Making Education Accessible for All (3)

At precisely nine o’clock, a convoy of polished black cars glides into a freshly painted schoolyard, escorted by flashing lights and earnest applause. A banner announces a historic commitment to educational equality, while cameras angle carefully away from the cracked walls behind the stage. A senior official delivers a speech about opportunity, innovation, and the bright future of the nation’s children, pausing for effect as aides distribute branded notebooks to a small group of hand-picked pupils. Outside the gate, parents wait in the heat, wondering whether this ceremony will shorten their children’s daily walk to school, replace missing teachers, or repair the leaking roof in Classroom Three.

Later that afternoon, the banners come down, the cars depart, and the photographers move on to their next assignment. The pupils return to desks shared by three, internet connections that work only on good days, and textbooks older than the slogans printed on them. The press release will speak of progress, partnerships, and transformational leadership, yet budgets remain unchanged, teacher shortages persist, and infrastructure continues to decay. In this quiet aftermath, the true lesson becomes clear: in some places, education reform is treated less as a public responsibility and more as a performance of concern, carefully choreographed for visibility rather than accountability.

On a humid Monday morning, far from ministerial podiums and curated headlines, Aisha waits by the roadside with her schoolbag resting against her knees, watching buses pass that never stop for her village. Her classroom is not far on a map, yet it takes nearly two hours on foot to reach it, crossing uneven paths and a narrow river that floods whenever it rains. By the time she arrives, lessons have already begun, and she slips quietly into an overcrowded room where forty pupils share torn textbooks and a single teacher. Meanwhile, in the capital city only a few miles away, children her age log into digital classrooms from air-conditioned homes, supported by private tutors and fast internet connections.

Both Aisha and those city children are officially enrolled in the same national education system, yet their daily realities could not be more different. This disparity is not an accident of geography, nor a failure of individual effort; it is the outcome of political choices about whose schools receive funding, whose communities attract investment, and whose children are treated as priorities. The contrast between ceremonial promises and lived experience exposes education as a site of power, where inequality is managed through rhetoric while advantage is quietly reproduced through policy. In this light, access to education is revealed not merely as a technical issue, but as a question of justice, accountability, and the kind of society that is being actively constructed.

Seen in this light, education becomes a quiet lament wrapped in official optimism, a tender ledger of promises announced beneath banners and postponed in classrooms. And perhaps, if the Garuda itself could witness these divided mornings, it would bow its radiant head and linger over the shield carved with rice and cotton, feeling those emblems of sustenance and dignity grow faint beneath layers of ceremony. For what is rice, when small stomachs still echo in silent rooms, and what is cotton, when warmth and worth are distributed by access codes and air-conditioned addresses?

Yet even then, there would remain a fragile hope, carried not by speeches but by children who keep walking, by teachers who keep arriving, and by parents who keep believing despite the arithmetic of disappointment. In that gentle persistence lies a quiet resistance to neglect. Still, the irony would not be lost on the great bird: that while concern is performed in carefully framed photographs, futures are negotiated in overcrowded classrooms, and while declarations soar from polished podiums, it is bare feet that measure the true distance to opportunity.

In that softened hour, its vast wings might tremble between grief and faith, knowing that flags do not mend roofs, slogans do not fill libraries, and ceremonies do not shorten long roads — yet also knowing that every child who opens a book despite all this carries within them the possibility of a kinder reckoning.

It is fundamentally true that when we speak about education and access to it, we are also speaking about equality and social justice, because education is one of the primary ways in which societies distribute opportunity, dignity, and life chances.

The Handbook of Social Justice in Education, edited by William Ayers, Therese M. Quinn, and David Stovall and published by Routledge in 2009, is a substantial and wide-ranging scholarly work that examines the theoretical foundations, historical developments, and practical implications of social justice in educational settings. Rather than focusing on a single narrow topic, it brings together contributions from many experts to survey and critically analyse how issues such as race, class, gender, sexuality, language, disability, youth experience, and globalisation intersect with educational structures and practices, showing how inequities are produced and how they might be challenged through schooling, teacher education, and pedagogical change.

The editors and contributors situate the idea of social justice in education within a broad historical and ideological frame that recognises schooling as deeply intertwined with larger struggles for equity and democratic participation. They draw attention to the ways in which educational thought and practice have been shaped by social movements and intellectual traditions that challenge exclusion and oppression, rather than treating equality as a neutral or merely administrative goal. This includes attention to historical forces such as democratic and progressive movements in education that sought to expand access and challenge hierarchies, and critical intellectual currents—drawing on theories of power, inequality, and emancipation—that frame schooling as a site where social hierarchies have been both reproduced and contested. Within the handbook’s first section on historical and theoretical perspectives, contributors trace how educators and theorists have understood concepts like public good, community, and equality over time, reflecting on how ideas about justice have been informed by struggles over race, class, gender and other forms of social difference in and beyond the classroom. 

At an ideological level, the book engages with critical perspectives that reject simplistic or technocratic views of education, instead urging readers to consider how educational systems reflect and are implicated in broader social relations of power. By embedding discussions of social justice in historical movements and critical theory, the Handbook encourages a view of education that is attentive to both the historical roots of inequality and the possibilities for transformative practice through education as a means of addressing entrenched social injustices.

In full terms, access to education is never merely about the presence of schools or curricula, but about whether every person has a fair and meaningful chance to learn, develop, and participate fully in social life. When access is uneven, education ceases to function as a pathway to opportunity and instead becomes a mechanism through which existing advantages are reproduced. Those who are already privileged tend to receive better resources, stronger support, and wider networks, while those who are marginalised encounter barriers that limit their potential long before individual effort can make a difference.

For this reason, education is inseparable from social justice. It reflects how a society values different groups, whose voices are prioritised, and whose futures are considered worth investing in. Questions about school funding, teacher distribution, language policy, disability inclusion, and digital access are all, at their core, questions about fairness and collective responsibility. They reveal whether public systems are designed to serve everyone or primarily to benefit those who already hold social and economic power.

To frame education in terms of equality and social justice is to recognise that learning opportunities are shaped by broader structural conditions, including poverty, housing, healthcare, and political representation. From this perspective, improving educational access is not simply a technical reform, but a moral and political commitment to creating a more equitable society, where success is not predetermined by birthplace, income, or social status.

Diane Reay’s Miseducation: Inequality, Education and the Working Classes (Policy Press, 2017) is a sociological examination of the British education system that interrogates the widely held assumption that schools operate as neutral engines of opportunity and social mobility. In this book, Reay argues that education in England does not compensate for broader social inequalities but instead reproduces and deepens class divisions by educating children from different social backgrounds in fundamentally different ways.

Reay, who herself grew up in a working-class family before becoming a Cambridge academic, draws extensively on over 500 interviews with working-class pupils, young people and their families to illustrate how social class remains a defining factor in the experiences and outcomes of education. These personal and empirical accounts reveal that working-class children are more likely to attend under-resourced schools, are frequently placed in lower ability groups within classrooms, and face systemic barriers that hinder their aspirations and achievements.

While education is often promoted politically as a pathway to social mobility, Reay challenges this notion as a misleading and inadequate solution. She contends that focusing on individual success stories obscures the structural conditions that limit the majority of working-class students and may implicitly suggest that failure results from personal deficiency rather than inequality. 

Reay also situates the contemporary educational landscape in a historical context, showing how class-based segregation and differential valuing of social groups have persisted since the establishment of state education in the 19th century. Her critique extends to recent policy developments such as the expansion of academies and free schools, which she argues have often exacerbated inequalities rather than alleviating them.

