Sapardi Djoko Damono once penned the sharp yet simple phrase: “Bilang begini, maksudnya begitu (says this, means that)” It is a poetic reminder that language is not neutral. Words can mask, distort, or mislead, and in the political arena, they often become tools of power rather than instruments of clarity. When leaders forget this, their speech ceases to inform and begins to inflame.The unrest that shook Indonesia in August 2025 revealed that careless words can be as dangerous as failed policies. Citizens poured into the streets not only because of economic inequality or political frustration, but also because they felt insulted and dismissed by their own leaders’ speech.From local officials who challenge citizens to mass confrontation, to ministers who mock questions with sarcasm, verbal blunders have become a recurring pattern. Instead of bridging the gap between government and the governed, these words build walls of arrogance and condescension.This is the living example of Sapardi’s phrase. What officials present as resilience or humour, the public hears as mockery. What is intended as strength is received as arrogance. It is the phenomenon of doublespeak: saying one thing, while clearly meaning another. Sapardi Djoko Damono reflects on the way words in everyday Indonesian communication are often employed not to disclose meaning but to obscure it. He explains that language is rarely straightforward; what is uttered is seldom what is truly intended. Phrases are wrapped in irony, in ambiguity, sometimes even in deliberate vagueness. This habit, Sapardi suggests, is deeply cultural—people say one thing, but they expect the listener to grasp an entirely different message that lies beneath the surface. In such expressions, sincerity is less important than subtlety, and clarity is frequently sacrificed for indirectness. The phrase “Bilang begini, maksudnya begitu” becomes a shorthand for this cultural play with meaning, exposing how language can be both a tool of politeness and a mask for intentions left unspoken.The list is telling. A regent daring citizens to come in their thousands. A minister sneering: “Did your ancestor make the land?” Legislators dismissing critics as “stupid” or “kampungan.” A presidential spokesperson joking, “Cook the pig’s head.” And a Parliament plagued by outrage over housing and fuel allowances, with statements so contradictory they fuelled rather than calmed the storm. Former intelligence chief added fuel by alleging that the riots were “stoked by foreign actors.” Yet without evidence, such statements sounded less like warnings and more like distractions. For the public, it was another example of “bilang begini, maksudnya begitu”—words that deflect responsibility rather than confront reality.Mainstream media amplified these words, while social media turned them into memes, hashtags, and banners in the protests themselves. The irony was unavoidable: officials’ words became the very slogans of resistance. The anger was not only about policies but about dignity. Citizens felt talked down to, dismissed as if their grievances were jokes. Every careless phrase chipped away at the little trust left between people and power.Another vivid example came from a Tempo report showing the Minister of Forestry and the Minister of Migrant Workers Protection playing dominoes with a businessman once declared a suspect by the Ministry of Environment and Forestry. Officially, it was downplayed as harmless leisure, “just a game.” Yet to the public, the symbolism was unmistakable: the domino table looked less like a pastime and more like a theatre of political intimacy. The boundaries between state authority and private interests seemed blurred, reinforcing the suspicion that what is spoken aloud is never the whole truth. Once again, the scene embodied Sapardi’s phrase: “Bilang begini, maksudnya begitu.”
William Lutz, in his book Doublespeak (2015, Ig Publishing), explores how language is frequently manipulated by those in positions of power to obscure truth, disguise responsibility, and soften the impact of unpleasant realities. He argues that political and bureaucratic discourse is often engineered not to inform citizens honestly, but to maintain authority and control while masking incompetence or insensitivity. When officials resort to doublespeak, they use euphemisms, jargon, and convoluted phrasing to make blunders appear less damaging or to present themselves as empathetic while in reality remaining detached from the public’s struggles. This phenomenon is particularly relevant in the Indonesian context, where certain public figures deliver statements that seem tone-deaf or lack compassion. Instead of directly addressing problems such as poverty, disasters, or public grievances, officials sometimes hide behind empty slogans, vague promises, or technical excuses that only increase public frustration. Lutz’s analysis therefore illuminates how the gap between political language and lived reality erodes trust, and why citizens perceive official remarks as blunders rather than genuine attempts at communication.
