Shakespeare’s insights into power, morality, and justice remain remarkably relevant. His plays offer timeless reflections on authority, corruption, and the ethical dilemmas inherent in leadership — issues that resonate deeply with the modern challenges faced by police institutions.Consider Macbeth. Here is a man granted power without checks, whose ambition leads to tyranny, fear, and societal chaos. In the context of policing, Macbeth’s trajectory serves as a cautionary tale: when authority is unaccountable, those entrusted to protect can become oppressors, eroding public trust instead of safeguarding it.In King Lear, we witness the perils of misjudgment and misplaced loyalty. Leaders who cannot discern truth from flattery invite disorder and injustice. Police institutions, too, face this risk: promotion without merit or favouritism without accountability can destabilise the very system meant to uphold law and fairness.Hamlet presents another lesson. Confronted with a corrupt court, Hamlet wrestles with moral choices — a struggle mirrored by officers who must navigate systemic misconduct while trying to act ethically. Reform, therefore, is not merely procedural; it is philosophical, requiring both conscience and courage.Finally, Measure for Measure speaks directly to the tension between law and virtue. The Duke disguises himself to observe his officials, demonstrating the necessity of oversight, transparency, and integrity. Modern policing reforms echo this principle: a badge must not be merely symbolic, but aligned with ethical behaviour and public accountability.Shakespeare reminds us that authority carries responsibility. As Indonesia pursues police reform, his works offer both caution and inspiration: unchecked power corrupts, moral judgment is essential, and integrity is the foundation of legitimacy. Before exploring the history and philosophy of policing, it is fitting to pause with the Bard, whose stories illuminate the human dimension behind every institution of authority.
When Shakespeare wrote Measure for Measure in the early seventeenth century, he was not simply telling a story about love and justice; he was holding up a mirror to the machinery of power itself. The play is set in Vienna, where law and order have grown lax, morality has decayed, and authority has become little more than a rumour. When the Duke pretends to leave and appoints the zealous Angelo in his place, chaos follows—not because laws are absent, but because they are suddenly enforced without wisdom or mercy. Shakespeare, in his poetic mischief, suggests that justice without compassion is tyranny in disguise, and mercy without justice is negligence dressed in virtue.
It is from this tangled moral theatre that we can draw our first reflection on policing as an institution: it is never merely about enforcing laws, but about interpreting humanity through them. The policeman, like Angelo or the disguised Duke, is always caught in a paradox—he must act as both the sword and the conscience of society. A state that builds its police purely on authority will soon discover that fear is a brittle foundation, while one that builds it solely on sympathy will drown in disorder.
To reform the Indonesian National Police, or Polri, is therefore not merely to reorganise its bureaucracy, but to reimagine the very soul of its service. We are not just adjusting uniforms or reshuffling ranks; we are confronting centuries of inherited power, colonial discipline, and post-reform anxiety. If Shakespeare had walked through Jakarta’s humid streets today, perhaps he would have smiled at the irony that his questions about justice and power still haunt us in a republic four centuries later.
Like Angelo, some officers may be driven by the illusion that order comes from fear. Like Isabella, some citizens cling to virtue but feel voiceless in a system too vast to hear them. And like the Duke, perhaps our leaders often choose disguise—rhetorical reforms, symbolic visits, televised empathy—rather than the courage of genuine transformation. Yet as Shakespeare reminds us, the stage of governance is never free from the audience’s gaze. The people are watching.
The history of policing, then, is not a tale of batons and badges, but of how a civilisation chooses to balance power and morality. In London, the birthplace of the modern police, Sir Robert Peel’s Nine Principles of Policing (1829) insisted that “the police are the public and the public are the police.” Shakespeare would have nodded in agreement; for him, justice divorced from humanity is tragedy, and law without legitimacy is farce.Sir Robert Peel, often regarded as the father of modern policing, articulated nine foundational principles in 1829 when establishing the Metropolitan Police in London. Collectively, these principles are known as the “Peelian Principles”. They were revolutionary at the time, as they framed policing not as a tool of repression, but as a service to the public, emphasising accountability, prevention, and moral legitimacy. Peel insisted that the effectiveness of a police force depended on public approval, that prevention of crime was superior to punishment after the fact, and that the police are fundamentally members of the community they serve, rather than an occupying authority. These principles underscore that policing must be ethical, community-oriented, and reliant on consent rather than coercion. Over time, the Peelian Principles have become a cornerstone of modern law enforcement philosophy worldwide, influencing police reforms from London to Jakarta.Sir Robert Peel’s nine principles of policing are not just rules on paper; they are a philosophy that transforms law enforcement into a service rooted in ethics and community. The first principle states that the basic mission of the police is to prevent crime and disorder, rather than merely to react after the fact. Peel understood that proactive engagement builds trust and reduces harm, much like a gardener tending to plants before weeds take over.The second principle emphasises that the police must maintain public approval to perform effectively. A force that is feared but not trusted will crumble; legitimacy comes from consent, not coercion. Peel argued that the police are the public, and the public are the police. This means officers are part