The Dangers of Communism for Indonesian Democracy (16)

In a marvellously Orwellian twist, the Indonesian Election Commission has decided that the very documents meant to prove a candidate’s worthiness to govern millions of people are apparently too sacred for the humble public to peek at. One must imagine the joy of democracy, where transparency is so transparent that it becomes invisible. Accountability, in this case, resembles a magician’s disappearing act: now you see it, now you don’t, and mostly you don’t. The citizens, instead of scrutinising their future leaders, are invited to enjoy the spectacle of blind trust, as though electoral politics were not a system of checks and balances but rather a raffle draw where the prize is five years of power. It is democracy with the curtains drawn and the lights dimmed, all for the comfort of the very actors who should be performing under the spotlight.

To call such a rule “reasonable” would be like declaring that a locked ballot box without voters is still a celebration of democracy. The entire point of an election is that the people, as employers of their leaders, have every right to inspect the CVs before signing the contract. Instead, the Election Commission seems to believe that Indonesians should hire their presidents the way one chooses a mystery box at a carnival: with hope, luck, and a total absence of information. What should happen, of course, is the opposite—documents of candidates must be open to the public eye, for secrecy belongs to state security, not to the academic transcripts or medical records of aspiring kings in a republic. If democracy is to mean more than a fancy word in speeches, it must permit scrutiny, even if it embarrasses the powerful. In short, a transparent democracy builds trust, while a hidden democracy merely builds suspicion and memes.

The Indonesian General Elections Commission (KPU) issued Decision Number 731 of 2025 concerning the Determination of Presidential and Vice-Presidential Candidate Registration Documents as Exempted Public Information. The decree, signed on 21 August 2025 by the KPU Chairman, Afifuddin, declares that 16 types of documents submitted by presidential and vice-presidential candidates are classified as information that cannot be accessed by the public without the written consent of the individuals concerned. The restriction is valid for five years from the date of stipulation, unless disclosure is related to someone’s position in public office.

The sixteen documents covered by the decree are:

1. A photocopy of the electronic Identity Card (KTP) and birth certificate of the Indonesian citizen.
2. Police Record Certificate (SKCK) from the National Police Headquarters.
3. Medical certificate from a government hospital appointed by the KPU.
4. Receipt or proof of submission of personal asset report (LHKPN) to the Corruption Eradication Commission.
5. Certificate from the district court confirming no bankruptcy status or outstanding debts.
6. Declaration of not being nominated as a member of the DPR, DPD, or DPRD.
7. Photocopy of Taxpayer Identification Number (NPWP) and proof of submission of annual income tax returns for the last five years.
8. Curriculum vitae, short profile, and track record of each candidate.
9. Statement of never having served as President or Vice President for two terms in the same office.
10. Statement of loyalty to Pancasila, the 1945 Constitution, and the ideals of the Proclamation of 17 August 1945.
11. Court certificate stating the candidate has never been imprisoned for a crime punishable by five years or more.
12. Proof of graduation in the form of a photocopy of diploma, certificate of completion, or equivalent legalised document from secondary education.
13. Police certificate stating no involvement in banned organisations or the G30S/PKI.
14. Stamped declaration of willingness to be nominated as a presidential and vice-presidential pair.
15. Statement of resignation from the Indonesian National Armed Forces, National Police, or Civil Service once designated as candidates.
16. Statement of resignation from employment or office in State-Owned Enterprises (BUMN) or Regional-Owned Enterprises (BUMD) once designated as candidates.

One must applaud the sheer theatricality of the KPU’s new decree — deciding that ordinary pieces of paperwork should be consigned to a velvet rope sounds less like bureaucratic prudence and more like a performance art piece called Democracy: Members Only. By treating sixteen routine candidate documents — yes, the very diplomas, tax returns and asset reports that let voters check whether a leader is honest or merely excellent at optics — as “information to be excepted”, the Commission has quietly reinvented public scrutiny as an optional premium feature. This is not merely stylistic; it is substantively awkward. The law on public information insists that exceptions be narrow, reasoned and subjected to an "uji konsekuensi" — in other words, you don’t get to hide things because they’re awkward, you must show that hiding them serves a greater public interest, not the other way round. The decision’s blanket five-year cloak over these files, its vague language about when disclosure is permissible, and the absence of a robust, independent mechanism for redaction or verification all amount to procedural fuzzy-math: big on secrecy, small on accountability, and utterly generous to rumours, dynastic comfort and sloppy vetting. If the aim was to reduce noise, the result will be the opposite — more whisper networks, more court skirmishes, and a social-media industry busily inventing receipts to fill the official silence. 