In William Lutz’s terms, doublespeak is not simply about lying, but about distorting language so that the truth becomes blurred and responsibility is evaded. A striking Indonesian example would be when an official describes rising fuel prices as an act of “price adjustment” rather than acknowledging it as a burden on the people. This choice of words attempts to soften the blow, as if a technical tweak has been made, when in reality millions of citizens feel the direct impact in their daily expenses. Another illustration is when, in the aftermath of natural disasters, certain officials make statements suggesting that victims should “be grateful” or that disasters are merely “tests” without providing concrete solutions. Such language creates the illusion of care while leaving affected communities without immediate support. Similarly, when unemployment figures are rising, one sometimes hears officials claim that “job-seekers are being more selective” instead of admitting that opportunities are scarce. In all of these cases, the speech masks failure, shifts blame, or presents hardship as something almost voluntary, which fits precisely into Lutz’s definition of doublespeak: words that conceal rather than reveal.
In William Lutz’s analysis, doublespeak is defined as language that deliberately disguises, distorts, or reverses the meaning of words in order to mislead, manipulate, or protect those in power. It is not merely a matter of poor word choice, but a systematic practice where words are used to hide reality, make the unpleasant sound acceptable, and even present lies as truths. For Lutz, doublespeak is the calculated corruption of communication: instead of clarifying, it obscures; instead of revealing, it conceals; instead of empowering the public, it serves those in authority.The main message he conveys through his book is that doublespeak is not an innocent mistake but a dangerous tool of social control. He warns that when politicians, corporations, or bureaucrats rely on doublespeak, they not only erode trust but also weaken democracy by preventing citizens from making informed decisions. He demonstrates how euphemisms such as “collateral damage” for civilian deaths, “revenue enhancement” for tax increases, or “downsizing” for mass layoffs function to strip words of their true impact. Ultimately, Lutz’s message is that language shapes reality, and if language is corrupted, so too is thought and public life. By unmasking doublespeak, he calls on citizens to resist manipulation, demand honesty, and defend clarity in communication.In The New Doublespeak: Why No One Knows What Anyone's Saying Anymore (1996, HarperCollins), William Lutz expands on his earlier work by examining how the corruption of language has become even more pervasive and subtle in contemporary public discourse. He defines the new doublespeak as the systematic and deliberate use of misleading, ambiguous, or euphemistic language that makes it increasingly difficult for people to understand one another clearly. Unlike ordinary vagueness or confusion in language, doublespeak is purposeful—it is designed to obscure reality, manipulate perception, and protect those who use it. For Lutz, the “new” aspect reflects how doublespeak has evolved: it is no longer confined to politics or advertising, but infiltrates every sphere of communication—from corporate memos and government policy to media commentary and even everyday conversations.The book’s central message is that doublespeak undermines the very foundation of democratic society, because informed citizenship requires clarity and honesty in communication. Lutz warns that when people cannot trust the words of leaders, institutions, or even colleagues, public trust collapses and civic engagement weakens. He provides numerous examples, such as corporations calling layoffs “rightsizing,” governments referring to tax increases as “revenue enhancements,” or the military speaking of “friendly fire” instead of accidental killings. The danger lies not just in the words themselves, but in the way they numb critical thinking and make people accept harmful policies without resistance. Ultimately, Lutz urges readers to become vigilant consumers of language: to question, decode, and challenge doublespeak wherever it appears, because clarity of speech is inseparable from clarity of thought and democratic accountability.Lutz answers the question “why no one knows what anyone’s saying anymore?”. It is because language in public life has become saturated with doublespeak—deliberately misleading, vague, or euphemistic expressions that obscure rather than reveal meaning. He explains that the decay of clear communication is not accidental but intentional: politicians, corporations, bureaucrats, and even media professionals craft language that conceals responsibility, softens harsh realities, and manipulates public perception. As a result, ordinary people are left confused, mistrustful, and unable to fully grasp what decisions or policies actually mean for their lives.Thus, his answer is twofold. On one level, people no longer understand each other because doublespeak has eroded the shared clarity of language. On a deeper level, the reason behind this erosion is power: those in authority benefit when citizens cannot hold them accountable because the language of policy and public debate has been stripped of its real impact. For Lutz, the “why” is rooted in control and self-preservation—institutions and elites rely on doublespeak precisely because it maintains their dominance while keeping the public passive.Lutz’s answer