The Dangers of Communism for Indonesian Democracy (4)

One notable aspect of the 17+8 Demands is the call directed at the House of Representatives to revoke newly introduced benefits, including pension entitlements. The demand regarding pensions for members of the DPR (Indonesia's House of Representatives) within the 17+8 Tuntutan Rakyat is crystal clear: in the short-term demands, the protesters called upon the DPR to freeze any pay raises or additional allowances, and specifically to cancel any new benefits—including lifelong pensions for its members.

In the long-term reform package, there is a further, even more structural dimension to this: the protesters asked for a sweeping reform of the DPR, which explicitly includes the abolition of special privileges such as life-long pensions, exclusive transport, and other perks funded by the state budget.

The demand to abolish lifelong pensions for members of parliament strikes at a deeply entrenched privilege, and its financial implications are significant. Maintaining pensions for every former DPR member places a permanent burden on the state budget, essentially obliging taxpayers to sustain legislators long after their mandate has ended. In a country where millions struggle with low wages, inadequate healthcare, and fragile social security, the symbolism of such benefits feels excessive, even parasitic. Eliminating this system would not only ease fiscal pressure but also signal a moral realignment: public service should not be an avenue for lifelong personal enrichment.

The demand to abolish lifetime pensions for members of Indonesia’s House of Representatives (DPR) is not merely symbolic—it is a call for fiscal sanity and democratic accountability. At present, even those who serve a single five-year term are entitled to a monthly pension for life, ranging from approximately Rp 2.52 million to Rp 3.02 million depending on their rank. This entitlement persists regardless of future employment, wealth, or public service.

Let us consider the financial implications. With 575 DPR members per term, and assuming an average pension of Rp 2.75 million per month, the annual cost per cohort reaches roughly Rp 19 billion. Over time, as new cohorts are added every five years and previous members continue to receive pensions, the cumulative burden compounds. By the third cycle, the state could be spending upwards of Rp 57 billion annually—on individuals no longer serving the public.

This is not a pension system; it is a political inheritance scheme. Unlike civil servants who dedicate decades to public administration, DPR members are elected representatives, often with substantial private means and political networks. To grant them lifelong financial privileges after a single term is not only economically unsustainable, but ethically indefensible.

Moreover, in a country where many retirees struggle to access basic healthcare or receive modest pensions after decades of labour, the contrast is stark. The lifetime pension for DPR members sends a message that political office is a gateway to permanent comfort, rather than a temporary mandate of service.

Abolishing this privilege is not an attack on democracy—it is a defence of it. It affirms that public office is a duty, not a reward, and that fiscal responsibility must begin at the top.

Unlike Indonesia's proposed lifelong full pensions for ex-DPR members, U.S. senators and representatives do receive retirement benefits based on age and tenure. These pensions are modest—typically no more than 80% of their final salary—and require a minimum of service years before eligibility. In contrast, some countries like Canada offer generous long-term pension schemes for provincial legislators, while others, particularly in Europe and Africa, appoint lifetime senators, though not necessarily with full salary payouts.

In contrast to Indonesia’s lifetime pension scheme for parliamentarians, many countries adopt markedly different approaches—some more frugal, others more conditional. In the United Kingdom, for instance, Members of Parliament (MPs) contribute to a defined benefit pension plan, with payouts based on years of service and salary, not a blanket entitlement after a single term. The system is contributory, capped, and subject to reform. It reflects the principle that public service should not be a shortcut to lifelong financial comfort.

In the United States, members of Congress are eligible for pensions only after serving at least five years, and even then, the amount is calculated based on age, tenure, and salary. It’s not automatic, nor is it extravagant. The average congressional pension is far from lavish, and many former lawmakers pursue other careers post-tenure.

Singapore, often cited for its efficiency, does not offer lifetime pensions to its Members of Parliament. Instead, they receive annual allowances, and any retirement benefits are tied to broader civil service schemes, not parliamentary privilege. The emphasis is on performance, not permanence.