If this rule persists, Indonesia’s democracy risks becoming a theatre where the audience buys tickets but the stage remains hidden behind a curtain. Citizens will be expected to cheer for candidates whose paperwork is guarded like state secrets, while whispers and conspiracy theories fill the silence left by official opacity. Instead of fostering trust, the system will fatten suspicion; every sealed diploma will breed rumours of forgery, every hidden tax return will spark tales of shady fortunes, and every locked health report will inspire gossip columns more than policy debates. In the long run, leaders will govern not by credibility but by the thickness of the wall protecting their personal files, and accountability will shrink to a ceremonial word in speeches. The consequence is not stability, but a carnival of cynicism where voters cast ballots with raised eyebrows rather than informed conviction.

This rule has every chance of pouring petrol on embers that have barely cooled. The people have only recently tasted the bitterness of opaque politics—from courtroom wizardry that birthed dynastic candidacies to never-ending diploma debacles—and now they are told, ever so politely, that curiosity is no longer democratic. To hide documents at a moment when public trust is already fragile is like handing out blindfolds at a protest march: it will not calm the crowd, it will simply sharpen their suspicion. Instead of soothing discontent, the decree risks transforming every coffee stall into a parliament of conspiracy, every meme account into an investigative bureau, and every whisper into a headline. Far from extinguishing anger, this decision could fan it into a blaze, reminding the people that when the state prefers secrecy to scrutiny, rage becomes the only form of transparency available.

Before we dive back into our discussion, let me borrow a vivid Indonesian expression: ‘Duri dalam daging [a thorn in the flesh]’. Painful, persistent, and impossible to ignore—rather like the issue at hand.

The Indonesian expression “duri dalam daging” literally translates as “a thorn in the flesh”, refers to something or someone that causes constant irritation, discomfort, or trouble from within, often in a way that cannot be easily removed. It is not an overwhelming catastrophe, but rather a persistent nuisance that keeps hurting every time it is touched. In British English, the equivalent idiom is precisely “a thorn in one’s side” or “a thorn in the flesh.” Both convey the same meaning: an ongoing source of annoyance or a hidden element that disrupts peace and harmony. 

This expression often appears in political contexts, describing an opponent who never disappears, or in personal life, referring to a problem or person that continues to disturb despite repeated attempts to ignore it. In politics, a “thorn in the flesh” often refers to a political opponent or faction that refuses to be silenced, continually challenging the ruling power. For example, a small but vocal opposition party might never gain control, yet it consistently exposes government failures, causing irritation like a hidden thorn.

In economics, the phrase can describe a persistent obstacle such as inflation, corruption, or trade deficits that keep undermining growth. These are not total collapses but continuous irritations that demand constant attention from policymakers.

From a social perspective, “a thorn in the flesh” might be seen in deep-rooted prejudices, systemic inequalities, or minority voices that, though marginalised, consistently reveal society’s unhealed wounds. They remain painful reminders that harmony has not been fully achieved.

Culturally, the expression captures how traditions or taboos can act as ongoing irritants within a modernising society. For instance, when younger generations push for progressive changes, older customs may resist, becoming a thorn that prevents smooth cultural evolution.

The expression “Musuh dalam Selimut” and “Duri dalam Daging” both describe internal threats, yet they carry different shades of meaning. “Musuh dalam Selimut” points to a hidden enemy who pretends to be close but secretly plots betrayal, much like “a snake in the grass” or “a wolf in sheep’s clothing” in British English. On the other hand, “Duri dalam Daging”, literally “a thorn in the flesh”, refers to a constant, nagging problem or adversary that one cannot easily remove, much like the British idiom “a thorn in one’s side”. While the first highlights deliberate deception and hidden hostility, the second stresses unavoidable annoyance or pain caused by someone or something within the system. In politics, the two overlap: a “Musuh dalam Selimut” may later become a permanent “Duri dalam Daging” when their presence continues to hinder progress even if they are exposed.

