The Indonesian Constitution: For Whom the Bell Tolls (1)

In John Donne's poignant seventeenth meditation from Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions (1624), the tolling funeral bell becomes a stark metaphor for humanity's interconnected fragility, declaring that no man is an island and every death diminishes us all, a reflection born from the poet's brush with mortality. Ernest Hemingway seized this timeless resonance as the epigraph for his 1940 novel For Whom the Bell Tolls, set against the Spanish Civil War's carnage, where protagonist Robert Jordan's sacrificial bridge demolition embodies collective fate over individual survival, transforming Donne's theological solace into a visceral anti-war lament. This literary bridge—from Elizabethan prose to modernist grit—invites scrutiny of modern constitutions like Indonesia's 1945 charter: for whom does this foundational tool toll, safeguarding the people's sovereignty as proclaimed in its Pancasila preamble, or merely amplifying elite power through successive amendments?

A constitution, in the most fundamental theoretical sense, is the set of principles that gives a political community its identity, coherence, and limits. It is not merely a document but a conceptual framework that determines how power is acquired, exercised, and restrained within a society. Political theorists often describe a constitution as the moral and structural foundation upon which the authority of the state rests, shaping the relationship between rulers and the ruled. At its core, a constitution expresses the collective agreement—explicit or implicit—about what a political order should protect, how it should function, and what values it should uphold. It stands as both an enabling force that grants institutions the legitimacy to act, and a restraining force that prevents them from acting arbitrarily. In this sense, a constitution is simultaneously a blueprint, a boundary, and a reflection of a society’s deepest convictions about justice, authority, and the common good.

Modern Constitutions by K.C. Wheare is a classic and influential book on constitutional law that seeks to explain both what a constitution is and why the idea of a constitution matters in modern states. The original edition of the book was published in 1951 by Oxford University Press, and subsequent revised editions appeared through the 1960s, including a notable second edition in 1966 also from Oxford University Press.

Wheare begins by defining what a constitution actually is. He explains that in its broadest sense, a constitution refers to the entire system of government in a state — the total collection of rules, practices, conventions, and laws by which the governing authority is organised and exercised. In a narrower sense, he notes that the constitution can mean specifically the legal rules that are usually written down in a single document or a closely related set of documents. These foundational discussions show that Wheare is not merely cataloguing existing constitutions, but rather setting out conceptually why constitutional arrangements are fundamental to modern political life.

Wheare’s work goes further to explain that the constitution’s purpose is to structure and regulate political power in a way that a society recognises as legitimate. He emphasises that a constitution should contain at least certain minimum essential elements — especially the rule of law — and that by establishing the basic organisation of authority and the relationships between institutions and citizens, a constitution helps to secure order, accountability, and continuity in governance. Such arguments underscore not only what constitutions are, but also why they are necessary for stable and modern governance.

According to Wheare, a constitution is required for stable and modern government because it provides a recognised and authoritative framework within which political power is organised, limited, and exercised. Wheare argues that without a constitution, government would rely excessively on personal authority, temporary arrangements, or arbitrary decisions, all of which undermine long-term stability and public confidence.

Wheare explains that a modern state inevitably involves complex institutions, such as legislatures, executives, courts, and administrative bodies, whose powers must be clearly defined and coordinated. A constitution performs this task by setting out the structure of government and the relationships between its organs, thereby reducing uncertainty and conflict. In this sense, constitutional rules make government predictable, which is essential for political stability in modern societies.

He further maintains that a constitution is necessary to ensure that power is exercised according to the rule of law rather than personal will. By establishing legal limits on authority and procedures for decision-making, the constitution helps prevent the concentration and abuse of power. For Wheare, this legal restraint is not merely moral or symbolic, but a practical requirement for maintaining order and legitimacy in a modern political system.

Wheare also emphasises that constitutions provide continuity in government despite changes in leaders or political majorities. In modern states, political change is inevitable, but constitutional rules ensure that such change occurs within an accepted framework. This continuity allows citizens to trust that the government will remain stable even when policies or office-holders change.

Finally, Wheare sees the constitution as a foundation for political consent. Because a constitution defines how authority is gained, exercised, and transferred, it enables citizens to understand and accept the system of government under which they live. For Wheare, this shared acceptance explains why constitutions are indispensable to stable and modern governance.

In theoretical terms, a law, or statute, is a formal expression of political authority that translates abstract constitutional principles into concrete rules governing social life. It represents the mechanism through which the state operationalises its power, turning general values and goals into enforceable norms. Legal theorists often understand law as a bridge between political will and everyday conduct, mediating between what a society aspires to and how its members are expected to behave. Unlike the constitution, which defines the architecture of power, legislation works within that architecture to address specific problems, regulate particular fields, and respond to changing social conditions. A law therefore, embodies both authority and contingency: it carries the force of the state, yet remains open to revision, debate, and repeal as political priorities and social realities evolve.

The difference between a constitution and ordinary legislation lies primarily in their level of authority, purpose, and permanence within a legal system. A constitution functions as the supreme legal framework of a political community, establishing the basic structure of the state, defining the distribution of powers, and articulating the fundamental rights that limit governmental authority. Ordinary laws, by contrast, operate within the boundaries set by the constitution and are designed to regulate specific matters of policy, administration, or social conduct. While legislation can be amended, replaced, or repealed through routine political procedures, a constitution is intentionally more difficult to change, reflecting its role as a long-term expression of a society’s foundational values. In theoretical terms, legislation answers the question of how the state acts in particular situations, whereas the constitution answers the deeper question of why the state may act at all.

