The Looters of the State (1)

In a tale of two Bobbies, the Republic finds itself torn between a governor with a penchant for roadside theatrics and a cat with a penchant for napping on presidential documents.

Bobby Nasution, now widely referred to as Bobby Sumut, has made headlines for halting Acehnese trucks and delivering impromptu tax lectures in Langkat. His campaign, allegedly aimed at boosting regional revenue, has been described by critics as “a fiscal soap opera with feudal undertones.”

Meanwhile, Bobby Kertanegara—a majestic tuxedo tabby and the cherished companion of President Prabowo—has been quietly overseeing matters of state from the comfort of a velvet cushion in the Istana. Sources close to the palace report that Bobby Kertanegara has shown no interest in number plates, tax codes, or viral TikToks, preferring instead to chase laser pointers and nap through cabinet meetings.

“Bobby Sumut is out there auditioning for Tax Idol,” quipped one netizen, “while Bobby Kertanegara is busy maintaining national unity by doing absolutely nothing—and doing it well.”

The contrast has not gone unnoticed. Political analysts warn that Bobby Sumut’s actions, driven more by political libido than administrative necessity, risk inflaming regional tensions. “When a governor starts policing plates like a medieval toll lord, it sends a dangerous message,” said one expert. “It’s performative governance masquerading as policy.”

In response, Acehnese officials are reportedly considering a diplomatic gesture: sending Bobby Kertanegara a custom BL-branded scratching post, symbolising unity, tolerance, and the right to roam freely—regardless of one’s registration number. As the saga unfolds, one thing is clear: in Indonesia, even a cat can be a better symbol of national cohesion than a governor with a GoPro. As the nation watches this plate drama unfold, many are asking: when did public service become performance art? And how many potholes must be politicised before the road to unity collapses?

In the bustling corridors of North Sumatra’s political scene, anecdotes about figures like Booby illustrate the casual, almost theatrical nature of local power—where influence shifts as easily as alliances in a crowded marketplace. These stories, full of colourful manoeuvres and sudden reversals, set the stage for a broader reflection: when such fluidity of power exists at the local level, how much more pronounced does it become at the national stage? It is here that the discussion turns to the family of Joko Widodo. Often dubbed a political “dynasty,” the term feels incongruous when applied to them, for a dynasty traditionally evokes dignity, continuity, and prestige. In contrast, what their political circle demonstrates is less majesty and more the pragmatic consolidation of influence, a network tied together by strategy and proximity rather than by noble inheritance. This subtle dissonance invites us to reconsider the language we use, moving from the glamour of dynasties to a more grounded understanding of power in contemporary Indonesia. And there are always defenders for this family clan, not out of sincerity, but simply for the sake of a BUMN Commissioner position.

In British English, one could say that the term “dynasty” traditionally evokes a sense of grandeur, continuity, and even a form of legitimacy, often associated with monarchies or families that pass down both power and prestige through generations. To apply it to the family of Joko Widodo may feel somewhat misplaced if one’s perspective is that their political presence has not strengthened the country’s democratic institutions, but rather coincided with their weakening. In such a view, instead of resembling a polished dynasty, their influence might be better understood as a tightly knit circle or network that operates more pragmatically than ceremoniously. Words like “clan,” “circle of power,” or even “political household” may convey the reality without carrying the unintended glamour that “dynasty” usually implies. 

In the manner of an old martial arts chronicle, one might imagine the political landscape of Indonesia as a sprawling Jianghu, a vast and unpredictable realm where rival sects rise and fall, each seeking mastery over the empire’s destiny. In such a tale, Joko Widodo’s family would not be portrayed as a glittering dynasty seated on thrones of gold, but rather as a Bang—a brotherhood of pragmatists whose strength lies not in tradition or lofty philosophy, but in a tight web of loyalty and strategy. Like the clans of wuxia legends, they move with precision, protecting their circle and guarding their influence, yet they lack the majestic aura of an ancient Men or the refined wisdom of a philosophical Pai. Their presence is undeniable, their cohesion remarkable, but the image they project is one of calculated survival rather than timeless grandeur. To describe them thus is not to cast stones, but to borrow the language of film and folklore to capture a truth: that in today’s political Jianghu, power often resembles a brotherhood forged in necessity more than a dynasty born of noble vision.

