[Part 7]It began, as these things often do, with a microphone, a committee room, and an Indonesian politician who mistook condescension for eloquence. Endipat Wijaya, in a moment of theatrical bravado, declared that the government had “poured trillions” into flood relief—an impressive claim, if one ignored the minor detail that these trillions existed mostly in planning documents rather than in the hands of the drenched and displaced. His remark, delivered with the air of a man unveiling a state secret, was clearly aimed at Ferry Irwandi, whose Rp10‑billion donation had captured the public imagination far more effectively than any bureaucratic press release.The clip spread across social media with the speed of a rumour in a school corridor. Within hours, the digital amphitheatre erupted. Netizens, armed with sarcasm sharper than any parliamentary retort, began dissecting the statement. “Trillions where?” became the refrain of the day, accompanied by memes of empty wallets, dusty warehouses, and spreadsheets labelled “Coming Soon.” The contrast between hypothetical trillions and Ferry’s very real billions became the plot twist everyone saw coming.
As the timeline spiralled, something curious happened. Ferry Irwandi, the supposed target of the jab, responded with disarming calm. No outrage, no counter‑attack—just a quiet insistence that helping people mattered more than political theatrics. His composure only amplified the absurdity of the original remark. The public, ever attuned to sincerity, shifted its sympathies decisively. The hero and the clown of the episode were now unmistakably cast.
Sensing the narrative slipping from his grasp, Endipat attempted a pivot worthy of a daytime soap opera. Suddenly, the remark was “misunderstood.” The jab was “not directed at anyone.” The trillions were “contextual.” And, in the most predictable twist of all, a private apology was reportedly made—quietly, discreetly, and with none of the bravado that accompanied the original comment. It was the political equivalent of sweeping confetti under a rug after the party had already gone viral.
The apology, though earnest enough, could not undo the spectacle. The internet had already immortalised the moment in screenshots, memes, and threads longer than government procurement timelines. In the end, the saga revealed a simple truth: in the age of social media, sincerity travels faster than bureaucracy, and no amount of rhetorical inflation can outshine a citizen who simply gets things done.
The recent episode involving Endipat Wijaya and his now‑infamous remark about the government having “poured trillions” into flood relief was delivered with the confidence of a man who believed he had just unveiled a profound truth, when in fact he had merely waved around a spreadsheet like a magician revealing a rabbit that stubbornly refuses to appear.
The “trillions,” as it turns out, are not bags of money heroically parachuted into disaster zones, nor fleets of aid trucks roaring through the night. They are estimates—grand, sweeping, technocratic fantasies of what it might cost to rebuild entire provinces. They exist primarily in PowerPoint slides, government briefings, and the imaginations of consultants who bill by the hour. Meanwhile, the public, standing knee‑deep in actual floodwater, is expected to applaud these hypothetical trillions as though they were warm blankets and hot meals.
Environmental Ethics and Sustainability: A Case Book for Environmental Professionals by Hal Taback and Ram Ramanan (2014, Taylor & Francis Group) presents a structured exploration of how ethical reasoning can be embedded into environmental decision-making. The authors craft their work around real-world cases that reveal the tensions between economic growth, ecological limits, and the responsibilities borne by engineers, policymakers, and consultants. Rather than offering abstract moral theory alone, the book situates ethical dilemmas directly within professional practice, making it clear that sustainability is not merely an ideal but a series of difficult choices that require courage, clarity, and technical competence.
The text proposes that environmental ethics must evolve from passive concern to active stewardship, a transformation that requires professionals to recognise the long-term consequences of short-term industrial gains. Through narratives involving pollution control, resource extraction, community health impacts, and regulatory failures, the authors argue that ethical lapses often emerge not from malicious intent but from institutional complacency and a narrow interpretation of professional duty. In doing so, the book frames sustainability as an interdisciplinary undertaking in which science, morality, and public welfare must continually inform one another.