Miseducation goes beyond diagnosis to question why a system that claims to promote fairness instead entrenches privilege, and it calls for rethinking educational practices and policies so that all children, regardless of class background, can have equitable opportunities to realise their potential. 

When we discuss access to education in a country, the starting point must be rights. We begin by recognising that education is a fundamental right of every citizen, not merely a public service or an economic commodity. From there, the next step is to ask, with honesty and care, who is being left behind.

To look at who is being left behind in discussions of access to education means moving beyond national averages and headline statistics, and instead examining how educational opportunities are distributed across different social groups, regions, and life circumstances. It requires attention to children in remote or rural areas, students from low-income families, learners with disabilities, linguistic minorities, migrants, and those affected by conflict or instability, whose experiences are often hidden beneath claims of overall progress.

In full terms, this perspective asks not merely whether schools exist, but whether they are genuinely accessible, adequately resourced, culturally inclusive, and safe for everyone. It involves questioning who faces longer journeys to school, who studies in overcrowded classrooms, who lacks trained teachers or digital access, and who must balance learning with work or caregiving responsibilities. In doing so, it exposes how structural inequalities shape educational outcomes long before individual effort comes into play.

Ultimately, to identify who is left behind is to recognise that unequal access to education is rarely accidental. It is produced by policy choices, funding priorities, historical marginalisation, and social hierarchies that systematically advantage some while disadvantaging others. Seen this way, the issue is not simply about improving overall enrolment or test scores, but about confronting injustice directly and ensuring that the most marginalised are placed at the centre of educational reform rather than at its edges.

There are clear ways to identify why such exclusion occurs, but they require a willingness to look beneath surface indicators and confront the deeper structures that shape educational access. The process begins with disaggregating data by income, gender, disability, geography, and ethnicity, so that patterns of disadvantage become visible rather than hidden within national averages. When enrolment, completion rates, learning outcomes, and school resources are examined across these dimensions, it becomes possible to trace where inequalities emerge and how they persist over time.

At the same time, quantitative evidence must be complemented by qualitative insight. Listening to students, families, teachers, and local communities reveals barriers that statistics alone cannot capture, such as discrimination, language exclusion, unsafe school environments, hidden costs of schooling, or cultural expectations that limit participation. These lived experiences help explain not only who is left behind, but also how everyday realities interact with policy decisions.

Crucially, identifying the causes also demands scrutiny of governance and political choices. It involves analysing how budgets are allocated, which regions receive investment, how teacher deployment is managed, and whose voices are represented in policy-making. Historical legacies of inequality, including colonial structures, urban–rural divides, and entrenched class hierarchies, must also be taken seriously, as they continue to shape present outcomes.

Understanding why exclusion happens requires seeing education not as an isolated sector, but as part of a wider social system. Poverty, healthcare, housing, labour markets, and migration policies all intersect with schooling in powerful ways. From this perspective, educational disadvantage appears not as an individual failure, but as the predictable result of structural conditions that can only be addressed through coordinated, justice-oriented reform.

[Part 4]
[Part 2]

Bahasa

Making Education Accessible for All (2)

In an interview, a politician proudly declared:

“Jokowi is Pentium 1, and Gibran has been upgraded to Pentium 3!”

The younger staff, born after 2000, exchanged puzzled looks. One whispered:

“He calls it an upgrade, but it’s more like a nostalgic downgrade. Our political elite are stuck in the dial-up age, while society is already talking about cloud and AI. Pentium 3? That’s from the cybercafé era. People now use Core i9, some even talk about AI chips.”

The politician smiled, convinced he had delivered a clever metaphor. Meanwhile, the public laughed—not out of admiration, but because it revealed a truth: our political elite are still stuck in the age of dial-up modems, while society has already moved on to cloud computing.

“No wonder Gibran’s interviews are always sluggish and buffering—turns out he’s only been upgraded to a Pentium III. Who on earth would vote for that?”

Another friend chimed in:

“Of course it can be done—by rigging it through the electoral commission!”

The satire lies in the mismatch—what was meant as a compliment (“upgrade”) actually exposes how outdated the metaphor is, turning political rhetoric into comedy gold.

The politician’s remark about Gibran being a “Pentium 3” was indeed genuine and quickly went viral, as it was seen as irrelevant and rather amusing. The politician intended to highlight Gibran as part of a new, more advanced generation, yet the analogy he chose instead revealed a disconnect with technological reality and prompted the public to laugh at him. The Pentium 3 was a processor released in 1999–2000, so describing it as an “upgrade” sounds decidedly outdated to today’s digital generation. Many people judged the analogy as evidence of the political elite’s limited grasp of modern technological developments. Social media was flooded with comments, turning the statement into a running joke, with some even calling it a political communication blunder. This episode opened the door to criticism of the quality of political communication among the elite, while also showing how the public is becoming increasingly critical of the symbols politicians employ.

From a philosophical perspective, education is fundamentally concerned with the formation of the human person. It is not merely the transmission of information, but a lifelong process through which individuals learn to think, to question, to discern meaning, and to cultivate wisdom. Classical philosophy understands education as the development of reason and character, while modern traditions emphasise personal autonomy, critical consciousness, and the capacity to participate thoughtfully in the world. In this sense, education is about becoming fully human: learning how to live well, relate ethically to others, and understand one’s place within a broader moral and intellectual landscape.

Ideologically, education reflects the values a society chooses to promote and preserve. Every education system carries assumptions about what counts as knowledge, whose voices matter, and what kinds of citizens are desirable. Whether consciously or not, schooling transmits ideas about authority, success, equality, and identity. Education can function as a tool for liberation, encouraging independent thought and social responsibility, or it can operate as a mechanism of conformity, reproducing dominant beliefs and existing power structures. Thus, education is never neutral; it always embodies a particular vision of society and the individual’s role within it.

Politically, education represents both a responsibility and a strategy of the state. Governments use education to foster civic participation, national cohesion, and social stability, while citizens rely on education to gain the knowledge and skills required to engage meaningfully in public life. Political commitment is revealed through funding priorities, access policies, and curriculum design. At its best, education strengthens democracy by nurturing informed, critical, and engaged citizens. At its worst, it becomes an instrument of control, shaping compliant subjects rather than empowered participants.

Economically, education is closely tied to productivity, mobility, and development. It equips individuals with skills for employment and innovation, while providing societies with human capital necessary for growth. Yet reducing education to economic utility alone risks hollowing out its deeper purpose. Although education can open pathways out of poverty and contribute to national prosperity, an exclusively market-driven view transforms learners into labour units and schools into credential factories. A more balanced understanding recognises economic value while insisting that education also serves human dignity and social wellbeing.

Socially, education functions as both a bridge and a barrier. It has the potential to reduce inequality by expanding opportunity, but it can also reproduce social hierarchies when access and quality are uneven. Schools are spaces where identities are shaped, relationships are formed, and social norms are learned. Through education, individuals acquire not only academic knowledge but also social awareness, empathy, and a sense of belonging. The extent to which education promotes inclusion or reinforces exclusion reveals much about a society’s commitment to justice.

Culturally, education is the means by which collective memory, language, traditions, and values are transmitted across generations. It connects the past with the present while preparing for the future. Education preserves cultural heritage, yet it also enables cultural renewal by encouraging creativity and reinterpretation. In plural societies, education plays a crucial role in fostering mutual understanding and respect, helping diverse communities coexist while maintaining their distinct identities.

