The Undercover and the White Paper (2)

The regime has changed, President Prabowo is recognised as a democratic figure who seeks to embrace all factions, yet the lingering shadow of Jokowi continues to loom over several state institutions and even within the cabinet, making Prabowo’s moves feel like a footballer stepping onto the pitch while his shoelaces are still tied. Consequently, the public is left wondering: is this part of a long-term political strategy full of unexpected twists, or is the new administration simply disoriented, still unable to break free from the shadow of its predecessor? With the question of the former leader’s educational credentials still unresolved, the public is increasingly demanding clarity and certainty.

It is precisely within this atmosphere of uncertainty that the publication of Jokowi’s White Paper finds its resonance. The book does not emerge in a political vacuum; rather, it surfaces at a moment when questions about legitimacy, continuity, and the unresolved legacy of Jokowi still dominate public discourse. For a society already perplexed by contradictions in the new administration, the reappearance of unresolved allegations tied to Jokowi’s background only sharpens the sense of unease. The White Paper, therefore, is not merely a document of critique but a symbolic reminder that the past has not yet been settled, and that any attempt to build a new political order cannot escape reckoning with the legitimacy debates that have haunted the previous regime.

The publication of Jokowi’s White Paper marks a new chapter in the ongoing struggle over legitimacy, transparency, and authority in Indonesian politics. Written by Roy Suryo, Rismon Sianipar, and Dr Tifauzia Tyassuma, the nearly seven-hundred-page tome seeks to dismantle the aura of certainty surrounding President Joko Widodo’s academic credentials, particularly his thesis and undergraduate diploma from Gadjah Mada University. Unlike Jokowi Undercover, which was easily dismissed as speculative and conspiratorial, the White Paper itself is full of science, invoking forensic digital analysis, spectrum testing of logos, and even neuropolitical frameworks, and it concludes that the documents are “99.9%” fake. The intention is clear: to frame the dispute not as a mere whisper of gossip, but as a matter of empirical investigation and constitutional importance.

Politically, the book is more than a personal attack; it is an open confrontation with the machinery of the state under the banner of the Reformasi era. The symbolism of timing—launched close to Independence Day—signals a populist appeal to the people’s right to know whether their leader stands on firm academic ground or not. Yet the response of institutions, from Gadjah Mada University declining to host the launch to questions of defamation laws hovering over its authors, reveals the delicate balance between freedom of expression and the protective instinct of the regime. In this sense, the White Paper is less about the truth of a diploma and more about the resilience of democracy under pressure, where a book becomes a test of how far dissent can travel before it is silenced.

From a psychological standpoint, the public’s reaction illustrates a fascinating paradox. Those already sceptical of Jokowi’s legitimacy find in the technical jargon—watermark distortions, colour inconsistencies, digital layering—an anchor for their suspicions. For them, the sheer density of detail creates the aura of authenticity, regardless of whether the methods are sound. On the other hand, supporters of Jokowi dismiss the book as a political stunt, an elaborate exercise in pseudo-science designed to stir discontent. The divide is not bridged by evidence but deepened by perception, showing once again that in the age of contested narratives, the battle is less about facts and more about trust.

The potential impact of Jokowi’s White Paper cannot be measured merely in terms of whether its claims are true or false, but rather in how it shifts the landscape of perception, power, and legitimacy. Politically, the book could serve as a rallying point for opposition forces, offering them a thick, seemingly scientific dossier with which to attack the very foundation of Jokowi’s authority. Even if it is said that the accusations remain unproven, the existence of such a voluminous text—armed with technical language and charts—can cast shadows that are difficult to dispel. For a leader, the danger is not necessarily exposure but erosion: the slow gnawing away of credibility that, once weakened, cannot easily be restored.

Legally, the White Paper dances on a razor’s edge. On one side lies the principle of free expression and the constitutional right of citizens to scrutinise their leaders; on the other lurks the heavy hand of defamation and hoax laws, which in Indonesia have often been wielded to silence dissent. Should the state pursue the authors too aggressively, it risks appearing authoritarian and insecure, thereby feeding the very suspicion it seeks to quell. Yet if it ignores the allegations altogether, the silence may be interpreted as a tacit admission, allowing the book’s narrative to gain momentum. Moreover, the police seem to be acting as lawyers for one of the conflicting parties, not as protectors. Thus, the legal arena becomes a theatre, not of justice alone, but of symbolism and strategy.

