[Part 1]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 3]
