President Prabowo Subianto’s decision to grant abolition for Tom Lembong and amnesty for Hasto Kristiyanto is firmly rooted in the constitutional authority vested in the Indonesian presidency, specifically outlined in Article 14 of the 1945 Constitution. This move followed proper legal and parliamentary procedures, as the proposal was approved by the Indonesian House of Representatives (DPR), ensuring adherence to the checks and balances inherent in the country’s governance.
From a statesman’s perspective, such a decision is laudable as it demonstrates a concrete commitment to reconciliation and national unity. According to the Minister of Law, the core motive was to “weave the bonds of brotherhood among the nation’s children,” highlighting a focus on peace, inclusivity, and healing for the greater good of Indonesia. The government’s approach doesn’t merely prioritise justice but seeks to foster a climate supportive of collective growth and cooperation across political divides. By exercising these presidential prerogatives, Prabowo is not only upholding the spirit of the law but also setting a precedent for magnanimity and forward-looking leadership—qualities that deserve public appreciation, particularly in times of heightened political polarisation and division.
It is generally appropriate to praise President Prabowo’s decision to grant amnesty and abolition to Tom Lembong and Hasto Kristiyanto, provided the decision was taken in line with constitutional powers and through proper legal procedures. The Indonesian president does hold the authority to grant amnesty and abolition under Article 14 of the 1945 Constitution, usually with recommendations or approval from the DPR (House of Representatives). When such powers are exercised transparently and are based on values of reconciliation and national unity, as seems to be the stated aim in this context, public appreciation is warranted. These actions send a message of magnanimity and commitment to healing political rifts, which can be crucial for strengthening democracy and fostering inclusivity, especially if the legal and ethical considerations have been observed throughout the process.
At the same time, any act of clemency should be carefully scrutinised to ensure it serves the broader public interest and is not simply a political gesture. However, when executed with integrity and aimed at reconciliation, as in this case, it often exemplifies statesmanship and can set a positive precedent for future governance.
If one views Tom Lembong’s case through the lens of political justice rather than strictly legal proceedings, a compelling narrative begins to emerge—one that suggests he may not have been a conventional perpetrator of corruption, but rather a casualty of a regime that weaponised the law against perceived dissenters or ideological opponents. His imprisonment, therefore, might be interpreted not as a triumph of the rule of law, but as a reflection of its distortion under the weight of political interests.
When an administration seeks to silence figures who represent reformist, technocratic ideals or alternative policy visions, the line between justice and persecution becomes dangerously blurred. If evidence supporting the charges was weak, selective, or timed conveniently to serve a particular political climate, then the moral legitimacy of his incarceration is, at the very least, suspect.
Thus, President Prabowo’s move to grant abolition may be seen not merely as an act of pardon, but as a political correction—an attempt to right a historical wrong. In such a reading, Lembong is not just a freed man, but a symbol of how past regimes may have manipulated state machinery to eliminate dissent under the guise of anti-corruption.
The case of Hasto Kristiyanto is far more politically charged and layered with intrigue, partly because of his entrenched position within the core of party politics and his vocal stance during the final years of the previous administration. Unlike Tom Lembong, whose public image was largely technocratic and policy-driven, Hasto’s narrative is tightly interwoven with the partisan theatre of power struggles. To some observers, his legal troubles appeared suspiciously timed, coinciding with moments when his criticisms of the ruling elite were particularly sharp.
If the judicial actions taken against him were based more on political inconvenience than on undeniable evidence of wrongdoing, then one might argue that Hasto, too, became a political casualty. His arrest and prosecution may have served as a warning signal to others within the political establishment: stay in line, or face legal consequences. In this reading, the legal process ceases to be an instrument of justice and morphs into a tool of political containment.
President Prabowo’s decision to grant amnesty in this context may therefore be interpreted as a recalibration of political power—an attempt to re-centre democratic space by neutralising instruments of repression that had become too personalised. Whether Hasto’s hands are entirely clean remains debatable, but the essence of the amnesty could be read as restoring a level playing field, rather than blindly forgiving wrongdoing.