Taken together, these perspectives show that education is far more than schooling or certification. It is a moral endeavour, a political choice, an economic investment, a social practice, and a cultural inheritance. Ultimately, education expresses what a society believes about human worth, shared responsibility, and the kind of future it hopes to build.

According to the perspective advanced in Human Rights and Equality in Education: Comparative Perspectives on the Right to Education for Minorities and Disadvantaged Groups, human rights and education are not merely related in a technical or policy sense, but are fundamentally intertwined at the level of human dignity, social justice, and democratic participation. The book presents education as both an expression of human rights and a primary means through which human rights are realised in everyday life. In this view, education is itself a legally protected right, while at the same time functioning as an enabling right that allows individuals to understand, claim, and exercise their other rights.

The framework developed in the book emphasises that without equitable access to meaningful education, many other human rights remain abstract or unattainable, particularly for minorities and disadvantaged groups. Education provides people with the knowledge, critical awareness, and social capacities necessary to participate in civic life, resist discrimination, and challenge unjust power structures. As such, denying or limiting access to quality education effectively undermines the broader human rights architecture, because it restricts individuals’ ability to act as informed and empowered citizens.

The book also stresses that human rights principles impose concrete obligations on states in the educational sphere. Governments are not simply expected to offer schooling in a minimal sense; they are required to ensure that education is available, accessible, acceptable, and adaptable for all learners. This includes addressing systemic inequalities rooted in poverty, ethnicity, language, disability, gender, or migration status, and actively transforming institutions that reproduce exclusion. From this standpoint, educational injustice is understood as a form of human rights violation rather than as an unfortunate side effect of social difference.

Furthermore, the comparative perspective illustrates that when education is treated primarily as a market commodity or administrative service, its human rights function is weakened. Such approaches tend to privilege those with economic and social capital, while marginalised communities are left with fewer opportunities and diminished life chances. By contrast, a human rights-based approach insists that education must be organised around equality, participation, and accountability, ensuring that public systems serve the common good rather than entrenched privilege.

The book argues that education and human rights are mutually reinforcing. Human rights give education its ethical and legal foundation, while education sustains human rights by cultivating critical thinking, mutual respect, and democratic responsibility. In this reciprocal relationship, education becomes both a site of rights protection and a powerful vehicle for social transformation, shaping societies that are more inclusive, just, and respectful of human dignity.

The editors of Human Rights and Equality in Education: Comparative Perspectives on the Right to Education for Minorities and Disadvantaged Groups seek to convey a central message that education must be understood and governed as a matter of human rights and social justice, rather than merely as a technical policy domain or an economic investment. Through bringing together comparative studies from different national and social contexts, they aim to demonstrate that educational inequality is not accidental or inevitable, but is shaped by political choices, legal frameworks, and institutional practices that either reinforce or challenge existing power relations.

At the heart of the book is the editors’ insistence that minorities and disadvantaged groups should be recognised as rights-holders, not as passive beneficiaries of welfare or special programmes. They wish to show that the right to education carries concrete obligations for states, requiring proactive measures to dismantle structural barriers, address discrimination, and ensure that educational systems are genuinely inclusive in both access and quality. By foregrounding lived experiences alongside legal and policy analysis, the editors emphasise that equality in education cannot be reduced to formal access alone, but must involve substantive outcomes, cultural recognition, and meaningful participation.

The editors also seek to challenge the growing tendency to frame education primarily in market terms, where efficiency, competition, and employability dominate public discourse. They argue instead for a rights-based approach that places human dignity, democratic citizenship, and social cohesion at the centre of educational policy. In doing so, they highlight how commodification risks deepening social divisions, while a human rights framework offers a more ethical and sustainable foundation for educational reform.

Ultimately, the editors intend the book to serve both as a critical diagnosis of global patterns of educational exclusion and as a normative call to action. They invite policymakers, educators, researchers, and citizens to rethink education as a collective responsibility and a cornerstone of democratic life, urging societies to measure their progress not by economic performance alone, but by how well they protect the rights and life chances of their most vulnerable members.

In The Politics of Education Policy in an Era of Inequality: Possibilities for Democratic Schooling, Sonya Douglass, Janelle T. Scott and Gary L. Anderson (2019, Routledge) offer a sustained and critical interrogation of the way educational policy both reflects and reproduces broader patterns of social and economic inequality, while also pointing towards more democratic alternatives. Rather than treating education policy as a neutral, technocratic field of rational problem-solving, the authors consistently foreground the political nature of policy itself, showing how dominant reforms in the United States have been shaped by ideologies of neoliberalism, marketisation, and managerialism that privilege choice, competition and accountability metrics over equity and collective well-being. From this perspective, policies such as high-stakes testing, school choice mechanisms and the expansion of charter networks are not merely administrative instruments but political projects that redistribute resources and opportunities in ways that entrench racial, class and spatial inequities, often at the expense of the communities most dependent on robust public schooling.

The authors analyse how structural barriers emerge not just from the content of specific policies but from the political choices that underpin them. They deploy critical policy analysis to reveal how ostensibly neutral policy processes often advantage well-resourced actors — including corporate reformers, philanthropic organisations and policy elites — while marginalising the voices of teachers, students, parents and local communities whose lived experiences should be central to decisions about schooling. This framing situates educational leaders as political actors whose professional identities and practices are shaped by power dynamics that extend far beyond school walls. By tracing interactions among federal and state governments, district leadership and non-state actors, the book demonstrates that structural barriers to equity are embedded in policymaking processes that limit democratic participation and prioritise efficiency and competition over justice and inclusion.

Despite this critique, Douglass, Scott and Anderson do not resign themselves to pessimism; rather, they insist that educational policy can be reclaimed as a site of democratic struggle. They argue for a reconceptualisation of leadership and policy work that centres social justice, culturally relevant advocacy and community engagement. In their account, democratic schooling entails practices that place the public back into public education — for example, by promoting participatory governance structures, by recognising and valuing the cultural wealth of marginalised communities, and by fostering collective agency among students, families and educators. This involves redefining leadership as a moral and political endeavour that challenges existing power hierarchies and works towards redistributive equity rather than managerial compliance.

In practice, the authors suggest that promoting democratic schooling requires cultivating relationships across the traditionally distant spheres of policy research, practitioner experience and community advocacy, so that policy decisions are informed by a richer tapestry of voices and perspectives. They encourage educational leaders to embrace critical reflection on their own positionality within political structures, to build alliances with broader social movements for justice, and to co-create policies that better reflect democratic ideals. By weaving together theory, policy critique and examples of transformative practice, the book not only diagnoses how educational policy interacts with inequality but also charts possibilities for advancing equity and democratic schooling in ways that are responsive to both structural constraints and the agency of those working within schools and communities.

The central message of Douglass, Scott and Anderson in this book is that education policy is never merely technical or administrative, but is always a deeply political endeavour that actively shapes whose lives are valued, whose voices are heard, and whose futures are made possible. They argue that contemporary reforms, especially those driven by market logics and managerial accountability, have normalised inequality by presenting it as an unfortunate side effect rather than as the predictable outcome of deliberate political choices. At the same time, they insist that this condition is neither inevitable nor irreversible, because policy can also be a vehicle for democratic renewal when it is reclaimed by educators, communities and students themselves.

In essence, the authors are calling for a shift from seeing schools as sites of compliance and competition towards understanding them as civic spaces where democracy is practised, not merely taught. They urge educational leaders to recognise themselves as political actors with moral responsibilities, and to move beyond technocratic problem-solving towards forms of leadership rooted in social justice, collective agency and community partnership. Their message is that equity cannot be achieved through narrow performance metrics or top-down reforms, but requires participatory policymaking, respect for the cultural knowledge of marginalised communities, and sustained challenges to the power structures that reproduce disadvantage.

