It is widely noted that Sigmund Freud, despite being one of the most influential figures in psychology, never definitively answered the question "What do women want?" Throughout his career, Freud explored female psychology and sexuality extensively, developing theories such as the concept of "penis envy" and ideas about the stages of psychosexual development. However, his work often reflected the biases and limitations of his time, and many of his conclusions were speculative rather than definitive. Even Freud himself reportedly admitted that the female psyche remained something of a mystery to him, leaving the question unresolved by the time of his death in 1939. In short, Freud could analyse, theorise, and provoke debate, but he never provided a clear, satisfying answer to that enduring question.Freud, ever the enthusiast of buried desires and architectural metaphors, might have looked upon Indonesia’s new capital project—Ibu Kota Nusantara (IKN)—as a textbook case of national projection. A jungle-clearing turned concrete canvas, IKN seems less like a city and more like a collective gangster ego trip: the id wants legacy, the superego demands symbolism, and the ego signs off on budget overruns. In this psychoanalytic drama, the state becomes the patient, obsessively erecting towers to silence the voices of past misgovernance. But when the scaffolding catches fire and the workers sleep in modular purgatory, one wonders if the dream was ever about the people—or merely about the elite’s need to build something big enough to forget their own failures. Freud might not have foreseen tropical nation-building, but he’d surely recognise the symptoms: displacement, denial, and a burning desire to be remembered.
The fire that broke out at the Construction Workers’ Residence (HPK) 1 Tower 14 in Indonesia’s new capital, Ibu Kota Nusantara (IKN), on 1 October 2025, has reignited critical debates surrounding the viability and ethics of continuing the IKN megaproject. Politically, the incident exposes the fragility of state-led narratives that frame IKN as a symbol of national progress. When basic worker safety is compromised, it undermines the credibility of the government’s promise (in Jokowi's rezim) to build a futuristic, resilient capital. The swift response from the authorities may demonstrate procedural efficiency, but it does little to address deeper concerns about transparency, oversight, and the prioritisation of human welfare over political spectacle.Economically, the fire raises doubts about the project's sustainability in terms of funding and execution. With the 2025 budget for IKN slashed from Rp 43.4 trillion to Rp 13 trillion, and reports of investor hesitation, such incidents risk further eroding confidence. If modular housing—meant to be cost-effective and rapid—is vulnerable to fire, what does that say about the long-term durability of the infrastructure being built? The economic rationale behind IKN hinges on attracting investment and showcasing innovation; a fire in worker housing sends the opposite message.Socially, the incident reveals a troubling disconnect between the grand vision of IKN and the lived realities of those building it. The fact that hundreds of workers were displaced, even temporarily, underscores the precariousness of their working conditions. It raises questions about whether the state is truly committed to inclusive development or merely using labour as a disposable tool to realise elite ambitions. The absence of casualties may be fortunate, but the psychological toll and disruption to livelihoods are harder to quantify.Culturally, the fire disrupts the narrative of IKN as a harmonious, forward-looking city rooted in Indonesian identity. Instead, it evokes memories of rushed development, environmental disregard, and top-down planning that ignores local wisdom. For many, IKN is not a beacon of renewal but a monument to centralised power. The fire becomes a metaphor: a spark of resistance against a project that many feel was never truly theirs.The fire at HPK Tower 14 in IKN could very well be nature’s way of submitting a formal complaint. One might imagine the universe, sipping tea, muttering, “I say, this whole ‘smart city in the jungle’ business is getting rather out of hand.” If it were an act of cosmic protest, it’s rather poetic—flames licking the edges of a dream sold as green, futuristic, and inclusive, yet built on the backs of workers housed in flammable boxes.On the other hand, if the blaze was man-made—whether by negligence, corner-cutting, or a cheeky little insurance hiccup—then we’ve entered the realm of bureaucratic theatre. Picture it: a minister squinting at blueprints, saying, “Let’s build fast, cheap, and hope no one notices the fire exits are decorative.” It’s less a conspiracy and more a tragicomedy of errors, where the scriptwriters forgot to include safety regulations in the plot.Either way, the fire has become a character in the IKN saga. Not a villain, but a whistleblower. It didn’t destroy a city—it exposed a narrative. And whether it was divine intervention or human folly, the flames have spoken louder than any press release.If Freud struggled to answer the riddle of “What do women want?”, one might cheekily wonder whether he would have been any more successful if asked, “What do the corruptors want?” In fact, the latter question may be far easier, at least on the surface. Unlike the complex, layered dimensions of human desire that Freud tried (and failed) to pin down in women, the wants of corruptors are, in most cases, bluntly transparent: money, power, impunity, and the endless extension of privilege. Where Freud confronted a mystery, here he would have encountered something more primitive—an insatiable appetite that disguises itself in rationalisations but rarely transcends greed. If Freud had psychoanalysed the corrupt, he might have spoken of an arrested development, a fixation on infantile gratification, or even a pathological fear of scarcity. Yet he would not have been left in silence; the answer, tragically, is all too obvious.Had Freud attempted to psychoanalyse the corrupt, he might have described them as suffering from an infantile fixation, trapped in a cycle of immediate gratification and fearful of ever being without. Yet, unlike the question of women, here Freud would not have thrown up his hands in surrender. The corruptors’ desires are so painfully obvious that they expose not mystery, but banality—a greed that repeats itself endlessly, and in doing so, corrupts not only institutions but the very imagination of society itself.At the PKS National Congress, President Prabowo declared that corruption in Indonesia has reached a systemic scale, with a single corrupt actor capable of causing losses of up to two or three trillion rupiah. He added that, in truth, hundreds of trillions of state funds are lost almost every year, describing it as a cycle of theft that drains the nation’s wealth. Prabowo also pointed to illegal mining, with around a thousand unlicensed sites in Bangka Belitung alone, as a form of robbery against the state. He concluded by stressing that corruption does not only weaken institutions but also affects ordinary people, from workers to journalists, who struggle with low incomes because national resources are siphoned away by the corrupt.
