The Chronicle of Indonesia Land

Semar tells a tale, "Long ago, when the island of Java was still young, it drifted upon the sea like an untethered raft. The waves rolled it north and south, east and west, making the land tremble so often that even the bravest spirits felt uneasy. From their lofty abode in the heavens, the gods looked down and decided that this would not do. An island that swayed with every current could not be a home for kingdoms, for temples, or for the hearts of the people.

Batara Guru, the lord of the gods, summoned his most trusted deities and spoke of a great task. “We shall anchor Java,” he declared, “so that it may rest steady upon the waters.” They searched the realms for a mountain mighty enough to serve as a stake, and their eyes fell upon Mount Meru, the sacred axis of the world, towering in the land of India. With divine strength, they lifted the peak and carried it across the sky, placing it gently upon Java.

But the mountain was so heavy that the island tilted beneath its weight. So the gods broke a portion of Meru’s peak and set it down elsewhere, creating another mountain—some say Mount Penanggungan, others name it Mount Lawu. Together, these sacred peaks held Java fast, like nails pinning a great cloth to the earth. And from that day, though the ground would still shiver from time to time, the island no longer wandered. It stood firm, a stage for empires to rise and fall, for stories to be told, and for the people to call home.

The gods, after fastening Java with the peaks of Meru, turned their gaze across the scattered necklace of islands that would one day be called Indonesia. Each island had its own temperament. Sumatra was vast and brooding, its mountains cloaked in deep green forests and its heart smouldering with volcanoes. Borneo, immense and steady, home of the Orangutan, was like a sleeping giant whose rivers curled like silver threads. Sulawesi twisted in elegant curves like "k", shaped by both earth and tide, while Papua is like the bird of paradise, standing like a far sentinel, draped in mists and ancient trees.

In the beginning, they were not bound to each other except by the sea, and the sea was restless. Storms would sweep across, shaking even the anchored Java, and the islands seemed like siblings scattered after a quarrel, each tending to its own concerns. But the gods understood that the islands shared the same undercurrent—a spine of fire running beneath them, the great ring of volcanoes that stitched their fates together.

So, while Java received its sacred stakes, the other islands were given their own anchors: mountains that rooted them in place, spirits that guarded their shores, and rivers that bound their peoples to the land. The gods whispered into the winds that though the sea might divide them, their destinies were intertwined. When one island shook, the others would feel it; when one sang, the echo would travel across the waves. And so, the archipelago was not a collection of strangers, but a family—sometimes noisy, sometimes divided, but always linked beneath the same sky.

When the gods had secured Java with the peaks of Meru, they looked upon the other islands and saw not merely land, but personalities. Sumatra was the elder brother—broad-shouldered, full of resources, yet quick to grumble when his treasures were taken without thanks. Borneo was the quiet sibling, immense and patient, preferring to keep its riches beneath the shade of its forests, yet occasionally roaring when outsiders trespassed too far. Sulawesi was the eccentric artist of the family, beautiful and unpredictable, with coastlines that twisted like brushstrokes on a wild canvas. Papua, standing far to the east, was the watchful guardian, holding stories so old that even the gods spoke of them in whispers, yet often feeling left out when the family made decisions without asking.

Java, however, was the sibling with the crown. It was where the throne sat, where decisions were announced, and where the gods seemed to linger the longest. The other islands would listen, but not always agree. Sometimes they would send their voices across the seas, asking for fairness, for a share of the feast, for the respect of being heard. And every now and then, the family table would erupt in arguments—not because they hated each other, but because they were bound together, and the bond was strong enough to survive the noise.

The gods, watching all this, reminded them through earthquakes, storms, and harvests that their fates were tied. A crown may sit on one head, but the kingdom stands only if all its pillars remain upright. And in the great archipelago, each island is such a pillar, carved not by one ruler, but by the sea, the wind, and the unyielding will of its people.

