[Part 8]Change is a strange thing; it cannot be denied …Please do not hold on to me, we all must go alone …Me ke aloha kuʻu home ʻo Kahaluʻu [With love, my home is Kahaluʻu] …These three verses are the lyrics of a Hawaiian song entitled “My Dream Chapel at Kahaluʻu”. The Hawaiian songs performed by General Hoegeng, particularly with his band The Hawaiian Seniors, differ from traditional Hawaiian music in several important ways. While traditional Hawaiian music often relies on authentic native instruments such as the slack-key guitar, ipu, and pahu drums, Hoegeng’s repertoire leaned heavily on the ukulele and Western harmonies, creating a style more aligned with hapa-haole music—a genre that mixes Hawaiian melodies with English lyrics. This adaptation made the songs more accessible to Indonesian audiences of the 1960s and 1970s, while preserving the soothing, breezy essence of Hawaiian music. Moreover, the thematic content of Hoegeng’s Hawaiian songs often focused on romance, nostalgia, and gentle reflection, rather than strictly telling Hawaiian historical or mythological stories. In this sense, Hoegeng’s Hawaiian music can be seen as a localised interpretation—a fusion of authentic Hawaiian musical elements with Indonesian performance sensibilities, producing a uniquely hybrid sound that appealed widely and became part of his public persona.
In retrospect, Hawaiian music can be seen as more than just a personal indulgence for Hoegeng; it served as a subtle metaphor for his approach to the Sum Kuning case. Just as the flowing chords of a ukulele can soften a harsh melody, Hoegeng sought to temper the brutality and bureaucratic chaos surrounding the investigation with careful, principled action. While others might have looked the other way or succumbed to political pressure, he maintained a steady rhythm of integrity, much like the consistent strum of a Hawaiian tune. The music symbolised resilience: the ability to find harmony amid discord, to preserve a sense of humanity when faced with systemic corruption, and to navigate the treacherous moral terrain of power without losing one’s ethical compass. In this way, the light, airy qualities of Hawaiian songs mirrored the quiet but unyielding strength Hoegeng exhibited in defending justice for a vulnerable girl named Sum Kuning.
The case of “Sum Kuning” refers to a deeply troubling and still‑mysterious incident that occurred on 21 September 1970 in Yogyakarta. Sumaridjem — a young egg seller, barely seventeen or eighteen years old — was walking home alone late at night after selling her wares because there were no more public buses. Along a dark street, near Patuk Police Barracks—when talking about the Police Dormitory, from the past until who knows now, it's the same as saying "you are looking for trouble", a car stopped, and a group of men—reportedly young, long-haired—grabbed her at knifepoint, hauled her into the vehicle, and drove her around the city. While in the car, she was apparently drugged until she nearly lost consciousness, and then she was raped by her attackers. Her earnings from the day, some 4,650 rupiah, were stolen, and afterwards she was cruelly abandoned by the roadside near Wates–Purworejo. With only 100 rupiah left, she somehow managed to flag down a becak (a cycle rickshaw) at dawn and was taken to a woman she knew, where she received care.What made this case even more scandalous was the reaction of the authorities: instead of being treated purely as a victim, Sum was later accused by the police of reporting a false story. She was interrogated harshly, even forced to undress to allegedly check for marks, and accused of having ties to Gerwani—a banned political organisation at the time. The prosecutor demanded a three‑month prison sentence (with a one‑year probation), but the presiding judge, Lamijah Moeljarto, eventually ruled that there was not enough proof and acquitted her of that charge.General Hoegeng Iman Santoso—the then-Polri (National Police) Chief, known for his integrity—personally intervened, forming a special investigative team called the “Sum Kuning Examination Team” to look deeper into the case. However, there were persistent rumours that the actual culprits were children of high-ranking officials in Yogyakarta, possibly shielded by their influence. Some even speculate that this case contributed to political fallout: Hoegeng’s reputation for honesty made him enemies, and some believe he was later removed from his post because he pressed too hard. Ultimately, although two men were convicted (with sentences), the full truth of who really organised or benefited from the crime remains obscured—which is precisely why the story of Sum Kuning remains a haunting symbol of injustice and abuse of power.
