[Part 1]Religious education, when it is delivered with depth, sincerity, and critical understanding, can indeed serve as one of the strongest antidotes to Communism. Communism shouts that “religion is the opium of the people,” borrowing Marx’s famous line, as if faith were merely a tool of sedation, a narcotic to dull the pain of oppression. Yet what it often fails to grasp is that faith, when properly nurtured, is not an opiate but a source of resilience, dignity, and collective strength. It is precisely the spiritual conviction of individuals and communities that makes them resistant to totalitarian ideologies which seek to erase diversity and transcendence.In this way, Communism ends up becoming a victim of its own metaphor. It imagines that religion is a drug, but in its war against it, Communism itself becomes addicted to the drug of ideology—rigid, obsessive, and intolerant. The faithful believer, by contrast, draws power from prayer, morality, and transcendence, and therefore stands firm against attempts to reduce life to economics and class struggle. In the contest between an ideology that denies the soul and a worldview that honours it, it is the latter that often prevails. Thus, good religious education not only counters Communism but exposes its hollowness, revealing that the so-called “opium” is, in fact, a light that Communism cannot extinguish.One of the clearest examples comes from Afghanistan during the Soviet invasion in 1979. The Soviet Union, a Communist power, sought to impose its ideology on Afghan society. Yet the deeply Islamic identity of the Afghan people resisted fiercely. For the mujahideen, the struggle was not simply political but religious, framed as jihad against an atheistic occupier who sought to erase faith. Despite the Soviet Union’s overwhelming military might, it was unable to extinguish the spiritual resolve of the Afghans. In the end, religion fuelled a resistance so enduring that it contributed to the collapse of one of the world’s greatest Communist empires.Another striking case can be seen in Central Asia under Soviet rule. Countries like Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, and Tajikistan were forcibly integrated into an atheist Communist system. Mosques were closed, Qur’an teaching was banned, and Islamic scholars were persecuted. Yet Islam survived underground, in whispered prayers, secret study circles, and oral transmission. When the Soviet Union finally collapsed, Islam resurfaced as a vibrant cultural and spiritual force, proving that faith cannot be erased by ideological decree.Even in Indonesia, although unique in context, the story of 1965 shows a similar pattern. The Communist Party of Indonesia (PKI) clashed with Islamic groups, and when the tension reached its climax, Muslim organisations mobilised en masse, framing the conflict as a defence of faith against a doctrine that denied God. The ideological contest ended with Communism losing ground, while Islam remained central to the nation’s identity.These examples reveal a paradox: Communism labelled religion as an opiate, yet it was faith that outlasted and outmanoeuvred the ideology. When a worldview dismisses the soul, it underestimates the very power that gives people courage, unity, and endurance.Every nation, regardless of its size or might, carries within itself certain latent dangers that lurk beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to emerge. These dangers are not always visible in the form of external enemies but often exist internally, in the cracks of society, in the complacency of leaders, and in the fragility of institutions. They can be social tensions, economic inequality, corruption, ideological extremism, or the erosion of trust between the state and its people. What makes them particularly perilous is their dormant nature: they do not always present themselves as immediate crises but as subtle currents that, if left unchecked, swell into storms that can destabilise entire nations.Such latent dangers remind us that the real threat to a nation’s survival does not always come from the outside but often from within. History is rich with examples of great empires undone not by foreign conquest but by the internal rot of moral decline, factionalism, and institutional decay. The Roman Empire fell as much to its own corruption as to barbarian invasions; kingdoms across Asia and Africa crumbled when leaders ignored the grievances of their own people. Nations that fail to recognise these sleeping threats often wake up too late, when discontent has hardened into rebellion and the cracks in governance have widened into collapse.The danger is compounded by the fact that these threats often cloak themselves in the language of normality. Economic inequality, for example, is tolerated until it becomes unbearable; corruption is excused as “just how things work” until it corrodes all trust; ideological extremism simmers quietly in the margins until it erupts into open conflict. Leaders who underestimate or ignore such patterns play with fire. To maintain a nation’s health, vigilance must not be reserved for foreign foes but directed inward, toward the hidden weaknesses that quietly erode the foundations of society.In the Indonesian context, latent dangers manifest in ways that are often subtle yet potentially explosive. One of the most persistent threats lies in corruption, which has become deeply woven into political and economic structures. While citizens may grow accustomed to hearing about graft cases, the real danger is the normalisation of corruption as a cultural practice. When