Indonesia’s model stands out not for its generosity, but for its lack of proportionality. To grant lifetime pensions after a single five-year term—regardless of age, future employment, or contribution—is a relic of political indulgence. It is neither fiscally prudent nor socially equitable.

While other nations tether parliamentary pensions to service, contribution, and sustainability, Indonesia’s current scheme resembles a golden parachute handed out at the end of a brief flight. Reform is not just advisable—it is overdue.

In many developing countries, parliamentary pensions are modest, conditional, or even non-existent. Take Burundi, where members of the National Assembly earn a mere $720 annually—a figure so low it barely sustains basic living costs, let alone retirement. There is little evidence of a formal pension scheme, and most former legislators return to civilian life without state support.

India, a fellow democracy with a vast electorate, offers pensions to former MPs, but only after completing a full term. The amount is modest by global standards, and additional benefits are tied to tenure and committee service. Yet, even here, public scrutiny has led to calls for reform, especially as many MPs possess significant personal wealth.

Philippines and Peru provide pensions through civil service frameworks, but these are not automatic nor lifelong. Former legislators must meet specific criteria, and the benefits are often dwarfed by the cost of living. In South Africa, pensions are available but are scaled to years of service, and the system is under review due to budgetary pressures.

Now, in developed nations, the contrast is sharper. Germany and France offer structured pension schemes for parliamentarians, but they are contributory and based on tenure. In Canada, MPs must serve at least six years to qualify, and the pension is calculated proportionally. Australia once had a generous scheme, but it was abolished in 2004 for new MPs, replaced by a superannuation model that mirrors private sector retirement plans.

Even in Japan, where salaries are high, pensions are not handed out indiscriminately. Members must serve multiple terms, and the benefits are capped. The Netherlands and Sweden tie pensions to broader social security systems, ensuring that politicians are not treated as a privileged class.

Indonesia’s lifetime pension after a single term is an anomaly. Most nations—whether grappling with poverty or managing prosperity—recognise that public office should not be a shortcut to permanent financial ease. Reforming this system would not isolate Indonesia; it would bring it in line with global norms of fairness and fiscal responsibility.

In many mature democracies, the old, defined-benefit, final-salary arrangements for MPs have been reined in or closed to new entrants. The United Kingdom shifted MPs from generous final-salary rules to a career-average (CARE) scheme in 2015; benefits now accrue more slowly and are generally payable at state pension age, aligning parliamentarians with wider public-sector norms and easing the taxpayer cost curve. This was part of a broader public-service pension overhaul overseen by the independent expenses watchdog (IPSA), and the change has since been reaffirmed in updated 2025 scheme rules.

The United States provides a useful myth-buster: members of Congress do not receive a full salary for life. They participate in the federal FERS system, vest only after minimum service, draw benefits based on age and years served, and face an 80% cap on pensionable pay; the Congressional Research Service has kept these parameters current. The political argument in Washington is therefore less about scrapping “gold-plated” lifetime cheques (they don’t exist) and more about the optics of relatively secure, taxpayer-backed benefits compared to volatile private-sector retirement savings.

Canada moved decisively in 2012: MPs were required to pay about half the plan cost, contributions rose sharply, and the retirement age was lifted for parliamentary pensions—explicitly framed as a fairness and sustainability fix. The broader Canadian debate continues to circle adequacy for ordinary workers under CPP/QPP versus generosity for office-holders, but the political class’s scheme is now materially less cushy than a decade ago. 

In Australia, the once-infamous parliamentary defined-benefit scheme was closed to new MPs from 2004; newcomers are on standard superannuation like other workers. Yet a live fault-line remains: pre-2004 veterans on the old rules can still receive very large lifetime benefits, which periodically triggers public outrage and calls for clawbacks or caps—keeping the “two-tier” fairness debate alive.

