[Part 4]Jokowi’s tenure has featured some ambitious megaprojects, several of which have drawn the kind of satirical commentary usually reserved for political sketch shows. The construction of the new national capital (IKN) was meant to be a dazzling legacy—a city rising from the rainforest, full of promises and multimedia renderings. Instead, delays, environmental criticism, and budget overruns have made it Indonesia’s equivalent of a blockbuster sequel that fails to recapture the original’s magic, with even the President missing his own “premiere landing” on the unfinished runway for Independence Day.Similarly, the Jakarta-Bandung high-speed rail project became a plot twist worthy of a soap opera: celebrated as a leap into the future, but soon bogged down by protests, forced evictions, flooding, legal disputes, and costs that soared past their intended mark. The airport projects, too, became memes within public discourse—started with fanfare, but mired in delays and technical setbacks that made their completion as uncertain as a reality show elimination.Jokowi’s moral responsibility, both now and in years to come, is to reckon with the expectations he set and the impacts felt by ordinary Indonesians. The comic-tragic arc of his megaprojects will follow him, with media and critics retelling the story whenever grand plans meet harsh realities.In theory, the government should only bear the cost of a loss-making project if that project serves a clear public interest or creates positive externalities that the private sector would have no incentive to provide. When a project generates social benefits—such as improving access to health services, education, or basic infrastructure—its economic justification is not based on profit but on welfare. In such cases, the state’s role is to subsidise, support, or directly fund it because its value to society exceeds its financial return.
However, if a project is purely commercial or benefits only a narrow group of private actors, then having the government shoulder the losses would distort market incentives, promote inefficiency, and encourage moral hazard. In sound public financial theory, taxpayers’ money must not be used to rescue failing ventures unless there is a legitimate public purpose or systemic risk that threatens the economy as a whole.
Certain fundamental characteristics or prerequisites justify government support for a project or programme, even if it is unprofitable. Primarily, such initiatives must serve a significant public interest, addressing needs that the private sector would neglect owing to the absence of commercial incentives. These needs often include vital social infrastructure, universal access to essential services, or programmes that produce long-term externalities like improved public health, environmental protection, or educational attainment. In addition, the intervention should be cost-effective and carefully targeted, ensuring that government support is not wasted on inefficiency or captured by special interests. The public expenditure must demonstrably deliver benefits to society that exceed its fiscal costs, and governments must remain vigilant to avoid moral hazard, systemic inefficiency, or chronic losses that are politically motivated rather than functionally justified.
Governments decide to support loss-making projects through a structured evaluation of the project's economic, social, and strategic value. First, officials assess whether the project delivers benefits that are essential for public welfare, such as broad access to healthcare, education, or infrastructure, which the private sector typically fails to provide profitably. Decision-making relies on cost-benefit analysis, examining if the long-term societal gains justify the financial outlay. The process also considers project bankability, the viability of attracting private investment, and the likelihood that public intervention will catalyse further economic activity or enhance service delivery. Governments typically use mechanisms such as grants, loans, equity investment, guarantees, and risk mitigation tools, ensuring that their support is judicious, well-targeted, and aligned with broader development strategies. They remain mindful of fiscal capacity and the dangers of encouraging inefficiency or dependency, so support is tailored to truly high-priority, impactful initiatives that could not proceed without public backing.
Governments apply a variety of explicit criteria when choosing which projects to fund. The process typically reviews whether the project aligns with national priorities and addresses beneficiary needs, such as filling a gap in public services or supporting development goals. Another major criterion is relevance, meaning the project’s objectives should fit with overarching strategies for development, public welfare, or policy priorities. Effectiveness is also considered, evaluating how likely the project is to achieve its intended outcomes and what impact those outcomes will have. Efficiency measures whether project resources are used optimally to deliver results with minimal waste or duplication. Cost-effectiveness and economic justification are analysed to ensure that public funds deliver substantial benefits relative to their expense. Lastly, governments assess transparency, equal treatment, accountability, and stakeholder participation throughout the evaluation, ensuring fair and open decision-making.
For a state-funded programme or project designed for public benefit to succeed, several interlinked conditions must be met. The project must start with clear, well-defined objectives that align with national strategic priorities and genuinely address community needs. Deep stakeholder engagement is essential throughout the project lifecycle—not only involving government officials, but drawing in community voices and expert partners to ensure buy-in and relevance. Rigorous planning, transparent governance, and robust risk management foster resilience, while a focus on measurable outcomes and long-term sustainability yields a lasting impact. Performance should be regularly reviewed and criteria adapted as needed, optimising resource use, maintaining public trust, and ensuring that both tangible and intangible benefits are realised. Ultimately, genuine success arises when a project enriches society, delivers desired change, and stands up to accountability and democratic scrutiny.