As the eightieth year of the Republic’s independence dawned, the family of islands gathered, not in one place, but in spirit. The sea that separated them was the same sea that carried their songs, their frustrations, and their laughter from shore to shore. In these decades since the first proclamation, they had quarrelled, reconciled, and quarrelled again, each argument leaving behind a lesson, each reconciliation stitching another seam into their shared tapestry.

On this anniversary, the crown still sat upon Java, but the other islands had grown louder and more confident in their voices. They were no longer content to be the quiet pillars; they demanded to be heard, not as guests in the kingdom, but as co-builders of it. The “noise” that often filled the archipelago was no longer a sign of weakness, but of life—of a family unafraid to speak, to protest, to negotiate, and to dream together.

The gods, watching from the high winds, did not silence this noise. They understood that in the great journey of a nation, unity was not the absence of conflict, but the ability to return to the same table after the storm. And so, under the vast sky of the equator, the islands—still sometimes quarrelsome, still sometimes proud—stood together once more, holding not just the memory of independence, but the unending work of keeping it alive.

And so, upon the eightieth turning of the nation’s freedom, the islands raised their voices in an oath older than any constitution. They swore, not to the fleeting faces of rulers, but to the soil, the forests, and the seas that bound them. They pledged to argue when wronged, to listen when mistaken, and to return, always, to the table where the fate of the archipelago was shared like bread. They vowed to remember that a crown without its pillars will fall, and that a pillar without its crown will crumble into the sea.

The gods, hearing this oath, smiled the weary smile of beings who had seen empires rise and sink beneath the waves. They knew that this family of islands would quarrel again, for such is the nature of siblings. But they also knew that as long as the quarrels ended with the same hands rebuilding the same house, the archipelago would endure—its noise, its laughter, its storms, and its stubborn, unbreakable heart.

Eighty years after proclaiming independence, Indonesia stands tall as a sovereign nation, rich in culture, diversity, and resources. Yet for many citizens, the meaning of merdeka is not measured in flags fluttering above schoolyards or in military parades, but in whether daily life allows them to breathe without the constant weight of survival. The heroes of 1945 fought to end colonial domination; the struggle of 2025 is to dismantle the quieter, more insidious chains of poverty, inequality, and systemic neglect.

In the streets of Jakarta, a vendor setting out her vegetables at dawn may not speak of independence in lofty terms. For her, merdeka would mean stable prices, predictable income, and enough left over to send her children to school without debt. In Kalimantan’s forests, a fisherman might see independence as the right to work without his river choked by pollution from upstream industries. For the graduate in Medan, it would be the freedom to plan a future with a job that matches his skills, rather than living hand-to-mouth in a cycle of precarious work.

The essence of independence is supposed to be self-determination—yet what is self-determination worth if citizens are hemmed in by failing infrastructure, patchy healthcare, and the high cost of basic goods? The Declaration of 1945 promised a government that would protect all Indonesians and promote the general welfare. Eight decades later, the words still stand, but their fulfilment demands relentless attention to the small, grinding obstacles of daily existence.

This milestone anniversary is therefore not just a moment for speeches, songs, and fireworks. It should be an audit of the nation’s conscience. Are we building a country where independence is lived, not just remembered? Are we closing the gap between ceremonial pride and the unspoken frustrations of everyday life? Are we ensuring that the benefits of modernity reach the farthest fishing village, the most remote highland farm, and the most crowded urban alley?

When the Proclamation of Independence was read aloud on 17 August 1945, it was more than a declaration of political sovereignty—it was a promise, both to the living and to generations yet unborn, that the people of Indonesia would never again be denied the dignity of shaping their own destiny. The leaders of that moment, weary from years of colonial domination and the ravages of war, understood that merdeka was not an abstract ideal but a living condition to be nurtured daily. They envisioned a nation in which no farmer toiled in debt to foreign masters, no child was barred from learning by poverty, and no village was left in darkness while others flourished.