corruption is tolerated, even celebrated, it erodes the state’s moral legitimacy and widens the gap between leaders and the people. Over time, this silent decay fosters cynicism and resentment, both of which can easily transform into instability.Another latent danger is the widening social and economic inequality. Indonesia’s growth story has been impressive, yet much of the wealth is concentrated in urban centres and among elites. Rural areas, marginalised groups, and young job seekers are often left behind, fuelling quiet frustrations. This inequality may not always erupt in immediate violence, but it creates a fertile ground for social envy and distrust. Left unaddressed, it risks breeding divisions that could fracture national cohesion, making the nation vulnerable to manipulation by opportunistic actors.Ideological extremism also lurks beneath the surface. While Indonesia has long prided itself on pluralism, the rise of hardline movements threatens to undermine that delicate balance. These groups often exploit grievances—economic, political, or cultural—to push their agendas. What makes this a latent danger is its ability to spread quietly, often through education, online networks, and community spaces, before erupting into polarisation and conflict.Finally, there is the danger of political complacency, where leaders rely too heavily on image-building or populism rather than addressing structural problems. This creates an illusion of stability while allowing the underlying cracks to widen. The public may remain passive for a time, but history shows that suppressed discontent eventually finds its outlet.In order to understand the scale of latent dangers that lurk within a nation, it is useful to imagine a spectrum of vigilance, something akin to a “national alert level.” At the lowest level, society still enjoys harmony, but beneath the surface, unresolved issues begin to fester quietly. Citizens may feel small irritations—such as corruption stories in the news or minor inequalities—but these are brushed aside as part of everyday life. The danger here lies in complacency, for neglecting these signs allows the seeds of discontent to take root.At the next level, distrust starts to solidify. People begin to question whether institutions can truly serve them, and whispers of disillusionment spread more widely. At this stage, corruption is no longer shocking, but expected; inequality is not only felt, but articulated; and ideological extremism becomes increasingly visible, though often dismissed as marginal. Vigilance here requires open dialogue, fair enforcement of laws, and leaders willing to take moral risks, rather than hiding behind polished images.The higher stage of alert is when discontent becomes collective. Protests intensify, divisions deepen, and populist narratives find fertile ground. At this point, national cohesion is under real strain, because mistrust is no longer an undercurrent—it has surfaced as a political force. Here, the call for vigilance demands courage: rebalancing wealth, restoring trust in institutions, and strengthening civic education to inoculate against ideological manipulation.Finally, the highest level of alert emerges when these accumulated dangers converge into an outright crisis. This is when corruption has hollowed out legitimacy, inequality has fractured unity, extremism has fuelled violence, and populism has paralysed governance. At this stage, vigilance alone is insufficient; decisive reform and moral leadership are required to pull the nation back from the brink.In analysing the role of religious education in confronting the latent dangers of Communism, one must first understand the foundation of strength that faith offers. Communism, in its classical sense, undermines religion by declaring it a narcotic, something that numbs the masses and distracts them from material struggle. Yet paradoxically, it is often faith that provides resilience against the emptiness of materialist ideology. A proper religious education, particularly in the Indonesian context, builds not only personal piety but also collective solidarity, grounding individuals in values that cannot be reduced to economics or class warfare.The Qur’an, in Surah Ali Imran verse 103, commands: “And hold firmly to the rope of Allah all together and do not become divided.” This verse speaks to unity as a divine safeguard. A nation that grounds itself in sincere faith and moral education strengthens its immunity against divisive ideologies. When people learn to “hold fast” to divine principles, they resist the temptation of ideological experiments that promise equality but often deliver tyranny.In practice, good religious education instils three defences. First, it nurtures moral clarity, so people do not fall into the false dichotomy of “oppressors and the oppressed” as painted by Communism. Second, it fosters community cohesion, making society less vulnerable to divisive agitation. Third, it offers hope and transcendence, which Communism, with its purely materialist lens, cannot provide. Where Communism seeks to erase faith, religious education reminds people that unity under God is the true foundation of justice.Religious education in Indonesia, if it is to serve as a genuine bulwark against the latent dangers of Communism, must go far beyond mere ritual instruction and memorisation. It must be rooted in substance rather than form, nurturing not only personal piety but also moral integrity, social solidarity, and national consciousness. When young Indonesians are taught that faith is not simply a private affair but a