Many legal critics have expressed deep concern over the four-and-a-half-year prison sentence handed down to former Indonesian ASDP Director Ira Puspadewi. They argue that the case represents a troubling example of criminalising business decisions rather than genuine acts of corruption. According to these observers, there was no evidence that she personally benefited from the transaction, nor was there any clear demonstration of state financial loss. Instead, her decision to acquire PT Jembatan Nusantara was seen as a strategic move that actually increased ASDP’s revenue. Critics therefore describe the verdict as inconsistent with the principle of the Business Judgment Rule, which is supposed to protect executives who make decisions in good faith, even if those decisions carry risk. Some even went so far as to call the ruling a form of “misguided justice,” warning that it could discourage professionals in state-owned enterprises from taking bold initiatives. The dissenting opinion within the panel of judges further reinforced the perception that this case sits in a grey area between managerial miscalculation and criminal liability. For many legal commentators, the sentence symbolises a dangerous precedent that undermines innovation and professionalism within Indonesia’s BUMN sector.In the eyes of critics, the KPK’s approach to the ASDP case reflects a troubling rigidity. Economist Didik J. Rachbini described the prosecution as a form of “misguided justice,” stressing that the KPK ignored the fact that Ira did not personally profit from the acquisition and that no audit from BPK or BPKP confirmed state losses. This, he argued, shows the KPK criminalising business risks rather than genuine corruption.Netizens echoed this sentiment across social media, portraying the KPK as an institution that has lost its moral compass. Many questioned why the Commission pursued Ira so aggressively when her decision arguably strengthened ASDP’s financial position. The phrase “kriminalisasi inovasi” circulated widely, encapsulating the belief that the KPK is punishing executives for daring to innovate rather than for stealing from the state.At the same time, the KPK itself has defended its stance. It asserted that the acquisition of PT Jembatan Nusantara caused a state loss of Rp 1.25 trillion, pointing to the advanced age of the ferries purchased and the inflated valuation of the deal. This rebuttal was meant to counter the narrative that Ira was innocent simply because she did not pocket money. Yet, critics argue that the Commission’s definition of “state loss” is overly expansive, conflating poor business judgment with criminal intent.The controversy has also been amplified by the dissenting opinion of one of the judges, who questioned whether the case truly met the threshold of corruption. This judicial split reinforced public suspicion that the KPK’s prosecution was more about optics than substance.Critics accuse the KPK of undermining professionalism in BUMN by criminalising risk-taking, while netizens accuse it of eroding public trust by pursuing a case that looks more like a managerial misstep than corruption. The Commission’s insistence on a massive state loss figure has not silenced these criticisms; instead, it has deepened the perception that the KPK is inconsistent and punitive in ways that could chill innovation across Indonesia’s state-owned enterprises.
It is very likely that cases such as Ira Puspadewi’s will cast a shadow over the enthusiasm of many Indonesians who have studied abroad and returned home with the intention of serving the nation. Legal critics and commentators have already warned that the criminalisation of business decisions, rather than genuine corruption, creates a climate of fear. For young professionals and returnees from overseas, the message seems clear: even if you act in good faith, take risks to innovate, and strengthen a state-owned enterprise, you may still face prosecution. This perception could discourage talented individuals from entering or remaining in public service, particularly within BUMN, where strategic decisions often involve complex risks.At a broader level, such cases risk eroding trust in institutions that are supposed to protect integrity and encourage innovation. Instead of inspiring confidence, they may reinforce scepticism about whether Indonesia’s legal system distinguishes between corruption and managerial missteps. For those who have returned from abroad with international experience, the fear of being punished for bold initiatives could lead to self-censorship, risk aversion, or even a decision to pursue careers outside the public sector. In this way, the impact is not only personal but systemic: it threatens to stifle the very spirit of dedication and innovation that the country needs from its brightest minds.No clear or authoritative information identifies Ira Puspadewi’s actions as managerial mistakes in the conventional sense. What has been widely debated is whether her decision to acquire PT Jembatan Nusantara should be categorised as a criminal act of corruption or simply as a business decision that carried risk. Legal critics and observers have emphasised that she did not personally profit from the transaction, and that the acquisition was intended to strengthen ASDP’s operations. The dissenting opinion of one of the judges in her trial also highlighted that the case sits in a grey area, suggesting that it was not a straightforward matter of managerial negligence but rather a contested interpretation of business judgment.In