In contemporary Indonesian politics, there appears to be a marked difference in the way public perception is managed under different administrations. During President Joko Widodo’s tenure, it is widely observed that the government frequently relies on paid online buzzers to defend policies, manage controversies, and shape narratives in favour of the administration. These state-aligned online actors often act as rapid-response teams, countering criticism, silencing dissent, and amplifying messaging, which can create the illusion of unanimous public support. This strategy, while effective in controlling perception, raises questions about the authenticity of popular consent and the health of democratic debate.
If a country becomes “colonised” by the opinions of online influencers or political buzzers, its democratic and social foundations begin to erode. Citizens are no longer guided by evidence, reason, or civic debate, but by trending hashtags, viral videos, and manufactured outrage. Public discourse shifts from thoughtful discussion to performance and spectacle, where attention is monetised and emotions are manipulated. Policies, elections, and even social norms can be hijacked by whoever controls the narrative online, undermining accountability and rational decision-making. Over time, this creates a society that is hyper-polarised, misinformed, and incapable of engaging with complex issues, leaving it vulnerable to manipulation, extremism, and the breakdown of trust in institutions. In essence, the country may remain free on paper, but it becomes practically captive to the sway of social media algorithms and orchestrated opinion campaigns, eroding the very principles of citizenship, critical thinking, and democratic participation.
In the case of the Whoosh high-speed rail project, criticism was often met not with dialogue but with defensiveness. The Jokowi administration, according to multiple reports, tended to dismiss or sideline public concerns—especially those related to financial transparency, environmental impact, and feasibility. Critics who raised alarms, whether through academic forums or social media, were sometimes branded as anti-development or even subjected to legal intimidation.What’s striking is the underlying logic: that criticism equals sabotage, and that public accountability is somehow incompatible with national progress. The case reveals a political culture that privileges image over introspection and control over conversation. The result? A narrowing of civic space, where humour and critique are policed, and where infrastructure projects like Whoosh become symbols not just of ambition, but of authoritarian residue.
As the highest-ranking leader at the time, President Jokowi ought to be held accountable for the consequences of his decisions, which have allegedly harmed the nation and jeopardised the future of its younger generations. Based on digital records, media reports, and even the defences offered by his online supporters, it appears that these decisions were made solely by Jokowi himself. He must be investigated and brought to justice, as several of the projects he authorised were executed without thorough deliberation. His decision-making seemed impulsive—more “spur of the moment” than strategic—disregarding public concerns and raising suspicions of personal gain, potentially benefiting himself, his family, and close associates. There are also indications that these actions may be linked to money laundering.The assertion by Jokowi that major government infrastructure projects, particularly mass transit initiatives, should be judged by their Social Return on Investment (SROI) rather than immediate financial profit, is rhetorically powerful but faces significant challenges regarding its procedural legitimacy and real-world financial accountability, leading critics to brand it as potentially misleading or defensive. The most substantive argument against this statement lies in the initial legal and financial basis of the project itself: the Jakarta-Bandung High-Speed Rail (Whoosh) was originally conceived, promoted, and secured as a Business-to-Business (B2B) endeavour, explicitly promising that it would not utilise the State Budget (APBN) for its funding or potential cost overruns. Abandoning the profit-driven metric—the very standard of success for a B2B commercial project—only after massive financial losses and ballooning debt emerged, appears to be a retrospective attempt to re-categorise the project as a pure public good, shifting the burden of failure from the involved state-owned enterprises (SOEs) and the political decision-makers back onto the public purse.Furthermore, while the concept of SROI is valid for assessing social programmes, its application here is highly problematic: it conveniently ignores the massive cost overruns and subsequent government bailout (by directing SOE dividends or capital injections), which fundamentally contradict the original non-APBN promise. A true public service project, measured solely by social benefit, would typically commence with transparent state financing and a dedicated, non-profit mandate from the outset, not through a commercial model that later failed to deliver financial viability. Therefore, the statement can be strongly argued as a political defence mechanism which uses the universally accepted value of public service to excuse a flawed commercial execution that ultimately forced the government to compromise its own initial procedural commitment to fiscal prudence. The underlying flaw is not that the project delivers social benefits—all infrastructure does—but that the financial risk associated with that social benefit was knowingly transferred back to the state despite explicit guarantees to the contrary.