On the European mainland, France shows how reform of pensions—legislators included—can become a lightning rod for broader intergenerational and fiscal tensions. The 2023 law raised the legal retirement age from 62 to 64, pushed through with constitutional tools amid mass protest; the political fight continues, with subsequent moves to symbolically repeal or renegotiate. The lesson for parliamentary benefits is straightforward: any privileged carve-outs for lawmakers are toxic when the public is asked to work longer and accept leaner terms.

Italy illustrates a different edge of the debate. Sweeping reforms since 2012 cut special regimes and tightened indexation, yet disputes over privileged vitalizi and pension upratings recur, with courts occasionally rolling back austerity measures due to legality or proportionality. The policy tension is between constitutional protections and fiscal consolidation; every judicial tweak quickly translates into high-stakes budget arithmetic.

Across these cases, the common reform playbook is clear: close legacy defined-benefit schemes, raise pension ages, shift to career-average accrual, cap payouts, increase member contributions, and align MPs with the public sector under independent oversight. Politically, two narratives collide. Reformers sell sustainability and fairness—“we should not be better off than the people we serve”—while incumbents warn about parliamentary independence and career risk, arguing that overly harsh terms deter capable candidates and encourage revolving-door exits to the private sector. Wherever the balance lands, the direction of travel is away from automatic, lifetime, top-tier pensions and toward standardised, contributory, and more transparent systems.

Politically, however, the response is complicated. Many legislators in the DPR instinctively resist this demand because it threatens their personal security and undermines a culture of privilege that has defined the DPR for decades. Parties across the spectrum tend to stay silent or vague, preferring to frame the debate in technical terms rather than admit that the system is unfair. At the same time, the 17+8 demands have tapped into public anger, and ignoring them carries risks: politicians who appear too protective of their pensions may find themselves portrayed as out of touch with the very citizens they claim to represent. The tension, then, lies between institutional self-preservation and the growing moral authority of popular outrage.

Now, back to our topic.

In his book To the Finland Station (1940, Doubleday), Edmund Wilson lays out the intellectual background against which socialism first emerged as both an idea and a movement. He begins by observing that, long before Marx and Engels, there had been a gradual transformation in the way people thought about history. Instead of viewing events as the mere unfolding of divine providence or the accidents of kings and generals, historians and philosophers of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries began to treat history as a human creation. It was, in this new light, a story not only of rulers but of peoples, and not only of battles but of social and economic life. This shift provided the soil from which revolutionary ideas could grow.

Wilson gives particular attention to figures like Giambattista Vico, who proposed that history followed a discernible pattern created by human societies themselves, and Jules Michelet, who infused historical writing with the passion of Romanticism, giving voice to the common people and celebrating the French Revolution as a kind of secular revelation. These thinkers, though very different in style and temperament, shared the conviction that history was intelligible, that it carried meaning, and that ordinary men and women were central to it. Their work, Wilson argues, made it possible to imagine history as a process shaped by human agency, rather than by fate or divine command.

In presenting these origins, Wilson shows how the writing of history itself became a revolutionary act: a way of recovering forgotten struggles, of finding patterns in human progress, and of inspiring new movements for change. Thus, he does not describe socialism as something that fell from the sky, but as the product of a centuries-long rethinking of how history is written and who it is written for. It was precisely this intellectual reorientation—from the divine to the human, from kings to peoples, from destiny to agency—that opened the path to socialist thought.

In Book II of his book, Edmund Wilson turns decisively to Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, showing how the vague aspirations of early socialism were transformed into a systematic doctrine of revolution. He presents Marx first as a young German intellectual wrestling with philosophy, steeped in Hegel’s dialectics yet impatient with its abstract nature. Wilson traces Marx’s shift from the world of metaphysical speculation to the recognition that the real driving force of history lay in the material conditions of life—how people worked, produced, and struggled to survive. This insight became the foundation of what Marx and Engels would later call historical materialism, the idea that class conflict, rooted in economic structures, is the motor of human development.