living force that shapes justice and community, they grow resilient against ideologies that attempt to redefine society in purely materialist terms.The Qur’anic command in Surah Ali Imran verse 103, “And hold firmly to the rope of Allah all together and do not become divided,” captures this vision of religious education perfectly. Communism thrives on division, portraying the world as a battleground between oppressors and the oppressed. Yet Islam, taught with wisdom and relevance, presents unity and fairness as divine imperatives. Thus, when schools foster a deep sense of shared faith and mutual responsibility, they inoculate society against the appeal of ideologies that promise equality while erasing transcendence.Good religious education must also connect faith with social justice. Communism often attracts followers by claiming to deliver economic equality, but Islam already places justice at its core, with zakat, charity, and prohibitions on exploitation. If this is taught not only as theory but as practice—through communal projects, acts of service, and critical reflection—then the faithful will recognise that their tradition already offers what Communism pretends to provide, but without stripping life of meaning.Equally important is the teaching of history. Young Indonesians should learn how, in the 1960s, the Communist Party of Indonesia sought to sideline religion, and how communities resisted this challenge. Such lessons are not to glorify conflict, but to cultivate awareness: threats to faith are not abstract but real, and vigilance is essential. Finally, religious education must be alive to the present, showing how faith offers solutions to corruption, inequality, and moral decline. If religion is seen as relevant, dynamic, and socially engaged, then the promises of alien ideologies will lose their allure.Writers such as Carool Kersten in Religion and Politics in Indonesia (2015, Routledge) and Deliar Noer in Agama dan Ideologi: Pergulatan Islam vs Komunisme di Indonesia (1983, LP3ES) remind us that the battle between faith and Communism is not only historical but intellectual. Abuddin Nata’s Pendidikan Agama dalam Sistem Pendidikan Nasional (2016, Rajawali Press) stresses that religious education can build a moral compass within national schooling. Together, such works underline that the true power of religion lies in its ability to unite hearts and minds in ways materialism cannot.Pancasila, as conceived by Indonesia’s founding parents, was never meant to be a dry political formula but a living synthesis of faith, morality, and national purpose. Its very first principle, Belief in the One and Only God, is not accidental but deliberate, placing transcendence at the centre of the state’s ideological foundation. In this sense, Pancasila integrates religious consciousness into the fabric of national identity, ensuring that any ideology which denies or seeks to erase faith—such as Communism—stands in direct opposition to the very soul of the Republic.Yet Pancasila is not a purely theological creed. Its subsequent principles—humanity, unity, democracy, and social justice—demonstrate how religion, when nurtured through education and practice, informs values that are universal and inclusive. This balance between faith and civic life makes Pancasila both distinctively Indonesian and broadly human. Where Communism reduces existence to class struggle and material distribution, Pancasila insists that life cannot be severed from morality, solidarity, and a higher sense of justice.Thus, when viewed in the light of Surah Ali Imran 103, Pancasila can be seen as a rope binding the diverse peoples of Indonesia together under God, without erasing their cultural differences. Religious education provides the moral fibre to hold onto this rope, while national education provides the civic tools to walk forward together. Communism, which thrives on disunity and division, finds itself powerless before a philosophy that makes unity sacred and justice divine.Books such as Yudi Latif’s Negara Paripurna: Historisitas, Rasionalitas, dan Aktualitas Pancasila (2011, Gramedia) argue persuasively that Pancasila is a moral and philosophical achievement, not just a constitutional necessity. Meanwhile, Herbert Feith’s The Decline of Constitutional Democracy in Indonesia (1962, Cornell University Press) shows how fragile democratic institutions can be if divorced from moral grounding. Together, these works remind us that Pancasila, supported by sound religious education, is not merely a shield against Communism, but a compass pointing towards justice, unity, and dignity for all Indonesians.So, why is Pancasila often a point of contention for the interpretation of political ideology in Indonesia, making it prone to misuse?Pancasila often becomes a contested site of ideological interpretation in Indonesia because it is simultaneously broad, foundational, and malleable. As the philosophical basis of the state, it is meant to unite citizens of diverse ethnicities, religions, and political traditions under a shared framework. Yet precisely because of its openness, each political faction feels entitled to claim that their agenda represents the “true” or “authentic” embodiment of Pancasila. In practice, this creates a battlefield where Pancasila is less a sacred principle and more a political trophy, fought over and reinterpreted depending on the needs of the moment. Throughout history, regimes have attempted to monopolise its meaning, transforming Pancasila from a unifying philosophy into a tool of exclusion and control. When a ruling power dictates