The nickname “Sum Kuning” itself stems from her real name, Sumaridjem (“Sum” being a shortened form), while “Kuning” (which means “yellow” in Indonesian) is less clearly explained in historical records. It may have been a moniker given by the public or the press–possibly referencing her appearance, or simply a way for the media to make her story more memorable. Whatever the reason, “Sum Kuning” stuck, and her name has since become emblematic of a victim silenced by both violence and the machinery of power.
Despite the grim shadows cast by the Sum Kuning case, a peculiar, almost humanising detail emerges in the story of General Hoegeng: his fondness for Hawaiian music. In the midst of the tension, injustice, and bureaucratic opacity surrounding the investigation, Hoegeng reportedly found a small personal refuge in the gentle strums and breezy melodies of Hawaiian songs. These tunes, light and carefree, contrasted sharply with the darkness he faced daily as he navigated the murky waters of politics, crime, and moral responsibility. One could almost imagine him, after a long day of wrestling with injustice in Yogyakarta, retreating to the soft chords of a ukulele, letting the music wash over him and provide a rare moment of serenity amid a world rife with corruption and human cruelty. In a way, Hawaiian songs became an ironic echo of hope and humanity, bridging the public turmoil of Sum Kuning with the private solace of a man determined to uphold integrity.
In a curious twist of fate, the plight of Sum Kuning and the soft strains of Hawaiian music intersect in the imagination as an ironic yet telling allegory. Sum’s harrowing journey through fear, exploitation, and systemic injustice is like a dissonant chord, jarring and painful, in the symphony of Indonesia’s turbulent political landscape. Meanwhile, Hoegeng’s Hawaiian tunes act as a counterpoint, a gentle, unassuming melody that refuses to be drowned out by chaos. Together, they form an improbable duet: the raw suffering of the powerless matched against the moral steadiness of a man determined to uphold justice. It is as though the carefree ukulele strings whisper, “Even in darkness, there is room for grace,” offering a fleeting harmony that does not erase the tragedy but transforms it into a lesson on courage, integrity, and the human capacity to resist corruption. The image lingers: a young girl, haunted by violence, and a jenderal, softened yet unbroken by music, each representing two sides of a nation grappling with its own conscience.Tthe intertwined narratives of Sum Kuning and General Hoegeng’s Hawaiian songs serve as a timeless metaphor for the delicate balance between suffering and moral courage. Sum’s ordeal embodies the raw, undeniable pain inflicted by injustice, while the gentle strums of Hawaiian music remind us that even in the darkest corridors of power, integrity can offer a quiet refuge. Together, they tell a story that transcends time and place: that cruelty, corruption, and fear may dominate the streets, but the human spirit—anchored in empathy, conscience, and principled action—can carve out spaces of dignity and hope. In this way, the haunting memory of a young girl’s trauma and the airy chords of a distant melody converge to illustrate a profound truth: justice and compassion are not always loud or immediate, but their resonance can echo through generations, inspiring those willing to listen and act with courage.
The connection between Hawaiian songs and the figure of General Hoegeng emerges most clearly through the layered metaphors that define both traditions: the Hawaiian melody that drifts like a gentle tide carrying lessons beneath its surface, and Hoegeng himself, who stood like an immovable stone in a restless current. Hawaiian songs often speak of the ocean as both a guide and a test, a vast expanse that reflects a person’s inner truth; in that sense, Hoegeng resembles a voyager who keeps his canoe straight even when the waves of political pressure rise higher than the horizon permits one to see. The soft ukulele rhythm, which in Hawaiian culture symbolises the harmony between nature and moral grounding, becomes a fitting metaphor for Hoegeng’s quiet firmness—a leadership style that did not shout, yet radiated clarity. Meanwhile, the recurring Hawaiian imagery of winds that change direction without warning mirrors the political climate he navigated, though he refused to let shifting breezes steer him away from principle. In this blended metaphor, Hoegeng becomes the calm centre of a tropical storm: not the loudest force in the landscape, but the point at which truth stabilises. Thus, the Hawaiian song—with its soothing surface and deeper warnings about staying true to one’s path—captures the very essence of Hoegeng’s legacy, a melody of integrity that stays with the listener long after the last note fades.