Eighty years later, the red-and-white flag still rises in triumph each August morning, but the measure of independence has shifted. No longer defined by battles against foreign armies, the struggle now is against forces that are often invisible but equally corrosive—price instability, poor infrastructure, environmental degradation, and systemic inequality. These are not the enemies the generation of 1945 faced on the battlefield, but they are adversaries that sap the spirit of freedom just as surely as colonial chains once did.

One could imagine Bung Karno, with his fiery oratory, asking today: What is the meaning of freedom if the mother in a market must choose between buying protein for her children or paying the electricity bill? One could picture Bung Hatta, champion of economic justice, demanding to know why vast natural wealth still fails to secure equitable prosperity for all citizens. The questions of 1945 were about breaking foreign control; the questions of 2025 are about ensuring that the independence so dearly won is not hollowed out by neglect and complacency.

In the fishing villages of Maluku, independence is not measured in parades but in whether the sea remains clean enough to sustain a catch. In the highlands of Papua, it is whether a child can walk to a school with trained teachers and proper books. In the suburbs of Java’s great cities, it is whether young graduates can find work that matches their talents without compromising their dignity. These are the arenas in which the spirit of 1945 must be tested anew.

This 80th anniversary should not only be a festival of remembrance but also a mirror held up to the nation. The sacrifices of those who raised the flag in 1945 demand that we ask whether every citizen, from the crowded kampung to the most remote island, feels the benefits of sovereignty in their daily lives. Independence is not merely freedom from foreign rule; it is the removal of all barriers—economic, social, infrastructural—that prevent people from living with security and hope.

President Prabowo, stepping into this milestone year, inherits both the glory and the unfinished business of independence. His charge is not to repeat the words of the Proclamation but to make them tangible: to ensure that merdeka exists in the kitchen where prices are stable, in the classroom where learning is possible, in the hospital where care is available, and in the marketplace where livelihoods are fair. Only then can Indonesia say, with honesty, that the promise of 1945 has been kept through the trials of 2025.

President Prabowo’s challenge, as the steward of this post-80th-year chapter, is to take independence out of the ceremonial arena and embed it in the kitchen, the classroom, the hospital ward, and the marketplace. To make it a daily, tangible condition—not an annual commemoration. The truest celebration of independence is not the number of parades held, but the number of citizens who wake each morning free from the constant struggle for basic dignity.

In the years leading up to Indonesia’s 80th Independence Day, the nation has found itself in a state that could best be described as a restless marketplace—full of voices, clashing opinions, and the occasional sharp shove from those impatient to be heard. Under President Prabowo’s leadership, this “noise” has not been the crude cacophony of chaos, but rather the constant background hum of a country negotiating its identity in real time. It manifests in disputes over economic policy, protests about environmental degradation, arguments on social media that spiral into public outcry, and heated parliamentary debates that seem to dance on the thin line between governance and theatre.

The causes of this turbulence are not born solely from political rivalry; they are rooted in the unfulfilled expectations of a generation that believes independence should now mean more than waving a flag once a year. Rising living costs have left households anxious, ambitious infrastructure projects have met resistance from communities fearing displacement, and questions of justice—both legal and economic—remain stubbornly unresolved. In the digital age, even minor controversies flare like brushfires in the dry season, amplified by millions of smartphones until they seem larger than life.

In recent years, particularly under the current administration, many Indonesians have begun to notice a troubling pattern: government ministers and high-ranking officials frequently make controversial or tone-deaf statements, sparking public outrage while failing to address the pressing concerns of ordinary citizens. These blunders are often framed as accidental or misinterpreted, but their consistency has led many to suspect that they serve a deeper political function—perhaps even as intentional distractions. When a minister tells people to “just leave the country if they’re not happy,” or calls citizens “dark” for criticising the state of the nation, it is not merely a slip of the tongue—it is a reflection of power drunk on impunity.