that only its interpretation is legitimate, dissenters are not only silenced but also branded as anti-Pancasila, a label that carries heavy political and social consequences. The danger, then, is that Pancasila ceases to function as an inclusive compass and instead becomes a blunt weapon to delegitimise rivals. The irony is striking: an ideology designed to accommodate plurality risks being hollowed out by political opportunism, reduced to a slogan deployed at will rather than a living principle guiding the nation.One way to prevent Pancasila from becoming a constant arena for ideological contestation is to ground its interpretation in democratic, transparent, and educational institutions rather than allowing it to be monopolised by political elites. If Pancasila is consistently taught in schools and public discourse as a framework for dialogue rather than a weapon for exclusion, it will be harder for any single group to claim exclusive authority over its meaning. Strengthening independent constitutional bodies, fostering a critical civic culture, and encouraging open debate about the values embedded in Pancasila would also dilute the risk of political abuse. The key is to normalise plurality within unity: to accept that Pancasila is not meant to be frozen in a rigid formula, but to be lived dynamically as a shared ethical compass. Once the public perceives it as belonging to all rather than as a property of the ruling regime, attempts at manipulation will lose their legitimacy and potency.One of the most insightful references is Eka Darmaputera’s Pancasila and the Search for Identity and Modernity in Indonesian Society (1997, BRILL). In this book, Darmaputera argues that Pancasila is not merely a static doctrine but a dynamic response to Indonesia’s plural society. He explains that its broad and inclusive character was designed to accommodate multiple identities, but this same openness made it vulnerable to manipulation by political elites who sought to impose rigid, monopolistic interpretations. The book demonstrates that Pancasila’s survival depends on being understood as a philosophy of dialogue rather than dogma.Another vital text is Damien Kingsbury’s The Politics of Indonesia (2002, Oxford University Press). Kingsbury examines how Indonesian political history has repeatedly seen Pancasila co-opted as a tool of state power, particularly during the New Order regime. He shows how Suharto’s government enforced a single interpretation of Pancasila through the policy of “asas tunggal” (the sole basis), effectively silencing opposition under the guise of unity. Kingsbury’s analysis underscores the danger of reducing Pancasila to a state slogan, which hollows out its moral legitimacy.For a more theoretical anchor, Jürgen Habermas’s Between Facts and Norms (1996, MIT Press) is essential. While not about Indonesia specifically, Habermas explores how constitutional principles in democratic societies can only maintain legitimacy when they are continuously tested and renewed through public deliberation. His concept of “constitutional patriotism” provides a lens to see how foundational values—such as Pancasila—must remain open to inclusive debate, not monopolised by one group or regime. In the Indonesian case, this means institutionalising critical discussion and embedding Pancasila within democratic practice, not propaganda.Taken together, these works reveal that the strength of Pancasila lies in its flexibility and inclusiveness, but that same quality becomes its weakness when exploited by power-hungry actors. They suggest that only by embedding Pancasila into democratic institutions, independent civic culture, and free public discourse can it be preserved as a genuine philosophy of national unity.Pancasila is a collective heritage because it was not created by a single individual or imposed by an external authority, but rather emerged as the product of intense dialogue, compromise, and consensus among Indonesia’s founding figures during the struggle for independence. It reflects the voices of diverse communities—nationalists, religious leaders, and cultural thinkers—who sought a foundation broad enough to unify a multi-ethnic and multi-religious nation. It is also a historical heritage because it symbolises a decisive moment in Indonesia’s past: the crystallisation of ideals in 1945 that transformed a colonial society into a sovereign republic. Pancasila and the 1945 Constitution carry with them the memory of a hard-won independence, the debates of the BPUPKI and PPKI, and the sacrifices of earlier generations who imagined a free, united Indonesia.Caring for Pancasila and the 1945 Constitution, even in its amended form, is beneficial because it anchors the nation to its historical roots while allowing for democratic growth. Preserving them as historical legacies nurtures a sense of continuity, reminding citizens that their democracy did not appear from nothing but was built on shared struggles and aspirations. At the same time, maintaining respect for these legacies encourages stability, providing a unifying narrative amid political fragmentation. By treating Pancasila and the Constitution as both living guides and historical treasures, Indonesia can cultivate a civic culture that values unity, resilience, and inclusiveness, while remaining open to reform and renewal.Let us compare it with examples from other countries to make it clearer how the “historical legacy” is maintained, then we will return to the context of Pancasila and the 1945 Constitution.In the United States, the Declaration of Independence (1776) and the