The book conveys a cautiously hopeful argument: while educational policy has been a powerful instrument of inequality, it also holds genuine potential for transformation. By embracing critical reflection, building alliances across research, practice and activism, and centring democratic values in everyday decision-making, the authors believe that schooling can once again become a public good oriented towards dignity, inclusion and shared flourishing, rather than a marketplace that sorts winners from losers.

Seen through the lens of this book, the central conclusion about access to education is that access is never simply a matter of school availability or expanded choice, but fundamentally a question of who genuinely benefits from policy and who is systematically excluded by it. Douglass, Scott and Anderson help us to understand that educational access is shaped by political decisions and power structures: when policy is driven by market logics, competition and narrow forms of accountability, what appears to be wider access on the surface often conceals deeper inequalities, because those who are already advantaged possess far greater social, economic and informational capital to navigate and exploit such systems.

From this perspective, access to education cannot be understood as an individual responsibility, as though success merely depends on personal effort. Instead, the authors demonstrate that barriers to access are structural in nature, embedded in funding arrangements, school choice mechanisms, assessment regimes and policymaking processes that prioritise elite voices over grassroots communities. As a result, students from low-income backgrounds, minoritised groups and marginalised regions encounter multiple layers of disadvantage that are largely invisible to those who benefit most from existing arrangements, even though all are formally described as having “equal access”.

At the same time, the book argues that equitable access can only be realised when education is reclaimed as a public good and a democratic space, rather than treated as a commodity. This means that expanding access cannot be achieved merely by increasing institutional provision or consumer choice, but must involve participatory policymaking, recognition of local cultural knowledge, and educational leadership that consciously confronts inequality. In this framework, genuine access entails ensuring that all students are not only able to enter schools, but also receive learning experiences that are dignified, relevant and empowering.

Ultimately, the authors conclude that access to education is the outcome of democratic struggle rather than the automatic result of technocratic reform. They invite readers to recognise that advancing access is inseparable from advancing social justice, requiring the dismantling of structures that reproduce inequality, the amplification of community voices in decision-making, and the reorientation of policy towards collective well-being. Only through such an approach, they suggest, can access move beyond formal inclusion towards meaningful and substantive equity.

[Part 3]
[Part 1]

Bahasa

Making Education Accessible for All (1)

Recently in Jakarta, a viral case emerged involving a street vendor named Sudrajat, an elderly seller of “es gabus” (a traditional ice snack), who was publicly accused by members of the Indonesian National Police (Polri) and the Indonesian National Armed Forces (TNI) of selling food purportedly made from sponge material. The interaction was captured in a video that circulated widely on social media and sparked significant public attention.

In the video, the uniformed personnel examined the vendor’s goods and suggested that the texture of the ice resembled a sponge — a claim some interpreted as implying the food was unsafe or made with harmful materials. This prompted concern among bystanders and on social media about the safety of traditional foods, leading to heightened scrutiny of the vendor.  

However, following laboratory analyses conducted by relevant authorities, including the Dokpol Food Safety Team and forensic laboratories, it was established that the frozen snack was made from conventional ingredients, safe to eat, and did not contain sponge or any hazardous material. Police later clarified that the initial impression was based on a rapid response to public concern rather than verified scientific evidence.

In response to the widespread reaction and the misinformation that resulted, both Polri and TNI personnel involved issued formal apologies to the vendor and the public for the confusion and distress caused by the incident. Some of the military personnel involved also received disciplinary action as part of internal evaluations.

The episode has drawn attention to the risks of rapid, unverified public accusations, especially when amplified online, and underscored the importance of evidence-based procedures in official actions — particularly those involving community members and small business operators. It became a notable cultural moment in Indonesia, demonstrating how quickly a misunderstanding can escalate and the responsibility that institutions have to handle such matters with care and professionalism.  

The incident indicates limitations in scientific literacy, public communication skills, or social sensitivity on the part of the officers involved, particularly because the accusation was made before any evidence-based verification took place. In this sense, the issue is not simply one of formal educational attainment, but of critical thinking, professional restraint, and an awareness of the social consequences of one’s actions. Genuine education does not merely produce certificates; it cultivates the capacity to avoid premature conclusions, to respect the dignity of citizens, and to prioritise fair procedures.

However, it would be unjust to generalise from this case and treat it as a reflection of the quality of all personnel or institutions. It is more accurate to view it as symptomatic of broader systemic pressures, including demanding field conditions, a culture of rapid response that sometimes bypasses adequate verification, limited training in evidence-based communication, and insufficient emphasis on humane engagement with vulnerable communities. In such circumstances, even formally educated individuals may act hastily.

At the same time, the episode highlights gaps in the development and supervision of state personnel. Security officers require not only technical training, but also stronger foundations in basic scientific literacy, public service ethics, social empathy, and an understanding of citizens’ rights. Without these elements, extensive authority risks being exercised disproportionately, particularly against those in precarious positions.

Rather than concluding simply that certain individuals lack education, it is more constructive to interpret this incident as a signal for systemic improvement: the need to enhance training quality, to strengthen a professional culture grounded in evidence, and to reinforce the principle that state officers exist to protect and serve, not to pass judgement prematurely. In this respect, the case is not merely about one ice-snack vendor, but about how the state shapes the character and conduct of its public servants in everyday civic life.

Beyond limitations in scientific literacy, the case may also reflect a form of individual power arrogance, namely a tendency to assume moral and social superiority over ordinary citizens. This kind of arrogance does not always manifest as overt aggression; more often it appears as condescension, unilateral judgement, or a sense of entitlement to accuse in public without proper verification. When officers immediately suspected a small street vendor without scientific evidence, it exposed an imbalance of power: one side spoke from a position of uniform authority, while the other stood in a vulnerable social position.

It is important to recognise, however, that such attitudes rarely arise solely from personal character. They are frequently shaped by institutional cultures that place strong emphasis on hierarchy, obedience, and rapid response, while giving insufficient attention to critical reflection, social empathy, and public accountability. Within such environments, personnel may become accustomed to issuing assessments or directives without fully considering the psychological, social, and economic consequences for marginalised citizens.

At the same time, operational pressures, habits of quick decision-making in the field, and limited training in humane communication can further reinforce this pattern. As a result, actions that may have been intended as routine oversight can turn into public displays of authority that undermine personal dignity, especially when recorded and circulated widely.

It is therefore more accurate to interpret this incident as the convergence of weak scientific literacy, inadequate social sensitivity, and a culture of power that has not yet fully evolved into a culture of service. This is not merely about isolated individuals, but about a broader institutional challenge: how state officers are shaped to become not only structurally disciplined, but also ethically mature.

The episode reminds us that professional conduct cannot be measured solely by uniforms or authority, but by restraint, respect for citizens, and evidence-based action. Without these qualities, power can easily drift into arrogance, and the state may come to feel more like a threat than a form of protection for ordinary people.

In the world of education, The recent reports of teachers in Indonesia being taken to the police, despite their professed aim of educating young people, reflect a complex interplay of societal expectations, legal norms, generational dynamics, and pressures within the education system itself. At its core, education is a deeply relational activity; it depends on trust between teachers, students, parents, communities, and the state. When that trust is strained, conflicts are more likely to escalate into formal complaints or legal action. Such situations are not necessarily a sign that educators are fundamentally misguided, but they do signal that the social context around teaching and learning has become more contested and fraught.