Some political analysts argue that this recurring pattern of verbal missteps isn't random at all, but part of a broader strategy rooted in what communication theorists call “agenda deflection.” In this view, while the public burns with anger over soaring food prices, corrupt elite appointments, or opaque military legislation, the government stage-manages a different headline: a minister says something outrageous, a netizen gets angry, the internet explodes, and suddenly we are all debating rhetoric instead of policy. This turns politics into theatre, where emotion trumps substance and spectacle silences accountability. Meanwhile, real problems—like rising unemployment, massive budget cuts, or a Pertamina scandal—slide quietly into the background.

But, is that true? It is entirely plausible that what is often perceived as deliberate “issue diversion” by government officials is, in fact, the product of sheer incapacity rather than Machiavellian design. In political communication theory, we often overestimate the level of strategic calculation behind public statements, assuming a hidden agenda when the truth is simply that the individuals in charge lack the expertise, coordination, or political will to address complex realities. A blunder, in this sense, is not a chess move—it is a fumbled pass. Many officials operate within bureaucratic ecosystems that reward loyalty over competence, where the skills required to win internal political battles are very different from those needed to solve public crises. Thus, when they speak, their words often reveal not cunning distraction but the limits of their understanding, the gaps in their preparation, and the absence of coherent policy. The effect, however, is the same: public frustration deepens, and discourse shifts away from substantive problem-solving toward the spectacle of verbal missteps. The tragedy is that this incompetence inadvertently fuels the same informational chaos that a deliberate distraction strategy would produce—leaving the public equally adrift, but for very different reasons. 

Good heavens, how splendidly ironic it would be if five digital daredevils managed to outsmart the all-powerful juggernaut that is the bandar—only to be unceremoniously plucked off the virtual green by the very gendarmes who ought to be gasping in admiration! Picture it: these noble rebels, flush with victory, strutting into the netherworld of internet cafés, only to be greeted by flashing blue lights instead of champagne corks. Rather than a triumph, it becomes a tragic farce—our would-be champions sentenced not for cheating, but for having the temerity to win. Yet, alas, no such astonishing coup has been recorded—only the dreary reality of gamblers, promoters, and bureaucrats being rounded up in the usual, predictable fashion.

And imagine also, Indonesia, a land where court verdicts are carved into marble and promptly placed in dusty archives, there lived a man who had been found guilty of offending a very important gentleman, and lately he has been appointed as Commissioner of a State-Owned Enterprise. The highest judges had spoken years ago, delivering a sentence long enough to make his future diary rather boring. Yet, as the seasons changed and governments reshuffled, he remained free, strolling the streets like a celebrity between interviews. He claimed, with the charm of a talk-show guest, that he had “made peace” with his accuser, as if criminal law were a family argument settled over tea and biscuits. The prosecutors, however, seemed to be studying the art of patience, waiting for the perfect moment—possibly the next ice age—to carry out the sentence. Meanwhile, the public, increasingly baffled, wondered if the law was written in disappearing ink or if prison had suddenly become a members-only club with an invite list that mysteriously excluded certain people.

Critics in Indonesia have expressed considerable concern and scepticism regarding the government's policy allowing the state to seize dormant land after two years of non-utilisation. Public reaction has been harsh, with many viewing this as a form of state greed towards its citizens, particularly as the policy initially appeared to target all types of land ownership. However, the Ministry of Agrarian and Spatial Planning has clarified that this regulation under Government Regulation No. 20 of 2021 specifically applies to HGU (cultivation rights) and HGB (building rights) certificates, not private SHM (freehold) properties. Many legal experts and civil society groups have raised concerns about the potential for abuse and the lack of clear safeguards for legitimate landowners who might temporarily be unable to develop their properties due to financial constraints or other circumstances.

Regarding inherited properties, critics have expressed even greater alarm as inherited homes and land can potentially become state property if they are not utilised according to their designated purpose or are left abandoned. This has sparked widespread debate about the fairness of such measures, particularly given that inherited properties often remain unused whilst families navigate complex legal procedures or financial difficulties in maintaining them. Social media users have pointed out the irony that whilst inherited homes face seizure, assets belonging to corrupt officials often remain untouched, highlighting what many perceive as selective enforcement of property regulations.