In his 2020 book Kleptopia: How Dirty Money Is Conquering the World, investigative journalist Tom Burgis delves into the intricate ways kleptocrats manipulate the global financial system to conceal illicit wealth. He illustrates how corrupt elites exploit financial institutions, shell companies, and opaque legal frameworks to launder money, evade accountability, and entrench their power. Through compelling narratives, Burgis exposes the mechanisms that enable these actors to undermine democracies and perpetuate authoritarian regimes.
Kleptocrats undermine democracy and entrench authoritarian regimes through a series of interconnected mechanisms that exploit both domestic institutions and the global financial system. By siphoning off state resources, they weaken public trust in government and erode the rule of law, ensuring that accountability structures remain hollow. They deploy patronage networks, buying loyalty from elites, bureaucrats, and even segments of the public, thus transforming governance into a system of transactional loyalty rather than civic duty. In parallel, they manipulate the judiciary and legislative bodies to protect themselves from prosecution, while curbing media freedom to silence dissent and control narratives. On the international stage, they launder stolen wealth through shell companies, offshore accounts, and real estate markets in major financial centres, converting illicit funds into seemingly legitimate assets. This cycle of corruption not only consolidates their grip on power but also corrodes democratic norms, leaving societies vulnerable to authoritarian entrenchment under the guise of stability.Burgis emphasises that the broader impact of kleptocracy lies in how it fuses political authority with economic dominance, creating regimes where the state becomes a vehicle for private enrichment rather than public service. This fusion erodes the foundations of democracy, as institutions meant to safeguard the people are captured by elites who manipulate them for their own survival. Burgis shows that kleptocracy does not stop at national borders; it spreads through global financial systems, distorting markets, enabling authoritarian leaders, and weakening international norms of justice and accountability. The consequence is a world in which stolen wealth buys impunity, citizens lose faith in democracy, and authoritarianism is exported under the guise of investment and stability.Burgis’s central message in Kleptopia: How Dirty Money Is Conquering the World (2020) is that kleptocracy is not a series of isolated scandals but a global system that corrodes democracy, distorts economies, and empowers authoritarian regimes. He wants readers to see that dirty money does not simply vanish into secrecy; it seeps into financial markets, politics, and everyday life, reshaping the world in favour of those who plunder rather than those who build. Burgis warns that unless citizens and governments confront the networks that allow stolen wealth to flow freely—from shell companies to complicit banks—the very foundations of democratic governance and global stability will continue to erode. At its heart, his book is a call to recognise kleptocracy as one of the defining threats of our age, a force that undermines not only nations where the money is stolen but also those that provide it safe harbour.In The Corruption Cure: How Citizens and Leaders Can Combat Graft (Princeton University Press, 2017), Robert I. Rotberg defines corruption as the abuse of public power for private gain. Yet he is quick to clarify that this definition, while widely accepted, is insufficient to capture the full scope of the phenomenon. For Rotberg, corruption is not merely transactional—it is systemic. It involves the erosion of trust, the distortion of institutions, and the betrayal of civic responsibility. Corruption manifests when officials, entrusted with serving the public, instead prioritise personal enrichment, often at the expense of justice, equity, and development.Bribery, on the other hand, is a specific subset of corruption. It refers to the act of offering, giving, receiving, or soliciting something of value—typically money—in exchange for influence over a decision or action. While bribery is often the most visible and tangible form of corruption, Rotberg insists that it is only one part of a much larger architecture of misconduct. The distinction lies in scope and subtlety: bribery is a single act, whereas corruption is a culture, a system, and a pattern of behaviour that corrodes governance from within.Rotberg, in his research on governance and state failure, argues that corruption should not be seen as an inevitable cultural trait of a country or people. Instead, he frames corruption primarily as a failure of governance—weak institutions, lack of accountability, and poor rule of law. According to Rotberg, such corruption is not fixed or predestined; it can be addressed and reversed through institutional reform, stronger legal frameworks, transparency measures, and effective leadership. In other words, corruption is contingent, not deterministic—bad governance produces corruption, and better governance can reduce or eliminate it.Rotberg draws a direct and sobering connection between corruption and the violation of human rights. He argues that corruption is not merely a governance failure—it is a moral and humanitarian crisis. When public officials siphon off resources meant for education, healthcare, or infrastructure, they are not just stealing money; they are stealing opportunities, dignity, and life itself from citizens who depend on those services. Rotberg insists that corruption systematically denies people their basic rights: the right to safety, the right to fair treatment, and the right to participate meaningfully in civic life.