other words, the narrative of “managerial error” has not been substantiated in public records or legal findings. Instead, the controversy revolves around whether the valuation of the acquisition constituted a “state loss” under the law, even though ASDP’s revenues reportedly improved after the integration. Thus, it is more accurate to say that the case is about the criminalisation of a business decision rather than the exposure of managerial incompetence.In truth, the decision made by Ira Puspadewi to acquire PT Jembatan Nusantara for ASDP can be interpreted as a strategic move that ultimately benefited the state rather than harmed it. The acquisition allowed ASDP to consolidate ferry routes, strengthen its operational capacity, and ensure continuity of service in regions where connectivity is vital for the movement of people and goods. Far from being a reckless act, it was a calculated business decision that aligned with the mandate of a state-owned enterprise to serve the public interest while maintaining financial sustainability. Importantly, there was no evidence that she personally profited from the transaction, which undermines the very foundation of the corruption charge.From a financial perspective, the integration of Jembatan Nusantara’s assets increased ASDP’s scale of operations, reduced unit costs, and improved efficiency. These improvements translated into higher revenues and stronger margins, which in turn contributed to greater dividend payments and tax receipts for the state. Beyond the balance sheet, the acquisition had wider economic benefits: it reduced logistical bottlenecks, supported regional trade, and enhanced tourism and local business opportunities. Such multiplier effects are not always captured in narrow definitions of “state loss,” yet they are real and tangible contributions to national development.The argument that the acquisition caused a loss of Rp 1.25 trillion rests on a rigid and overly simplistic valuation method that ignores the long-term cash flows and intangible benefits of route consolidation. In reality, the vessels acquired, though ageing, remained serviceable and generated revenue during their remaining lifespan. When placed on routes with stable demand, they continued to deliver value well beyond their purchase price. By focusing solely on the difference between appraisal and transaction value, critics overlooked the broader economic and social gains that flowed from the decision.Therefore, when judged against the principles of good faith, public service, and financial contribution, Ira Puspadewi’s decision did not harm the state but rather strengthened ASDP’s role as a backbone of national connectivity. It is more accurate to say that her leadership enhanced the country’s transport infrastructure, supported economic growth, and increased fiscal returns to the government. To criminalise such a decision is to conflate business risk with corruption, and in doing so, to discourage the very innovation and dedication that Indonesia needs from its brightest professionals.
There is no publicly documented evidence of a conflict of interest in Ira Puspadewi’s case. The controversy has focused instead on whether her decision to acquire PT Jembatan Nusantara constituted corruption or a legitimate business judgment.
[Part 3]When Ira Puspadewi was sentenced to four and a half years in prison, the court’s reasoning was that her actions had unlawfully benefited another corporation, namely PT Jembatan Nusantara. However, Ira herself strongly denied any wrongdoing, insisting that she had not engaged in corruption and that the acquisition was part of a broader business strategy. Legal observers and critics emphasised that the case was controversial precisely because it did not involve personal enrichment. The dissenting opinion of one judge reinforced this view, arguing that her actions should be seen as a business decision rather than a criminal act.The KPK maintained that the acquisition caused a state loss of Rp 1.25 trillion, pointing to the advanced age of the ferries purchased and the inflated valuation of the deal. Yet, critics argued that this interpretation conflated poor valuation or risk-taking with corruption. What is notable is that none of the reporting or commentary suggests that Ira had a personal or familial stake in PT Jembatan Nusantara, nor that she stood to gain privately from the transaction. The accusation was about corporate benefit, not individual conflict of interest.Thus, while the case has been framed as corruption by the KPK, there has been no substantiated allegation of conflict of interest in the sense of Ira using her position to enrich herself or related parties. The debate remains centred on whether the state truly suffered a loss, or whether the decision was a legitimate—if risky—business move that has been unfairly criminalised.The criticisms directed at the Corruption Eradication Commission (KPK) in the case of Ira Puspadewi are strikingly similar in tone to those levelled against the institution in relation to its handling of other high-profile figures, such as Bobby Nasution. In Ira’s case, the central critique was that the KPK appeared to criminalise a business decision rather than uncover genuine corruption, thereby undermining the principle of the Business Judgment Rule and discouraging innovation within state-owned enterprises. Observers argued that the Commission pursued the case aggressively despite the absence of evidence of personal enrichment, which raised doubts about its consistency and fairness.
