Transparency in Democracy (1)

Here is an evidence-based read on why many Indonesians reacted angrily when President Prabowo publicly “took the heat” for the Whoosh high-speed rail. On 4 November 2025, Prabowo said the Whoosh issue should stop being “ribut-ribut,” framed it as a normal public service obligation, and declared, “I’ll take responsibility,” effectively nationalising both the political and fiscal burden of the project. This was widely reported by mainstream outlets and clips of the remarks circulated broadly the same day, giving his message immediate reach.

The backlash coalesced around three threads: costs to the taxpayer, transparency, and signals to law enforcement. First, critics seized on follow-up explanations that Indonesia could service Whoosh obligations—variously reported and paraphrased as roughly Rp1.2 trillion per year—arguing that absorbing the bill via the budget rewards past mismanagement and shifts risk from the consortium to citizens. Headlines that Whoosh debt now sits on Prabowo’s shoulders” amplified the grievance frame, and commentary warned against normalising fiscal bailouts of politically connected megaprojects. Second, civil-society voices and commentators questioned data disclosure and deal terms with KCIC/China Development Bank; calls for clear, itemised transparency—rather than blanket reassurances—fed public irritation. Third, while the President insisted the matter shouldn’t be politicised, anticorruption advocates pressed the opposite: that investigations must proceed wherever there are indications of overpricing or irregularities, and media coverage highlighted expectations that the presidency would back probes rather than mute them—another spark for angry reactions online. 

Prominent critics and opinion leaders then gave the anger a face. Religious and civic figures castigated the “pasang badan” posture as shielding a “legacy” project that even senior officials had previously called troubled, asking why the state should underwrite alleged errors rather than pursue accountability. Parallel op-eds and talk-show segments framed Prabowo’s stance as a political embrace of a Jokowi-era liability, sharpening polarisation and inviting accusatory slogans that the public, not the consortium, would “pay the price.” 

Public disappointment toward President Prabowo has generally crystallised around a sense that his administration has moved with disarming speed from promises of empathy and “restorative leadership” to decisions that appear to entrench the very practices he once criticised, creating a rupture between expectation and execution. Many Indonesians who voted for him based on welfare-oriented pledges have expressed frustration at the continuity of grand infrastructural commitments—such as the high-speed rail obligations and the capital-city relocation—because these decisions amplify the impression that fiscal priorities remain tilted toward elite-driven mega-projects rather than the cost-of-living pressures felt by ordinary citizens. This discontent deepened when Prabowo’s public defence of controversial projects was perceived as shielding legacies of the previous administration rather than pursuing transparent reviews that might restore trust.

Another source of disappointment stems from a growing public perception that political consolidation has come at the expense of checks and balances. Appointments of figures viewed as politically convenient rather than merit-based revived concerns about the dilution of institutional independence, especially in areas related to law enforcement and resource governance. The return of patronage-style politics—expressed through the distribution of strategic posts to coalition elites—fuelled a narrative that reformist rhetoric had been overtaken by pragmatic power-sharing agreements.

There has also been unease regarding the government’s communication style, which at times has oscillated between paternal reassurance and dismissive undertones, giving critics material to argue that the administration underestimates public intelligence or seeks to minimise legitimate scrutiny. When contentious decisions were met with calls for the public to “relax,” “trust the process,” or avoid “politicising” issues, many citizens interpreted these statements as an attempt to manage perception rather than address policy flaws meaningfully.

A final layer of disappointment relates to expectations of moral leadership. Voters who believed Prabowo would demonstrate decisive, reform-minded integrity have questioned whether his administration has instead normalised practices of impunity, especially when cases involving alleged corruption or mismanagement intersect with political allies. This perception, fair or not, has led to the criticism that Prabowo’s presidency risks becoming indistinguishable from the patterns of elite continuity that have shaped Indonesian politics for decades.

Public concern over President Prabowo’s stance in the Whoosh case largely revolves around the fear that his readiness to “take responsibility” signals a shift in state policy from prudent oversight to unconditional political protection. Many Indonesians worry that by publicly absorbing the project’s fiscal and political risks, the President may inadvertently legitimise flawed decision-making processes, thereby weakening incentives for transparent audits and stringent accountability measures. This worry intensifies when official explanations highlight the state’s capacity to pay rather than addressing the deeper structural issues of budgeting, procurement, and long-term viability.