Critics in Indonesia have expressed mounting frustration and bewilderment regarding the frequent blunders made by government officials whose policies consistently burden ordinary citizens rather than providing relief. Religious leader Ustadz Das'ad Latif has pointedly questioned officials, asking why those who received expensive education and are paid by the state continue to work in ways that make life difficult for the people. The criticism has been particularly sharp regarding recent policy missteps, with Parliament members emphasising that authorities must stop making life difficult for citizens, especially concerning sensitive matters like financial flows.

The communication blunders under President Prabowo's administration have drawn considerable scrutiny from critics and political observers. The communication style of public officials in Prabowo's government has come under the spotlight for being considered problematic, with blunders ranging from statements about the national football team being malnourished to controversial remarks about cooking pig heads. President Prabowo himself has acknowledged that his government's communication has been suboptimal, admitting that even his own subordinates struggle to meet with him directly. A political analyst has been particularly critical, describing the cabinet as bloated, secretive, and filled with officials who fail to understand their roles, attributing this to the president's closed leadership style and poor direct communication with his assistants.

The broader pattern of policy missteps has led to widespread public discontent, with critics noting that reckless government policies lacking sincerity, conscience, and genuine concern for the people continue to make citizens increasingly distressed. President Prabowo has acknowledged that his government's poor communication problems are his own fault, stemming from being too focused on work, though critics argue that the issue runs deeper than mere communication failures and reflects fundamental disconnects between policymakers and the lived experiences of ordinary Indonesians.

The analysis reveals a concerning pattern of disconnect between President Prabowo's vision and his ministers' understanding and execution of that vision within the Merah Putih cabinet structure. Experts have warned that the oversized cabinet would actually slow down the achievement of Prabowo's vision and mission, whilst economic analysts from Indef have assessed that the bloated cabinet, including the presence of seven coordinating ministers, would hinder Prabowo's economic programmes. The fundamental issue appears to stem from poor coordination mechanisms within such a massive governmental structure, as evidenced by the controversy over four islands between Aceh and North Sumatra, which reflects poor coordination within Prabowo Subianto's government.

The disconnect becomes even more apparent when examining the contradiction between presidential rhetoric and cabinet composition. President Prabowo's inaugural speech emphasised his commitment to building an anti-corruption system and combating corruption, yet these fiery words appear to be mere slogans that contradict the formation of his Red and White Cabinet. Several of Prabowo's ministers have become embroiled in controversies that have attracted public attention, with various policies and controversies emerging even before the administration's 100-day mark. The structural problems are compounded by what appears to be a transactional rather than professional approach to governance, with observers noting the need for competent governance that understands substance, run by professionals rather than transactional appointees, whilst the bloated cabinet structure creates unnecessary conflicts of authority among bureaucratic officials across ministries and agencies.

The analysis of the Red and White Cabinet reveals significant structural challenges stemming from both the massive size of the cabinet and questionable competency amongst several ministers, though determining exact percentages of "recommended" versus directly chosen officials remains difficult due to limited specific information in public sources. The cabinet comprises 48 ministers across various portfolios, creating what experts describe as an unwieldy governmental structure. Within the first 100 days, at least eight ministers and deputy ministers have been embroiled in controversies, with Human Rights Minister receiving the worst performance rating with minus 113 points and being deemed the most deserving of replacement.

The competency issues appear particularly acute amongst certain appointees who demonstrate fundamental misunderstandings of their roles and responsibilities. Political analysts have attributed these blunders to the premature nature of cabinet selection, where President Prabowo appeared to prioritise showcasing the selection process rather than genuinely choosing figures with guaranteed integrity. Several cabinet members possess problematic track records, including former Deputy Justice and Human Rights Minister, who was previously named a suspect by the KPK for alleged bribery and gratification. The pattern suggests that approximately 15-20% of the cabinet members have demonstrated clear incompetence or controversial backgrounds, though the exact breakdown between legacy appointments and direct presidential choices remains opaque.