In the context of Indonesian constitutional law, abolisi (abolition) and amnesti (amnesty) are two distinct forms of presidential clemency granted under specific circumstances, enshrined within the 1945 Constitution. Abolisi refers to the President’s power to halt or nullify the legal process of a person who is under investigation or prosecution, even before a verdict is rendered. It is essentially a preventive act—erasing the legal consequences before they materialise. Amnesty, on the other hand, is broader in scope and usually applied to political crimes or offences with wide societal impacts. It absolves a group or individual from the consequences of actions deemed unlawful, often in the name of national reconciliation or political stability.
Both clemency instruments require consultation with the House of Representatives (DPR), ensuring a layer of democratic oversight, as mandated in Article 14 of the Constitution. These powers have been used in the past to manage transitional justice, maintain political equilibrium, or neutralise potential threats to peace. However, such decisions inevitably carry moral and political weight, and they test the integrity of legal institutions.
"The Constitution of Indonesia: A Contextual Analysis" by Simon Butt and Tim Lindsey (2012, Hart Publishing) offers a comprehensive analysis of the 1945 Constitution, especially its post-Reformasi amendments. It explains the powers of the President, the role of the legislature, and the legal implications of clemency powers. It also delves into how constitutional norms are interpreted and applied in real political practice.
In "The Constitution of Indonesia: A Contextual Analysis" by Simon Butt and Tim Lindsey (2012, Hart Publishing), the authors explore how the powers of the President, while constitutionally significant, are framed within a system of checks and balances that aim to prevent authoritarian overreach—a legacy of the Suharto era. The President is both head of state and head of government, and thus wields executive authority, including the power to appoint ministers, direct national policy, and represent the country abroad. However, this authority is not absolute; it is counterbalanced by the role of the legislature, particularly the People’s Representative Council (DPR), which exercises oversight and legislative functions, including the approval of budgets and laws.
The book pays special attention to Article 14 of the 1945 Constitution, which grants the President the power to offer clemency in the form of pardons, amnesties, abolitions, and rehabilitations. These powers are not exercised unilaterally; the Constitution mandates that amnesty and abolition require the consideration and approval of the DPR. This reflects a deliberate move to democratise executive clemency and prevent its misuse as a tool for political favouritism or personal gain.
Butt and Lindsey argue that in post-Reformasi Indonesia, while the formal legal framework has shifted towards greater transparency and accountability, informal power dynamics—such as elite bargaining and coalition politics—still shape the application of presidential powers.
Simon Butt and Tim Lindsey present a sober yet revealing account of how elite bargaining and political horse-trading have become foundational to Indonesia’s post-Reformasi governance. Although the Constitution outlines a formal framework for democratic rule, the true mechanics of power—who gets what, when, and how—are often settled not in parliament or court, but in late-night backroom negotiations among political elites. These unwritten deals form what the authors describe as a "shadow constitution," where transactional alliances override constitutional ideals.
Presidents, regardless of party origin, are frequently ensnared in coalition politics that demand more than mere policy compromises—they require sharing slices of power like prized cabinet positions, legal immunity, or lucrative state enterprises. Rather than dismantling oligarchic structures, the constitutional reforms of 1999–2002 ironically institutionalised a culture of dependency on fragmented coalitions. As Butt and Lindsey argue, Indonesia’s presidentialism is forced into an uneasy marriage with parliamentary coalition logic, resulting in a president who must govern while constantly negotiating with the very forces that could undermine his authority.
The drama intensifies as these political coalitions are neither stable nor ideologically coherent. They are held together by convenience, patronage, and the implicit promise of future benefits. Thus, the direction of presidential power is often less a question of constitutional intent than of shifting elite consensus. It is in this volatile dance—between legality and loyalty, between written rules and unwritten pacts—that the Indonesian presidency navigates its path, precariously balanced between democratic aspiration and political realism.
In practice, clemency decisions are often influenced by broader political calculations, though the involvement of the legislature offers at least a procedural safeguard. The authors caution that without public scrutiny and institutional vigilance, even constitutional powers can be bent to serve partisan interests.