In contrast, Prabowo Subianto’s political career demonstrates a reliance on organic support rather than orchestrated social media manipulation. He hasn't got a single buzzer team. Let alone paying for buzzers, the remaining funds in the State Budget left by Jokowi are already rather tight. Instead of paying buzzers, it would be better to use the money for other social programs for the people. While Prabowo has been subjected to intense scrutiny and criticism, much of his following is perceived as genuine grassroots support, rooted in ideological alignment, trust, and belief in his leadership. This kind of engagement fosters a healthier democratic dynamic, where criticism is tolerated, debate is possible, and loyalty is voluntary rather than manufactured.Moreover, the hope placed in President Prabowo remains persistent and widespread, transcending age and social strata. It is visible in the enthusiasm of young teenagers shouting “Pak Prabowo!” at public events, as well as among critics who, despite pointing out mistakes or expressing dissatisfaction, still conclude their statements with the plea, “Hopefully, this will be heard by Pak Prabowo!” This illustrates a form of engagement grounded in genuine belief and trust: citizens do not merely follow out of obligation or coordinated messaging, but because they hold onto the expectation that their voices, criticisms, and suggestions can influence governance. Such authentic hope and participatory attention signal a deeper connection between leader and populace, one that is fundamentally different from the artificially engineered support that paid buzzers produce.Comparing this to the situation with Vice President Gibran Rakabuming Raka, a clear distinction emerges. Gibran’s political visibility appears heavily dependent on a network of paid buzzers that seek to control online narratives and defend perceived weaknesses, particularly amid questions about competence and experience. Unlike Prabowo, whose support is often earned through personal credibility and political work, Gibran’s reliance on digital management raises concerns about transparency, accountability, and the sustainability of public trust. Essentially, this contrast underscores the difference between leadership supported by authentic popular backing versus leadership whose online legitimacy is artificially engineered through payment and coordinated campaigns.In From ‘People’ to ‘Citizen’: Democracy's Must Take Road, Dipankar Gupta argues that the transition from the idea of a “people” to that of a “citizen” is fundamental if democracy is to flourish in modern nation‑states. He points out that while the notion of “people” tends to root itself in historical narratives of collective identity, blood, soil, shared heritage and often adversarial bonding, the notion of “citizen” shifts focus towards rights, equality of status, universal access to public goods, and fellow‑membership in a polity.Gupta contends that democracy is not simply about majoritarian rule or nostalgia for nationalist triumphs, but about building a foundation in which individuals stand as equal citizens, regardless of class, community or background. He emphasises that such a foundation must include quality access to health, education, urban services and public infrastructure—those common markers that make citizenship meaningful.Furthermore, the work examines how policy and planning must change when the unit of concern moves from “beneficiaries” or communities defined by identity, to “citizens” defined by rights and responsibilities. Gupta shows that the planning for the poor, urban utilities, skilling of human resources, civil society and the social sciences themselves all have to be reframed through the lens of citizenship.Gupta offers a critique of multiple modernities and argues that citizenship is a social relation which demands mutual respect, fraternity, and shared public culture—not simply the co‑existence of difference. Democracy, in his view, requires constant vigilance and institutional effort, and cannot be taken for granted if citizenship remains weak or subordinate to identity‑based populism.Gupta examines the role of civil society organisations, non‑governmental actors and private initiatives in contemporary democracies, and asks whether they truly foster the emergence of citizens rather than merely beneficiaries. He argues that while many NGOs and private agencies undertake admirable work in alleviating poverty, delivering welfare and mobilising communities, they often stop short of converting recipients into full‑fledged citizens with equal rights, responsibilities and membership in the polity. Gupta contends that citizenship involves not just being aided, but being recognised, participating and demanding accountability — and thus the state remains central. He warns that civil society cannot replace the state apparatus if citizenship is to be meaningful; rather it must operate in relation to, and under the norms of, democratic public institutions. Furthermore, Gupta highlights how democracy itself is transformed when civil society is treated as a mere adjunct to welfare delivery: the focus shifts from rights and questions of inclusion to service and charity. He therefore calls for a reinvigoration of the citizen‑state relation, where citizens see themselves as equal members of the public domain, capable of making claims and exercising their status, not just as beneficiaries of NGO programmes. In sum, Gupta explores the tension between welfare‑oriented civil society and rights‑based citizenship, underscoring that real democracy demands institutions and practices that recognise citizens as participants, not merely as recipients.Gupta also investigates the close and often under‑appreciated relationship between the social sciences and democratic governance. He argues that social science is not a mere adjunct or decorative accessory to democracy, but rather it has an intrinsic affinity with it: democracies create the public spaces in which social science can flourish, and social science, in turn, furnishes the critical tools, concepts and analytical frameworks that help democracy remain