of the community fabric, not outsiders imposing rules.The third principle insists that police must secure willing cooperation from the public, rather than relying solely on legal authority. Enforcement without consent is fragile, like building a house on sand. The people must see the police as allies, not adversaries.The fourth principle reinforces that the degree of cooperation of the public diminishes proportionally to the use of force. Overzealous enforcement erodes trust and makes communities defensive. Peel reminded officers that persuasion is better than compulsion; empathy outweighs intimidation.The fifth principle states that the police seek and preserve public favour, not through pandering or bribery, but by unobtrusive and impartial service. Fairness, consistency, and transparency create lasting legitimacy.The sixth principle declares that police should use physical force only when persuasion, advice, or warning is insufficient. Force is a last resort, never a first tool. Peel likened unnecessary force to turning a shield into a weapon against those one is meant to protect.The seventh principle is that police, at all times, must maintain a relationship with the public that gives reality to the historic tradition that the police are the public and the public are the police. Visibility, approachability, and dialogue reinforce this truth daily.The eighth principle reminds officers that impartiality and absence of favoritism are essential. Justice cannot be selective; a law that protects some and ignores others will always breed resentment.Finally, the ninth principle asserts that the test of police efficiency is the absence of crime and disorder, not the visible evidence of police action. In other words, a police force succeeds when society feels safe and law-abiding behaviour is normal, not merely when arrests and prosecutions are high.Taken together, the Peelian Principles form a moral compass for policing: one that balances authority with accountability, enforcement with empathy, and power with service. They remain a blueprint for reforming modern police forces anywhere, including Indonesia.
If this topic begins with Shakespeare, it is not out of literary vanity, but because he understood something timeless: every system of justice eventually reveals the soul of its society. To reform Polri is, therefore, to rewrite our collective script—to decide whether we shall play tyrants, hypocrites, or true guardians of peace.
The story of policing begins not with uniforms and handcuffs, but with the ancient fear of chaos. Long before Sir Robert Peel founded the London Metropolitan Police in 1829, people already sought ways to guard their fragile sense of order. In the dusty streets of ancient Mesopotamia, there were “watchmen of the night,” whose duty was not only to protect merchants but to maintain peace among restless citizens. In Greece, the astynomoi ensured the cleanliness and discipline of the city. And in Rome, the vigiles patrolled the alleys with torches, guarding both safety and reputation.But these early guardians were often extensions of power rather than its balance. They protected emperors, not people. They upheld decrees, not justice. It was only when cities began to rise from the spirit of citizenship—Athens, Florence, London—that the idea of policing started to shift from domination to duty. The philosophical seed was planted: that security is not an instrument of rulers, but a right of the ruled.Fast-forward to seventeenth-century England, the very world Shakespeare inhabited. London was noisy, dirty, and alive—a city of merchants, thieves, and moralists. With no formal police, justice depended on constables and watchmen paid by local parishes. It was an era when moral sermons were louder than sirens. Yet even then, the question Shakespeare asked in Measure for Measure—“Who will guard the guardians?”—echoed through the cobblestones.
By the time the Industrial Revolution arrived, cities had swollen with people and poverty, and crime no longer looked like a moral failure but a social symptom. That was when Sir Robert Peel stepped forward, proposing the idea that police must serve not as a force of oppression but as a body of public service. His nine principles became the philosophical cornerstone of modern policing. Among them, the most revolutionary was this: “The ability of the police to perform their duties is dependent upon public approval of police actions.”Shakespeare would have applauded that sentiment—because what Peel described was nothing less than the transformation of authority into accountability. Justice, to endure, must be seen to be just. The policeman was no longer the state’s enforcer, but the citizen’s mirror.
When this idea travelled across oceans, it met different histories, different wounds. In colonies, policing became a weapon to suppress, not to serve. The Dutch, in the East Indies, built a system not for public trust but for control. The veldpolitie and inlandsche politie were designed to keep the native population obedient to European order. The moral theatre of justice was replaced by a bureaucratic drama of surveillance.
Indonesia inherited this divided legacy: a police born from the ashes of colonialism and the smoke of revolution. When the Republic was proclaimed in 1945, one of the earliest tasks was to unify these scattered fragments of colonial police into a force that served a free people, not foreign masters. Yet the ghosts of its past still lingered. The baton that once enforced colonial rule now had to learn compassion. The uniform that once represented obedience now had to represent trust.
And so began a long journey—a struggle not just of power, but of philosophy. What does it mean for a policeman to be of the people and for the people? What kind of justice does a nation aspire to when it builds its police? These questions, echoing from the stages of Shakespeare to the streets of Jakarta, remain as urgent as ever.
There is an old anecdote from the early years of Indonesia’s independence. A villager once told a young officer, “Nak, dulu kami takut sama polisi. Sekarang kamu katanya polisi rakyat—jadi kami harus sayang atau tetap takut?” The officer smiled awkwardly, unable to answer. That confusion, gentle yet profound, captures the soul of our institutional dilemma.