If one were to place the case of Tom Lembong under the analytical gaze offered by The Constitution of Indonesia: A Contextual Analysis, it would resemble more a parable of constitutional paradox than a straightforward tale of guilt and justice. The Constitution, as described by Butt and Lindsey, is not a fortress of certainty, but a living document, breathing amidst currents of elite negotiation and political storms. It offers the promise of legal clarity, yet often surrenders to the shadow play of informal power.
Lembong, a figure more known for economic clarity than political combat, may well be seen as collateral in a contest far larger than himself. His fall from grace, occurring before the winds of transition swept through the palace, fits the profile of what the authors describe: formal legal mechanisms manipulated through informal imperatives. The Constitution provides checks—like DPR oversight on abolition—but when those checks are dulled by partisan fog, clemency becomes both justice and political theatre.
Thus, in this reading, President Prabowo’s abolition is not merely an act of mercy, but a correction in the script—an effort to recalibrate the constitutional promise, to disentangle a technocrat from the web of vengeance. In the language of Butt and Lindsey, this is not just about laws, but about restoring the credibility of institutions long bent under the weight of personal power.
To analyse the case of Tom Lembong through the lens of The Constitution of Indonesia: A Contextual Analysis is to wander into a courtroom where the law speaks in whispers, and power shouts from behind velvet curtains. Simon Butt and Tim Lindsey paint a constitutional landscape that is textured, fragile, and constantly negotiated—not on paper alone, but in corridors where influence walks uninvited.
In this setting, Lembong’s ordeal may not be read as a simple chapter of justice served, but rather as a verse in a longer ballad of institutional imbalance. He, a technocrat fluent in markets, found himself silenced not by verdicts, but by manoeuvres cloaked in legality. The authors remind us that while Indonesia’s Constitution boasts the language of modern democracy, its performance is still haunted by the ghosts of old regimes—where the line between prosecution and persecution is not always seen, but felt.
Hence, President Prabowo’s use of abolisi emerges as more than a political gesture—it becomes a response to constitutional dissonance. It attempts, perhaps imperfectly, to correct a melody gone flat, to honour the spirit of justice in a system where its instruments have been bent out of tune. Through Butt and Lindsey’s prism, the case becomes not just about one man, but about the aching need for law to sing again—clear, fair, and unswayed by shadowed hands.
To interpret the case of Hasto Kristiyanto through the prism of The Constitution of Indonesia: A Contextual Analysis is to trace the fault lines between power and principle, where legality may be proclaimed, yet legitimacy remains uncertain. In Butt and Lindsey’s vision of post-Reformasi Indonesia, the Constitution is not merely a rulebook—it is a battleground of competing interests dressed in democratic robes, where formal structures often coexist uneasily with informal currents of control.
Hasto, a seasoned political player, walked not into the cold arms of justice, but into the heat of political theatre. His entanglement with the law appeared, to many, not as the natural end of impartial investigation, but as the climax of partisan choreography. The Constitution, while providing mechanisms of accountability and due process, still breathes within a space where elite bargains can bend its shape. Thus, his prosecution—regardless of legal merit—echoed a deeper dissonance: a system that speaks of fairness but dances to the rhythm of factional power.
In this context, President Prabowo’s decision to offer clemency becomes not just an act of political generosity, but a quiet admission that something in the legal symphony was out of tune. Through Butt and Lindsey’s lens, this move reads less like a curtain call and more like a director rewriting the script mid-performance—attempting to restore equilibrium in a play where justice and politics have long shared the same stage, but not always the same purpose.
While there is no definitive public evidence to confirm that President Prabowo's recent decision involving Tom Lembong and Hasto Kristiyanto is directly tied to any backroom deal over Joko Widodo’s controversial “fake diploma” allegations, the political undercurrents suggest a more complex choreography. In Indonesia’s elite political culture, grand gestures often serve dual functions: public messaging and private negotiation. Thus, some observers interpret this decision as part of a broader “quid pro quo” arrangement—a silent exchange of political favours in which old controversies are quietly buried in exchange for new alliances or concessions.
The speculation grows stronger considering the timing. As scrutiny over Jokowi’s educational credentials resurfaces periodically, a high-level political manoeuvre by Prabowo that appears conciliatory towards Jokowi’s inner circle could be read as a signal: your legacy is safe, if my mandate is respected. In this light, the reshuffling of political chess pieces becomes less about justice or merit, and more about protecting mutual interests among ruling elites, even if that means letting contentious issues like the “diploma scandal” fade into the background.
