surface, many of these utterances have been criticised as misleading, contradictory, or even dismissive of the realities faced by ordinary citizens. For instance, he once said that Indonesia had “no debt problem” despite the swelling state obligations, a statement that economic observers immediately contested. On another occasion, he proudly declared that “no land was controlled by oligarchs anymore,” even as evidence continued to emerge that vast concessions remained in the hands of politically connected elites. These remarks have created a gap between presidential rhetoric and the lived experiences of Indonesians, raising questions about whether his words were meant to inspire or to obscure.Perhaps most striking was his repeated insistence that he had “no desire for power beyond his term,” only to later preside over political manoeuvres that opened the door for his son to become vice president and his allies to consolidate influence. Such words, once hailed as assurances of democratic humility, were retrospectively revealed as hollow promises. His habit of dismissing critical voices by saying, “Just be patient, development takes time,” has also been interpreted as an attempt to neutralise legitimate dissent by reducing it to a matter of attitude rather than accountability. The pattern suggests that Jokowi’s verbal “sins” are not merely slips of the tongue but rather calculated instruments of political theatre, designed to project simplicity while shielding more complex and controversial realities.In his years as president, Jokowi has often been caught in a web of his own words, where promises made in the heat of campaign speeches or public declarations later dissolved into silence or contradictory actions. He once declared that Indonesia would not tolerate dynastic politics, yet the political elevation of his son and son-in-law painted a completely different reality. He spoke loudly of siding with farmers and fishermen, yet decisions around land concessions and coastal reclamations often tilted toward large corporations. He assured the people that state debts were under control, yet the numbers told a different story, swelling year after year while still being described as “safe.” In another instance, he stated that he would never interfere with law enforcement institutions, but political manoeuvres surrounding key cases left the public questioning whether neutrality was truly upheld. These moments created a portrait of a leader whose rhetoric aimed to inspire confidence but whose delivery often revealed a widening gap between ideals and implementation.In the end, the moral lesson from Jokowi’s contradictions is not simply about broken promises, but about the dangerous normalisation of inconsistency in leadership. When words lose their weight, public trust erodes, and politics becomes reduced to spectacle rather than accountability. A leader who repeatedly shifts his stance risks turning governance into a stage play where applause is more important than principles. This should remind us that in a democracy, citizens cannot afford to be passive spectators; they must hold leaders accountable not only for what they achieve, but also for whether their words and deeds remain aligned. For if unchallenged, the cycle of saying one thing and doing another becomes the standard, and democracy itself suffers death by a thousand contradictions.The most pressing legacy that Jokowi leaves behind is not merely his shifting promises, but the tight and fragile state of the national budget. A “cekak” budget means that Prabowo, despite all his grand visions, will inherit a financial house with very little room to manoeuvre. For every ambitious programme he announces, there will be the haunting reminder of fiscal constraints, soaring debt repayments, and shrinking space for welfare. This is not only a headache for the new president but a looming burden for ordinary Indonesians, who will inevitably feel the squeeze in subsidies, public services, and the rising cost of living. In short, a constrained budget today translates into a harder tomorrow for both government and people alike.Jokowi’s parting gift to Prabowo resembles the inheritance of a luxury car with gleaming paintwork, but with the fuel tank nearly empty and the engine light flashing red. It looks majestic from the outside, but the driver will soon discover that grandeur is useless without petrol. The “cekak” budget he leaves behind is precisely this—an image of prosperity concealing the struggle of scarcity. For Prabowo, it means taking the wheel of a vehicle that everyone expects to race forward, yet the tank will barely allow a crawl. And for the people of Indonesia, they will sit in the backseat, watching the journey stall, while still being asked to pay for the fuel.And yet, in this theatre of contradictions, Jokowi still manages to receive applause with chants of “Hidup Jokowi!” [long live Jokowi] as if he were leaving behind a golden legacy. It is almost as though the audience were cheering for the magician who, having pulled endless scarves from his sleeve, vanishes just before the trick collapses. The applause does not erase the emptiness of the tank, nor the looming debts, but it gives the departing performer the illusion of triumph. It is the paradox of politics: one may exit the stage to thunderous claps, even as the next act inherits a script full of holes.The applause