Constitution (1787) are treated not merely as legal documents but as national treasures. They are preserved in the National Archives, studied rigorously in schools, and invoked in public debates as sources of collective identity. Even when the Constitution has been amended many times, Americans still revere the original text as the foundation of their democracy. This careful preservation has given their political system both legitimacy and continuity, anchoring reform in respect for tradition.Japan offers another example. Its Constitution of 1947, drafted in the aftermath of war, represents a radical historical break, yet it has been preserved intact for over seven decades. The Japanese people continue to treat it as both a legal framework and a symbol of their post-war pacifist identity. Despite political debates about revising it, the Constitution is considered part of the nation’s modern historical legacy, shaping not only governance but also cultural attitudes towards peace and democracy.In the Indonesian case, Pancasila and the 1945 Constitution occupy a similar position. They are not just formal instruments of law but collective memories of independence and unity. To preserve them as historical legacies means to embed them in civic education, cultural practice, and national symbolism, much like the U.S. and Japan do with their founding documents. By doing so, Indonesia ensures that Pancasila remains more than just political rhetoric: it becomes a living heritage, a compass that keeps democratic reform grounded in shared history and identity.When a nation neglects or distorts its founding principles, the result is often political instability, erosion of legitimacy, and even social fragmentation. A striking example is the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991. Its founding ideology of socialism was once treated as an unquestionable dogma, but because it was monopolised by the ruling party and detached from the realities of society, it gradually lost credibility. When the system crumbled, citizens were left with an ideological vacuum, and the absence of a unifying historical narrative contributed to decades of political and economic turmoil.Another case can be seen in some post-colonial states in Africa, where founding charters or national philosophies—such as Julius Nyerere’s Ujamaa in Tanzania—were initially celebrated as guiding legacies but later fell into disuse or were corrupted by authoritarian rule. Without careful preservation, these historical legacies became hollow slogans, and once they lost their binding power, divisions based on ethnicity, religion, or region re-emerged with greater force.For Indonesia, the lesson is clear. If Pancasila and the 1945 Constitution are treated merely as political ornaments rather than as collective historical treasures, their capacity to unify will weaken. This would leave room for opportunistic elites to twist their meaning for short-term gains, creating mistrust and cynicism among citizens. By contrast, preserving them as historical legacies safeguards national identity, prevents ideological vacuum, and strengthens resilience against political manipulation.It is partly true that the amended 1945 Constitution reflects more liberal and capitalist tendencies compared to its original form. The amendments after 1999 emphasised liberal democracy through direct presidential elections, stronger checks and balances, and expanded human rights provisions. Economically, some critics argue that the removal of certain clauses protecting state control over strategic resources has opened more space for market-oriented policies and foreign investment, which can be read as a shift towards capitalism. However, the Constitution still retains Article 33, which mandates that natural resources be controlled by the state for the benefit of the people. Thus, the transformation is not absolute; it is more accurate to say that the amendments blended nationalist-socialist ideals with liberal-democratic and capitalist frameworks, creating a hybrid that reflects both reformist aspirations and global economic pressures.In the amended 1945 Constitution, the liberal elements are most visible in provisions about direct presidential elections (Article 6A), the strengthening of checks and balances between state institutions, and the expanded catalogue of human rights in Chapter XA (Articles 28A–28J). These reflect liberal-democratic principles. On the economic side, critics often point to the vaguer wording of Article 33 after the amendment, which seems to allow greater room for privatisation and market liberalisation.Meanwhile, the nationalist-socialist spirit remains in Article 33(3), which still mandates that natural resources be controlled by the state for the greatest benefit of the people, and in Article 27(2), which guarantees every citizen the right to work and a decent livelihood. These provisions preserve the original ethos of social justice, even if their implementation is contested.So, after the amendments, the 1945 Constitution shifted towards a more liberal-capitalist orientation, particularly by emphasising market mechanisms, limiting the dominance of the state in the economy, and aligning with global neoliberal trends, while still retaining traces of social justice principles.Another key adjustment would be to reaffirm the centrality of Pancasila as the philosophical basis of the Constitution, not as a political weapon but as a guiding principle that prevents both extreme liberal capitalism and authoritarian socialism. The institutional safeguards introduced by the amendments—like