The controversies have emerged across multiple ministries, with various ministers making contentious statements that have drawn public scrutiny within days of their appointments. The fundamental issue appears to be that whilst President Prabowo may have a clear vision, the sheer size of the cabinet, combined with questionable appointment processes, has created a disconnect between presidential intent and ministerial execution, regardless of whether these officials were recommended from previous administrations or personally selected by the president.

Observers and critics have recommended a cabinet reshuffle for the Red and White Cabinet, with overwhelming public support for such measures. A political analyst conducted a survey on the X platform in February 2025, with results showing that more than 90% of netizens supported a cabinet reshuffle. The pressure for cabinet changes appears to be driven by mounting dissatisfaction with ministerial performance, as survey results revealed that 27.5% of society was dissatisfied with Prabowo's administration during the first 100 days, with the largest contributing factor being poor ministerial behaviour.

Political observers have been quite specific in their recommendations for cabinet changes. A political analyst has warned that ministers should not only be replaced for management leadership problems but also for policy issues, whilst the Celios study titled 'Report Card for Prabowo-Gibran's 100 Days' produced recommendations including ministers deemed to have poor performance and deserving replacement. The criticism has been particularly pointed, with political observer urging an immediate cabinet reshuffle whilst warning Prabowo to be careful in selecting ministers amid unstable global economic conditions, emphasising that reshuffles should not merely replace people who lack insight or fail to implement the president's vision.

In the ancient telling of the Babad Tanah Jawi (The Chronicle of Java, The Revised Prose Version of C.F. Winter Sr., edited and translated by Willem Remmelink, 2022, Leiden University Press),  Java was once unmoored, floating upon the restless sea. The gods, seeing the need for stability, brought the mighty Mount Meru from distant India to anchor it, dividing its summit to form other sacred peaks. This act was not merely about geography; it was a statement of permanence, a divine assurance that the island would stand firm against the tempests of time.

As Indonesia marks its eightieth year of independence, this image of anchoring becomes more than a myth—it becomes a metaphor for the nation itself. The Republic, like ancient Java, began its journey unsteady, buffeted by waves of conflict, political storms, and shifting tides of fortune. Each generation, like the gods of the legend, has driven its own “stakes” into the earth: constitutions, institutions, and shared values meant to hold the nation together.

Yet, as in the myth, the work is never finished. The mountain may anchor, but the sea never sleeps. The earthquakes of discontent, the waves of disagreement, and the winds of change will always come. What keeps the archipelago standing is not the absence of these forces, but the collective decision to return, again and again, to reinforce the anchors—to remember that independence is not a one-time gift, but an ongoing act of will.

President Prabowo’s challenge lies in navigating these swells without allowing the vessel of the state to be pulled off course. Yet in a way, this ongoing “commotion” is also a sign of democratic vitality. A silent nation can be a sign of fear; a noisy one, for all its frustrations, is alive, engaged, and unwilling to surrender its right to challenge power. The real question for the 80th anniversary is whether this energy can be channelled into construction rather than destruction—into a shared sense of nationhood rather than a scattering of competing factions. For the spirit of 1945 was not born in quiet compliance, but in the courageous clamour of a people demanding to be free."

And to conclude,” said Semar, preparing to end his tale, “let us listen to this passage from the Babad Tanah Jawi. This verse is like a sung prayer—its mountains are not mere features of the land, but mighty guardians, steadfast and vigilant, keeping the realm safe.

Tanah Jawi iku kawengku déning para déwa,

[The land of Java is held by the gods,]

kinubeng gunung-gunung agung,

[surrounded by great mountains,]

pucakipun ngemu mega,

[their peaks bearing clouds,]

sungané mili nyawiji kaliyan sawah-sawah,

[its rivers flowing into the rice fields,]

pinantek déning Gunung Meru saking tanah Hindhu,

[anchored by Mount Meru from the land of India,]

supados boten gumuling wonten ing segara.

[so that it does not roll upon the sea]

[Bahasa]