What distinguishes this volume is its deliberate insistence that environmental professionals cannot hide behind technical specifications when their work has profound ethical consequences. By compelling readers to confront uncomfortable scenarios—such as cost-cutting that endangers ecosystems or regulations that inadequately protect vulnerable populations—the book invites a mature reflection on what responsible practice truly demands. The result is a resource that blends ethical theory, case-based reasoning, and practical tools, offering guidance for anyone who seeks to navigate the complex moral terrain of contemporary environmental work.
Environmental ethics has long been described as a field that tries to persuade human beings to look beyond the narrow boundaries of profit, convenience, and administrative certainty. In Environmental Ethics and Sustainability (2014), Hal Taback and Ram Ramanan argue that ethical reasoning must not be treated as a decorative addition to environmental policy, but as the inner framework that gives environmental action both clarity and legitimacy. Their case studies reveal that sustainability is rarely a matter of grand moral declarations; instead, it is shaped by small professional decisions that accumulate into long-term ecological consequences. When a consultant overlooks a minor irregularity in waste management, or when policymakers approve a permit without assessing downstream risks, the result is not just a technical lapse but an ethical failure.This insistence on ethical depth becomes particularly striking when we consider the political environments in which environmental professionals often operate. In many countries, including Indonesia, environmental decisions are shaped by political rhythms that do not always align with ecological realities. Elections come every few years, yet watersheds decline over decades. Public officials are often rewarded for visible, fast-paced achievements rather than for the slow, unglamorous work of strengthening ecosystems. As the authors note, “Ethics begins where technical compliance ends,” a phrase that resonates strongly in contexts where environmental documents may be complete, but the spirit of stewardship is absent.
In Indonesia, the tension between ecological fragility and political urgency can sometimes produce unintended satire. When floods return each year with the predictability of public holidays, citizens begin to wonder whether environmental management is truly a technical challenge or a matter of political will. The absurdity becomes clearer when one sees agencies holding emergency coordination meetings every monsoon season, as though the rivers themselves have arranged an annual appointment. Yet this recurring drama illustrates one of the book’s core insights: “Environmental harm often starts with small professional compromises.” No ecosystem collapses overnight; it weakens gradually, through overlooked warnings, tolerated violations, and bureaucratic shortcuts justified in the name of efficiency.
Taback and Ramanan emphasise that sustainability requires “long-term courage, not short-term convenience.” This courage is not heroic in the cinematic sense, but rather grounded in routine decisions—refusing to approve a poorly designed project, questioning an incomplete impact assessment, or insisting on scientific data even when it contradicts political narratives. These acts of ethical discipline form the quiet backbone of responsible environmental practice. The authors argue that true professional integrity emerges not when one follows procedure, but when one refuses to hide behind it. Procedures can guide action, but they can also be misused as shields that allow individuals to avoid moral responsibility.
The Indonesian political landscape offers numerous examples in which environmental issues are entangled with public image-making. Large projects promising economic growth are often promoted with impressive renderings and stirring speeches, while the ecosystems that stand to be affected remain silent. Forests do not hold press conferences, and rivers do not file official complaints. Yet if they could speak, they might remind policymakers that regulatory loopholes and rushed approvals have consequences far beyond a single budget cycle. In this sense, the satire writes itself: the trees may not vote, but their absence will be felt in every district that faces landslides; the rivers may not protest, but their overflow will become the headline after every storm.
The strength of Taback and Ramanan’s work lies in its ability to connect ethical reasoning with professional responsibility in a way that avoids moral grandstanding. Their message is not that professionals must become activists, but that they must acknowledge the moral weight embedded in their technical decisions. Environmental engineering, project assessment, and policy design are not neutral activities; they shape the lived reality of communities and the resilience of ecosystems. By presenting real-world cases, the authors demonstrate that environmental ethics is not a theoretical abstraction but a practical necessity, especially in societies facing rapid urban expansion, competition for resources, and increasing climate risks.