To weave the story of Sum Kuning into the metaphorical fabric of Hawaiian songs and the moral presence of General Hoegeng is to imagine justice as a melody struggling to be heard above the crashing surf. Hawaiian songs often describe the sea as both a sanctuary and a battlefield, a vast waterway where the winds of fate can suddenly turn from gentle to violent. In this oceanic metaphor, Sum Kuning becomes the small canoe tossed by waves far larger than herself, her fragile wooden hull representing nothing more than her honesty and the quiet determination of a village girl who only wanted to return home safely with her basket of eggs. The storm that rose against her was not natural but manufactured—winds blown from palaces and barracks, the kind of political squall that churns the waters until truth sinks beneath foam.General Hoegeng enters this seascape like a rare lighthouse standing on a lonely volcanic rock. Hawaiian songs often speak of such beacons not as grand monuments, but as silent guardians whose light must remain steady even when the surrounding world prefers darkness. Hoegeng’s insistence on following the beam of integrity—however faint, however obstructed by clouds—resembles the ukulele’s soft, persistent strumming that refuses to be drowned out by the thunder of powerful interests. Where others bent like palms in a cyclone, he remained unbent, a trunk rooted deep in volcanic soil.
The metaphor extends further: in many Hawaiian chants, the ocean hides secrets in its depths yet occasionally returns truth to the shore, carried by tides that cannot be bribed or silenced. The Sum Kuning case became one such wave—rolled back again and again by officials who feared what might wash ashore, yet impossible to fully erase. Each time the wave receded, it left behind traces: a whisper, a bruise, a testimony, a crack in the mask of authority. And Hoegeng, though ultimately pushed aside like a canoe denied the right to sail, ensured that the tide never retreated without at least one honest marker left upon the sand.
Thus, when Hawaiian songs speak of voyagers guided not by stars alone but by conscience, the parallel becomes unmistakable. Sum Kuning was the innocent sailor caught in a storm she did not summon; Hoegeng was the navigator who kept scanning the horizon for the truth, even as political winds tried to extinguish his lantern. Their stories meet in the salt air of metaphor: one a symbol of vulnerability betrayed, the other a symbol of integrity punished. Together they form a bittersweet Hawaiian ballad of the archipelago—an island melody about a girl swallowed by a tempest and a lighthouse that shone too brightly for those who preferred the night.
Reforming the Polri ultimately leads to one decisive frontier: the restoration and strengthening of public trust. A police force may possess sophisticated technology, complex strategies, and advanced training, but without the confidence of the people, its authority becomes fragile, conditional, and easily delegitimised. Public trust is not an abstract virtue; it is the currency that allows police power to be exercised without fear, coercion, or excessive force. In a democratic society, legitimacy is not granted through uniforms or rank insignia but through conduct, transparency, and the ability to serve with both competence and moral clarity.
A profound discussion of this ideal can be found in Tom R. Tyler’s Why People Obey the Law (2006, Princeton University Press), in which Tyler argues that procedural fairness consistently generates more obedience than punishment or fear. His work shows that people comply with the law not because the police can coerce them, but because they believe the police act justly. This principle directly supports the argument that Polri’s reform must be anchored in procedural justice — a system where officers treat citizens with dignity, explain decisions transparently, and make fairness a visible practice rather than a hidden value.Democratic accountability also requires institutional structures that limit the concentration of unchecked power. Samuel Walker’s The New World of Police Accountability (2014, Sage Publications) outlines how modern democracies rely on civilian review boards, internal discipline supported by external scrutiny, and transparent reporting systems to ensure oversight. Walker argues that the most trusted police forces in the world are those that treat accountability not as punishment, but as an operational philosophy. For Polri, this means embracing supervision as part of professionalism, rather than perceiving it as a threat to authority.Moreover, policing must be understood as part of a social contract. As Jean-Jacques Rousseau asserted in The Social Contract (1762), legitimate authority arises only when individuals surrender a portion of their freedom in exchange for the protection of their rights. In this sense, the police stand as the everyday guardians of that contract. When they fail, the contract wavers; when they act honourably, the contract is renewed. Polri’s future depends on its ability to present itself not as a force imposed upon society but as a trusted trustee of public safety.