vigilant, reflexive and meaningful. He points out that when social sciences are dismissed—as too theoretical, too Western, or irrelevant to local conditions—the very capacity of democracy to understand its citizen base and adapt to changing conditions is undermined. Gupta further contends that social science disciplines must engage with real‑world policy questions, but without relinquishing the critical edge that allows them to question taken‑for‑granted assumptions, hierarchies, and power structures. The chapter proposes that if we embrace the elective affinity between democracy and social science, then citizenship becomes richer: citizens better understand their rights and obligations, policy becomes more grounded in lived realities, and public institutions are more likely to undergo self‑correction. In essence, this chapter invites readers to view social science not only as a scholarly enterprise, but as an essential democratic resource, and warns that sidelining it is to risk the vitality of democratic citizenship itself.Gupta’s discussion in about the elective affinity between social science and democracy is strikingly relevant to contemporary Indonesia, where the quality of public policy, civic engagement, and institutional accountability often hinges on whether social realities are properly understood. In Indonesia, the rapid pace of urbanisation, the persistence of inequality, and the proliferation of identity‑based politics create complex social dynamics that demand careful study. Social science provides the tools to analyse patterns of inequality, the gaps in service delivery, and how citizens interact with state institutions. Without these analytical frameworks, policies risk being reactive, populist, or symbolic rather than substantive. Furthermore, Indonesia’s young and increasingly digital citizenry requires policies informed by research on behaviour, culture, and communication—precisely the terrain where social sciences excel. Gupta’s argument also highlights the danger of sidelining academic expertise in policy formulation: ignoring the insights of sociology, economics, political science, and anthropology can weaken democratic participation, as citizens remain poorly informed and institutions are poorly equipped to adapt. In this light, Indonesia’s challenges in ensuring equitable education, access to healthcare, disaster response, and social welfare can be better addressed if the state actively integrates social science research into its policymaking. Essentially, Gupta’s chapter underscores that democracy in Indonesia cannot thrive on populist gestures or bureaucratic inertia alone; it requires an informed citizenry and institutions that listen, learn, and adapt—a goal achievable only with robust social science engagement.
Gupta explicitly emphasises the importance of academics and intellectuals. He argues that scholars, researchers, and public intellectuals form the cognitive backbone of democracy because they generate the ideas, frameworks, and critiques that keep a democracy alive and self-correcting. For Gupta, the academic’s task is not merely to interpret society but to help it understand itself—to turn social facts into public reflection. When academics are silenced, marginalised, or forced into bureaucratic conformity, democracy begins to lose its self-awareness. Gupta warns that when governments treat academic voices as inconvenient or “too critical,” they effectively strip the public of its analytical conscience. A healthy democracy, he insists, needs critical thought as much as it needs elections; it needs debate, dissent, and evidence-based reasoning to counter both populism and administrative stagnation. Academics, in his view, are not meant to be distant commentators but engaged citizens who speak truth to power, bridge the gap between the state and society, and ensure that policies are informed by understanding rather than ideology. Thus, Gupta’s call is for a democracy that doesn’t just tolerate intellectual life, but nourishes it—because without scholars and thinkers, citizenship itself becomes shallow, emotional, and easily manipulated.
Many critics argue that in the Indonesian context, the role of academics and public intellectuals falls short of the idealised model that Gupta describes, where scholars maintain a critical, independent voice in relation to the state and society. For instance, commentators observe that the academic environment increasingly emphasises metrics, publication counts and formal titles over genuine public engagement and critical social inquiry — in other words, the scholar often becomes a functionary of the system rather than its critic. Moreover, there is a critique of the co-optation of intellectuals by power structures: universities or individual academics may become advisors or technocrats for state projects rather than robust public thinkers who challenge the status quo — a point also raised by analysts who say the choice for many is “public intellectual” or “policy architect”, but rarely both. Gupta’s view that academics should help citizens reflect on their rights, responsibilities and membership in a polity, therefore, seems partially unmet in Indonesia: critics point out that many academic institutions struggle with independence, resources, and normative clarity about their public role. For example, one article describes the “precarity” of academic labour, the dominance of market-oriented knowledge, and state influence shaping research agendas. At the same time, signs of hope remain: there are academic voices publicly criticising policy and asserting rights (e.g., academics challenging health ministry policy). So while the model Gupta proposes—where academics are active citizens creating reflective and engaged publics—has resonance, in practice the Indonesian case reveals institutional constraints, diminished independence, and the risk of intellectual work being subsumed under bureaucratic or market logic. If Gupta is right that democracy thrives when social science and citizenship go hand in hand, the Indonesian experience suggests significant work remains to bring that vision closer to reality.