the Constitutional Court and term limits—should remain, but economic articles and social justice clauses could be “recoloured” to emphasise collective welfare in line with the founders’ intent.In short, the solution is neither blind restoration nor blind continuation, but careful harmonisation: keeping the democratic protections of the amended version while re-anchoring its economic and social spirit in the values of independence, solidarity, and justice that the founders envisioned.There is indeed a recurring idea to return to the “original” 1945 Constitution, as some argue it embodies the founders’ vision of a more “Socialist Democratic” system rooted in collective welfare and state responsibility. The pros are that it could restore the spirit of social justice, strengthen national sovereignty over resources, and revive a stronger state role in directing the economy for the people’s welfare. The cons, however, are that the original text was very centralised, vague, and prone to authoritarian interpretation, as seen during the Guided Democracy and New Order eras, which allowed the concentration of power without adequate checks and balances..In the original 1945 text, Article 33 was the clearest reflection of Socialist Democratic ideals. It explicitly stated that the economy should be structured as a collective endeavour based on the principle of kinship, with natural resources and vital sectors controlled by the state for the people’s benefit. This was a clear rejection of laissez-faire capitalism, aligning more with a mixed economy that leaned towards socialism. However, after the amendments, Article 33 was reworded, inserting terms such as “efficiency with justice” and opening space for private sector participation. Critics argue this diluted the collectivist spirit and made the Constitution more receptive to liberal-capitalist interpretations.Another issue lies in the concentration of power. The original UUD 1945 placed enormous authority in the President, with limited checks from other branches of government. While this centralisation was justified during the Revolution as a way to secure stability, it later enabled authoritarianism under Sukarno’s Guided Democracy and Suharto’s New Order. The amended version, however, introduced term limits, strengthened the DPR, and created institutions like the Constitutional Court, which leaned towards liberal democratic safeguards. Thus, those who want to return to the “asli” Constitution are nostalgic for a strong state role, but opponents fear it could once again erode checks and balances.The Bill of Rights section also shows the contrast. In the original text, citizens’ rights were listed but often vaguely phrased, leaving much room for interpretation by the state. After the amendments, the chapter on human rights expanded significantly, mirroring international liberal standards of freedom, democracy, and individual protection. Supporters of the amendments argue this was necessary for modern democracy, while critics see it as too Westernised and not sufficiently rooted in Indonesia’s collectivist ethos.So, the pro of returning to the original is reclaiming a Constitution that embodies anti-colonial Socialist Democratic ideals, with a stronger state hand in ensuring social justice. The con, however, is the historical risk of authoritarianism and lack of clear institutional safeguards. Conversely, the pro of keeping the amended version is a stronger democracy, transparency, and legal certainty, but the con is that it opened a wider space for liberal-capitalist dominance, which many feel betrays the founders’ economic vision.One possible way forward is not to throw away the amended Constitution altogether, nor to nostalgically return to the 1945 “original” with all its authoritarian risks, but instead to refine the existing text so that it better reflects the founders’ vision of “Socialist Democracy.” For example, Article 33 could be clarified to explicitly prioritise state control over natural resources and vital sectors, while still allowing private participation under strict regulation and with a clear emphasis on public welfare. Similarly, provisions on human rights could be balanced with stronger guarantees of social and economic rights, ensuring that liberty does not overshadow equality.
One of the strongest reasons why the idea of returning to the “original” 1945 Constitution has gained traction is the unbearable cost of elections in Indonesia today. Direct presidential and local elections, while highly democratic in form, have become extraordinarily expensive, both in terms of state budgets and the personal expenditures of candidates. This system creates fertile ground for money politics, clientelism, and the emergence of “political debt” that must be repaid through corruption or the distribution of patronage once power is obtained. Scholars such as Marcus Mietzner in Money, Power, and Ideology (NUS Press, 2013) have repeatedly shown that the post-reformasi electoral model has been captured by financial oligarchies, undermining the very democratic ideals it was meant to protect.As a response, several ideas have been floated. Some suggest revising the electoral system towards a closed or semi-closed proportional model so that candidates no longer need to burn vast amounts of money to compete within their own parties. Others propose significantly increasing state subsidies for political parties to reduce dependence on tycoons and private sponsors. There is also the controversial suggestion of returning to indirect elections for regional leaders via local