is that we no longer understand one another because our language has been hijacked by doublespeak, and unless people learn to decode it and demand honesty, communication in democratic society will continue to deteriorate.In the Indonesian context, one can see Lutz’s point in the way officials often describe the national debt. Instead of admitting that debt repayments and interest rates are becoming a heavy burden, the official line is that the “national debt is safe and under control.” This phrase is pure doublespeak: it reassures the public with a soothing tone while concealing the harsher reality that debt service consumes a large portion of the national budget. The public hears comfort words, but they are not given the actual scale of the problem, which leaves them confused and mistrustful about what is really happening.Similarly, when natural disasters strike, the language of officials sometimes shifts responsibility away from preparedness. For instance, saying that flooding is the result of “extreme rainfall” rather than poor infrastructure or weak urban planning is another form of doublespeak. The reality—policy failure—is obscured, and the impression given is that nothing could have been done.These are precisely the kinds of examples Lutz warned about: doublespeak blurs meaning, hides accountability, and prevents citizens from fully understanding the stakes of political decisions. Hence, no one really knows what anyone is saying anymore, because what is spoken is designed to mislead rather than inform.In Dezinformatsia: Active Measures in Soviet Strategy (1984, Pergamon-Brassey’s), Richard H. Shultz Jr. and Roy Godson investigate the Soviet Union’s systematic use of dezinformatsia—a Russian term meaning disinformation—as a central element of its global strategy during the Cold War. They explain that dezinformatsia goes far beyond simple propaganda: it is the deliberate, coordinated, and covert manipulation of information designed to mislead governments, elites, and public opinion in rival states. For the authors, dezinformatsia is part of a broader Soviet concept of “active measures” (aktivnye meropriyatiya), which includes forgeries, front organisations, covert media placements, rumours, and even orchestrated political movements. The ultimate purpose is not merely to confuse, but to weaken opponents, influence decision-making, and create favourable conditions for Soviet interests without resorting to open military conflict.The authors define dezinformatsia as “the intentional dissemination of false, incomplete, or misleading information to misguide adversaries and shape their perceptions of reality.” Unlike simple lies, it is carefully constructed so that it blends truth with falsehood, making it plausible and harder to detect. Shultz and Godson stress that Soviet disinformation was global in scope, targeting not just governments but also universities, journalists, peace movements, and international organisations, seeking to amplify divisions within Western societies.The central message of the book is a warning: the West must not underestimate the power of dezinformatsia, because it erodes trust, weakens alliances, and undermines democratic decision-making. The authors argue that democracies, which depend on open debate and free media, are especially vulnerable to such manipulations. Therefore, they call for stronger counter-intelligence, public education, and awareness about how information can be weaponised. Ultimately, their thesis is that in modern conflict, battles are fought not only with armies but with words, ideas, and narratives—and the Soviet Union had mastered this invisible front.From William Lutz’s perspective, the lesson is that much of the confusing or tone-deaf language of Indonesian officials can be understood as doublespeak. When a minister describes a painful fuel price hike as a “price adjustment,” or when a governor insists that flooding is the result of “extreme rainfall” rather than failed infrastructure, this mirrors Lutz’s idea that language is deliberately softened to mask harsh truths and to protect those in power. The key warning from Lutz is that if doublespeak becomes routine, public trust is eroded, and democracy suffers because citizens no longer receive clear information to make meaningful judgments. The lesson here is simple: clarity in language is inseparable from accountability in governance.From Shultz and Godson’s framework, the lesson shifts outward: the way language is used by officials can also have the qualities of dezinformatsia, even if unintentionally. When contradictory, misleading, or euphemistic statements are broadcast, they create confusion, division, and cynicism in society. This resembles the Soviet technique of dezinformatsia, where the goal is to fracture the opponent’s confidence and unity. In the Indonesian context, careless or manipulative statements by officials end up fuelling polarisation, encouraging distrust of institutions, and leaving citizens vulnerable to misinformation from other sources. The message from Shultz and Godson is that once communication becomes contaminated by disinformation—whether foreign or domestic—it destabilises social cohesion and weakens democratic resilience.Taken together, the two books remind us that language is never neutral. When Indonesian officials resort to polished slogans, evasive euphemisms, or confusing justifications, they are not simply speaking poorly—they are shaping public reality. The public learns, consciously or not, to mistrust authority, to doubt every statement, and to seek alternative