In its most essential sense, materialism is the conviction that the physical world—what people eat, how they produce goods, how they work, and how they organise their survival—forms the foundation of all human existence. Against the old belief that ideas, religion, or divine will stood at the centre of historical change, materialism argues that consciousness itself is shaped by the practical realities of life. Human beings do not live in history as pure minds; they live in it as bodies that must labour, trade, and struggle within definite social and economic conditions.

What Marx and Engels called historical materialism was the extension of this insight into a theory of historical development. They argued that the structures of society—its classes, institutions, and politics—are built upon the economic base, the way production is organised. When this base changes, through new technologies or new relations of labour, the entire superstructure of culture, law, and politics eventually shifts as well. This was a radical departure from idealist philosophies like that of Hegel, which placed ideas at the centre of history. For Marx, it is not that human beings dream new worlds into existence; rather, they create them out of the pressures and conflicts generated by material life.

Materialism, then, is not merely a philosophical claim but also a revolutionary one. By insisting that history is driven by class struggle and the economic order, it provides both an explanation of the past and a guide for action in the present. If oppression arises from the material arrangements of society, then liberation, Marx argued, must come from transforming those very arrangements. In this sense, materialism is at once a lens for understanding the world and a call to change it.

The distinction between “materialism” and “being materialistic” is both subtle and essential. Philosophical materialism refers to a worldview or doctrine which holds that everything that exists is rooted in physical matter and that consciousness, culture, and history can only be understood through the conditions of material life. This is why Marx and Engels argued that the real engine of history was not divine will or abstract ideas, but the tangible realities of labour, production, and class relations. On the other hand, to be “materialistic” in everyday speech does not mean subscribing to that philosophical doctrine. Instead, it describes a personal attitude in which a person is excessively preoccupied with wealth, possessions, and consumer goods, often valuing them above moral, intellectual, or spiritual concerns. Thus, while materialism is a rigorous intellectual framework for interpreting the world, being materialistic is usually seen as a shallow lifestyle choice, centred on accumulation and display rather than deeper meaning.

Imagine a philosopher in the nineteenth century sitting in a dimly lit study, poring over statistics of industrial production and the conditions of factory workers. When he argues that revolutions are born not from lofty ideals but from hunger, wages, and exploitation, he is practising philosophical materialism. He is claiming that human history can only be explained if one begins from the stomach before reaching the brain. Now, imagine on the other hand a wealthy socialite scrolling endlessly through online shops, desperate to own the latest designer handbag or the newest sports car, not because she needs them but because they display her social standing. That is what it means to be materialistic: the obsession with possessions as symbols of self-worth. The former is an intellectual framework that shaped Marxism and social theory, while the latter is a cultural critique of consumer vanity.

In everyday conversation, many people confuse materialism with being materialistic, because the words sound similar and both deal with “matter” in some way. Someone might hear “materialism” and immediately think it means loving money, luxury, or possessions, completely missing the philosophical depth behind it. This misunderstanding is common in media, popular culture, and even casual education, where discussions of Marx, Engels, or historical materialism are reduced to “oh, they just care about stuff and money.” In reality, materialism, especially in philosophy and history, is about understanding the structural conditions that shape human life: how labour, production, and economic relations influence society and consciousness. Being materialistic, by contrast, is often a moral or social judgement: it critiques people who prioritise personal wealth and appearance over ethics, culture, or intellect.

This confusion can lead to serious misreadings of history and theory. For instance, when critics dismiss Marx as “just obsessed with money” rather than understanding his analysis of class and production, they ignore the core of historical materialism. Wilson himself, in To the Finland Station, implicitly addresses this problem by carefully explaining the material conditions behind ideas and revolutions, showing that socialism and Marxist theory arise from real human struggles rather than mere obsession with material goods.

In philosophy more broadly, materialism is the belief that matter is the fundamental substance of reality, and that everything which exists, including human thoughts, feelings, and spiritual experiences, ultimately arises from material processes. Philosophical materialists argue that there is no need to appeal to supernatural or immaterial forces to explain the world. From the movement of the planets to the firing of neurons, reality can be understood in terms of matter in motion. This is materialism in its general, metaphysical sense: a worldview that places the physical world at the centre of all explanation.