In British English, “a snake in the grass” and “a wolf in sheep’s clothing” parallel “Musuh dalam Selimut”, while “a thorn in one’s side” or “a pebble in one’s shoe” correspond to “Duri dalam Daging”. The former pair evoke deception, while the latter highlight persistent annoyance.

The two idioms often intertwine in real situations. A traitor may initially hide like “a snake in the grass”, but once revealed, they remain embedded in the system as a constant “thorn in the side”. The narrative shifts from secrecy to permanence.

Historically, empires and governments have collapsed not merely due to external invasion, but because of “enemies under the blanket” who turned into enduring “thorns in the flesh”. Betrayal and persistence are often more destructive than open confrontation. On a personal level, the distinction teaches valuable lessons. One must be vigilant against deceit while also cultivating patience to handle unavoidable irritants. Recognising both threats sharpens wisdom and resilience in navigating human relationships.

Thus, “Musuh dalam Selimut” and “Duri dalam Daging” are complementary warnings: one about hidden betrayal, the other about persistent trouble. Together, they serve as a double reminder that danger is not always external but often resides closest to us.

The concept of bahaya laten, or latent danger, refers to a threat that remains hidden beneath the surface, waiting silently until circumstances allow it to reappear. Unlike an open attack, it thrives in secrecy, feeding on complacency and false security.

When connected to the idiom “Musuh dalam Selimut”, latent danger takes the form of betrayal that emerges from within. A supposed ally disguises their hostility, only to strike when the moment is most vulnerable. This is treachery wrapped in trust, and it exemplifies the quiet menace of latent danger.

Similarly, the phrase “Duri dalam Daging” mirrors the nature of latent danger in another way. A thorn in the flesh does not kill immediately, but it causes lingering pain, irritation, and potential infection if ignored. The persistence of this discomfort represents the slow-burning quality of hidden threats.

Together, these two idioms embody the essence of latent danger: one illustrates the deceit of hidden enemies, while the other represents the stubborn endurance of unresolved problems. Both teach us that the greatest threats are not always loud or visible, but often quiet and close.

In politics, bahaya laten is most evident in ideologies or factions that appear defeated yet remain alive beneath the surface. Like “Musuh dalam Selimut”, their danger lies in disguise; like “Duri dalam Daging”, their danger lies in persistence.

Economic life too suffers from latent danger. A company may appear profitable while harbouring corrupt practices within. A dishonest partner acts as the hidden enemy under the blanket, while systemic inefficiencies function as the thorn in the flesh, constantly hindering growth.

On a social level, latent danger is found in communities where envy, gossip, or resentment lurk behind polite smiles. The hidden enemy in friendship destroys trust from within, while the perpetual irritant of unresolved disputes festers like a thorn that refuses to heal.

Culturally, bahaya laten becomes a warning embedded in traditions and proverbs. Societies teach caution not only against obvious foes but against the quiet dangers of familiarity. Both the snake in the grass and the thorn in the side symbolise this hidden peril.

The strength of latent danger lies in its silence. Unlike open threats that provoke defence, latent danger grows because it is underestimated or ignored. Its invisibility makes it more destructive when it finally surfaces. History demonstrates repeatedly that empires and states collapse not only from external invasion but from hidden enemies and unresolved tensions within. Latent danger corrodes foundations before anyone realises they are weakened. On a personal level, the recognition of latent danger sharpens wisdom. To guard against betrayal is to identify the enemy under the blanket, and to cultivate patience is to endure the thorn in the flesh. Both are forms of resilience against hidden trials.

The phrase bahaya laten was famously employed in Indonesia to describe the supposed ever-present risk of communism. Yet beyond this political context, it remains a universal lesson: threats do not vanish simply because they are suppressed. Instead, they mutate, disguise themselves, or burrow into the structures of daily life. This is why the combination of the two idioms with latent danger is so powerful: they remind us that danger is as much about endurance as it is about deception. To live wisely, then, is to understand that bahaya laten can take many forms: the false friend, the unresolved feud, the lingering problem, or the suppressed ideology. All hide within, all bide their time, and all strike when vigilance wanes.

Ultimately, Musuh dalam Selimut and Duri dalam Daging are not separate from bahaya laten, but its most vivid illustrations. They tell us that the greatest dangers in life and society are not those that stand before us, but those that lie closest, concealed within the comfort of our homes, our institutions, and even our own hearts. 