In many discussions, the family of Joko Widodo is often described as a political “dynasty,” yet the word seems to carry a grandeur that does not quite fit. A dynasty suggests majesty, continuity, and cultural weight, but what we see instead is a formation closer to a clan or brotherhood, held together by strategy and proximity rather than regal dignity. This difference matters, for when the illusion of majesty fades, what remains is a picture of politics as a circle of interests rather than a noble inheritance. And it is in this space, between the glamour of imagined dynasties and the reality of practical cliques, that the deeper concern emerges: the creeping transformation of governance into the business of looting the state. Here, public office risks becoming less a duty of stewardship and more an avenue for enrichment, shifting the language from dynasties to something darker, whose true legacy lies not in heritage but in the erosion of institutions.

When one thinks about the history of kleptocracy, the story of Mobutu Sese Seko in Zaire is perhaps one of the most grotesque illustrations. During his long rule, Mobutu presented himself often portrayed himself as the most popular and indispensable leader in Zaire. He cultivated an elaborate cult of personality in which he was not only seen as the nation’s founding father but also as the sole guardian of its unity. He required people to call him by titles such as “Father of the Nation”, “The Messiah”, and “The Leopard”, and he made sure his image appeared everywhere — on banknotes, in schools, and in government buildings. Public demonstrations of loyalty were heavily staged, and dissent was brutally suppressed, so the appearance of universal popularity was carefully manufactured.

In reality, Mobutu’s “popularity” was sustained by fear, patronage, and propaganda rather than genuine affection. The regime’s control over media and public life created an illusion that he was adored by all, when in fact many Zairians resented his corruption and authoritarianism but had little choice other than to comply.

He quietly siphoned billions of dollars into his personal accounts abroad. His palatial residences, leopard-skin hats, and fleet of luxury cars became symbols of excess, even as ordinary Congolese citizens were left without functioning schools, hospitals, or roads. What makes his story particularly tragic is that he cultivated a cult of personality that blinded many people to the fact that their future was being sold off piece by piece.

In Haiti, the tale of Jean-Claude “Baby Doc” Duvalier is equally disturbing. Coming to power at just nineteen, he inherited a system of fear and repression from his father but elevated it into a mechanism of personal enrichment. Vast sums of state funds were transferred into secret accounts, while the population sank deeper into misery. His eventual exile in France was not the end of the story, for when he returned to Haiti decades later, his very presence reopened wounds of a nation that had been robbed not only of money but of trust and dignity.

The Philippines under Ferdinand Marcos provides another powerful anecdote. Marcos declared martial law under the guise of protecting the nation, but in reality, it was a tool to centralise power and plunder state wealth. Alongside his wife Imelda, infamous for her extravagant collection of shoes and jewellery, Marcos diverted billions of dollars from the nation’s coffers. By the time the people rose in the People Power Revolution of 1986, the country was financially crippled, and the Marcos legacy stood as a cautionary tale of how authoritarianism and corruption often walk hand in hand.

In Malaysia, the long tenure of Mahathir Mohamad in his first era of rule (1981–2003) offers another complex tale. While not as blatantly kleptocratic as Marcos or Suharto, Mahathir’s government was often accused of blurring the line between state resources and political patronage. Major infrastructure projects, government-linked companies, and privatisation schemes frequently benefited a narrow group of businessmen closely tied to the ruling party, UMNO. The anecdotal image of Mahathir’s Malaysia was that of rapid modernisation on the surface—skyscrapers rising, highways spreading —but beneath it, accusations of cronyism and favouritism persisted. Although Mahathir himself denied personal enrichment, the system he oversaw created billionaires whose fortunes were tied to political loyalty rather than open competition.