By contrast, historical materialism, the doctrine articulated by Marx and Engels, is a specific application of this principle to the study of society and history. It does not simply claim that matter exists; it insists that the way human beings produce and reproduce their material life determines the shape of their social institutions, their politics, their culture, and even their beliefs. Where ordinary materialism might explain the brain as a physical organ, historical materialism explains religion, law, and philosophy as outgrowths of economic relations. It is not only a metaphysics but a method: a way of reading history through the lens of class conflict, labour, and production.

The difference, then, is that philosophical materialism tells us what reality is made of, while historical materialism tells us how societies change and develop. One is a general stance about the universe; the other is a revolutionary theory about human history. By making this leap, Marx and Engels transformed materialism from a passive description of the world into an active programme for its transformation.

Wilson also highlights the extraordinary partnership between Marx and Engels, portraying Engels as both the practical counterpart and the indispensable collaborator who brought empirical grounding to Marx’s theoretical brilliance. Together they fused philosophy, economics, and political activism into a coherent vision: capitalism, they argued, contained within itself the seeds of its own destruction, and socialism would emerge not as a utopian dream but as the necessary outcome of history. Wilson stresses that their great achievement was not only to analyse society but to insist that such analysis demanded action. Theory, for them, was inseparable from revolution.

In presenting Marx and Engels, Wilson underscores how they represented a radical break from earlier thinkers like Michelet and Vico. Where the Romantics had seen history as a drama of the human spirit, Marx and Engels stripped away the mysticism to reveal the concrete dynamics of labour, exploitation, and power. By doing so, they gave socialism a scientific framework, a sense of inevitability, and a revolutionary urgency that no earlier formulation had achieved. Book II, then, is the story of how socialism ceased to be a poetic vision of justice and became a doctrine aimed at the overthrow of the existing order.

In Book III: The Revolutionary Tradition of To the Finland Station (1940), Edmund Wilson brings the story of socialist ideas to their dramatic culmination with Lenin and the Russian Revolution. Here, Wilson traces the path from Marx and Engels through the various socialist movements of Europe, showing how the ideas of class struggle, historical materialism, and revolutionary action were debated, adapted, and sometimes distorted by successive generations of activists. He emphasises that Lenin did not emerge from nowhere; he was the inheritor of a long intellectual and practical tradition, steeped both in theory and in the lessons of real political struggle.

Wilson portrays Lenin’s journey to the “Finland Station” in Petrograd as symbolic: it marks the moment when the accumulated ideas of centuries—the theoretical frameworks of Marx and Engels, the revolutionary experiments across Europe, and the urgent realities of war and oppression—converged into decisive action. The return of Lenin from exile represents the arrival of revolutionary thought into the arena of history in the most concrete sense: he steps off the train not merely as a thinker, but as a participant in a movement capable of seizing state power. Wilson also stresses that the “Revolutionary Tradition” is a complex interplay of thought and action; it is not enough to understand Marx’s writings, or even to admire them. One must also grapple with the material and political circumstances in which ideas take shape, and with the ethical and strategic decisions that determine whether a revolution succeeds or fails.

In framing Book III this way, Wilson completes his narrative arc: from the romantic historians like Michelet who celebrated human spirit, to the systematic theorists like Marx and Engels who identified material forces, and finally to Lenin, whose leadership demonstrates how ideas, when combined with disciplined action, can reshape the course of history. The “Finland Station” itself becomes a powerful metaphor, the symbolic terminus of a journey in which centuries of thought, struggle, and human agency finally meet the concrete possibility of revolutionary change.

Through the book, Wilson conveys several key messages. He emphasises that history is created by human beings, not just by fate or divine command. He stresses the importance of linking thought to action: ideas gain meaning only when they are tested and enacted in real life. He also highlights the continuity of revolutionary thought: even the most dramatic events of the twentieth century are the culmination of long intellectual and social traditions. Finally, Wilson invites readers to reflect on the responsibility that comes with understanding history: awareness of social forces and human agency brings with it the potential—and perhaps the obligation—to participate in shaping the future.