There is also a widespread concern that Prabowo’s stance could discourage independent investigations into possible irregularities, particularly if his statements are interpreted as a directive for the bureaucracy to close the project to further scrutiny. Critics argue that such signals—intentional or not—risk creating a chilling effect on oversight institutions and reinforce a political culture where sensitive megaprojects are shielded rather than evaluated critically.

Another concern lies in the precedent this stance might establish for future governments. By embracing a large-scale, high-risk project without demanding full transparency from the consortium or the financing mechanisms, Prabowo may set an example that state bailouts of politically connected ventures are acceptable. This potential normalisation of fiscal rescue, especially without comprehensive public disclosure, raises fears that taxpayers will ultimately shoulder costs generated by elite decisions made behind closed doors.

Many Indonesians worry that Prabowo’s defence of Whoosh reflects a broader trend in which political harmony within the ruling coalition is prioritised over institutional integrity. If the President appears more focused on maintaining unity with key political actors than on safeguarding procedural fairness, public trust may erode further, feeding the persistent narrative that the state often protects interests above citizens.

Across Indonesian social media, public sentiment regarding President Prabowo’s stance on the Whoosh project displays a blend of frustration, cynicism, and comedic resignation, with discussions often framed through memes, sarcastic captions, and short-form video commentary. The most dominant narrative is that Prabowo’s “I’ll take responsibility” remark has been interpreted less as an act of statesmanship and more as a strategic effort to shield political allies associated with the project’s earlier stages. Users frequently express the fear that this form of “political cushioning” mirrors a long-standing pattern where elites absorb blame symbolically while the financial burden ultimately falls on taxpayers.

Another thread that circulates widely is the worry that Prabowo’s tone—suggesting that the issue should not be “over-politicised”—signals an attempt to soften scrutiny rather than deal with governance problems head-on. This narrative spreads especially quickly on platforms like X and TikTok, where users remix press conference clips with captions implying that the administration is attempting to manage optics instead of facts. In these spaces, distrust toward official explanations grows rapidly because audiences feel that reassurance is being offered in place of transparency.

There is also a strong emotional undercurrent shaped by economic anxieties. Rising living costs, stagnant wages, and concerns about public debt make users less forgiving of large state obligations. As a result, the Whoosh controversy becomes a vessel for broader grievances: disappointment about leadership continuity, resentment toward megaprojects perceived as elitist, and fears that future state budgets will be squeezed further. Social media users articulate this frustration through dark humour, emphasising that “the people always pay,” regardless of who claims responsibility.

When compared with earlier episodes—such as state interventions in troubled SOEs, the rescue of politically connected conglomerates, or cost overruns in mega-infrastructure projects—the reaction to Whoosh stands out due to its speed, intensity, and cross-demographic resonance. Unlike past cases where public anger was segmented among policy-focused groups, the Whoosh backlash travelled quickly into the mainstream because the project had already become a symbol of Jokowi-era political excess before Prabowo took office. Consequently, Prabowo’s defence of the project was interpreted as adopting not only the financial burden but also the political liabilities of his predecessor.

In earlier bailouts, public outrage often rose gradually as investigations unfolded or scandals surfaced. In contrast, the Whoosh reaction erupted almost instantaneously, driven by users who felt they had already endured years of official narratives promising cost-efficiency and international prestige. This sense of accumulated disappointment amplified the emotional weight of Prabowo’s endorsement.

Another major difference lies in collective expectation. Previous bailouts occurred under administrations that openly championed infrastructure as a development model, so public reactions tended to focus on mismanagement rather than betrayal. In Prabowo’s case, however, voters believed he would bring corrective leadership, thereby creating a sharper sense of disillusionment when he embraced a project widely assumed to be financially burdensome. As a result, the social media discourse today feels less like anger at a specific policy and more like dismay at a perceived abandonment of reformist impulses.