Stephen E. Frantzich’s Citizen Democracy: Political Activists in a Cynical Age (2004, Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc.) explores the paradox of modern democracy in an age when public cynicism about politics is at an all-time high, yet certain individuals continue to devote themselves passionately to political participation and civic engagement. The book investigates why and how people remain committed to democratic activism even when faith in institutions has eroded, and when political discourse is dominated by negativity, apathy, and distrust.Through a series of vivid case studies, Frantzich presents portraits of ordinary citizens who have made extraordinary contributions to public life — not because they are driven by money, fame, or political power, but because they genuinely believe in the capacity of individual action to make a difference. He examines figures from diverse backgrounds — from grassroots campaigners and reformers to digital activists — showing that democracy is kept alive by those who choose to engage rather than withdraw.Frantzich argues that these “citizen democrats” embody a crucial form of political resilience. Their commitment demonstrates that democracy is not merely a system of institutions but a living moral practice sustained by civic virtue, public dialogue, and personal responsibility. The book also critiques the role of mass media and political elites in fostering cynicism, noting how sensationalism and polarisation often alienate the very citizens democracy depends on.Citizen Democracy is both an act of documentation and a call to renewal. Frantzich urges readers to recognise that the health of democracy depends not on grand reforms or charismatic leaders, but on the quiet courage of citizens who refuse to surrender to disillusionment. His work becomes a tribute to those who persist — who speak, volunteer, organise, and vote — even when the system seems irreparably flawed.
[Part 3]In a functioning democracy, criticism of the government is a natural and necessary force—but not all criticism carries the same intention or value. The kind of criticism that genuinely seeks improvement usually begins with facts, evidence, and a sincere desire to make systems work better for everyone. It is often specific, constructive, and focuses on policy rather than personality. Such critics tend to offer alternatives, propose solutions, or highlight areas where reform could benefit the public good. They see government accountability not as an act of hostility but as a duty of citizenship.On the other hand, criticism driven by the thirst for popularity or political gain often feels hollow and theatrical. It exaggerates issues, manipulates public emotion, and aims more to create outrage than understanding. This type of criticism is usually loud but shallow — full of slogans, lacking depth. It focuses on tearing down individuals rather than improving institutions. In some cases, it even spreads misinformation or engages in character assassination just to delegitimise the government, rather than help the country progress.The real test lies in intention and method. Genuine criticism aims to awaken, while destructive criticism aims to weaken. True democrats criticise with responsibility — they know when to question and when to collaborate. They understand that democracy is not a battlefield of egos but a shared effort to refine the system, protect justice, and uplift the nation.Criticism towards the government and public officials takes many shapes, each reflecting a different degree of engagement, purpose, and courage. At its most fundamental level, criticism appears through public opinion — the murmurs of everyday people expressed in cafés, markets, and digital spaces. As societies evolve, this everyday discourse transforms into more formal critiques, channelled through journalism, activism, art, satire, and academic inquiry. Editorials that question policy effectiveness, documentaries that expose systemic flaws, street demonstrations that demand justice, and social media threads that unpack corruption — all are contemporary instruments of civic scrutiny.True criticism, however, distinguishes itself by its foundation in evidence and its desire for reform rather than destruction. Constructive critics often speak with the language of concern, not contempt; they propose alternatives, not chaos. Conversely, destructive criticism is often impulsive, personal, or designed to manipulate emotions rather than provoke rational thought. When citizens critique with informed awareness and ethical restraint, their words become a democratic safeguard — a way of ensuring that power remains transparent and accountable. In essence, the forms of criticism range from quiet reflection to loud protest, but their moral value lies in their intent: to awaken, not to wound; to enlighten, not to burn.Criticism directed at the personal conduct of public officials becomes permissible when there is a clear intersection between private behaviour and public responsibility. In a democracy, leaders are entrusted with power and resources precisely because they are expected to act in the public interest, not for personal gain. If a public official uses state funds, facilities, or influence to benefit their own family or lead a lifestyle that starkly contradicts ethical norms, citizens have both a right and a duty to scrutinise that behaviour. The criticism must, however, remain focused on actions that impact governance, accountability, or public trust — not on trivial personal choices unrelated to their official duties. The goal is always to safeguard the integrity of the office, not to satisfy voyeuristic curiosity or personal grudges.Such criticism should be grounded in evidence, presented respectfully, and aimed at fostering transparency and reform. Highlighting the misuse of public resources or hypocritical conduct strengthens democratic norms because it signals that leadership carries responsibilities that extend beyond personal privilege. By maintaining this focus, citizens avoid devolving into mere gossip or character assassination; instead, they wield criticism as a tool to protect collective interest and ensure that public office is exercised with integrity. In short, personal conduct becomes relevant only insofar as it reflects on the official’s capacity to serve the people faithfully.Some book references support the argument that it is permissible to critique the personal behaviour of public officials when it impacts their public duties. We will discuss it in the next part.