In the matter of Bobby Nasution, the criticism took a different form but reflected the same underlying concern: the perceived inability of the KPK to act decisively and transparently when the subject of investigation was politically sensitive or closely connected to power. Public discourse highlighted the Commission’s failure to bring him forward for questioning in a timely and visible manner, which fuelled suspicions of selective enforcement. Many netizens and legal commentators suggested that the KPK was quick to prosecute professionals like Ira, who lacked political protection, yet hesitant when faced with figures embedded in political networks.
The comparison between the two cases, therefore, reveals a dual critique. On one hand, the KPK is accused of overreach—punishing professionals for decisions made in good faith. On the other, it is accused of weakness—hesitating to confront politically influential individuals with the same vigour. Together, these criticisms paint a picture of an institution that is inconsistent: harsh where it should be cautious, and cautious where it should be firm. This inconsistency erodes public trust, as citizens perceive the Commission as both overzealous and ineffective, depending on who stands accused.
Let's go back to our main topic.
The idea of “conflict of interest” did not emerge suddenly in modern law; rather, it evolved gradually as societies began to distinguish between public duties and private gain. The earliest traces of the concept can be found in ancient civilisations, particularly in classical Athens around the 5th century BCE, where public officials were prohibited from engaging in certain commercial activities to prevent personal enrichment from state decisions. Although the term itself did not exist, the underlying concern—that those in power might abuse their authority for private benefit—was already recognised as a threat to democratic governance.The concept developed further in Ancient Rome, where laws such as the Lex Claudia of 218 BCE banned senators from owning large commercial ships, because their political influence could distort trade and military contracts. Roman thinkers understood that public trust depended on preventing office-holders from mixing personal business with public responsibilities.The idea resurfaced strongly in medieval Europe, particularly within the Catholic Church. The Church introduced rules against “simony” and clerical profiteering, reflecting a moral belief that spiritual authority should not be used for material gain. This period linked conflict of interest explicitly with ethical and moral corruption.However, the modern form of the concept emerged during the 17th and 18th centuries, especially with the rise of constitutional government and bureaucracy in Britain and the United States. The expansion of state administration created new opportunities for officials to misuse their positions, prompting legal and philosophical debates about impartiality. Political thinkers associated with the Enlightenment, such as John Locke and Montesquieu, argued that separating public power from private interest was essential to preventing tyranny.The concept became formalised in the 19th and early 20th centuries, particularly in the United States, where industrialisation and the growth of corporate influence exposed extensive political corruption. The Progressive Era reforms introduced explicit legal frameworks to prevent public officials from engaging in business activities that could influence their decisions.The term “conflict of interest” itself gained widespread use after World War II, when international institutions, professional associations, and governments sought to establish ethical standards for public administration. The creation of bodies such as the United Nations and OECD contributed to defining the concept in legal and administrative terms, framing it as a global governance issue.In the late 20th and early 21st centuries, the idea expanded further as privatisation, public–private partnerships, and global finance blurred the boundaries between state and market. Conflict of interest became central to discussions about transparency, corruption, corporate governance, and public accountability. Today, the concept is understood not only as a legal problem but also as a social, cultural, and ethical issue embedded in the structure of modern governance.According to Johan Heilbron, the concept of interest as a foundational idea in modern political thought began to emerge during early-modern Europe, particularly after the Renaissance. Heilbron notes that political philosophers in the seventeenth century started to use the notion of “interest” as a primary analytical category for understanding the motivations of political actors, rather than merely as a moral or religious concern. This shift marked the beginning of treating political behaviour in terms of personal and collective interests, laying the groundwork for later reflections on conflicts of interest.
In the realm of classical political theory, although Aristotle, in his Politics, spoke extensively about conflicts among the “parts” of society and the interests of the polis, he did not employ the term conflict of interest in the modern sense. Instead, Aristotle’s discussion focused on class conflicts or tensions between different segments of the polis, rather than formalised concerns about overlapping personal and public roles.
Within modern legal and governmental traditions, the idea of conflict of interest began to be more explicitly addressed in the twentieth century. For instance, in Conflict of Interest and Federal Service (1961), Charles Taft argued that while conflicts of interest are sometimes unavoidable within government, certain conflicts must be regulated, and some may be permissible provided that effective control mechanisms are in place.
In conclusion, there is no single individual who can be credited with first defining conflict of interest in exactly the way we understand it in modern times. Rather, the concept evolved gradually from early-modern reflections on political “interest,” was refined through social contract theory and legal theory, and was eventually articulated more formally in the discourse of modern governmental accountability.
[Part 1]