He further contends that corruption disproportionately harms the poor and marginalised, deepening inequality and entrenching injustice. In this way, corruption becomes a form of structural violence—an invisible hand that perpetuates suffering without leaving bruises. Rotberg’s framing elevates the conversation: combating corruption is not just about clean government, but about restoring human rights and protecting the vulnerable from institutional betrayal.
Rotberg’s central message is that corruption is not an unavoidable cultural condition but rather the product of weak governance, fragile institutions, and leaders who fail to uphold integrity. He stresses that societies are not condemned to live under corrupt systems forever; instead, with strong political will, institutional reform, and public accountability, corruption can be reduced and even reversed. Rotberg argues that the health of democracy and the legitimacy of the state depend on building transparent systems, strengthening the rule of law, and fostering leadership that prioritises the public good over personal enrichment. In essence, his work carries an optimistic undertone: corruption is not destiny, but a challenge that can be overcome through deliberate and determined reform.Rotberg directly confronts the provocative question: “Is corruption culturally relative, sometimes functional?” His answer is firm and unequivocal. He rejects the notion that corruption is culturally acceptable or somehow beneficial in certain societies. While some commentators have argued that in places where formal institutions are weak, corruption may serve as a kind of informal lubricant—helping things get done—Rotberg insists that this view is both dangerous and misleading. He argues that normalising corruption as “functional” or “traditional” is a way of excusing injustice and perpetuating inequality. Corruption, in his view, is universally harmful. It undermines trust, distorts governance, and robs citizens of their rights—regardless of cultural context. Rotberg acknowledges that corruption may be more visible or entrenched in some societies, but he refuses to accept that it is ever legitimate or necessary. Instead, he calls for a global standard of integrity, where cultural relativism is not used as a shield for abuse.
Rotberg argues that to effectively combat corruption, one must first grasp its nature—not just as a legal infraction, but as a deeply embedded distortion of public service. Rotberg defines corruption as the betrayal of public trust for private gain, but he goes further: he sees it as a systemic failure where institutions are hollowed out, accountability is absent, and personal enrichment becomes the norm rather than the exception.He emphasises that corruption is not a monolith. It varies in form and intensity—from petty bribery at the local level to grand corruption orchestrated by political elites. Yet, regardless of scale, its consequences are corrosive. Rotberg insists that corruption is not culturally inevitable nor historically excusable. Instead, it thrives where leadership is weak, where institutions lack transparency, and where citizens are disengaged or disempowered. Understanding corruption, for Rotberg, means recognising its patterns, its enablers, and its devastating impact on governance, development, and human dignity.Using Robert I. Rotberg’s framework from The Corruption Cure: How Citizens and Leaders Can Combat Graft (Princeton University Press, 2017), the nature of corruption in Indonesia can be understood not merely as a series of isolated infractions but as a deeply embedded structural condition that distorts governance and erodes public trust. Rotberg would likely interpret Indonesia’s corruption landscape as a hybrid of petty and grand corruption, where everyday bribery coexists with elite-level manipulation of institutions.Indonesia’s decentralised bureaucracy, while democratically promising, has often created fragmented accountability, allowing localised corruption to flourish. Rotberg’s lens would highlight how the abuse of public office—whether through embezzlement, nepotism, or regulatory capture—systematically denies citizens their rights and undermines development. He would reject any cultural relativism that frames corruption as “wajar” or “lumrah,” insisting instead that such normalisation perpetuates injustice.Moreover, Rotberg would emphasise that corruption in Indonesia is not inevitable. It persists because of weak institutional safeguards, opaque procurement systems, and leadership that too often prioritises loyalty over integrity. Yet, he would also see hope in Indonesia’s vibrant civil society, investigative journalism, and youth-led movements that demand transparency. In his view, curing corruption requires not just reform from above, but mobilisation from below—a citizenry that refuses to tolerate betrayal and insists on accountability.Rotberg treats “political will” not as a vague aspiration, but as the decisive ingredient in the fight against corruption. He argues that without genuine political will, even the most sophisticated anti-corruption frameworks will collapse into performative gestures. Political will, in Rotberg’s view, is the demonstrated commitment of leaders to confront corruption head-on—not merely through rhetoric, but through consistent, courageous action.He emphasises that true political will is visible in the choices leaders make: whether they appoint reformers or cronies, whether they protect whistleblowers or punish them, whether they allow institutions to operate independently