parliaments, argued by Syamsuddin Haris in Pemilu Serentak 2019: Evaluasi, Problema, dan Solusi (LIPI Press, 2020), which might cut costs but risks alienating citizens from their constitutional right to vote. In essence, the challenge is to strike a balance between democratic participation and financial sustainability, so that the spirit of the founders—who envisioned a system rooted in social justice and collective welfare—is not lost in a swamp of transactional politics.In looking for solutions, it is useful to compare Indonesia’s costly electoral system with practices in other countries that face similar challenges. Germany, for instance, has one of the most institutionalised systems of public financing for political parties. The state provides substantial subsidies tied to both the number of votes a party receives and the donations it collects, but with strict transparency rules. This reduces the dependency of parties on wealthy oligarchs and ensures that competition is more about ideas than about money. Scholars often point out that this model has helped stabilise German democracy, as seen in Susan E. Scarrow’s Parties and Their Members (Oxford University Press, 1996).Brazil, on the other hand, offers a cautionary tale. Like Indonesia, it practises direct elections for both the presidency and local offices, and the costs are astronomical. Campaign finance scandals have become endemic, and the so-called Mensalão and Lava Jato cases showed how money politics can corrode democratic trust. Yet Brazil has also experimented with large public campaign funds to mitigate the dominance of private donors, an approach that Indonesia might study with careful adaptation.From these examples, it is clear that the problem is not simply about whether elections are direct or indirect, but about whether the financing structures encourage fairness or perpetuate inequality. Indonesia could adopt a hybrid model: retaining direct elections to safeguard democratic legitimacy, while substantially strengthening public subsidies, enforcing strict spending caps, and increasing transparency. By doing so, the nation could honour the founders’ vision of a socially just democracy without being crushed under the financial weight of endless campaigns.There is indeed an “extreme” proposal discussed in academic and political circles: limiting the number of direct elections in order to reduce costs. For instance, some suggest that Indonesia should keep direct elections for the president—because it symbolises the people’s sovereignty most visibly—but revert to indirect elections for governors, regents, and mayors, with local parliaments (DPRD) taking charge.The pro of this model is straightforward: it could drastically reduce the financial burden on both the state and candidates. Local elections are by far the most numerous and costly, and by streamlining them through DPRD, Indonesia could save resources and minimise the endless cycle of money politics at the grassroots. Supporters argue that this would also encourage parties to become more programmatic, since candidates would have to win over legislators, not just flood the public with campaign ads.The counter, however, is no less serious: taking away direct elections for regional leaders would alienate citizens from their democratic right to choose, which has become a deeply valued part of post-Reformasi political culture. The memory of “elite deals” during the New Order era—when the people had no say—remains fresh, and many fear that indirect elections would revive oligarchic politics behind closed doors.The solution may lie in a compromise. Rather than scrapping direct elections altogether, Indonesia could retain them for both president and regional leaders but reduce their financial toxicity through reforming campaign finance: larger state subsidies for parties, spending limits, stronger oversight, and even experimenting with digital campaigns that cost less. Alternatively, hybrid mechanisms could be explored, such as direct elections only for mayors and regents in key cities or regions, while smaller jurisdictions could revert to DPRD selection to save costs. This way, democratic legitimacy is preserved, but the system becomes more financially sustainable.The threat of communism to Indonesian democracy lies not merely in ideology but in its historical capacity to destabilise institutions and undermine social cohesion. The 1965 coup attempt and the subsequent purge demonstrated how communist movements, when left unchecked, can manipulate political power to pursue a totalitarian agenda, eroding civil liberties and crushing dissent. For a young democracy like Indonesia, which continues to consolidate institutions, the resurgence of communist ideology—even in a subtler form—poses a danger by tempting factions to prioritise ideological loyalty over democratic principles and the protection of individual rights.Furthermore, communism’s emphasis on class struggle and collectivist control over resources can conflict with Indonesia’s Pancasila-based democracy, which seeks to balance social justice with pluralism and individual freedoms. The risk is not only political but also economic: unchecked collectivist policies may discourage entrepreneurship, distort markets, and concentrate power in a single party or elite, weakening the democratic fabric. To safeguard Indonesia’s democratic trajectory, citizens and leaders alike must remain vigilant, promoting civic education, pluralistic dialogue, and institutional resilience as bulwarks against any ideological currents that threaten to subvert democracy.
[Part 16]
Bahasa