of “Hidup Jokowi!” therefore rings less like genuine admiration and more like the forced laughter of a studio audience prompted by a cue card. It is the kind of cheer that fills the air not because the act was brilliant, but because people have been conditioned to clap on command. In reality, the legacy left behind is not a triumph but a trap, and no amount of orchestrated chants can mask the thinness of the budget or the weight of the debt. It is applause for the sake of optics, not substance.However, it is even possible that the cry of “Hidup Jokowi!” was never intended as praise at all, but rather as a sly form of satire—an act of collective irony in which frustration found its outlet through exaggerated celebration. In a political climate where open insults might be censored or dismissed as disrespect, it is often safer, and perhaps more effective, to cloak criticism in the garments of applause. To cheer loudly can, in such a context, mean nothing more than to sigh heavily in disguise: better to shout “Long live!” than to risk punishment by saying “Step down!”At times, the chant of “Hidup Jokowi!” resembled less a tribute to power and more a standing ovation for a tragic comedy, the kind of applause one gives not out of admiration but out of disbelief at how absurd the performance has become. The cheer, stretched to its loudest pitch, carried a sting of irony, as if the crowd was laughing at a play that refused to end. It was satire masquerading as celebration, a way of declaring discontent without breaking the rules of decorum, a theatre of politics where mockery wore the mask of devotion.At times, the shout of “Hidup Jokowi!” rang out not as a blessing, but as a sly form of reverse psychology, a way of saying “live on, so we may witness the comedy unfold in full.” It was a cheer laced with irony, as though the crowd was applauding not triumph but the spectacle of prolonged absurdity. By chanting his name, people turned their frustration into theatre, disguising their criticism as celebration, leaving only the sharp aftertaste of a nation that praised because it could no longer bear to curse.Jokowi’s administration became entwined with OCCRP's "most corrupt leader" controversy not because there is solid proof of personal financial graft, but rather because critics believe his leadership systematically undermined key state institutions and steered Indonesia closer toward nepotism and weakened democracy. OCCRP explicitly acknowledged that it does not have evidence proving Jokowi enriched himself personally during his tenure. Nonetheless, civil society groups and experts argue that his government significantly weakened the Corruption Eradication Commission (KPK), eroded the independence of the judiciary and electoral mechanisms, and bent the constitutional system in favour of his own family — in particular, the rise of his son Gibran to the vice presidency.As OCCRP’s publisher Drew Sullivan pointed out, while the verdict on Jokowi in this “most corrupt” nomination isn’t a court judgment, the perception of corruption is strong among Indonesians — and that sentiment itself is a wake-up call to the world and to the leaders. Jokowi responded by dismissing the nomination as baseless and politically motivated, demanding that OCCRP present real evidence if they intended to prove corruptionIn the grand sweep of Indonesia’s modern history, Jokowi’s critics insist that his greatest “political sin” is not merely the concrete he poured or the debts he signed, but the legacy he leaves behind for generations yet to come. Instead of strengthening the democratic institutions that were painstakingly built after Suharto’s fall, he is accused of hollowing them out, normalising dynastic politics, and binding the economy to foreign creditors and oligarchic interests. The highways, railways, and new capital city may endure as monuments of stone and steel, but the deeper inheritance, they warn, is a republic more fragile, more unequal, and less free. For them, Jokowi’s rule represents not just a wasted opportunity but a regression, a betrayal of the reformist hopes that once defined Indonesia’s post-1998 journey. It is in this sense that his “sins” are considered unforgivable: not because they belong to the man alone, but because their consequences will be borne by millions of Indonesians long after he has left office.
The closing reflection, for those who have watched Jokowi’s rise and rule, is less about condemning one man and more about understanding what kind of society allowed such “sins” to take root. The moral lesson is that democracy is never self-sustaining; it must be defended constantly by vigilant citizens who refuse to be lulled by grand spectacles of concrete and steel. A republic thrives not because of monuments or highways, but because of institutions that protect justice, equality, and accountability. If those institutions are weakened in the name of development, then the glittering projects are nothing more than masks covering decay. Indonesians, therefore, must learn that real progress is measured not by the height of skyscrapers or the speed of trains, but by whether the poorest citizen feels empowered, protected, and included. The moral of Jokowi’s era, then, is that a nation must never again trade away its democracy for the illusion of growth, nor allow its future to be mortgaged for the vanity of its rulers.
[Part 2]