or manipulate them for personal gain. Rotberg warns against the illusion of reform, where leaders speak of integrity while quietly enabling graft. For him, political will is not a slogan—it is a test of character, a moral stance, and a public promise that must be honoured with transparency and accountability.Rotberg affirms the principle of ethical universalism as a cornerstone of his anti-corruption philosophy. He argues that integrity, transparency, and accountability are not culturally contingent values—they are universal moral imperatives. Rotberg rejects the idea that ethical standards should bend to local customs or political convenience. For him, ethical universalism means that the same standards of honesty and fairness must apply to all public officials, regardless of geography, tradition, or regime.He warns against the seductive logic of relativism, which often disguises corruption as cultural nuance or pragmatic necessity. Rotberg insists that such arguments only serve to entrench injustice and protect the powerful. Ethical universalism, in his view, is not a Western imposition but a global demand for dignity and justice. It is the belief that no citizen should be denied their rights because of where they live or who governs them. In this framework, fighting corruption is not just about fixing systems—it’s about affirming a shared human commitment to fairness.Rotberg explores how corruption often operates not in isolation, but as part of organised networks that resemble criminal enterprises. He argues that when corruption becomes entrenched, it tends to cluster—forming webs of collusion among politicians, bureaucrats, business elites, and sometimes even law enforcement. These clusters are not accidental; they are deliberately constructed ecosystems of graft, designed to protect their members and perpetuate illicit gain.Rotberg likens these corrupt networks to syndicates, where loyalty is rewarded and whistleblowers are punished. In such environments, corruption is not merely tolerated—it is incentivised. The system becomes self-reinforcing: officials who play along are promoted, while those who resist are sidelined or silenced. He warns that these clusters can hollow out institutions from within, making reform nearly impossible unless the entire network is dismantled. For Rotberg, understanding corruption means recognising its collective nature—how it thrives in groups, protects itself, and resists accountability through shared complicity.
Rotberg examines how corruption, when left unchecked, evolves into organised criminal ecosystems. He argues that corruption is rarely a solitary act; instead, it tends to cluster—forming tight-knit networks of collusion among politicians, bureaucrats, business elites, and sometimes even law enforcement. These clusters operate like criminal enterprises, with shared interests, mutual protection, and a collective commitment to preserving illicit gain.Rotberg describes how these networks become self-reinforcing. Individuals who participate in corrupt practices are rewarded with promotions, contracts, or political favour, while those who resist are marginalised or punished. Over time, these clusters hollow out institutions, replacing merit with loyalty and transparency with secrecy. Reform becomes nearly impossible when the very structures meant to uphold integrity are captured by those who benefit from its absence.He warns that dismantling such clusters requires more than legal reform—it demands political courage, citizen mobilisation, and a cultural shift that refuses to tolerate complicity. For Rotberg, understanding corruption means recognising its collective nature: it is not just about bad individuals, but about bad systems that protect each other.
[Part 3]Rotberg builds a compelling argument that corruption in the developing world is not random or incidental—it flourishes within specific political and economic environments that enable and protect it. He asserts that in many developing nations, corruption is embedded in the very architecture of power. It is not merely tolerated; it is cultivated by elite cartels and sustained by oligarchic and clan-based societies.Rotberg describes elite cartels as tightly knit groups of powerful individuals—politicians, business magnates, military figures—who collude to control access to state resources. These cartels operate like shadow governments, manipulating laws, contracts, and appointments to serve their mutual interests. Loyalty within the cartel is rewarded, while dissent is punished. The result is a closed system where corruption becomes a prerequisite for survival and advancement.He further explains that oligarch and clan societies are characterised by concentrated wealth and influence within a few families or kinship networks. In such societies, public office is often inherited or distributed based on familial ties rather than merit. These structures blur the line between private interest and public duty, making it nearly impossible to distinguish governance from patronage. Rotberg argues that in these environments, corruption is not an aberration—it is the operating logic.Thus, when he states that “developing world corruption flourishes in distinct political and economic environments,” he is pointing to the systemic nature of the problem. It is not about individual moral failure, but about entrenched networks of power that reproduce corruption as a norm. For Rotberg, dismantling these environments requires more than reform—it demands a reimagining of how power is distributed and held accountable.