The case of Ferdinand Marcos in the Philippines was defined by blatant kleptocracy, where he and his family openly amassed billions of dollars in stolen wealth, while the nation sank into debt and dictatorship. By contrast, Mahathir Mohamad of Malaysia was not accused of enriching himself personally on such a scale, but his legacy is often debated for fostering a system of cronyism, where political allies and chosen conglomerates benefited disproportionately under his long rule.

These stories from Africa, the Caribbean, and Asia reveal a chilling pattern: leaders who turn their nations into personal wealth stores, masking their theft with charisma, propaganda, and brute force. The damage they inflicted was not just material but also psychological, for they taught entire generations that leadership meant exploitation rather than service.

History offers us more than enough examples of heads of state who shamelessly plundered their nations’ wealth, bending state institutions into private vaults to enrich themselves, their families, and their closest allies. One of the most infamous is Ferdinand Marcos of the Philippines, whose decades-long dictatorship was marked not only by martial law but also by the disappearance of billions of dollars from the national treasury, funnelled into secret Swiss bank accounts and luxury properties abroad. Similarly, Mobutu Sese Seko of Zaire, now the Democratic Republic of Congo, turned the state into his personal bank account, wearing leopard-skin hats while his people starved, and allegedly siphoning away billions in foreign aid. Closer to modern memory, we can also point to Suharto of Indonesia, whose regime was described by Transparency International as one of the most corrupt in modern history, with his family networks benefiting from monopolies, crony businesses, and state contracts. These figures reveal how power, when unchecked, can turn the machinery of governance into a private empire where the border between national assets and personal wealth is deliberately blurred.

The Arab world and Eastern Europe have their own infamous cases of rulers who treated their nations as little more than personal treasuries. In the Arab world, Hosni Mubarak of Egypt clung to power for three decades while his family quietly amassed fortunes estimated in the billions, much of it tied to military contracts and business monopolies. Similarly, Muammar Gaddafi of Libya, while styling himself as a revolutionary leader, funnelled state oil revenues into personal accounts and extravagant projects for his children, ranging from football clubs to palaces scattered across the globe. Turning to Eastern Europe, Nicolae Ceaușescu of Romania presided over a regime that forced his people into poverty and rationing while he and his wife Elena lived in unimaginable luxury, commissioning grand palaces and bizarre vanity projects that symbolised the grotesque disparity between ruler and ruled. These leaders, though separated by geography, demonstrate a common pattern: power without accountability breeds corruption so vast that it transforms nations into private playgrounds for dynastic ambition.

In Africa’s contemporary history, Equatorial Guinea offers a textbook case of dynastic, which is more precisely called a clan, plunder, with Teodoro Obiang Nguema Mbasogo ruling for over four decades while his son, Teodorín, flaunts his excess through fleets of supercars, Parisian mansions, and even a private Michael Jackson memorabilia collection, all allegedly funded by siphoned oil wealth. Likewise, Robert Mugabe of Zimbabwe, once hailed as a liberation hero, clung to power for decades while hyperinflation ravaged the nation, and his family became synonymous with luxury shopping sprees abroad, earning the derisive moniker “Gucci Grace” for his wife. In Latin America, the Somoza dynasty of Nicaragua epitomised kleptocracy, as the family treated state funds like their inheritance, with Anastasio Somoza famously quipping that he did not care if the nation starved as long as he remained in power. More recently, Venezuela under Hugo Chávez and Nicolás Maduro has faced accusations of enriching loyalists through state-controlled oil revenues, even as ordinary citizens queued endlessly for bread and medicine. These cases, whether in Africa or Latin America, confirm the tragic reality that when rulers view their nations as family businesses, the public inevitably pays the price in poverty, repression, and shattered trust.

