The Merits and Drawbacks of Taxation (4)

In Indonesian politics, as in many parts of the world, the art of language is often more profitable than the policy itself. When the Dewan says, with a perfectly straight face, that “there has been no salary increase, merely an adjustment in allowances,” they are not lying outright, but they are performing a linguistic acrobatic trick worthy of a circus tent. The word “salary” becomes a slippery eel; suddenly, it only refers to the modest figure listed under “basic pay,” while all the juicy extras—housing allowance, transport perks, rice subsidies, communication fees—magically transform into “allowances,” as if they were gifts from a benevolent fairy godmother rather than cold, hard cash deposited every month. The trick works because the public, exhausted by jargon and half-truths, often lacks the time or patience to chase down the difference between gaji pokok and tunjangan. Thus, the government gets to wear the halo of restraint—“Look, we haven’t raised salaries!”—while their bank accounts swell with the supposedly non-salary perks. It is a masterclass in semantic camouflage: money by any other name still fattens the wallet, but as long as it is called something else, the outrage is diluted, and the ruling class walks away smiling.

So yes, there is a delightful little bump in income, but the Dewan would very much like you to believe that it’s not a raise—merely a bouquet of allowances tied up with a bureaucratic ribbon. The basic salary itself, they assure us with saintly solemnity, has not shifted an inch. Yet when we use the word “salary” in ordinary conversation, we mean the whole monthly haul: the base pay, the extras, the perks, and the converted facilities that no longer arrive in kind but in crisp notes. And here lies the parlour trick.

The politician’s version runs like this: “Our salary is tiny, just seven million rupiah.” By this, they point to the skeletal figure labelled “basic pay.” The public’s version, however, is closer to reality: the monthly take-home package that now hovers around seventy million. The sleight of hand is almost comical: call it allowances, call it facilities, call it anything but “salary,” and the outrage simmers rather than boils.

In a society where the state justifies taxation as a sacred duty of citizenship, the language of maslahah—the supposed greater good—is often paraded as a noble veil. Taxes, they say, are the blood that nourishes public welfare: they build roads, schools, hospitals, and keep the nation’s machinery in motion. Yet when the same taxes that are extracted with relentless consistency from ordinary workers’ meagre paycheques are seen flowing upwards into the swollen allowances of legislators, the equation of maslahah and mafsadah—benefit and harm—becomes dangerously inverted. The rakyat are told that their sacrifice sustains the collective good, but the good seems to be monopolised by the few in the halls of power. Instead of redistributing wealth to ease suffering, the tax system appears to redistribute frustration, funneling mudharat onto the shoulders of the people while channeling barakah-like privileges into the wallets of the elite. Thus, the moral balance that Islamic thought insists upon—where taxation must yield justice—looks tragically skewed, leaving citizens to wonder if their compliance buys anything more than the right to watch their leaders luxuriate.

In the debate over taxation, the government often frames taxes as a necessary instrument of maslahah—a means to secure public benefit through the funding of infrastructure, education, and welfare. Yet when citizens witness members of parliament comfortably increasing their allowances, the principle of maslahah begins to feel hollow, almost like a sermon recited in monotone. What is meant to be a social contract grounded in justice is instead perceived as a transaction tilted in favour of the elite. In practice, the mudharat—the harm—of taxes manifests in the daily lives of citizens as rising costs, suffocating bills, and diminishing purchasing power, while the promised maslahah seems to evaporate into a haze of political privilege. Thus, the discourse on taxation ceases to be a philosophical reflection on shared responsibility, and instead becomes a cynical reminder of inequality: the burden is public, the benefit is private.

In other words, if you want to talk about basic pay, then yes, it’s still 6.5 to 7 million, bless their frugal souls. But if you want to talk about salary in the real-world sense—everything lumped together—then of course it has gone up this year, because the allowances have fattened. You are absolutely right: salary equals basic pay plus allowances. The entire semantic dance is nothing more than political fireproofing, a clever way of hiding a pay rise behind a change of labels, as though words, not wallets, were what mattered most.