From the perspective of public image, the stakes are even higher. Jokowi, long styled as a man of the people with a humble background, built much of his political persona on authenticity and relatability. Any serious doubt cast on his academic history chips away at that image, threatening to reframe him not as the honest son of Solo, but as yet another politician hiding behind a façade. For his supporters, the instinct is to defend, to denounce the book as slander; for his detractors, it becomes proof of long-suspected deceit. Either way, the battle for image is not fought in libraries or universities, but in living rooms, on smartphones, and across the swirling currents of social media. In this sense, the White Paper is less a book than a weapon, aimed not at the mind but at the trust that binds leader and people together.

The future scenarios of Jokowi’s White Paper depend less on the content of the book itself and more on how different actors respond to it. Suppose the Police Institution chooses to confront the authors with the full weight of the law. In that case, the controversy will escalate, and the book may transform into a symbol of resistance, much like Jokowi Undercover did in its time. In that case, the legal process would act like kerosene poured over embers, fuelling the flames of suspicion and martyring the authors in the eyes of those already sceptical of Jokowi’s rule. 

On the political stage, one scenario is that the White Paper becomes a rallying cry for opposition groups, giving them a tangible artefact around which to unite.  Another possibility, however, is that the book fizzles out, its technical jargon too dense for mass consumption, reduced to a curiosity for activists and academics while the general public shrugs and moves on. The deciding factor will be whether its claims can break out of echo chambers and penetrate the mainstream imagination.

From the perspective of public psychology, the outcome may be subtler yet more profound. For many citizens, even the suggestion that a leader’s academic record is suspect plants a seed of doubt, and doubt has a way of growing, regardless of evidence. If left unresolved, such doubt seeps into the collective psyche, making every gesture of authority appear less certain, every promise less trustworthy. In this way, the White Paper may succeed not by proving its case but by eroding faith. Its legacy, therefore, might not be in pages read but in trust lost, which in the theatre of politics is often the most decisive currency.

The contest around Jokowi’s White Paper is no longer framed as a duel between an incumbent regime and its critics, but as a post-presidency struggle where Jokowi and his circle—those often dubbed the “Termul”—find themselves defending reputation rather than exercising state power. In this new landscape, the state itself, under President Prabowo, is not the primary antagonist. Instead, it is a triangle of forces: Jokowi and his loyalists seeking to safeguard his legacy, the RRT trio (Roy Suryo, Rismon Sianipar, Dr Tifa) positioning themselves as challengers armed with their “scientific” exposé, and Prabowo’s government observing carefully.

This shift makes the White Paper less a legal battle over freedom of expression versus censorship and more a reputational knife-fight played out in the twilight of Jokowi’s political clout. Without the machinery of the presidency to shield him, Jokowi must rely on networks of loyalists, sympathetic media, and the inertia of public goodwill. Meanwhile, the RRT camp, though exposed to risk, senses an opportunity to reshape the narrative of Reformasi’s most prominent figure, casting him not as the humble reformer of Solo but as a man whose story was embroidered with false threads. In aligning themselves implicitly with Prabowo, they also signal that this is not a lonely crusade but a repositioning within the shifting elite balance of power.

Psychologically, the audience is now different, too. Under Jokowi’s presidency, attacking him is the same as attacking the buzzers; the risk could be being reported to the police. Now, to doubt him is to doubt a man retired from office but still looming large in the national imagination. This makes the White Paper a more potent cultural weapon than before, because it attacks the symbolic residue of power rather than its institutional authority. The danger for Jokowi lies not in losing office—he already has—but in watching his myth unravel. For Prabowo’s presidency, the matter is delicate: allowing the dispute to unfold damages a predecessor whose shadow could rival his own, yet too close an embrace of RRT risks alienating those still loyal to the Jokowi brand, particularly in the delicate question of Gibran’s future.

The unfolding lawsuit against Gibran over his academic credentials adds yet another combustible element to the already charged atmosphere left behind by his father’s lingering influence. In the theatre of post-Jokowi Indonesia, Gibran was meant to inherit not only a political name but also the aura of continuity, a way for Jokowi’s networks to remain alive in power. Yet, the challenge to his legitimacy through the ijazah case strikes at the very foundation of credibility, for in a society deeply scarred by issues of corruption, nepotism, and manipulation, an accusation about something as basic as a diploma resonates far beyond paperwork. It becomes a weapon for those who seek to puncture the myth of inevitability surrounding Jokowi’s dynasty, a means to argue that Gibran is not merely politically inexperienced but also institutionally compromised.