Public reactions to President Prabowo’s admission that he is “hopeng” with Jokowi were marked by a mixture of amusement, scepticism, and political unease. Many Indonesians found the use of the term itself—slang with connotations of deep personal closeness or mutually beneficial ties—unexpectedly informal for a presidential statement, prompting jokes and memes that framed the remark as both humorous and strangely revealing. However, beneath the humour lay a broader discomfort: the phrase was widely interpreted as an acknowledgement that political loyalty, rather than institutional accountability, continues to shape the country’s power dynamics.

For critics, the “hopeng” declaration reinforced the suspicion that Prabowo’s administration is closely tied to Jokowi’s political orbit, making it difficult to distinguish between continuity and genuine reform. The phrase became shorthand for the idea that Prabowo may be more committed to protecting the previous administration’s legacy than to asserting independent leadership. This perception generated frustration among voters who had expected a clearer departure from Jokowi-era practices, especially in areas involving megaprojects, political appointments, and law enforcement priorities.

The “hopeng” remark functioned as a cultural flashpoint: light-hearted on the surface, but deeply symbolic of persistent anxieties about political patronage, elite networks, and the blurred boundaries between personal loyalty and public duty.

Observations from public discourse suggest that support for President Prabowo, which had appeared solid in the early months of his administration, is showing signs of strain in response to the Whoosh and “hopeng” statements. Many citizens voiced frustration over the Whoosh project, arguing that the President’s pledge to “take responsibility” seemed more like shielding past decisions and elites than addressing systemic fiscal and procedural issues. On social media, users expressed concerns that this posture might normalise risk-taking by politically connected corporations while leaving taxpayers to absorb the consequences. Comments ranged from incredulous disbelief—“Why does the state have to pay for this?”—to sharp critiques that leadership should enforce accountability rather than provide political cushioning.

Similarly, the “hopeng” remark generated a mixture of humour and unease. While some interpreted the term as a lighthearted demonstration of cordiality, many others read it as an admission that personal loyalty and political alliances are driving decision-making at the expense of institutional checks and citizen oversight. Public commentary highlighted fears that, in such a system, elite networks are prioritised over transparency, reform, and fairness, eroding trust among those who expected Prabowo to differentiate himself from his predecessor.

Together, the discourse surrounding both statements indicates that while overall approval may remain relatively high, the public’s patience is becoming thinner. Users increasingly voiced the idea that their tolerance has limits: symbolic gestures of responsibility or insider familiarity are no longer sufficient to reassure citizens that policies are fair, transparent, and in the public interest. These reactions suggest that the so-called “honeymoon phase” of Prabowo’s presidency is waning, replaced by a more sceptical, watchful public that is willing to critique missteps and demand accountability.

There is a clear connection between the Whoosh controversy and the broader question of transparency in a democratic system, because the episode illustrates how the state responds when public perception sharply diverges from official narratives. The dispute over the Whoosh project did not centre solely on the technical or financial aspects of the high-speed rail; rather, it exposed the fragility of information management in a political environment where the government often favours controlled messaging over open scrutiny. When citizens questioned cost overruns, land-use problems or political branding surrounding the project, the responses from officials were marked not by substantive disclosure but by defensive explanations, selective data, and attempts to frame criticism as misinformation.

In a democracy, transparency requires that the public be given full and timely access to information regarding decisions that involve public funds and long-term national commitments. The Whoosh case demonstrated the opposite tendency: the circulation of partial figures, the lack of publicly accessible contracts, and the reluctance to engage with independent assessments made the project appear less like a public endeavour and more like a tightly managed political spectacle. Transparency also demands that criticism be treated as an essential part of democratic accountability, yet much of the public reaction to the government’s handling of Whoosh—whether expressed through commentary, satire or memes—was met with irritation, dismissal or warnings rather than genuine engagement.

Thus, the Whoosh case becomes emblematic of a broader democratic problem: when transparency is shallow, criticism becomes delegitimised, and public debate is replaced by narrative management. Instead of strengthening trust, such an approach widens the gap between citizens and the state, leading to suspicion, cynicism and the perception that major national projects are executed for political image rather than public benefit. The controversy, therefore, reveals that transparency is not merely an administrative requirement but a democratic necessity—without it, even infrastructure becomes a site of political tension rather than collective progress.