Critics have pounced on the notion of a fifty-million-rupiah monthly housing allowance, offering a mix of scorn, disbelief, and a hint of headline-grabbing flair. One public intellectual from UGM didn’t mince words, arguing that handing out such princely sums amid a cost-of-living crunch is a spectacularly tone-deaf move—one that not only inflates the state’s budget but also feels like a slap in the face to households tightening their belts. He pointed out, with a weary sigh, that while ordinary civil servants see no pay rise and prices for essentials surge, many citizens are facing job losses—yet here we are, watching MPs luxuriate in new perks.

Meanwhile, a band of activists in Yogyakarta went full creative protest mode—sending earpicks and erasers to the DPR as cheeky symbols of their demand: ‘Hey, clean your ears and erase this dodgy raise!’ They described the upwards-of-100-million-rupiah income as “inhuman” and flagrantly unsympathetic to the plight of the masses.

Property experts have also raised eyebrows, questioning whether such lavish housing allowances are even necessary when many MPs already own homes. A fairness check, they suggest, would be in order—maybe hire independent consultants to handle housing choices and rental agreements, rather than letting such a cash splash rest on vague justifications. 

The chorus of criticism underscores a few clear notes: first, the optics are abysmal in an era of budget cuts and public hardship; second, there is an urgent demand for equity—if perks rise, performance needs to follow suit; and, third, public distrust is creeping upward faster than anyone’s income bracket. A sharp reminder that money by any other name may still be money, but if it's fattening the wallets of politicians while squeezing the public, the backlash is both inevitable and justified.

The rise in parliamentary allowances has, quite predictably, left a bitter aftertaste among the public, much like being served cold tea at a royal garden party. Critics argue that it cements the image of lawmakers as a class entirely detached from the realities of ordinary citizens, happily cushioning themselves with ever-expanding perks while the rest of the country struggles to keep afloat. The negative impression is that of a political elite who are more committed to padding their wallets than to addressing the nation’s woes, as if their sense of public service has been replaced by an obsession with personal comfort. For many observers, it looks less like governance and more like a game of Monopoly played with taxpayers’ money—except the board is Indonesia, and the dice never seem to favour the people.

In the current climate of economic turbulence, the stark disparity between the comfort enjoyed by members of parliament and the struggles faced by ordinary citizens is both glaring and unsettling. While lawmakers rest securely with a monthly package approaching seventy million rupiah, buttressed by allowances for housing, fuel, and other benefits, the people outside the parliamentary walls wrestle daily with the harsh arithmetic of survival. The citizen’s world is filled with bills, rising food prices, and the unyielding pressure of taxes that seem to shadow them at every turn. It creates the impression that public representatives are insulated from the very hardships their constituents are forced to endure, with the halls of power resembling sanctuaries of indulgence while the streets echo with the weariness of debt and obligation. In such a contrast, politics ceases to feel like service and instead resembles privilege, making the gap between promise and reality wider and more painful than ever.

In classical Islamic thought, taxation is justified only when it serves a clear maslahah, meaning it must provide a tangible benefit to the wider community, such as security, welfare, or the sustenance of essential public services. When this principle is respected, the collection of taxes can be seen as a legitimate instrument of justice, since it redistributes wealth to ensure that society as a whole is not left fractured between the privileged and the impoverished. However, when taxation becomes a tool that extracts from the weak while enriching those already nestled in privilege, the mudharat—the harm—outweighs the good, and the whole system begins to feel less like a duty of citizenship and more like a form of sanctioned exploitation. It is this delicate balance, between service and self-interest, that shapes whether taxation is remembered as an act of solidarity or reviled as a means of oppression.

In classical Islamic thought, the principle of maslahah—that which brings benefit to society—and mafsadah or mudharat—that which causes harm—serves as a moral compass in evaluating the fairness of policies, including taxation. Ideally, taxes are justified when they serve the greater good, providing public services, reducing inequality, and safeguarding the welfare of the people. Yet, when the fruits of taxation are diverted disproportionately into the comforts of the governing elite rather than the needs of the governed, the balance tilts towards mudharat. It is no longer seen as a collective contribution but as an imposed burden, feeding luxury at the top while leaving scarcity at the base. Thus, what was intended as a tool of maslahah becomes a source of public grievance, a reminder that justice in taxation is not merely about collection but about rightful distribution.