Such a hypothesis fits comfortably within the framework that Simon Butt and Tim Lindsey describe in their analysis of Indonesian constitutional politics—where the formal law exists, but the real decisions are made in the margins, through whispered deals and elite understandings. If Prabowo is indeed engaging in such a transactional strategy, it would not be surprising; it would merely confirm what seasoned analysts have long known: in Indonesia, legal controversies are often resolved not by the courts, but by who holds the pen that signs the next coalition agreement.
In "Constitutional Change in Indonesia: A Comparative Perspective" (2013, Cambridge University Press), Donald L. Horowitz examines how the architecture of executive power, including amnesty and clemency, underwent profound transformation in the aftermath of Suharto’s authoritarian rule. During the New Order, executive powers were vast, unrestrained, and often exercised without transparency or accountability. The President acted as the supreme dispenser of mercy, unchecked by any meaningful institutional constraint, which rendered clemency a tool of political favouritism rather than justice.
Horowitz explains that the post-Suharto constitutional reform—particularly the amendments to the 1945 Constitution—sought to curtail this unchecked authority by embedding the clemency powers within a framework of democratic oversight. Specifically, Article 14 now requires the President to consult with the People's Representative Council (DPR) when granting amnesty or abolition. This procedural obligation marked a symbolic and structural shift: it transformed what was once an imperial prerogative into a republican duty bounded by accountability.
The reforms, according to Horowitz, were part of a broader effort to democratise the presidency itself, ensuring that executive discretion—while still powerful—would be legally tempered and politically visible. He suggests that these changes were intended to restore public trust in the state by placing limits on executive mercy, turning it into an instrument of national reconciliation rather than elite protection. Yet, Horowitz also cautions that the success of these reforms depends not merely on constitutional text, but on the willingness of political actors to respect the spirit of the law, not just its letter.
According to Constitutional Change in Indonesia: A Comparative Perspective by Donald L. Horowitz (2013, Cambridge University Press), Indonesia’s post–New Order constitutional transformation stands as one of the most sweeping and rapid overhauls of a political system in modern times. Unlike many nations where constitutional change is piecemeal or symbolic, Indonesia rewrote the very architecture of its governance. What began as a cautious opening in 1998 quickly turned into a comprehensive reconstruction: a shift from autocracy to electoral democracy, from centralised control to decentralised power, and from a rubber-stamp legislature to one with real teeth.
Horowitz argues that this transformation is almost unparalleled, especially in the absence of a complete regime collapse or foreign occupation. Compared to other post-authoritarian states, Indonesia’s amendments were unusually homegrown and internally driven, with deliberations taking place not under duress, but through a relatively stable political process. The country introduced term limits for the president, created a Constitutional Court, empowered regional governments, and granted real independence to the judiciary—features that many transitioning democracies struggled to institutionalise.
In comparative terms, while countries like Russia backslid into managed democracy or Turkey tilted toward majoritarian authoritarianism, Indonesia stayed remarkably committed to pluralism and separation of powers—at least on paper. Horowitz sees this as a testament to the Indonesian people's deep yearning for constitutionalism after decades of personalistic rule. Yet he remains cautiously optimistic, for the real test lies not in the text of the law but in the lived reality of its enforcement.
Through the lens of Constitutional Change in Indonesia: A Comparative Perspective, the saga of Tom Lembong unfolds not merely as a tale of political manoeuvring, but as a reflection of the delicate dance between constitutional aspiration and executive discretion. Horowitz weaves a vision of Indonesia’s post-authoritarian rebirth—one that seeks to temper executive might with institutional checks, yet is still haunted by the echoes of personalised power.
Lembong, once a technocrat embraced by reformist agendas, found himself adrift in a political tide that favoured loyalty over legality, alignment over autonomy. His marginalisation was not decreed by law, but rather whispered by power—a reminder that, despite constitutional refinements, the President retains wide leeway to reshuffle, sideline, and silence, often under the pretext of "presidential prerogative."