This intertwines directly with Jokowi’s White Paper controversy, because the book—and its predecessors like Jokowi Undercover—laid the groundwork for questioning Jokowi’s narrative of legitimacy. Where Jokowi’s image once seemed untouchable, cracks are now visible, and Gibran’s ijazah case gives fuel to opponents like RRT to press harder. Psychologically, the public, already accustomed to scepticism toward elites, begins to see a pattern: a dynasty that is less about merit and more about constructed façades. Politically, this complicates Prabowo’s balancing act, as he may wish to shield Gibran for the sake of unity, but he must also recognise that protecting a vulnerable partner could drag down his own administration.

The Gibran ijazah lawsuit can be approached from a different vantage point: the symbolic politics of legitimacy in a nation still struggling with the spectre of dynasties. Unlike the classic corruption scandals, which often blur into the noise of daily headlines, the ijazah controversy strikes a nerve precisely because it is simple, tangible, and deeply relatable. Every Indonesian has had to sit through exams, queue for certificates, and prove their qualifications; to see a national leader’s son questioned on something so fundamental feels like a parody of fairness itself. It transforms the political discourse from elite manoeuvring into a kitchen table conversation, where ordinary citizens gossip and debate about whether someone so privileged could truly bypass the basic hurdles everyone else must face.

This matters because the Reformasi promise was built on the rejection of inherited power and opaque legitimacy, yet the very spectacle of a presidential son caught in such a dispute dramatises the gap between the people and the elite. Psychologically, it reopens wounds of distrust toward political families who seem to treat institutions as props rather than sacred guardians of merit. From this angle, the ijazah case is not merely about Gibran’s credibility; it is about whether the Indonesian public will tolerate dynastic privilege that appears to float above the rules. 

The meaning of a diploma, and its deep connection to education, lies in the way society translates intangible learning into a tangible symbol of achievement. Education in its purest sense is the cultivation of knowledge, skills, and critical thinking, but a diploma becomes the socially recognised proof of that journey, the paper that assures institutions, employers, and the wider public that a person has walked the path of study. It functions as a bridge between the invisible effort of learning and the visible legitimacy of qualification. Yet this relationship is not always perfect, because while a diploma can certify that someone has passed examinations and requirements, it does not necessarily guarantee wisdom, competence, or character.

In political life, the importance of education and diplomas takes on another layer of meaning. Leaders are expected to embody both the substance of learning and the symbol of certification. A diploma reassures the public of fairness: that the leader has undergone the same hurdles as the citizens they govern. Education, on the other hand, signals the capacity to think critically, to govern wisely, and to resist the arrogance of inherited privilege. When either is absent, the equilibrium is disturbed: education without a diploma may be disregarded as unproven, while a diploma without genuine education becomes hollow, a mere performance of legitimacy. This is why the controversy surrounding political figures’ academic credentials resonates so powerfully—it is not merely about paper, but about trust in the system that binds rulers and the ruled.

The importance of education for a leader lies not merely in the acquisition of technical knowledge, but in the cultivation of discipline, critical reasoning, and the humility to recognise the limits of one’s own understanding. A truly educated leader is not simply one who has passed through classrooms, but one who has internalised the practice of learning—listening to others, weighing evidence, and adapting to change. Education provides the foundation for empathy and rationality, the very qualities a leader must employ when faced with decisions that affect millions. Without education, leadership risks becoming instinctive, impulsive, or worse, captive to flattery and manipulation.

This is precisely why society insists on documented proof of education. A diploma or certificate is more than a bureaucratic formality; it is a safeguard of trust between the governed and the governing. It signals that the leader has walked the same path as the citizens, submitting to the same standards of assessment and accountability. The authenticity of such documents matters greatly, for if they are false or fabricated, the entire social contract is undermined. The people cannot be expected to trust a leader who is exempt from the rules everyone else must follow. Thus, the legitimacy of a leader is anchored both in the substance of their education and in the authenticity of the documents that bear witness to it.

In history, the authenticity of educational documents has often been a litmus test of integrity, and when such claims collapse, the damage spreads far beyond the individual. A vivid example can be found in the case of Pál Schmitt, the former President of Hungary, who was forced to resign in 2012 after it was revealed that large portions of his doctoral dissertation were plagiarised. Although he had already risen to the highest office, the exposure of academic dishonesty destroyed his credibility overnight, leaving the Hungarian public with a sense of betrayal and further eroding trust in political institutions. Similarly, in Germany, Defence Minister Karl-Theodor zu Guttenberg—once hailed as a rising star—was compelled to step down in 2011 when it was uncovered that his doctoral thesis had been extensively plagiarised. In both cases, the falsification or corruption of academic credentials undermined not only the individuals but also the legitimacy of the systems that had elevated them.