narratives, which may or may not be grounded in truth. The final lesson is stark: if leaders want to restore credibility, they must abandon doublespeak and resist disinformation, because words are not decoration—they are instruments of power that either build or corrode the bond between government and society.President Prabowo is often noted for his ability to deploy humour in a manner that feels situationally appropriate. His jokes are usually framed in a way that softens tension or humanises him before an audience, and because they are well-timed and balanced with authority, they are generally received as charm rather than insult. This kind of humour is strategic—it recognises the mood of the room, the weight of the moment, and the limits of what can be said without offence.Other Indonesian officials, however, often struggle to strike this balance. What they perhaps intend as lightness or wit too often comes across as arrogance or cynicism. Instead of building rapport, their words wound; instead of diffusing tension, they deepen distrust. The difference lies not merely in personality but in political instinct: humour in leadership must be empathetic, responsive, and carefully measured. Without that instinct, an attempted joke becomes a blunder.President Prabowo often uses humour as a tool of soft power. His jokes are typically situational—linked to the audience or the context—and are delivered with a mix of authority and self-deprecation. For example, in campaign rallies he has joked about his own age or his tendency to be fierce, turning potential weaknesses into moments of relatability. This humour disarms his listeners, makes him appear approachable, and reduces the distance between leader and people.Other Indonesian officials, however, tend to mistake sarcasm for humour. When a regent challenges protesters with “Come at me with five thousand people!” or when a minister retorts “Did your ancestor make the land?”, these remarks are not interpreted as jokes but as arrogance. The intention may have been to sound witty, but the absence of empathy turns them into verbal daggers.The difference lies in instinct. Prabowo’s humour is shaped by awareness of the audience’s mood, and by his ability to laugh at himself rather than belittle others. By contrast, officials who attempt humour without sensitivity end up ridiculing citizens, which backfires. In a fragile political climate, humour without empathy does not amuse—it insults.Political humour is not about clever phrasing alone; it is about timing, humility, and understanding. Prabowo has mastered this balance, while many officials have not. Their failed attempts illustrate perfectly Sapardi’s phrase: “Bilang begini, maksudnya begitu.” They may claim to be joking, but what the people hear is mockery.“Communicating Political Humor in the Media: How Culture Influences Satire and Irony”, edited by Ofer Feldman (2024) examines how political humour—encompassing satire and parody—is shaped by cultural and media contexts across various countries, including Indonesia. While not prescribing “timing” per se, it highlights how humour must align with cultural sensibilities to be effective.The book by Ofer Feldman is a wide-ranging exploration of how humour functions as a political weapon and a cultural mirror in different societies. It is not simply about jokes, cartoons, or satirical sketches, but rather about how those humorous forms reflect the deep cultural codes and social tensions of the countries in which they appear. In this sense, political humour is not universal: a cartoon that may be considered sharp and witty in Brazil might be meaningless in Japan, while irony that resonates in Poland may not land at all in Indonesia. The contributors of the volume, drawn from political science, communication studies, linguistics, sociology, cultural analysis, and psychology, argue that humour has to be read within its cultural context if one is to truly grasp its political implications.The book shows that political humour in the media is a double-edged tool. On one hand, it has the power to challenge authority, expose hypocrisy, and give citizens a voice in societies where open criticism may be limited. On the other hand, it can entrench stereotypes, reinforce prejudice, and even be manipulated by elites to ridicule opponents or suppress alternative voices. Whether it comes in the form of cartoons, television satire, newspaper parodies, or digital memes, humour is always politically loaded and culturally grounded.Across its chapters, the volume presents case studies from countries as diverse as Spain, Poland, Montenegro, Turkey, Japan, Australia, Iran, Brazil, Argentina, Malaysia, and Indonesia. These examples reveal that political humour in the media is both a form of critique and a form of complicity, depending on how it is created and consumed. In democratic contexts, it often serves as a mechanism of accountability, while in authoritarian contexts it may provide a rare outlet for dissent or, conversely, be used as state-sanctioned mockery.The central message of the book is that humour in the political arena cannot be studied in isolation from culture and media structures. To understand why certain jokes sting, why some satires spark debate, and why some cartoons become iconic, one must pay attention to the cultural narratives, the political climate, and the media ecosystems in which they circulate. What emerges from this collection is a nuanced picture of humour as both a unifying and divisive force, capable of empowering the powerless but also of sustaining power itself.