One factor contributing to these developments is the increasing visibility and assertiveness of parents and students, who are more aware of their rights and less willing to accept poor treatment or perceived misconduct. This empowerment, while positive in many respects, can also lead to a lower threshold for reporting behaviour that, in earlier times, might have been handled within the school community. The proliferation of social media amplifies this dynamic, permitting individual grievances to be aired widely and quickly, sometimes without the mediating influence of professional norms or reflective dialogue.

At the same time, teachers in Indonesia—as in many countries—often work under conditions of limited support, heavy workloads, and insufficient professional development. These pressures can strain even the best-intentioned educators, making misunderstandings and miscommunications more likely. When situations escalate beyond the classroom, stakeholders may resort to formal channels, including the police, especially if there is a perception that internal school mechanisms for conflict resolution are weak or untrustworthy.

Another layer lies in broader societal changes and anxieties about youth behaviour, morality, and social norms. In contexts where there are heightened sensitivities around issues such as discipline, gender interactions, or religious values, episodes that might once have been considered part of ordinary school life can instead be construed as inappropriate or criminal. This reflects a society in transition, in which norms about authority, respect, and personal autonomy are being renegotiated.

It is also important to consider the legal environment. Indonesia’s legal framework includes strict provisions regarding child protection, misconduct, and abuse, designed to safeguard students. However, the implementation of these laws sometimes lacks nuance, leading to situations where well-meaning educational actions are interpreted through a legalistic lens that prioritises formal sanctions over restorative understanding. This underscores a mismatch between legal expectations and the everyday realities of teaching and learning.

Finally, what these reports suggest about the state of education among Indonesia’s youth is not that the entire generation is in crisis, but that the relationship between young people, educators, and society is undergoing significant stress. Young people today are growing up in a rapidly changing world, shaped by technology, global cultures, and shifting economic landscapes. These forces affect their behaviour, aspirations, and interactions, and they also shape how communities interpret and respond to challenges in schools.

The increase in reports against teachers should prompt reflection on multiple fronts: the need for stronger support systems for educators, clearer mechanisms for conflict resolution within schools, more informed public discourse about the role and limits of legal intervention, and ongoing societal conversations about the shared goals of education. Rather than viewing these incidents as isolated aberrations, they should be understood as symptomatic of deeper transformations in Indonesian society and education that call for thoughtful, collective responses.

When we discuss access to education in a country, the starting point should not be school buildings, curricula, or international rankings, but rights. We begin by recognising education as a fundamental human right, not merely a public service or an economic commodity. From this foundation, we may then ask how far the state genuinely guarantees this right in practice, rather than simply proclaiming it in constitutional texts.

Education must be viewed as a fundamental human right because it lies at the very foundation of human dignity, freedom, and equality. Without education, individuals are deprived of the basic tools needed to understand their world, to express themselves, and to participate meaningfully in social, economic, and political life. Treating education as a right affirms that every person, regardless of birth or circumstance, deserves the opportunity to develop their capacities and to pursue a life of purpose.

From a moral perspective, education enables people to exercise their autonomy. It equips them with critical thinking, literacy, and knowledge, allowing them to make informed choices rather than being governed solely by necessity, tradition, or manipulation. When access to education is uneven or restricted, freedom itself becomes unequal, because only some are empowered to shape their own futures. Recognising education as a human right therefore protects individuals from being trapped by ignorance or structural disadvantage.

Education is also inseparable from social justice. Societies inherit inequalities across generations, and education is one of the few institutions capable of interrupting this cycle. When it is treated as a right rather than a privilege, education becomes a mechanism for widening opportunity, reducing poverty, and fostering social mobility. If it is left to market forces or private capacity alone, existing disparities are reinforced, and learning becomes another commodity reserved for those who can afford it.

From a civic standpoint, education sustains democratic life. Informed citizens are better able to engage critically with information, to participate responsibly in public affairs, and to hold power to account. Without broad access to education, democracy risks becoming hollow, dominated by narrow elites while large segments of the population remain marginalised. Viewing education as a fundamental right thus safeguards not only individuals, but the health of society itself.

There is also a collective responsibility embedded in this principle. Education shapes the character of future generations, transmits cultural knowledge, and prepares societies to face shared challenges. By recognising education as a human right, states acknowledge that learning is not merely a private benefit, but a public good essential to peace, development, and social cohesion.

Ultimately, to regard education as a fundamental human right is to affirm that human potential should never be determined by poverty, geography, or social status. It expresses a commitment to equality of worth and opportunity, and it signals that societies choose to invest in people, not merely in economies. In this sense, education as a human right is not an abstract ideal, but a practical foundation for a more just and humane world.

Human Rights and Equality in Education: Comparative Perspectives on the Right to Education for Minorities and Disadvantaged Groups (2018, Policy Press), edited by Sandra Fredman, Meghan Campbell and Helen Taylor, explores education from a human rights perspective, focusing on legal and policy frameworks that affect access for minorities and disadvantaged groups. This supports the argument that education is a basic human right and highlights the state’s accountability in ensuring equal access.

Using the lens of Human Rights and Equality in Education: Comparative Perspectives on the Right to Education for Minorities and Disadvantaged Groups, education must be seen as a fundamental human right because it is intrinsically tied to human dignity, equal citizenship, and the capacity of individuals to participate meaningfully in society. From this perspective, education is not simply an instrument for economic productivity or workforce preparation, but a foundational condition for personal autonomy, social inclusion, and democratic life. Treating education as a right affirms that every person, regardless of background, ethnicity, gender, disability, or socio-economic status, is entitled to develop their potential and exercise their freedoms on an equal footing with others.

The book’s comparative approach makes clear that educational inequalities are rarely the result of individual failure; rather, they emerge from structural disadvantages embedded in law, policy, and institutional practice. Viewing education as a fundamental human right therefore places a direct obligation on the state to address these systemic barriers, rather than leaving outcomes to market forces or personal circumstance. It reframes learners, especially those from minority and disadvantaged groups, not as passive recipients of charity or services, but as rights-holders whose claims carry legal and moral weight. In this sense, access to schooling alone is insufficient; governments are also responsible for ensuring quality, cultural relevance, safety, and inclusivity, so that education genuinely enables equal participation.

Moreover, understanding education as a human right challenges the commodification of learning, where educational opportunities are increasingly shaped by ability to pay rather than by need or justice. When education is treated primarily as an economic good, inequalities tend to deepen, as privileged groups accumulate advantages while marginalised communities fall further behind. A rights-based lens resists this logic by insisting that education serves broader social purposes: fostering critical thinking, nurturing mutual respect, and sustaining social cohesion. It emphasises that societies have a collective responsibility to invest in those who have been historically excluded, not as an act of benevolence, but as a requirement of substantive equality.

The book’s framework shows that recognising education as a fundamental human right is essential because education shapes life chances, power relations, and the distribution of opportunity across generations. It is through education that individuals gain the tools to understand their rights, challenge injustice, and contribute to public life. Seen in this way, education becomes a cornerstone of social justice and democratic integrity, and a measure of how seriously a society takes the principle that all human beings are equal in worth.

Using the lens of Human Rights and Equality in Education: Comparative Perspectives on the Right to Education for Minorities and Disadvantaged Groups means approaching education first and foremost as a fundamental human right that is inherent to every person, rather than as a discretionary public service or a market-driven commodity. From this perspective, education is understood as a legal and moral entitlement grounded in international human rights frameworks, such as the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and the International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights, which oblige states to ensure availability, accessibility, acceptability, and adaptability of education for all learners, especially those who have historically been marginalised.