In public debate, the contrast between the supposed “maslahat” of tax collection and the obvious “mudharat” it imposes on ordinary citizens often becomes painfully clear when stories of parliamentary allowances arise. The state defends the levies as a sacred duty, framing them as necessary to build infrastructure, fund healthcare, and secure the nation’s future. Yet the mudharat becomes glaring when the very money collected under this noble pretext flows upwards to finance luxury cars, overseas study tours, and ever-expanding allowances for politicians who are already cushioned by privilege. The philosophical balance of benefit and harm, which Islamic jurisprudence often demands in assessing social policies, feels lopsided when the burdens weigh heaviest on the poor while the delights fall neatly into the laps of the powerful. It leaves one to wonder whether the lofty sermons about justice and prosperity are truly meant for the people, or whether they merely serve as linguistic perfume masking the stench of inequity.

From a philosophical perspective, taxation is meant to embody the principle of collective responsibility, where individuals contribute to the shared welfare of society; however, when those entrusted with managing the public purse exploit it for personal luxury, the very essence of justice is betrayed. Politically, taxes represent the legitimacy of governance, the social contract between ruler and ruled, yet the moment such revenues are diverted to fund excessive privileges for lawmakers, the contract begins to fracture. Economically, taxation should act as a redistributive tool, enabling the state to balance wealth and provide essential services, but in practice, when citizens see their hard-earned contributions flowing into the comfort of an elite minority, the purpose is inverted, creating inequality rather than reducing it. Socially, taxes are supposed to generate solidarity, a sense that everyone is pitching in for the common good, but in the shadow of parliamentary indulgence, resentment festers, fuelling distrust and alienation. Culturally, taxation in Indonesia has always carried a complicated meaning, shaped by colonial exploitation and bureaucratic inefficiency; when today’s people observe history seemingly repeating itself—where the powerful benefit while ordinary families are squeezed—they cannot help but perceive taxation not as a noble duty, but as a burden propping up a system tilted against them.

From a philosophical standpoint, taxation is often defended as a moral duty, a collective contribution that embodies the principle of justice by ensuring that wealth is redistributed for the common good. Yet when citizens witness their taxes being used not for the welfare of the people but for the indulgence of the political elite, the moral foundation of taxation begins to crack, and trust in the system erodes like a house built on sand. Politically, tax is meant to be the lifeblood of governance, a channel through which the state sustains itself and secures legitimacy. However, when the political class channels this lifeblood towards self-enrichment, taxation becomes not a symbol of civic responsibility but a tool of exploitation, a mechanism of domination rather than representation. Economically, tax ought to serve as the balance wheel of growth, redistributing resources to reduce inequality and stimulate social mobility. Yet in practice, it often becomes a burden that strangles small entrepreneurs and workers, while the privileged classes engineer exemptions and loopholes to shield themselves from contribution. Socially, taxation should strengthen bonds of solidarity, reminding citizens that they are part of a larger fabric where each thread supports the other. But when the perception grows that the sacrifices of the people only fund the luxuries of the elite, tax ceases to unite and begins to divide, breeding resentment and fuelling distrust. Culturally, tax could have been framed as part of a shared narrative of nation-building, a collective sacrifice for a shared future. Instead, in societies where corruption and self-serving politics dominate, taxation is seen less as an act of shared destiny and more as a compulsory tribute to rulers who live in palaces while their subjects drown in debt.

From a philosophical perspective, taxation may be regarded as a paradox of duty and justice, a binding contract between the individual and the collective. In its ideal form, it represents the noble exchange of private wealth for public good, where citizens contribute to sustain schools, hospitals, and infrastructure that none could build alone. Yet, when the system bends towards exploitation, taxation ceases to be a social covenant and becomes a form of coercion that erodes the very idea of justice it was meant to uphold. It raises the ancient question: is the sacrifice of the many truly balanced by the service of the few?