When viewed through the Indonesian experience, the book becomes more than an academic text—it becomes a subtle mirror. It reflects a system that often relies on reactive solutions rather than proactive planning, a political culture that values visibility over longevity, and a professional environment that sometimes rewards compliance more than conscience. Yet the message remains hopeful: sustainability is achievable if ethical awareness becomes an integral part of decision-making. It requires not only strategic planning but also humility, patience, and a willingness to prioritise the wellbeing of future generations over immediate political gains.
If such ethical principles were genuinely adopted, annual floods might cease to be recurring spectacles, emergency responses might evolve into long-term prevention, and the environment could finally be treated not as scenery for political performance but as the foundation of collective survival. In the end, the book reminds us that environmental integrity is not built through declarations of commitment, but through the cumulative effect of daily decisions grounded in wisdom, responsibility, and moral clarity.
Contrast this with the decidedly un‑hypothetical Rp10.3 billion raised by Fery Irwandi in a single day. His donation did not require a feasibility study, a multi‑year budget cycle, or a ceremonial groundbreaking attended by officials in matching batik. It simply arrived—swiftly, visibly, and with the kind of sincerity that bureaucratic language can never quite replicate. And this, perhaps, is what stung. For nothing unsettles a politician more than a citizen who demonstrates competence without first seeking permission.
Thus, Endipat’s remark was less an argument than a reflex—a defensive twitch from someone who sensed that the moral spotlight had drifted away from the state and toward an ordinary man with a phone and a following. His invocation of “trillions” was meant to dwarf the citizen’s contribution, but instead it highlighted the absurdity of comparing theoretical budgets to tangible acts of solidarity. It was like boasting about owning a yacht while borrowing your neighbour’s dinghy to cross the river.
The entire affair revealed a truth that governments everywhere try desperately to obscure: that legitimacy is not earned through the size of one’s budget, but through the immediacy of one’s compassion. The state may plan in trillions, but the people act in billions—and, more importantly, in minutes. And when disaster strikes, minutes matter far more than spreadsheets.
Public concerns that the Indonesian government prioritises the MBG framework over emergency flood assistance in Sumatra often stem from how state attention appears unevenly distributed across different types of policy issues. Scholars of governance frequently note that governments tend to invest more energy in programmes that promise long-term visibility, international recognition, or economic prestige, because such initiatives allow political elites to shape narratives of progress and modernity. In comparison, disaster response is an arena in which the state is judged not by grand vision but by operational competence, and this shift from symbolic politics to practical delivery often exposes institutional weaknesses that governments would rather avoid highlighting.
Another academic explanation emphasises the political economy of attention. Large strategic projects such as MBG are typically accompanied by structured budgets, pre-planned communication strategies, and predictable diplomatic timelines, making them attractive for policymakers who prefer stability and control. Flood disasters, by contrast, demand rapid improvisation, cross-agency coordination, and transparent use of emergency funds—conditions that reduce the state’s ability to manage public perception. As a result, critics argue that the disproportionate emphasis on MBG reflects not a lack of compassion, but an institutional preference for spheres where political returns are more controllable.
A further line of argument centres on the governance gap between long-term environmental stewardship and short-term political incentives. Academic analyses often highlight that disaster-prone regions require sustained investment in watershed rehabilitation, land-use regulation, and climate adaptation, yet such work rarely produces immediate political dividends. Meanwhile, programmes like MBG can be framed as symbols of national ambition, offering quick reputational gains even if long-term benefits remain uncertain. This asymmetry, scholars suggest, helps explain why the public perceives that the state is quicker to celebrate visionary frameworks than to address urgent floods—because the former strengthens political narratives, while the latter demands confronting uncomfortable structural realities.
From a philosophical standpoint, prioritising assistance for the flood victims in Sumatra carries a stronger moral weight than accelerating the MBG agenda. Philosophical traditions ranging from classical ethics to contemporary humanism generally agree that the alleviation of immediate suffering must precede long-term aspirations. When people face displacement, hunger, and loss of life, the ethical imperative is anchored in urgent compassion rather than abstract developmental visions. Under this frame, responding to disaster victims is not merely an administrative task but a fulfilment of the state’s most basic moral obligation.