Through this lens, the role of the state shifts from being a mere provider of schooling to being a primary duty-bearer responsible for guaranteeing equal educational opportunities, actively removing structural barriers, and addressing systemic discrimination faced by minorities and disadvantaged groups. Education is not treated as something citizens must earn through economic capacity or social status, but as a shared social good that enables human dignity, personal development, democratic participation, and social cohesion. Comparative perspectives within this framework reveal that inequalities in education are rarely accidental; they are often the result of policy choices, institutional biases, and unequal resource distribution, which means that governments are accountable not only for access to schools but also for the quality and inclusiveness of learning environments.

Seen in this way, recognising education as a basic right requires moving beyond narrow metrics of efficiency, productivity, or return on investment. Instead, it demands an ethical commitment to equity, where targeted measures such as affirmative policies, inclusive curricula, culturally responsive teaching, and adequate funding for underserved communities are viewed not as special favours but as necessary steps to realise substantive equality. Education becomes a means of empowerment rather than stratification, aiming to break intergenerational cycles of poverty and exclusion rather than reproducing them.

Ultimately, applying this lens reframes education as a cornerstone of social justice. It insists that societies are judged not by how well education serves economic growth alone, but by how effectively it uplifts the most vulnerable and affirms the equal worth of every learner. In this conception, education stands as a collective responsibility and a foundational pillar of human rights, shaping not only individual life chances but also the moral character and democratic health of a nation.

The next step is to examine who is being left behind. Access to education is never evenly distributed; disparities persist between urban and rural areas, between rich and poor communities, between centres of power and peripheral regions, and between majority and minority groups. Any honest discussion must therefore begin with the most vulnerable: children from low-income families, those living in remote areas, persons with disabilities, and communities that have been historically marginalised. The way a nation treats these groups reflects the true quality of its educational system.

After this, attention must turn to structural barriers. Are direct and indirect costs still preventing participation? What about distance to schools, the availability and quality of teachers, infrastructure, internet access, and zoning policies? Access does not merely mean being permitted to attend school; it means being genuinely able to do so without sacrificing dignity, health, or family survival.

Only then should we address questions of quality and relevance. Access without quality produces statistics, not empowerment. Education ought to cultivate critical thinking, practical life skills, and self-confidence, rather than merely providing certificates. At this stage, we assess whether the education system prepares citizens for real life, or simply funnels them into a narrow labour market.

Finally, all of this must be situated within the context of political will. Budget allocations, policy priorities, transparency, and state commitment are decisive. Access to education is never neutral; it always reflects choices made by those in power. A government that truly values education demonstrates this through consistent action, not slogans.

In short, discussions of educational access should begin with rights, move through inequality and structural barriers, proceed to quality, and conclude with political commitment. For ultimately, education is not merely about schooling; it is about social justice and our shared future.

At the same time, teachers in Indonesia — as in many countries — often work under conditions of limited support, heavy workloads, and insufficient professional development. These pressures can strain even the best-intentioned educators, making misunderstandings and miscommunication more likely. When situations escalate beyond the classroom, stakeholders may resort to formal channels, including the police, especially if there is a perception that internal school mechanisms for conflict resolution are weak or untrustworthy.

Another layer lies in broader societal changes and anxieties about youth behaviour, morality, and social norms. In contexts where there are heightened sensitivities around issues such as discipline, gender interactions, or religious values, episodes that might once have been considered part of ordinary school life can instead be construed as inappropriate or criminal. This reflects a society in transition, in which norms about authority, respect, and personal autonomy are being renegotiated.

It is also important to consider the legal environment. Indonesia’s legal framework includes strict provisions regarding child protection, misconduct, and abuse, designed to safeguard students. However, the implementation of these laws sometimes lacks nuance, leading to situations where well-meaning educational actions are interpreted through a legalistic lens that prioritises formal sanctions over restorative understanding. This underscores a mismatch between legal expectations and the everyday realities of teaching and learning.

Finally, what these reports suggest about the state of education among Indonesia’s youth is not that the entire generation is in crisis, but that the relationship between young people, educators, and society is undergoing significant stress. Young people today are growing up in a rapidly changing world, shaped by technology, global cultures, and shifting economic landscapes. These forces affect their behaviour, aspirations, and interactions, and they also shape how communities interpret and respond to challenges in schools.

In sum, the increase in reports against teachers should prompt reflection on multiple fronts: the need for stronger support systems for educators, clearer mechanisms for conflict resolution within schools, more informed public discourse about the role and limits of legal intervention, and ongoing societal conversations about the shared goals of education. Rather than viewing these incidents as isolated aberrations, they should be understood as symptomatic of deeper transformations in Indonesian society and education that call for thoughtful, collective responses.

[Part 2]

Bahasa

The Chain of Command: Should the Indonesian National Police Move to a Ministry?

The institutional placement of the Indonesian National Police (Polri) remains one of the most contentious debates in the nation’s post-Reformasi landscape. Historically extricated from the military to ensure a civilian-led approach to internal security, the question now arises whether its direct reporting line to the President provides an essential safeguard for national stability or an unintended obstacle to democratic accountability. As calls for a transition toward a ministerial model grow louder, one must weigh the promise of enhanced parliamentary oversight against the precarious risk of political interference. Let us explore the delicate balance between operational independence and civilian control, evaluating whether the current structure serves the state’s long-term democratic health or necessitates a fundamental legislative shift.

The genesis of Polri’s current institutional identity lies in the tumultuous transition of 1999, a period defined by an urgent national desire to dismantle the "Dual Function" (Dwifungsi) of the armed forces. By severing the police from the military command, the Reformasi movement sought to transform a tool of state repression into a professional service dedicated to civil law enforcement. This "divorce" was not merely administrative; it was a profound philosophical shift aimed at "civilianising" internal security. The decision to place Polri directly under the President was a deliberate safeguard intended to prevent the institution from falling back into the hands of a single ministry that could be exploited for partisan political gain during the fragile infancy of Indonesian democracy.

The central tension in moving Polri under a ministry lies in the precarious balance between administrative oversight and the sanctity of active investigations. Proponents of the ministerial model argue that it provides a structured "civilian buffer," ensuring the police remain accountable to a representative government. However, the darker side of this transition is the heightened risk of political interference. If the Chief of Police reports to a political appointee—who is often a high-ranking member of a political party—the line between law enforcement and political strategy begins to blur. The danger is that the police could be utilised as a tactical asset to investigate political rivals or protect allies, thereby compromising the "operational independence" that is vital for a neutral justice system.

The most frequent criticism directed at the "Direct-to-President" model is the perceived "crisis of accountability" that arises when a massive security apparatus reports to a single, overstretched executive. Critics argue that because the President is preoccupied with national policy and international diplomacy, the police effectively operate in a supervisory vacuum. This lack of granular oversight allows for an insular institutional culture where internal disciplinary mechanisms, such as the Internal Affairs Division (Propam), are often viewed as self-protecting rather than self-correcting. Without a dedicated minister to answer for specific failures in the legislature, the public is often left with a sense of "impunity," as there is no clear, politically accountable figure who can be held responsible for the daily conduct and systemic ethics of the force.

Public perception regarding the institutional placement of Polri is deeply nuanced, shaped by a historical mistrust of state authority and an urgent desire for professional law enforcement. Civil society organisations (CSOs) and human rights NGOs often find themselves in a complex paradox; while they frequently criticise the police for excessive force and lack of transparency under the current model, they are equally wary of a ministerial transition. The prevailing fear among activists is that a "Minister of Internal Security" could become a partisan gatekeeper, effectively shielding the police from public scrutiny to serve the governing coalition's interests. Consequently, the consensus within civil society tends to favour the strengthening of external checks—such as empowering the Ombudsman and Kompolnas—rather than a mere change in the chain of command, as they believe true reform must be rooted in transparency rather than administrative relocation.