Politically, taxation embodies both legitimacy and control. A state that levies taxes fairly is seen as an authority rooted in consent, whereas one that imposes them with arrogance drifts towards authoritarianism. The allocation of tax revenue becomes a mirror of priorities, showing whether power serves the people or merely sustains itself. When legislators bask in privileges while citizens struggle with levies, taxation becomes a symbol not of governance but of estrangement between rulers and ruled.

Economically, taxation is a double-edged sword. On one side, it fuels national development, ensuring resources for growth, redistribution, and stability. On the other, excessive or mismanaged taxation strangles productivity, diminishes innovation, and burdens the weakest while sparing the privileged. Instead of a cycle of prosperity, it becomes a cycle of stagnation where wealth is extracted from the bottom without returning in meaningful form.

Socially, taxation is supposed to knit society together, affirming solidarity through shared contribution. In principle, it reduces inequality, bridging the distance between rich and poor by ensuring access to public goods. But when corruption erodes trust, taxation fragments the social fabric, turning citizens into sceptics who see their contributions vanish into a void. Rather than reinforcing collective identity, it deepens social fractures.

Culturally, taxation reflects the moral values of a society. In some contexts, it is seen as a sacred duty, an act of mutual responsibility woven into the ethos of citizenship. In others, it is perceived as an unjust burden, fuelling cynicism and passive resistance. Whether taxes are viewed as instruments of justice or symbols of oppression depends less on the law itself and more on the cultural narrative surrounding its application.

From a philosophical perspective, taxation represents an unwritten pact between rulers and the ruled, in which citizens surrender part of their private wealth in exchange for collective security and the promise of justice. When parliamentary allowances swell disproportionately, that pact begins to look hollow, as if the sacrifice of the many is feeding the privilege of the few, undermining the ethical foundation of taxation itself.

Politically, taxation is meant to strengthen democratic legitimacy by proving that government resources are gathered fairly and spent transparently. Yet, when lavish allowances dominate headlines, they symbolise the distortion of democracy into oligarchy, where political office is less about serving the people and more about securing personal comfort.

Economically, taxes are a redistributive tool to balance inequality by transferring resources from the wealthy to public goods. However, when those funds disproportionately bolster elite privileges, redistribution becomes perverse: the poor are effectively subsidising the comfort of those meant to regulate and protect them.

Socially, taxation should weave solidarity among citizens, because everyone contributes to a shared pool for mutual benefit. Yet, when allowances spiral upwards, the sense of fairness fractures, replacing solidarity with resentment, as if taxpayers are mere pawns funding a game they cannot win.

Culturally, taxation reflects shared values about duty, sacrifice, and the role of the state. When allowances balloon in a society that still wrestles with poverty, it breeds cynicism and erodes respect for institutions. The tax no longer feels like a noble duty but rather a cultural farce, where sacrifice is mocked by the very people entrusted with honouring it.

In philosophical terms, taxation is meant to embody the social contract, the moral duty through which citizens contribute to the collective good and the state redistributes wealth for the sake of justice and stability. Yet when the very representatives entrusted with safeguarding this principle treat public resources as their personal stage for amusement, the notion of fairness collapses into farce. Politically, tax is supposed to symbolise legitimacy, for they fund governance and institutions that claim to act on behalf of the people. However, when those in parliament turn the revenues of hard-working citizens into mere props for their own perks, they not only weaken trust in democracy but also redefine politics as a spectacle of entitlement. Economically, tax should be the mechanism that narrows inequality and fuels development, but here it is twisted into a funnel that fattens the privileged while leaving the rest to carry heavier burdens in silence. Socially, taxation is supposed to bind communities together in a shared responsibility, yet it is perverted into a cruel reminder that ordinary lives are disposable while the elite live insulated, smug in their immunity. Culturally, the act of paying tax is meant to affirm a collective belonging, but in a society where elected representatives flaunt indulgence instead of restraint, tax payment becomes a bitter ritual of submission, not solidarity. What makes this spectacle even more grotesque is that members of parliament appear blind and deaf to the suffering of their constituents, for the rise in their allowance was not debated with sobriety but celebrated with a dance, led by a jester in political costume, mocking the very citizens who foot the bill, including snacks every two hours.

[Part 5]
[Part 3]

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