Laws, or undang-undang in the Indonesian context, fundamentally exist to maintain social order, establish standards of acceptable behaviour, resolve disputes, and protect individual rights and liberties within a society. They serve as a binding framework created primarily by legislative bodies, such as parliaments or the Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat (DPR) in Indonesia in collaboration with the executive branch like the President, to regulate conduct, ensure justice, and facilitate harmonious coexistence among citizens, government, and private entities. Ultimately, laws embody societal values and evolve to address collective needs, acting not just as rules but as instruments for achieving broader goals like equity and stability.

Laws in human societies originated from unwritten customs and traditions that emerged millennia ago to regulate communal life, resolve conflicts, and uphold moral order, predating formal codification by thousands of years in civilisations such as ancient Sumeria around 2100 BC with the Code of Ur-Nammu. In the Indonesian archipelago, these unwritten laws manifested as hukum adat, deeply rooted in pre-Hindu eras through ancestral practices, kinship ties, and local rituals that communities observed organically to foster harmony and reciprocity long before external influences arrived. Written laws arose later, influenced by Hindu-Buddhist kingdoms from the 5th century AD, Islamic sultanates in the 13th century, and colonial impositions, but in modern Indonesia, they crystallised with the formation of the Undang-Undang Dasar 1945, drafted by the BPUPKI from May to July 1945 amid the push for independence from Japanese occupation, and formally promulgated by the PPKI on 18 August 1945 to establish a sovereign constitutional framework.

The 1945 Constitution of Indonesia emerged from a confluence of intense social and political pressures during the final stages of World War II, driven primarily by the urgent quest for national independence amid the collapse of Japanese colonial rule. Socially, decades of Dutch exploitation had fostered widespread resentment among Indonesia's diverse ethnic groups, fuelling a burgeoning nationalist consciousness that transcended regional divides and unified intellectuals, youth movements, and traditional elites around shared aspirations for self-determination and social justice. Politically, the Japanese occupation from 1942 to 1945 created a power vacuum after their surrender in August 1945, prompting leaders like Sukarno and Hatta to accelerate constitutional drafting through bodies such as the BPUPKI, as the Allied forces threatened reimposition of colonial control and revolutionary fervour risked descending into anarchy without a unifying legal framework.

These factors necessitated a concise document embodying Pancasila as the ideological core, balancing unitary statehood with democratic ideals to consolidate disparate social forces and legitimise the republic against external challenges.

If we read the 1945 Constitution through the eyes of a “+56 netizen” who has just finished binge-watching political drama on Twitter, the message is actually crystal clear. The Constitution is essentially saying: “Dear government, your job is not merely cutting ribbons, posting smiling photos on Instagram, or inventing catchy three-word slogans. Your task is heavy, my dear—like a thesis that never quite gets finished.”

The Preamble of the 1945 Constitution sets the tone from the very beginning: the state is obliged to protect the entire Indonesian nation and all its territory. In netizen language, this means not only looking after those who happen to be in the extended family WhatsApp groups of officials, but also protecting those who are flooded out every year, suddenly laid off from work, or targeted by petty crackdowns. Protection must not be selective; it is not “those who pay taxes get protection, those who protest get ignored.”

Then comes the mandate to advance the general welfare. This means the state must ensure that people live decently, not like kites blown about by the wind. It certainly does not mean “general welfare, but the oligarchs go first, the people can wait.” This constitutional mandate ought to make officials think twice before signing projects whose benefits are unclear, while the instalments are conveniently charged to the public.

The next mandate is to educate the nation. This does not mean holding endless speech contests and ceremonial seminars every month. “Educating the nation” means affordable education, dignified livelihoods for teachers, children not having to borrow money just to buy school uniforms, and internet access that does not collapse every time the clouds gather. After all, how can a nation be intelligent if even its Wi-Fi is insecure?

The Constitution also requires the state to participate in creating a world order based on freedom, lasting peace, and social justice. In other words, it is not enough to be visibly active at international conferences, smiling for the cameras. The state must also stand firmly in defence of the oppressed, rather than obsessing over finding the most flattering photographic angle.

When we move into the articles themselves, Indonesia is defined as a state governed by law, not a state governed by “we know each other anyway.” This means that officials are also subject to the law, not only ordinary citizens without connections at the top. If the rule of law were genuinely applied, there would be no more phrases like, “Anyone can be investigated… except this one, and this one, and that one.” Simply put, if the law were a train, everyone would have to buy a ticket—there would be no VIP carriage.

The Constitution also declares that natural resources must be managed for the greatest prosperity of the people. Yet in pop-culture reality, this often sounds more like: “Forests for the people, but first let us check which family company those people belong to.” The 1945 Constitution is not fan fiction; it is a binding contract. When it says “for the prosperity of the people,” it means real people, not “the people as defined in a board meeting.”

There is more still: the state is obliged to care for the poor and neglected children. This means the state is not allowed to turn poverty into content for vlogs and then walk away without solutions. The Constitution never says, “The poor must be cared for… if there is any budget left.” There is no such footnote.

And of course, the people have the right to a good and healthy environment. In pop-culture terms, the state must not pretend not to notice when mountains are shaved bald, rivers turn chocolate brown, or the air begins to smell like “fried snacks with a hint of pollution.” The environment is not an optional downloadable add-on; it is a core feature of the game of life.

Finally, the relationship between the state and the people resembles that between an idol and their fans. The fans have paid, supported, and remained loyal; all that remains is for the idol not to betray them. The Constitution has already written the script: protect the people, ensure their welfare, educate them, uphold justice, avoid corruption, avoid nepotism, and do not play games. Follow the script and the state may trend positively. Ignore it, and be prepared for savage reviews from 280 million critics.

In other words, the Constitution has already provided a complete tutorial. The problem is not the tutorial itself—it is who actually reads it, and who chooses to skip the introduction.

[Part 2]

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