Placing the Indonesian National Police (Polri) under the jurisdiction of a ministry is a subject of intense debate, involving complex considerations of democratic oversight and operational neutrality.

The primary argument in favour of such a transition centres on the enhancement of democratic accountability and the standardisation of the chain of command. By placing the police under a civilian-led ministry, such as a Ministry of Home Affairs or a dedicated Ministry of Internal Security, the institution would be subject to more rigorous parliamentary scrutiny and political responsibility. This alignment mirrors the structure of many developed democracies, where it is believed that a direct reporting line to a minister prevents the police from becoming an isolated "state within a state." Furthermore, it could allow the President to focus on high-level statecraft rather than the granular management of internal security affairs.

Conversely, there are significant concerns regarding the potential for political interference and the erosion of impartiality. Critics argue that if the police were governed by a ministry, the institution might be utilised as a political instrument by the governing party to suppress opposition or influence electoral outcomes. The current structure, where the Chief of Police reports directly to the President, is seen by some as a safeguard that preserves the singular authority of the head of state over the instruments of force. There is also the logistical risk that an additional layer of bureaucracy could hamper the speed of decision-making during national emergencies or large-scale security crises.

In the United Kingdom, the relationship between the government and the police is defined by a "tripartite" system of governance. This structure involves the Home Secretary (representing the national government), Police and Crime Commissioners (locally elected officials), and the Chief Constables (operational leaders). Unlike the proposed Indonesian model, which might centralise power under a single ministry, the British system intentionally fragments authority to prevent any single politician from gaining total control over the police.

The Home Secretary is responsible for national strategy, such as counter-terrorism and setting the "Strategic Policing Requirement," yet they possess no legal power to direct a police officer to make an arrest or investigate a specific individual. This concept, known as operational independence, is a cornerstone of British policing. In contrast, the debate in Indonesia often focuses on whether moving Polri under a ministry would inadvertently grant a minister the power to influence active investigations—a fear that stems from Indonesia’s unique history of authoritarianism and the "Dual Function" (Dwifungsi) era.

Furthermore, the UK utilises the Independent Office for Police Conduct (IOPC), which operates outside the Home Office to investigate serious complaints, ensuring that oversight is not just "political" but also "procedural." For Indonesia, adopting a ministerial model without such robust, independent "buffer" institutions could risk replacing one form of direct executive control (under the President) with a more partisan form of control (under a political appointee).

Beyond the British model, the governance of police forces worldwide generally falls into three distinct categories: Centralised (Ministerial), Decentralised (Fragmented), and Semi-Centralised (Dual). Each system reflects a nation’s specific history, constitutional priorities, and balance between state power and civil liberties.

In Centralised systems, such as those in France and Turkey, the national police typically report to the Ministry of the Interior. This model prioritises national uniformity and the swift deployment of resources across the country. In France, the Police Nationale is a civilian force under the Interior Minister, while the Gendarmerie Nationale possesses military status but operates under the same ministry for internal security tasks. This ensures a singular strategic vision but often faces criticism regarding the high potential for political leverage by the central government.

Conversely, the United States and Germany employ Decentralised models. In the US, policing is highly fragmented, with thousands of independent local, county, and state agencies that are not controlled by a single federal ministry. While the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) falls under the Department of Justice, it lacks jurisdiction over local matters like municipal traffic or city-level crime. Germany’s model is similarly federalised; the primary responsibility for policing lies with the individual states (Länder), each with its own Interior Ministry, which prevents the concentration of "police power" in the hands of the federal Chancellor.

Japan offers a unique Semi-Centralised compromise. While there is a National Police Agency (NPA) to coordinate and set standards, the actual "boots on the ground" belong to Prefectural Police forces. To ensure neutrality, the NPA is supervised by the National Public Safety Commission, a body composed of civilians designed to act as a buffer between the police and direct political pressure from the Cabinet. This "Commission Model" is often cited as a possible middle ground for Indonesia, as it provides ministerial oversight without granting a single politician direct operational command.

The transition of the Indonesian National Police (Polri) from being part of a ministry to its current position directly under the President is one of the most significant legacies of the Reformasi era following the fall of the New Order.

During the New Order regime, Polri was integrated into the Armed Forces of the Republic of Indonesia (ABRI) alongside the Army, Navy, and Air Force. This integration meant that the police operated under a military culture and command structure, where internal security was often conflated with national defence. Following the resignation of President Suharto in 1998, there was a profound democratic demand to "demilitarise" the police. The primary objective was to transform Polri into a professional civilian force focused on law enforcement and human rights, rather than state stability.

The separation began in 1999 under President B.J. Habibie and was formally solidified through People’s Consultative Assembly (MPR) Decrees No. VI and VII of 2000. These decrees explicitly separated the TNI (military) and Polri, placing the police directly under the President to ensure they could act as an independent state instrument. This "direct reporting" model was intentionally chosen as a safeguard; the reformers feared that placing the police under the Ministry of Home Affairs or a similar body might lead to the police being "re-politicised" by ministers or regional governors, as had occurred in the past.

The subsequent Law No. 2 of 2002 regarding the Indonesian National Police legally anchored this independence. The logic was that by reporting directly to the Head of State, the police would serve the constitution and the public interest rather than the partisan interests of a specific cabinet member. This historical trauma of political manipulation remains the strongest argument used by those who oppose returning Polri to a ministerial fold today.

Maintaining the status quo, where the Indonesian National Police (Polri) reports directly to the President, offers a unique set of advantages and challenges that are deeply rooted in Indonesia’s specific constitutional framework.

The primary advantage of the current structure is the preservation of a singular, direct line of authority from the Head of State, which ensures that the police can act decisively in matters of national importance. By bypassing the bureaucratic layers of a ministry, the President can exercise immediate leadership during major security crises, domestic unrest, or national disasters. Furthermore, this positioning is viewed by many as a vital protection against "partisan capture"; because the President is the sole mandate-holder of the people, the police are theoretically shielded from the narrower political agendas of various cabinet ministers or competing political parties. This direct accountability to the President is intended to foster a sense of national unity and institutional pride, positioning the police as a "state instrument" rather than a "government tool."

However, there are notable disadvantages to this direct reporting line, particularly regarding the President’s personal workload and the risk of executive overreach. Critics argue that the President, burdened with the vast responsibilities of governing a nation, cannot provide the detailed day-to-day oversight and administrative scrutiny that a dedicated minister could offer. This can lead to a lack of rigorous "check and balance" mechanisms, potentially allowing the police to operate with too much autonomy and insufficient civilian accountability. Moreover, placing such a powerful instrument of force directly under the executive branch can create a "super-body" that might be susceptible to being used by a President to consolidate personal power, thereby bypassing the traditional parliamentary oversight that typically accompanies ministerial departments.

In the absence of a dedicated ministry, the National Police Commission (Kompolnas) serves as the essential civilian "bridge" between the President and the police force.

Kompolnas functions as an external supervisory body designed to assist the President in determining police policy and providing oversight on institutional integrity. Its primary mandate is to ensure that the police operate professionally and remain impartial. One of its most critical functions is the recommendation of candidates for the post of Chief of Police (Kapolri), which provides a layer of vetting before the President makes a final nomination to Parliament. Furthermore, Kompolnas acts as a grievance mechanism where the public can submit complaints regarding police misconduct. By involving both government officials (such as the Coordinating Minister for Political, Legal, and Security Affairs) and independent experts or community figures, the commission aims to provide a balanced perspective that mitigates the risk of the police becoming an insular organisation.