Policing, at its heart, is a philosophical act. It is the daily rehearsal of justice. It asks not merely how we enforce the law, but why we do so. A society gets the police it deserves, not the one it demands. When citizens lose their moral compass, even the most ethical force will stumble. And when police lose their conscience, even the most democratic system will rot.
From Shakespeare’s Vienna to modern Jakarta, the moral of the story remains the same: law and mercy must dance together, or both will fall. To reform Polri is to teach this dance anew—to remind both the rulers and the ruled that power, untempered by virtue, is always on the verge of tragedy.
When Indonesia declared its independence in 1945, it was not only a proclamation of freedom but a declaration of self-definition. Among the institutions that had to be reinvented from colonial ashes stood the police — a force that had once served foreign masters but was now expected to serve a free people. The irony was stark: the uniform was the same, the batons unchanged, but the soul behind them had to be reborn.
In the early days of independence, policing was more of a moral duty than an organised profession. Many officers were veterans of war, men who traded rifles for rules, revolutionaries suddenly asked to act as guardians of peace. They were brave, patriotic, and idealistic—but they were also human, struggling to balance old habits of command with the new spirit of democracy. Some villages joked, “Dulu Belanda yang patroli, sekarang anaknya pejuang yang patroli—tapi bedanya, dulu takut, sekarang bingung harus hormat atau curhat.”
The 1950s were a period of experimentation. Indonesia was finding its rhythm as a young republic, and so was its police. There was no single identity yet—only fragments of colonial systems stitched together with nationalist enthusiasm. The police were tasked not just with maintaining order but also with helping to build a sense of nationhood. They were protectors, counsellors, and sometimes, reluctant politicians.
Then came the 1960s—an era of suspicion and ideological tension. The police found themselves caught between political storms and military dominance. During the Guided Democracy of Sukarno, the line between civilian authority and political allegiance began to blur. The police were torn between serving the constitution and surviving within the machinery of power. Many officers, though loyal to their oath, were quietly aware that justice often bowed to politics.
The New Order under Suharto institutionalised this dynamic. The police were integrated into the Armed Forces (ABRI), under the doctrine of Dwifungsi—the dual function of defence and security. In theory, this meant coordination; in practice, it meant subordination. The military led, the police followed. The law became a tool of stability, and stability often silenced dissent. Justice wore a uniform, but its conscience was muffled.
Still, beneath that rigid surface, a quiet yearning for reform persisted. Some officers began to whisper about professional independence, about the need to rebuild public trust. They knew that a police force without moral legitimacy was merely a state apparatus—efficient perhaps, but never respected.
Then came 1998, the year the streets spoke louder than the guns. The fall of Suharto was not just a political shift but a moral awakening. The people demanded not only democracy but dignity. Among the cries for reform — in parliament, in universities, in protests—was a simple yet profound demand: “Polisi bukan alat, tapi pelindung!”
In 1999, that demand found institutional form. The police were officially separated from the military, becoming an independent force under civilian oversight. It was a rebirth—though not without pain. Overnight, the police had to redefine themselves: from enforcers of power to guardians of justice; from order-keepers of the regime to servants of society.
But reform, like repentance, is never instant. The early 2000s saw the police struggle to find a balance. They gained autonomy, but also exposure. Every action was now scrutinised, every mistake magnified. The media, once silent, became loud. The public, once fearful, became demanding. “Kalau dulu takut sama polisi, sekarang malah tagihannya banyak,” a senior officer once joked. “Katanya reformasi, kok laporan masyarakat makin numpuk.”
Still, this discomfort was healthy—it meant accountability was taking root. From traffic control to terrorism response, from village mediation to cybercrime, the police had to evolve. Reform was no longer about slogans but systems—ethics training, community policing, internal affairs. Yet progress was uneven, often tangled in bureaucracy, politics, and habit.
Philosophically, this transition was profound. The Indonesian police were no longer just upholders of written law but guardians of social trust. The true test of reform was not in the number of arrests, but in the depth of respect. A policeman who listens patiently does more for democracy than one who fires swiftly.
As Indonesia enters a new era under President Prabowo, the promise of reform echoes once again. The challenge is no longer merely institutional, but moral: how to build a police force that embodies both firmness and fairness, both discipline and empathy. Reform must not be cosmetic—it must reach the conscience.
Perhaps, as Shakespeare might say, “Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown”—or in this case, the badge. Authority is heavy, not because it commands, but because it must constantly justify itself.
By the way, long before the band Sukatani went all out critiquing the police with their anthem “Bayar Bayar Bayar”, Iwan Fals had already taken a cheeky jab with his song “Kereta Tiba Pukul Berapa",
Traffic light aku lewati,[I passed the traffic light,]lampu merah tak peduli[ignoring the red]Jalan terus[Kept moving]Di depan ada polantas[Ahead, there was a traffic cop]Wajahnya begitu buas[His face looked fierce]Tangkap aku[Caught me]Tawar-menawar, harga pas, tancap gas[Bargain the price, agreed, then hit the gas]
If the early police guarded the streets, the reformed police must now guard the soul of the Republic.