For a society, the discovery that a leader’s diploma is false or fraudulent sends a corrosive message: rules apply to the weak, but not to the powerful. This breeds cynicism, normalises dishonesty, and weakens the moral authority of governance. Citizens who labour honestly to earn their degrees, certifications, and qualifications feel mocked, as though their struggles are irrelevant in a system tilted toward privilege. On the national level, it diminishes international credibility, making foreign partners sceptical of the country’s institutional integrity. Worst of all, it teaches a generation that appearances matter more than authenticity, a lesson that corrodes civic culture and plants seeds of long-term distrust between rulers and the ruled.

If a society comes to tolerate leaders and officials with falsified diplomas, the consequences for its younger generation are profoundly corrosive. The very idea of meritocracy—the belief that hard work, discipline, and genuine education can lift someone into positions of influence—is quietly dismantled. Young people, who should be inspired to pursue knowledge and excellence, instead absorb the cynical lesson that appearances and shortcuts matter more than authenticity. In such an environment, ambition mutates: students ask not “how can I learn?” but “how can I game the system?” This erodes the culture of sincerity and perseverance, replacing it with a culture of pretence and opportunism.

When such leaders sit in positions of power, their lack of genuine education also bleeds into the quality of decision-making. Critical policies may be based on shallow understanding, poor reasoning, or even blind reliance on advisers who may have their own agendas. A leader without the intellectual discipline forged by real education is more easily swayed by populism, flattery, or the pursuit of short-term gains, rather than guided by long-term vision. For the public, this translates into policies that may look grand but crumble under scrutiny, leaving citizens to bear the cost of ill-informed decisions. The younger generation, witnessing this, may internalise the belief that incompetence at the top is acceptable, perpetuating a cycle of mediocrity and distrust.

When young people repeatedly witness leaders exposed for false diplomas or shallow educational backgrounds, they do not merely lose faith in those individuals; they begin to lose faith in the entire system. The message internalised is that politics is not about service or vision, but about manipulation, shortcuts, and theatrics. This breeds cynicism: instead of aspiring to contribute, young citizens conclude that politics is inherently corrupt and not worth engaging in. Over time, apathy settles in, with talented minds retreating from public life, leaving the field increasingly dominated by opportunists who thrive in a vacuum of accountability.

The danger of this cycle is immense. A generation raised in distrust may grow skilled at sarcasm and critique but shy away from responsibility and reform. With fewer principled young people willing to enter politics, institutions decay further, reinforcing the original cynicism. It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy: corrupt leaders breed public apathy, which in turn allows more corrupt leaders to rise unchecked. In this sense, the harm of fake diplomas is not merely academic fraud; it is the corrosion of civic hope, the quiet suffocation of a society’s belief in its own capacity to renew itself.

When young people grow up watching leaders who rely on dubious diplomas or forged academic titles, they inevitably internalise a dangerous message that deceit can be normalised and even rewarded. Such an environment erodes respect for honest study, discipline, and the slow process of learning, replacing them with a shortcut mentality where appearances matter more than substance. Over time, this culture corrodes not only the ethics of the younger generation but also their ambition to seek genuine knowledge, since they may conclude that connections and manipulation are more effective than competence. In decision-making, this absence of solid intellectual grounding translates into shallow, reactionary choices by leaders, because decisions are not shaped by a rigorous understanding of economics, law, or history, but rather by guesswork or opportunism. The result is a nation trapped in cycles of populist slogans and short-term fixes, while the deeper structural problems remain neglected.

The shift of political eras in Indonesia has not erased the lingering shadow of unresolved controversies, and the saga surrounding Jokowi Undercover remains a haunting reminder of unfinished questions. When Bambang Tri, the author of the book, was swiftly imprisoned without what many considered compelling evidence, the public perception was not one of closure but of silencing. This sense of unresolved tension opened a vacuum, a space where doubts were not dispelled but rather repressed, waiting for another spark. That spark arrived with Jokowi’s White Paper, a continuation of the narrative that sought to revive the unresolved claims and reframe them in a new political climate. The sequence of events illustrates a cycle: allegations emerge, institutions react defensively, and instead of dispelling doubts through transparent dialogue, the matters are forced underground—only to resurface later with even greater intensity. For a society still grappling with the legacies of authoritarian practices, this pattern reinforces the belief that truth is often sacrificed for political stability, while trust in leadership and institutions continues to erode.

[Part 3]
[Part 1]

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