However, the efficacy of Kompolnas is frequently scrutinised due to its limited enforcement powers. Unlike the British Independent Office for Police Conduct (IOPC), which has the authority to direct investigations and recommend disciplinary action, Kompolnas is primarily a consultative body. It can monitor and provide recommendations, but it lacks the "teeth" to impose sanctions or override internal police decisions. Critics argue that as long as the commission remains advisory, the "Direct-to-President" model will always struggle with an oversight deficit, as the police ultimately retain significant control over their own internal disciplinary processes.

In the current Indonesian governance framework, the Coordinating Ministry for Political, Legal, and Security Affairs (Kemenko Polhukam) acts as the functional "supervisor" that compensates for the President’s inability to manage the police daily.

Kemenko Polhukam serves as the primary instrument for synchronising and coordinating the policies of various security institutions, including the Police, the Military (TNI), and the Intelligence Agency (BIN). While the Ministry does not possess a direct "command" relationship over the Chief of Police—as Polri remains constitutionally under the President—it exerts significant influence through policy harmonisation. The Coordinating Minister often chairs meetings to resolve jurisdictional overlaps and ensures that Polri's operational activities align with the broader national security strategy set by the Cabinet. In practice, the Minister acts as a "buffer" or a spokesperson, addressing the public and Parliament on security matters, which effectively shields the President from the immediate political fallout of police-related controversies.

From a critical perspective, however, this arrangement can create a "grey area" of accountability. Because the Coordinating Minister lacks the formal legal power to issue direct orders or manage the police budget (which Polri manages independently), their role is often limited to persuasion and diplomatic coordination. This can lead to friction if the Chief of Police and the Coordinating Minister have differing strategic priorities. Proponents of the "Ministerial Model" argue that replacing this "coordination" role with a "direct reporting" line to a single Ministry would eliminate this ambiguity, whereas defenders of the current system believe the Kemenko model provides a necessary level of high-level oversight without compromising the police's independence.

The debates within the People’s Representative Council (DPR) regarding the institutional placement of Polri are often divided along the lines of enhancing legislative oversight versus maintaining the current executive efficiency.

Within the halls of the DPR, those who advocate for placing Polri under a ministry often argue that the current "Direct-to-President" model limits the legislature’s ability to hold the police to account. Because the President is the Head of State, summoning him to a commission hearing to answer for specific operational failures is procedurally difficult and politically sensitive. Proponents of the ministerial shift suggest that if a Minister were directly responsible, Parliament could exercise more frequent and rigorous scrutiny over the police budget and performance. This group believes that a minister would serve as a more accessible and accountable target for parliamentary questions, thereby strengthening the "check and balance" function of the DPR over the instruments of state force.

On the other hand, many factions within the DPR remain wary of such a change, fearing that it would disrupt the stability of the national security architecture. These lawmakers argue that the police must remain "above" the fray of cabinet politics to ensure they are not used as a tool for partisan advantage by whichever political party happens to control the ministry. They contend that the current system already provides the DPR with sufficient power through the "Fit and Proper Test" for the Chief of Police and the annual budget approval process. For these members, the risk of "ministerial politicisation" outweighs the perceived benefits of increased administrative oversight, leading to a general legislative preference for maintaining the status quo while perhaps strengthening the existing powers of Kompolnas.

Determining the "ideal" position for Polri is less about finding a perfect location and more about choosing which democratic risks a nation is willing to accept. There is no global consensus on this, as the ideal structure usually depends on a country's level of political maturity and the strength of its legal institutions.

From a pure public administration perspective, the ideal model is often considered to be one where the police are under a civilian ministry but protected by "operational independence" laws. This setup, common in Western Europe, allows for professional administrative oversight (budget, equipment, and career paths) by a minister, while legally prohibiting that minister from interfering in specific criminal investigations or arrests. This creates a healthy distance between the head of state and the instruments of force, reducing the risk of a "police state." However, for this to be ideal, the country must possess a highly independent judiciary and a neutral civil service to act as a firewall against the minister’s own political ambitions.

In the Indonesian context, many experts argue that the current "Direct-to-President" model remains the "practical ideal" for the time being. Given the nation's history of political volatility, placing the police under a ministry could lead to "fragmented loyalty," where the police might be pressured to serve a political party rather than the state. Therefore, the ideal for Indonesia might not be a change in location, but rather a strengthening of the middle ground. This would involve empowering Kompolnas to have investigative "teeth" and ensuring the DPR has more transparent access to police accountability reports. In this view, the "who" (President or Minister) matters less than the "how" (the strength of the independent checks and balances).

Regarding the Ministerial Ideal, this model is best suited for stable democracies that possess a neutral civil service and a robust judicial system. Its primary benefit lies in providing clear administrative accountability; because a minister is responsible for the police, the public and Parliament have a specific individual who can be questioned on matters of budgeting, equipment, and policy. However, for this to function correctly, the model requires strong "Operational Independence" laws to ensure that while the minister manages the bureaucracy, they cannot interfere with active criminal investigations.

In contrast, the Presidential Ideal, which mirrors Indonesia’s current structure, is often preferred by nations in transition or those requiring high levels of state unity. The main advantage of this setup is the direct protection of national stability, as the police serve as a singular instrument of the state under the Head of State, rather than being divided by ministerial politics. For this model to remain democratic and effective, it necessitates the existence of strong independent oversight bodies, such as a powerful police commission, to prevent the concentration of too much power within the executive branch.

Improving the Indonesian National Police involves addressing deep-seated cultural, structural, and procedural issues that go beyond its mere position in the government hierarchy.

The most pressing area for reform is the enhancement of internal integrity and the eradication of corruption, which requires a more robust and transparent disciplinary system. Currently, the Internal Affairs Division (Propam) often faces public scepticism regarding its impartiality; therefore, establishing an independent oversight body with the legal authority to conduct binding investigations—similar to the British IOPC—is essential. Secondly, there is a significant need to transition from a militaristic culture to a genuine community policing model. This involves reforming the recruitment and training processes to prioritise human rights, de-escalation techniques, and public service over the traditional "command and control" mentality inherited from the New Order.

Furthermore, the politicisation of high-ranking appointments must be addressed to ensure that promotions are based on meritocracy rather than political loyalty or proximity to power. This could be achieved by giving a body like Kompolnas more substantial "vetting" powers that the President or Parliament cannot easily ignore. Finally, the modernisation of data management and digital forensics is crucial to improving the speed and quality of law enforcement. By digitising public reports and investigation progress, Polri could provide higher levels of transparency to citizens, allowing them to track their cases online and reducing the opportunities for "backdoor" negotiations or administrative delays.

Ultimately, the debate over whether the Indonesian National Police should remain under the President or transition to a ministry is a reflection of the nation's ongoing democratic maturity. While a ministerial model offers the allure of streamlined administrative oversight and greater parliamentary transparency, the ghost of political interference remains a formidable deterrent. The "ideal" solution may not lie in a simple change of hierarchy, but in the rigorous strengthening of independent "buffer" institutions that can hold the police accountable regardless of who signs their paycheques. Whether Polri remains a direct instrument of the Head of State or becomes a ministerial department, the ultimate priority must be the transition from a force that guards the state to a service that protects the citizen.

[Bahasa]