Socialism, at its core, is the belief that wealth, resources, and the means of production should be owned and managed collectively, rather than concentrated in the hands of a few. It seeks to reduce inequality by ensuring that the benefits of labour and industry are shared more fairly among all members of society. Unlike capitalism, which thrives on competition and private profit, socialism emphasises cooperation, social justice, and the idea that human dignity should not be determined by economic status. Its essence lies in building a community where individuals support one another, where the strong do not exploit the weak, and where the economy serves the people rather than the people serving the economy.

Communism and socialism are often seen as close relatives, yet they carry distinct nuances that shape their visions of society. Socialism does not necessarily abolish private property entirely, but rather seeks to limit its dominance and regulate it so that it does not generate extreme inequality. It allows for gradual reform, often through democratic institutions, to achieve a more equitable distribution of wealth. Communism, on the other hand, goes further: it aims at the complete abolition of private ownership of the means of production, replacing it with full communal ownership where all class distinctions vanish. If socialism is about levelling the playing field, communism imagines a society where the game of competition itself no longer exists.

When socialism is applied in the concept of a nation-state, it takes the form of policies and structures that ensure collective welfare. The government plays a strong role in regulating the economy, providing universal healthcare, education, housing, and social security, while often owning or heavily regulating key industries such as energy, transport, and natural resources. The aim is not to eliminate individuality, but to guarantee that no citizen is left behind due to poverty or exploitation. Capitalism, in contrast, privileges the free market, private ownership, and competition as the driving forces of progress. In a capitalist state, the government intervenes minimally, allowing businesses to grow and individuals to accumulate wealth with fewer restrictions. The result is often greater innovation and dynamism, but also deeper inequality, as opportunities and wealth concentrate among those with more resources. In essence, socialism tries to humanise the economy through fairness, while capitalism trusts the economy itself to guide human outcomes.

In practice, modern Scandinavia provides one of the clearest examples of socialism in action within a democratic framework. Countries such as Sweden, Norway, and Denmark combine strong welfare systems with regulated capitalism. Citizens enjoy universal healthcare, free or heavily subsidised education, generous parental leave, and robust labour protections. The state collects high taxes, but in return, ensures that basic needs and equal opportunities are safeguarded for everyone. This model, often called "social democracy," shows how socialism can coexist with democracy and market activity while still prioritising fairness.

The United States, by contrast, is often seen as the archetype of capitalism. It emphasises private ownership, market competition, and individual responsibility over collective guarantees. Healthcare and education are largely privatised, taxes are comparatively lower, and social safety nets are far weaker. The result is a highly dynamic and innovative economy, but one where inequality is stark, with millions lacking affordable healthcare and access to higher education. In short, Scandinavia represents socialism’s attempt to humanise capitalism, while the United States embodies capitalism’s belief that personal freedom and market forces should define prosperity.

The Soviet Union serves as the most famous example of a failed experiment in state socialism. Unlike Scandinavian social democracy, which balanced welfare with democracy, the USSR enforced a rigid system where the state owned and controlled almost every aspect of the economy. Private property was abolished, political opposition was suppressed, and central planning dictated production and distribution. While this system initially achieved rapid industrialisation and helped defeat fascism in the Second World War, it eventually collapsed under its own inefficiency, corruption, and lack of freedom. The absence of competition and personal incentive stifled innovation, and by the late 1980s, shortages, economic stagnation, and growing dissatisfaction led to the Soviet Union’s downfall.

In contrast, this highlights the spectrum of socialism’s application: on one end, you have democratic socialism in Scandinavia, where fairness and prosperity can coexist; on the other end, you have the authoritarian, centralised model of the USSR, where overcontrol and lack of freedom destroyed the very society it aimed to uplift. The lesson is clear: socialism may work when coupled with democracy and accountability, but it risks failure when enforced through totalitarian control.

[Part 5]
[Part 3]

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