This principle is echoed in Joyce L. Epstein’s School, Family, and Community Partnerships (2011, Westview Press), a work not about policing directly but about trust-building in public institutions. Epstein’s argument — that partnerships function only when all sides feel heard and respected — mirrors the essential dynamic between Polri and the Indonesian public. Trust is not built through campaigns or slogans; it requires consistent demonstration that every community, regardless of class or geography, can rely on police protection delivered with fairness and respect.
The literature on ethical policing underscores that trust is cultivated through everyday behaviour rather than grand reforms. Seumas Miller’s The Moral Foundations of Policing (2016, Oxford University Press) argues that policing succeeds only when officers embody virtues of restraint, honesty, and fairness. These virtues must be institutional, not personal: a system designed to reward integrity will attract officers who value it. For Polri, this means reform must encompass not only new policies but a new cultural architecture — one where ethical conduct is not exceptional, but expected.
In any modern democracy, the police cannot merely exist as an instrument of order; they must function as an institution shaped, legitimised, and constantly evaluated by the society they serve. This is the essence of the societal mandate: a vision in which policing is embedded in democratic culture, responsive to public values, and subject to civilian oversight. Without this grounding, reform remains cosmetic, and the police risk drifting either toward political subservience or toward militarised isolation from the people.
One of the strongest intellectual foundations for this view comes from David H. Bayley’s seminal work Police for the Future (1994, Oxford University Press). Bayley argues that policing in democratic societies succeeds only when the public believes that the police are acting with them rather than upon them. He stresses that community trust is not a luxury but the very currency that gives policing its legitimacy. His research across multiple nations demonstrates that reforms fail whenever police institutions attempt to change their procedures without reshaping their relationship with the citizens. For Polri, Bayley’s insight underscores that reform must be built upon transparency, communication, and a willingness to confront historical grievances openly.
Further philosophical grounding emerges in Graham Ellison and Conor O’Reilly’s Policing and the Legacy of Empire (2008, Palgrave Macmillan). While the book focuses on the post-colonial world, its framework is directly relevant to Indonesia: policing systems shaped by colonial or authoritarian histories tend to inherit cultures of control rather than cultures of service. Ellison and O’Reilly argue that meaningful reforms require a deliberate rewriting of institutional memory, so that police do not unconsciously reproduce models designed to maintain dominance rather than foster public security. Their argument illustrates why Polri’s reform cannot simply polish procedures; it must re-examine deeper organisational assumptions regarding authority, community, and legitimacy.
In practical democratic governance, the societal mandate also emphasises that policing must remain distinct from political machinery. In The Politics of the Police by Benjamin Bowling, Robert Reiner, and James Sheptycki (2020, Oxford University Press), the authors show that the greatest threats to democratic policing arise when governments use police for partisan interests or when police attempt to shape political outcomes. The book argues that the health of a democracy can be measured by how vigorously it protects the independence of its policing institutions — not from civilian control but from political manipulation. This reminder is particularly relevant today, as Indonesians increasingly demand a police force that is insulated from power games yet accountable to public norms.
A deeper normative argument is provided by Jeremy Waldron’s writings on the rule of law, especially his volume Law and Disagreement (1999, Oxford University Press). Waldron notes that in pluralistic societies, disagreement is inevitable, and that the police become the everyday guardians of fairness in how the law navigates those disagreements. The implication for Polri is profound: reform is not merely administrative but moral. The police must consistently reflect the idea that dignity, equality before the law, and due process apply to all individuals—even when enforcing them is politically inconvenient.
These scholarly contributions converge on a central conclusion: the future of Polri depends not only on restructuring or new protocols but on embedding the institution in a culture where legitimacy flows from the people, accountability is continuous, and ethical leadership is non-negotiable. A police force cannot demand trust; it must earn it, as Bayley suggests, by behaving as an institution that sees every citizen not as an object of suspicion but as a partner in security.
[Part 6]