Horowitz might gently caution that a constitution, no matter how eloquently amended, is only as strong as the norms that uphold it. And when those in power drift from meritocratic ideals toward transactional politics, even the most principled figures—like Lembong—may be cast aside not for failing the law, but for threatening the comfort of those who wield it.
Viewed through the prism of Constitutional Change in Indonesia: A Comparative Perspective, the tale of Hasto Kristiyanto evokes a lingering tension between party dominance and democratic ideals. Horowitz reminds us that while Indonesia’s constitutional reforms sought to dilute centralised rule, they could not entirely sever the vines of patronage and party machinery that wind their way around power.
Hasto, a general secretary cloaked in red, stands not only as a party functionary but as a symbol of how political parties, once envisioned as engines of accountability, can mutate into fortresses of self-preservation. His entanglement in judicial matters, his defiance cloaked as loyalty, reveals a constitutional paradox—where institutions are formally separated, but informal power still flows unchecked between party corridors and state offices.
In the spirit of Horowitz’s analysis, we are left to ponder: has the constitution birthed a democracy of substance, or merely one of form? For as long as parties like Hasto’s wield influence through loyalty networks rather than legal clarity, Indonesia’s constitutional dream remains suspended in twilight—half-liberated, half-captive.
When viewed through the analytical lens of Constitutional Change in Indonesia: A Comparative Perspective by Donald L. Horowitz, the presidential decisions made by Prabowo—whether in the case of Tom Lembong’s quiet displacement or Hasto Kristiyanto’s judicial entanglement—echo the enduring struggle between constitutional promise and political practice. Though Indonesia's post-Suharto reforms were designed to constrain executive power, they have not eradicated the lingering shadows of personalised rule.
In the case of Lembong, the silence of dismissal resembles an old melody: where reason is neither declared nor debated, but decided in corridors distant from the people’s scrutiny. And with Hasto, should the President intervene, it risks invoking memories of an era when power wrapped itself in partisan garb, where the rule of law bowed before the rule of loyalty.
In a time of political ambiguity and institutional strain, President Prabowo’s decisions in the cases of Tom Lembong and Hasto Kristiyanto demonstrate a calculated resolve to reassert executive clarity. Far from being arbitrary acts of power, these moves signal a leader unafraid to make firm decisions in service of governmental stability and legal coherence. By removing lingering ambiguities within the state apparatus, Prabowo has reminded the public that leadership demands not just popularity, but the courage to confront dissonance head-on.
Ultimately, these presidential choices mark a moment of reorientation in Indonesia’s post-Reformasi journey—a deliberate move to assert that strong governance is not incompatible with constitutional values. In making difficult, even unpopular, decisions, Prabowo signals a willingness to carve a new kind of leadership: one that blends firmness with legality, and decisiveness with democratic accountability. If this path is sustained with consistency and transparency, it may well redefine the very tone of Indonesian governance for years to come.
President Prabowo’s decisive handling of the Lembong-Hasto affair sent a clear message that he intends to stamp his own authority on the republic. His swift response was seen by many as a bold declaration of independence from the political entanglements of the past. Yet, as one curtain is drawn closed, another remains conspicuously ajar. Just beyond the realm of elite dismissals and palace intrigue lies a far more delicate spectre—one that continues to haunt the public conscience and test the boundaries of institutional integrity: the unresolved matter of Joko Widodo’s contested academic credentials.
The ongoing saga of Joko Widodo’s alleged “fake diploma” case has taken a curious turn, as law enforcement has officially named twelve individuals as suspects—yet none of them appear to be connected to the origins or authenticity of the President’s own academic credentials. While the nation watches with raised eyebrows, the investigation seems more like a controlled theatre than a genuine pursuit of truth. The fact that legal institutions have moved swiftly to prosecute peripheral actors, without ever offering conclusive evidence to verify Jokowi’s diploma, whispers of a deeper loyalty—not necessarily to the law, but perhaps to the lingering shadow of the previous presidency. One cannot help but notice that in this new era, where Prabowo reigns, the organs of justice still appear to take subtle cues from the old guard, often delivered with a knowing glance from the man now seated beside him: the ever-loyal Vice President.