Every nation, no matter how stable or prosperous it appears on the surface, carries within itself seeds of latent danger that may awaken under the right — or rather, the wrong — circumstances. These dangers often lie buried beneath layers of normalcy, waiting patiently until political negligence, economic collapse, social unrest, or external provocation allows them to rise. They may manifest as unresolved historical grievances, simmering ethnic tensions, entrenched corruption, or authoritarian tendencies that have merely been suppressed, not eradicated. The danger is latent precisely because it does not announce itself with loud explosions every day, but rather creeps silently in the form of disillusioned youth, declining trust in institutions, or ideological extremism feeding off neglect.

In truth, what threatens a country is rarely something entirely foreign, but rather something deeply embedded within its own social and political fabric. A nation might be undone not by an outside invasion, but by the corrosion of its civic values, the weaponisation of its divisions, or the cynical exploitation of its people’s fears. This is why statesmen and citizens alike are reminded that vigilance is not paranoia, but a necessary discipline, for the real danger is not always at the gates — sometimes it is already inside the walls, biding its time.

In Germany, before the rise of Adolf Hitler, the seeds of destruction were already planted within the nation’s post–World War I humiliation and the economic catastrophe of the Great Depression. The resentment created by the Treaty of Versailles, coupled with deep political polarisation, was the latent danger. It did not appear overnight, but when exploited by demagogues, it gave birth to Nazism, which destroyed the country and plunged the world into war.

In Rwanda, the ethnic tension between Hutu and Tutsi had long been simmering under the surface. Colonial legacies and manipulated identities became the silent poison of the nation. For years, it seemed controllable, but once political propaganda fanned the flames, the latent danger erupted into the 1994 genocide, leaving unimaginable scars on society.

Indonesia, too, is no stranger to this reality. The ideological struggle between communism, nationalism, and religion in the 1960s was a danger that quietly grew over time. When political instability and distrust boiled over, the danger exploded into mass violence, marking one of the darkest chapters in the nation’s history. Similarly, corruption and abuse of power have always been a silent threat; they rarely make loud noises at first, but over time, they erode the state from within, making society vulnerable to crisis.

Even the Soviet Union, which outwardly appeared like a superpower of steel, carried within itself an economic system rotting with inefficiency, censorship, and lack of freedom. This was the “time bomb” that eventually detonated, not through foreign invasion, but through its own collapse from within.

At its core, the latent danger within any nation can be seen as a repeating formula: grievance + neglect + exploitation = eruption. First comes grievance, whether it is humiliation from the past, economic inequality, or unaddressed ethnic or religious division. Such grievances are rarely erased; instead, they are buried under promises, propaganda, or temporary solutions. Then comes neglect — when leaders fail to resolve these tensions sincerely, when institutions become complacent, or when citizens lose faith in justice and fairness. This neglect allows the grievance to ferment like poison in a sealed bottle. Finally, exploitation arrives: a charismatic leader, an opportunistic elite, or an external force that knows how to weaponise these grievances for their own gain. Once the three elements converge, the latent danger transforms into an open crisis.

The tragic pattern across history shows that nations often underestimate the threat within. They build armies to guard the borders, yet ignore the corruption, inequality, or injustice festering inside. They celebrate economic growth, but fail to see the divisions widening in society. And when the eruption comes, it is rarely because of a single spark, but because the ground was already soaked in fuel for decades. Thus, the lesson is clear: vigilance is not about fearing shadows, but about tending to the roots of unity, justice, and fairness before the cracks in the foundation widen into unbridgeable chasms.

In the digital world, a latent danger in a nation is very much like a hidden bug in software. At first, everything runs smoothly — the program loads, the interface looks fine, and users are happy. But deep in the code lies a vulnerability, unnoticed and unpatched. As long as no one exploits it, the system appears safe. Yet, when a hacker discovers and weaponises the bug, the entire system crashes, sometimes beyond repair. Nations, like software, often look polished on the surface, but if corruption, injustice, or inequality is embedded in their “code,” then one day, those flaws may be exploited and bring down the whole structure.