David L. Collinson’s Leadership, Humor, and Satire (2010) explores leadership through the lens of humour and satire. Rather than portraying leaders as stoic strategists or heroic visionaries, Collinson invites us to consider the absurdities, contradictions, and performative aspects of leadership itself. He argues that humour is not merely a social lubricant—it is a political tool, a mode of resistance, and occasionally, a mask for manipulation.Drawing on examples from political figures such as Reagan and Clinton, Collinson demonstrates how humour can be weaponised to charm, deflect criticism, and construct a relatable persona. Yet, he is equally attentive to the darker side of humour: its capacity to exclude, to reinforce hierarchies, and to silence dissent under the guise of jest.Satire, in his view, operates as a mirror held up to power. It exposes the theatricality of leadership, the vanity of authority, and the fragility of charisma. In doing so, it destabilises the myth of the infallible leader and reminds us that governance is as much about performance as it is about policy.Ultimately, Collinson’s work is a call to rethink leadership not as a fixed set of traits, but as a dynamic, contested, and often comical social process. It is a celebration of ambiguity, a critique of pomposity, and a gentle nudge to take leaders less seriously—precisely so we can hold them more accountable.
Will Morrisey’s Shakespeare’s Politic Comedy, published in 2023 by St Augustine’s Press of Chicago, explores the political dimensions underlying Shakespeare’s comedies, presenting them as far more than light-hearted entertainments. Morrisey structures the book into four parts. First, under the heading “Three Regimes: Oligarchy, Aristocracy, Monarchy,” he unpacks how notions of gentle rule, gentlemanliness, and royal imagination underpin Shakespeare’s comedic worlds. Next, in “The Rule of Law,” he considers how errors, legal intricacies, and the ever-playful “What Will You?” moments reflect the tensions and flexibilities within political order. Moving on to “The Comedy of Morals,” Morrisey explores how Shakespeare tames impetuous behaviour—with a special nod to As You Like It—revealing how moral comedy hinges on transformation. Finally, in “The Comedy of Politics,” he examines plays such as All’s Well That Ends Well, considering how love carries geopolitical weight and how the “wisest beholder” guides us to perceive the subtle paradoxes in governance through laughter. Across all these themes, Morrisey invites readers to regard Shakespeare as a statesman-playwright: one whose comedies enact a politics of grace, prudence, and just rule that redirects tragedy through comedic resolution and political insight.
The lesson is clear: public language carries risks. Leaders may imagine they are imitating a style of humour, but without sensitivity, their remarks will not be perceived as clever—they will be read as dismissive. In times of unrest and public dissatisfaction, this gap between intent and perception is particularly dangerous.
Over time, citizens learn to “read between the lines.” They assume that what is said is never what is meant. This cynicism is dangerous: it breeds a society where no official word is trusted, and every statement is met with suspicion. The lesson of August 2025 is clear: words are not cheap. They can either build bridges or burn them. For politicians and officials, speaking with humility, honesty, and clarity is not optional—it is governance itself.If officials continue to treat speech as theatre—saying one thing while meaning another—then “Bilang begini, maksudnya begitu” will remain the bitter joke of Indonesian politics. But if they learn that language itself is policy, then perhaps the gap between rulers and ruled can begin to close.