The methods by which corrupt heads of state enrich themselves are often sophisticated, yet at their core they rely on the same cynical manipulation of power and trust. Many rulers create elaborate networks of monopolies and crony companies, ensuring that state contracts, licenses, and trade opportunities flow only to businesses owned by their families or loyal allies. Others exploit natural resources—oil, gas, minerals—by diverting export revenues into secret accounts abroad, leaving citizens to bear the paradox of living in resource-rich lands while suffering in poverty. Some leaders employ the machinery of foreign aid as a personal piggy bank, using donor funds to build palaces, purchase luxury goods, or finance private adventures. A more insidious technique is the institutionalisation of nepotism, where children, spouses, and cousins are placed in strategic government posts, ensuring both loyalty and access to financial pipelines. Finally, propaganda and state-controlled media serve as smokescreens, distracting citizens with nationalist rhetoric or manufactured enemies while the real theft occurs quietly behind the curtain. In all these cases, what binds them together is the deliberate erosion of accountability, so that public wealth becomes indistinguishable from private fortune.

The common patterns people have used historically to disguise and move illicitly obtained public funds without giving any instructions that would help someone actually do it. In many high-profile kleptocracy cases, corrupt officials relied on layers of intermediaries — such as nominal company directors, friendly bankers, and family members — to create distance between themselves and the money, so that paper trails pointed away from the ultimate beneficiary. They often employed a mix of legal and opaque financial vehicles: shell companies registered in secrecy-friendly jurisdictions, trusts and foundations that obscure ownership, and legitimate-seeming businesses that can commingle illicit funds with normal revenues. Another recurring tactic was converting cash into durable, high-value assets — for example, real estate, art, luxury vehicles, or rare collectibles — because such assets can store value and sometimes be moved, sold, or loaned against in ways that mask origin. State power also made laundering easier when the same regime controlled banks, regulators, and customs, allowing transfers and ownership changes to proceed with minimal scrutiny. Some regimes used international enablers — gatekeepers in global financial centres, lawyers, accountants, and real-estate agents — to place and layer funds across borders, relying on differences in legal standards and secrecy rules to frustrate investigators. Equally important, many kleptocrats used philanthropy and political donations as reputational shields, funneling money into well-publicised foundations or high-profile causes to launder both funds and legitimacy.

All of these descriptions are deliberately non-actionable: they are meant to explain patterns so that journalists, investigators, and citizens can better recognise red flags, not to provide a how-to manual. In response to such tactics, international bodies, financial regulators, and anti-corruption organisations have developed tools — from beneficial-ownership registries and stricter customer-due-diligence rules to multilateral information-sharing agreements and sanctions — to increase transparency and make it harder to hide stolen public wealth. Civil society and independent media also play a crucial role by investigating suspicious assets, following financial trails, and pressuring institutions to act. Ultimately, the most robust defence is institutional: strong, independent judiciaries, accountable auditors, free press, and civic oversight reduce the space where kleptocracy can flourish.

There are several “red flags” that investigative journalists, auditors, and civil society can watch for when trying to detect potential state-level corruption or kleptocracy. One common indicator is the sudden accumulation of wealth by public officials or their family members that far exceeds their legitimate salaries, especially when combined with lavish lifestyles — luxury cars, private jets, multiple properties — that appear disproportionate to reported income. Another warning sign is the presence of opaque or shell companies linked to officials, particularly when these entities hold government contracts, import-export licences, or resource rights, creating a conflict of interest and a hidden pipeline for public funds. Unusual patterns in state procurement, such as consistently awarding contracts to the same businesses without competitive bidding, or to firms registered in secrecy-friendly jurisdictions, also suggest systematic corruption. Asset transfers to foreign accounts, frequent cross-border cash flows, or sudden, unexplained investment spikes in luxury markets like real estate or art can further indicate illicit enrichment. Media suppression, lack of transparency in budgets, and manipulation of regulatory agencies to protect cronies are institutional red flags: when oversight mechanisms are weakened, the potential for misappropriation skyrockets. Finally, philanthropic or politically visible spending that seems disconnected from societal needs — for example, extravagant monuments or foundations that mostly serve the ruler’s image — often functions as a smokescreen to legitimise misappropriated wealth.

[Part 2]

Bahasa