Another analogy is a tiny flame on a gas stove left unattended. At first, it seems harmless — a flicker of light, hardly a threat. But as time passes, fuel accumulates, and oxygen feeds the flame. If ignored, that little fire transforms into a blaze that consumes the entire kitchen. Similarly, the “small” issues in society — mistrust, prejudice, or political arrogance — may seem manageable, even invisible. But left unattended, they become infernos that tear through nations.

In the present age, one of the greatest latent dangers for nations is climate change. It does not erupt in a single dramatic moment like a war, but creeps in through rising sea levels, erratic weather, droughts, and floods. Many governments treat it as a future problem, but in reality it is a silent enemy already eroding agriculture, displacing communities, and straining national economies. Like a slow poison, it accumulates until the crisis becomes unavoidable.

Another modern danger is social media polarisation. What begins as harmless debates online can slowly transform into toxic echo chambers. Algorithms reward outrage, disinformation spreads faster than truth, and citizens retreat into ideological tribes. While politicians may exploit these divisions for short-term gain, the long-term consequence is the erosion of social trust — a nation divided from within, vulnerable to chaos.

A third danger is the trap of national debt. Borrowing to fund development is not inherently bad, but when debts pile up unsustainably, nations risk losing sovereignty to lenders. The danger is subtle; as long as the payments are made, the issue seems invisible. Yet once a crisis hits, countries may find themselves unable to protect their people, with policies dictated not by citizens’ needs but by creditors’ demands.

In every serious study of the state, one finds the recurring theme that nations carry within themselves invisible risks that are never truly extinguished, only suppressed or displaced. Works such as Hannah Arendt’s The Origins of Totalitarianism (1951, Harcourt) remind us that authoritarianism does not erupt overnight; it germinates silently in the soil of discontent, bureaucracy, and mass conformity, waiting for a favourable climate to emerge. Arendt illustrates that the hidden menace is not always external invasion, but the corrosion of civic life from within, as fear and obedience gradually suffocate pluralism.

Francis Fukuyama, in Political Order and Political Decay (2014, Farrar, Straus and Giroux), provides another angle, showing how institutions that were once created to stabilise societies may themselves become the sources of fragility. His thesis demonstrates that states are rarely destroyed by sudden catastrophe; instead, they rot slowly when laws become instruments of private gain, when elites capture the machinery of governance, and when citizens lose trust in the fairness of their institutions. The latent danger here is stagnation masquerading as stability, a hidden entropy that can unravel a nation without open conflict.

Meanwhile, Samuel P. Huntington in Political Order in Changing Societies (1968, Yale University Press) emphasises the threat posed by imbalance between rapid social change and slow political adaptation. When aspirations grow faster than the state’s ability to accommodate them, disillusionment festers beneath the surface. This disjunction becomes a silent fault line, a dormant volcano that may lie still for decades but eventually erupts with revolutionary force. Huntington’s warning is timeless: the hidden danger is not modernisation itself, but the mismatch between societal dynamism and political rigidity.

In a more contemporary voice, Timothy Snyder’s On Tyranny: Twenty Lessons from the Twentieth Century (2017, Tim Duggan Books) underscores the subtle ways democracies can unravel when citizens take freedoms for granted. His work frames tyranny not as a dramatic coup but as a slow drip of complacency, propaganda, and erosion of norms. The latent danger Snyder identifies is psychological: the quiet internalisation of submission, which transforms vigilant citizens into passive subjects without their realisation.

Taken together, these works converge on a sobering conclusion: the greatest dangers to nations are rarely the ones broadcast in headlines. They reside in structures that appear solid yet are hollowing within, in leaders who proclaim order while sowing decay, and in societies that mistake temporary calm for enduring peace. The latent peril is not a sudden thunderclap of destruction, but the almost imperceptible weakening of the very foundations upon which a nation rests.

In the end, every nation carries its own hidden shadows, whether they come in the form of old grudges, ignored injustices, or new challenges like climate change, polarised societies, and crushing debt. These are not dangers that arrive with trumpets or tanks, but quiet, patient forces that grow while no one is watching. A country does not fall in a single day; it weakens over years of neglect, until one moment of crisis exposes the cracks that have always been there. The true strength of a nation is not measured only by its armies, skyscrapers, or GDP, but by its vigilance in confronting these silent threats. To survive, people and leaders alike must nurture justice, unity, and wisdom, for it is not the loudest enemy outside the gates that destroys a nation — but the silent fire already burning within.

[Part 17]
[Part 15]

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