From an ideological standpoint, transparency is often conceived as the normative ideal that political power and economic authority should be visible, understandable and subject to public scrutiny. It expresses a belief in a democratic order where citizens are not passive subjects but active participants who can see through institutions, demand justification of decisions, and thereby limit arbitrary power. In other words, transparency sits at the heart of liberal-democratic ideology as a safeguard against secrecy, elite capture and unaccountable rule. For example, Deborah Ascher Barnstone argues that transparency was integrated into the post-war West German constitution as a means of preventing a return to totalitarianism.

Philosophically, transparency raises questions about the nature of knowledge, the role of visibility in power relations, and the moral obligations of institutions to disclose. Thinkers from Jeremy Bentham to John Stuart Mill insisted that publicity (“sunlight”) is essential for accountability: “Without publicity no good is permanent” according to Bentham. More recent critical theory treats transparency not simply as an unqualified good, but as potentially problematic, arguing that an overemphasis on disclosure may erode trust, force uniformity, and undermine autonomy. 

From an economic perspective, transparency is about the availability of credible and timely information on financial, corporate and market activities. It is the premise of well-functioning markets, because investors, shareholders and citizens can observe and evaluate the performance of firms and governments alike. According to the Encyclopaedia Britannica, transparency originated in the financial world and was extended to governance because of the need for oversight and prevention of abuse. In political-economy terms, studies such as Information, Democracy, and Autocracy: Economic Transparency and Political (In)Stability show how the dissemination of economic data correlates with democratic stability and investment. 

Culturally, transparency interacts with norms ofvisibility, trust, self-exposure, and the public sphere. In societies increasingly shaped by social media, the expectation of transparency becomes a cultural demand: the idea that institutions, individuals and even technologies should disclose and show. However, critics like Byung-Chul Han argue in The Transparency Society that this demand for transparency can morph into a regime of surveillance, self-exposure and conformity rather than genuine openness. 

In the context of Indonesian governance, transparency can be defined as the obligation of public institutions to conduct their affairs openly and accessibly, so that citizens can readily obtain, understand and monitor information about policy‑making, budgetary allocations, execution of public services and institutional results. This definition emphasises three interrelated dimensions: first, accessibility of information — meaning that data and documents must be provided in a manner that is understandable and reachable by the public; second, substantial disclosure—meaning the information must go beyond superficial announcements and encompass the rationale, process and outcome of public decisions; and third, responsiveness and accountability—meaning that institutions must not only publish information but also accept scrutiny, answer questions, allow participation and correct course where necessary.

From a cultural standpoint, Indonesian transparency must reckon with local nuances such as hierarchical norms, deference to authority, the legacy of bureaucratic secrecy and the role of patron‑client networks. In practice, this means that transparency is not simply a matter of “uploading data” but of shifting norms—from a ‘we know best’ mode of governance to one of shared visibility and citizen engagement. Moreover, implementation is challenged by factors specific to Indonesia: fragmented institutional portals that impede unified access to public information, limited digital literacy in wide swathes of the archipelago, variable commitment among regional governments, and the persistence of informal networks and practices that circumvent formal disclosure. Whilst the legal framework (such as the Public Information Disclosure Law) exists, the actual culture of openness remains uneven and often symbolic rather than substantive. Therefore, in Indonesian democracy, transparency must be understood as a process of transformation—of systems, relationships and culture—which is essential for citizens’ trust, effective oversight and inclusive governance.

Transparency is not merely the mechanical act of “publishing reports” or making data available online; rather, it is the DNA of democracy itself, a foundational principle that distinguishes an open state from a dark or authoritarian regime. In a truly democratic system, transparency functions as a living mechanism for accountability, participation, and trust: it allows citizens not only to access information but to interpret, question, and engage with it. Without this element, even a state that technically posts budgets or publishes regulations can still operate in a manner that is opaque, unresponsive, and insulated from public scrutiny. Transparency, in this sense, is both a legal and cultural norm—it requires institutions to embed openness in their decision-making processes, their communications, and their interactions with citizens. When transparency is treated as a ritual or formality, it loses its democratic power and becomes mere performance; but when it is genuinely practised, it acts as a protective barrier against corruption, arbitrariness, and the concentration of unchecked power. In short, transparency is not just paperwork—it is the lifeblood that animates a democratic society and keeps authoritarian shadows at bay.

[Part 2]

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