Viewed ideologically, the question turns on the purpose of governance itself. Modern democratic ideals emphasise protection, welfare, and human dignity as foundational commitments; thus, attending to citizens in crisis is not an optional gesture but a core ideological mandate. MBG, by contrast, represents an aspirational blueprint—valuable, but not existential. Ideologically speaking, safeguarding citizens during disaster affirms the social contract, whereas deprioritising them in favour of grand policy frameworks risks undermining the very legitimacy those frameworks depend upon.
Politically, prioritising disaster relief is often the more prudent choice. In moments of crisis, citizens evaluate the state not on rhetoric but on capability, and governments that respond decisively tend to strengthen trust, cohesion, and political stability. Conversely, pushing MBG during an active humanitarian emergency exposes the state to accusations of insensitivity or misaligned priorities. While MBG may enhance long-term national positioning, it cannot compensate for political damage incurred when citizens feel abandoned at their most vulnerable moment.
Economically, the comparison is less straightforward but still revealing. MBG might indeed promise future investment, industrial diversification, and regional diplomacy. Yet disasters impose immediate economic losses: damaged infrastructure, stalled mobility, disrupted markets, and long-term productivity decline. Supporting flood victims mitigates these losses and accelerates recovery, thereby protecting human capital and local economies. From a strictly economic welfare perspective, preventing deeper decline often outperforms speculative long-term gains, especially when the latter depend on geopolitical or market uncertainties.
The social dimension overwhelmingly favours prioritising disaster victims. Floods fracture families, displace communities, and strain local support networks. Rapid intervention restores stability, preserves social cohesion, and prevents the secondary crises—such as disease outbreaks or social unrest—that typically follow unmanaged disasters. Meanwhile, MBG, despite its strategic importance, offers benefits that are distant and unevenly distributed, often failing to reach the very groups most affected by disasters.
Culturally, responding to disaster aligns with Indonesia’s deeply rooted communal values. Traditions such as gotong royong, local solidarity, and moral reciprocity emphasise collective responsibility in times of hardship. Neglecting victims contradicts these cultural principles and creates dissonance between state behaviour and national identity. While MBG may symbolise progress, it does not embody the cultural ethos as strongly as the act of standing with fellow citizens in crisis.
Taken together, the balance of benefit and harm strongly suggests that prioritising aid for the flood victims is the more urgent and normatively superior choice. MBG may hold strategic value, but it is a vision whose legitimacy depends on the state first meeting its fundamental responsibilities. In every philosophical, ideological, political, economic, social, and cultural sense, protecting the vulnerable must precede pursuing grand designs.
Sustainability cannot be meaningfully pursued without a deep ethical foundation guiding every stage of environmental decision-making. Taback and Ramanan argue that contemporary environmental practice often disguises ethical shortcomings behind the reassuring appearance of technical completeness. Reports are written, impact assessments are submitted, and regulatory requirements are fulfilled, yet harm continues to occur because compliance does not automatically produce moral integrity. For the authors, ethical responsibility begins precisely at the point where procedural obligations end, for it is at that moment that professionals must choose whether to prioritise public welfare, ecological resilience, and long-term sustainability over political pressure, institutional convenience, or corporate profit.
This ethical turn is presented not as an abstract philosophical preference but as a practical necessity in a world where environmental systems are increasingly vulnerable to cumulative damage. The book demonstrates, through a series of case studies, that environmental degradation rarely arises from dramatic or singular events; rather, it emerges from a sequence of small, rationalised compromises made by individuals who often consider themselves “just doing their jobs.” A minor deviation from protocol here, a tolerance for incomplete data there, or a willingness to accept ambiguous environmental claims—each contributes incrementally to the deterioration of ecosystems. In this sense, sustainability is not merely a technical objective but a moral discipline that requires self-awareness, critical judgment, and an ability to recognise when one’s professional choices carry hidden ethical weight.