The question one must now ask is whether Jokowi will ever be forgiven for his marvellous parade of misadventures. Forgiveness is off the table for our industrious statesman, whose impressive resume features everything from public fibbing and questionable diplomas to a thrilling catalogue of grand projects whose only legacy is national migraine and hardship. Far from earning applause, Jokowi’s greatest hits have left the public positively fatigued—with future presidents destined to inherit the drama of his unfinished symphonies, so spectacularly orchestrated yet forever out of tune.Although a president is rarely prosecuted for building failed projects, moral accountability remains profoundly significant both in the short and long term. In the immediate aftermath of a failed public enterprise, a president faces intense scrutiny and criticism from the media (even though it is genuinely disappointing, rather than being the Fourth Estate, some Indonesian mainstream media are willing to become the 'utterly subservient' ones and their roles are mostly replaced by netizens), civil society, and political opposition—and must contend with the erosion of credibility and public trust. This scrutiny is fuelled by the populace’s expectation of stewardship and good faith in managing state resources, and presidents are obliged to justify their decisions with transparency and remorse where failure has cost the public dearly. Over the long term, the legacy of a failed project can shadow a president’s reputation, influencing how history judges their leadership qualities, ethical standards, and commitment to public welfare. Moral accountability continues through ongoing discourse, academic analysis, and popular memory, serving as a warning to future leaders and a measure of presidential integrity.Now let's return to the topic of police reform that President Prabowo is currently considering.
The idea of policing has never been static; it has evolved with civilisation itself. From the clay tablets of Mesopotamia to the digital dashboards of today’s police command centres, the journey of law enforcement reflects humanity’s ongoing negotiation with power, order, and justice. While the tools have changed, the central question remains: how can authority be exercised without oppression?
Philosophically, policing was born out of necessity — the need to manage human behaviour in groups larger than family or tribe. As Thomas Hobbes wrote in Leviathan (1651), without a common power to keep all in awe, life would be “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.” In other words, without law and those who enforce it, chaos reigns. John Locke, in his Two Treatises of Government (1689), softened that stance by suggesting that legitimate authority comes from consent, not fear. The police, then, were not meant to dominate the people, but to serve as their collective expression of mutual protection.
Centuries later, this philosophy was institutionalised in Britain with Sir Robert Peel’s founding of the Metropolitan Police in 1829. Peel believed that “the police are the public and the public are the police.” His goal was revolutionary: to transform the image of law enforcement from an arm of tyranny into a guardian of trust. As Alan Wright (2002) notes, modern policing began not when the first officer walked the streets, but when the public accepted that officer’s legitimacy.
Anecdotes from that period still amuse historians. One early London constable, fresh from his village, was so proud of his new blue coat that he spent his first patrol checking his reflection in shop windows — until he missed a robbery happening just behind him. The story spread quickly, a light-hearted reminder that professionalism is more than appearance; it is awareness and accountability. As Herbert L. Packer (1968) warned, “effective policing balances authority with accountability to prevent abuse.”
Globally, the rise of modern policing in the nineteenth century mirrored industrialisation and urban growth. As cities expanded, so did inequality, crime, and political unrest. From Paris to New York, police forces became both protectors and symbols of state control. Clive Emsley (1996) observed that wherever the police lost legitimacy, reform became inevitable. Reform, he said, is not merely a bureaucratic shift but a moral one — a way to realign power with the principles of justice.
In Indonesia, the story of policing took its own dramatic path. The roots stretch back to colonial rule, when the Dutch established their police force (Politiedienst) not to protect the people, but to secure imperial order. The early Indonesian police were instruments of surveillance, not service. Yet, even within that system, seeds of professionalism were quietly sown. After independence in 1945, the fledgling Republic inherited not just the colonial structure, but the moral question of what policing should mean in a free nation.
The transformation began with a vision: to build a police force that serves rather than commands, that protects rather than intimidates. Over the decades, reforms have come in waves — from the nationalisation of the force in the 1950s to the separation of Polri from the military in 2000, each representing an effort to redefine authority in line with democratic ideals. As Peter K. Manning (2008) put it, “modern reform is about using knowledge and technology to align police practice with societal values.”
Today, under President Prabowo’s vision, the question resurfaces: can the Indonesian police reclaim the spirit of Peel, the conscience of Locke, and the vigilance of modern accountability? True reform, as history shows, is never merely administrative. It is philosophical — a renewal of purpose. The aim is not to create fear but to restore faith, not to display power but to prove integrity.
And perhaps, in another century, a young historian might look back and tell a new anecdote — not about a constable distracted by his uniform, but about a generation of officers who looked beyond the mirror of authority and saw, instead, the reflection of the people they vowed to protect.
[Part 2]