Taback and Ramanan emphasise that environmental professionals occupy a unique position of moral influence, for their decisions shape the health, safety, and environmental stability of entire communities. Technical expertise alone is therefore insufficient; without ethical clarity, expertise can be manipulated to justify irresponsible or short-sighted actions. The book highlights that true environmental stewardship cannot be outsourced to regulations or technology. Even the most comprehensive environmental guidelines cannot anticipate every moral dilemma, and technologies meant to protect nature can, if misapplied, accelerate its decline. What ultimately matters is the character of the decision-maker: whether they are willing to resist institutional pressures, confront uncomfortable truths, and defend the interests of future generations who cannot speak for themselves.
Furthermore, the book locates environmental ethics within the broader structure of social accountability. It argues that environmental harm disproportionately affects vulnerable populations, meaning that ethical lapses in professional practice are never ethically neutral—they are socially consequential. A decision that weakens environmental safeguards may not harm the decision-maker, but it may endanger rural communities, burden marginalised groups, or destabilise ecosystems upon which millions depend. For this reason, the authors maintain that environmental professionals must cultivate a sense of moral courage: the willingness to act not for political appreciation or economic advantage, but for the long-term protection of ecological and human wellbeing.
In its broader philosophical frame, the book suggests that sustainability requires a shift from reactive to anticipatory thinking. Many societies respond to environmental crises only after they have already manifested—after floods have destroyed homes, air pollution has damaged public health, or deforestation has altered local climates. The authors warn that such reactive approaches are symptoms of a deeper ethical failure: the inability to value long-term consequences over immediate gratification. Sustainability therefore, demands a cultural transformation within institutions, where ethical foresight becomes a normative expectation rather than an exceptional practice.
The central conclusion of Taback and Ramanan’s work is that genuine environmental sustainability cannot be achieved through technical expertise alone; it requires a moral framework that guides professional judgement beyond the boundaries of compliance. The authors demonstrate repeatedly that environmental degradation is rarely the result of engineering failure, but rather the cumulative consequence of ethical failures—moments when individuals choose convenience, profit, or political pressure over long-term ecological responsibility. In this sense, ethics becomes not an optional supplement but the core operating system for sustainable decision-making.
Another key conclusion is that environmental professionals must recognise the profound social implications of their technical choices. The book illustrates that environmental decisions inevitably affect public health, intergenerational equity, and communal wellbeing. Therefore, the professional’s responsibility extends far beyond the project site and into the lives of present and future communities. Sustainability is reframed as a deeply human commitment rather than a bureaucratic target or a fashionable slogan.
The authors also conclude that ethical clarity is cultivated, not assumed. Through their case studies, they show that professionals often confront complex, ambiguous situations in which no regulation offers sufficient guidance. In these circumstances, the capacity to think ethically—to interpret the broader consequences of an action, to resist institutional pressure, and to protect vulnerable parties—becomes more critical than any technical certification. Ethical competence thus emerges as a practical skill as essential as engineering or environmental science.
Finally, Taback and Ramanan conclude that institutions must embed ethics into their cultures if sustainability is to move from theory to practice. Rules alone cannot prevent misconduct if organisational incentives reward speed, cost-saving, or political favour over ecological integrity. Sustainable outcomes require institutional structures that support moral courage, reward transparency, and empower professionals to act in accordance with long-term environmental interests, even when such actions are inconvenient or unpopular.
Sustainability is not a product of regulation, technology, or policy alone, but of moral agency exercised consistently across the professional landscape. Environmental professionals are not merely technicians or administrators; they are ethical actors whose choices determine whether natural systems are protected or depleted. The book calls for a renewed alignment between knowledge, power, and responsibility, insisting that genuine sustainability emerges only when technical decisions are grounded in a robust ethical consciousness that prioritises justice, precaution, and the preservation of the earth for generations yet to come.
[Part 5]
