Imagine a forty-year-old mother living in a small town in Java. Since childhood, she has dreamed of making the pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Year after year, she saves, setting aside a little from whatever she can spare. In 2010, she walked proudly into the Ministry of Religious Affairs, completed the paperwork, and paid her registration deposit. The clerk smiles and says:
"You are now on the waiting list, Ibu. You will be called when your turn arrives."
She goes home relieved. She has registered. She is one step closer to the Kabah. What she cannot possibly imagine is that her turn will not arrive for twenty-six years. She will embark on the hajj when she is sixty-six—assuming God has kept her in good health.
This is the lived reality of Indonesia’s hajj system today. And it is precisely this reality that is convulsing public debate—from street-corner warungs to parliamentary committee rooms, from social media timelines to the corridors of the Corruption Eradication Commission.
The Long Story of Hajj Funds, War Tickets, and the Sleeping Giant
Part I: Simpler Times, Harder Truths — Was It Really Better Before?
Before the Waiting List: The Era of “First Come, First Served”
A claim has been circulating widely on Indonesian social media: that during the New Order era—the thirty-two-year rule of President Suharto, from 1966 to 1998—there was no such thing as a hajj queue. Anyone who wished to make the pilgrimage simply registered, paid, and departed. As straightforward as that.
The claim contains a kernel of truth, but it requires careful unpacking lest it mislead.
It is correct that during the New Order, there was no long-term waiting list of the kind that exists today. The system then resembled what is now being floated as the “war ticket” model: each year, the government announced Indonesia’s quota, published the cost, and opened registration for a fixed period. Whoever had the means and registered promptly within that window sailed off that same year.
Yet—and this is the point that tends to be forgotten—the absence of a waiting list did not mean the absence of problems. Historical records show that even during the New Order, complaints about poor hajj services, opaque financial management, and the suspected diversion of hajj funds for non-pilgrimage purposes were commonplace. Criticism of the Ministry of Religious Affairs over corruption in the hajj sector surfaced as early as the 1990s.
The picture of “New Order = smooth, trouble-free hajj” is, therefore, a myth. What is true is that the system then did not produce decade-long queues—but it harboured its own equally serious failings.
It is worth acknowledging that there is one objective advantage to the New Order era, namely that there was no waiting list stretching to several decades, as the system in place at the time allowed those who could afford it to depart for the pilgrimage in the same year they registered. This is an undeniable strength of that period, and it largely explains why so many people look back on it with a sense of nostalgia.
What is often forgotten, however, is that the New Order era was beset by its own serious problems. For instance, corruption in the management of pilgrimage funds had existed since the New Order period and was, in fact, far more difficult to detect back then. In that era, there was no Corruption Eradication Commission (KPK), no free press daring to expose wrongdoing, and no anti-corruption NGOs that could speak as freely as Indonesia Corruption Watch (ICW) does today; the corruption that took place was far more opaque, but that does not mean it was absent. Criticism of the Ministry of Religious Affairs’ management of pilgrimage funds had already appeared in the media as early as the mid-1990s, even under a repressive climate where voicing criticism against the government could lead to detention. In other words, it was not that problems did not exist, but rather that no one dared – or was able – to report them.
Furthermore, access to the pilgrimage was structurally very unequal during the New Order. The principle of ‘first come, first served’ sounded simple and fair, but in practice it greatly favoured those with connections, those living in large cities, and those with quicker access to information. Farmers in remote areas of East Nusa Tenggara or Papua often never knew when registration opened, let alone had the chance to register on time. Those with access to bureaucratic networks – including civil servants, military personnel and people close to officials – found it much easier to secure a place, representing a form of injustice that was more hidden yet no less real.
In addition, the state monopoly was far more total during the New Order. The state controlled the entire organisation of the pilgrimage without any meaningful public oversight, with no independent audits, no effective supervisory committee from the People’s Representative Council (DPR), and no civil society that could question financial reports. Pilgrimage funds went into an opaque treasury and were managed entirely by a bureaucracy that could not be held publicly accountable.
The case of the Al-Ikhlas Foundation also serves as a reminder that serious problems existed well before the reform era. One of the main reasons the New Order government completely took over the organisation of the pilgrimage in 1969 was a major scandal: the Al-Ikhlas Foundation failed to dispatch 850 pilgrims because its funds turned out to be worthless cheques. This proves that serious issues in pilgrimage management had already been present long before the Reformasi period.
Moreover, poor service quality – including inadequate accommodation, insufficient catering and chaotic transport – was already a chronic problem during the New Order, but with little accountability. The key difference is that pilgrims who complained under the New Order had very few channels through which to voice their grievances, whereas in the Reformasi era, the same problems became headline news precisely because press freedom exists.
In conclusion, the claim that pilgrimage problems under the New Order were ‘less serious’ than those of the Reformasi era contains a common confirmation bias: we tend to judge the past as better because its problems were hidden, while present-day problems appear larger because they are more visible and widely discussed. A historian would argue that the problems under the New Order were equally serious, only quieter; unseen corruption is not the same as non-existent corruption, and injustice that no one dares to report is not the same as injustice that never occurred. What is genuinely different is the scale – a 26-year waiting list is indeed a far larger quantitative problem, but it was born not from a failed Reformasi, but from Reformasi’s success in creating a more equitable system, which then collided with the reality that Saudi Arabia’s quota has never been large enough to accommodate everyone who finally feels they have an equal right to register.
The Turning Point: Reformasi and the Birth of a New System
When Suharto fell in 1998, and Indonesia entered the Reformasi era, the spirit of transformation swept through every sector—including hajj administration. Citizens demanded transparency. Law No. 17 of 1999 provided the first proper legal framework for hajj organisation in the new democratic age.
Yet one consequence went largely unforeseen: demand for the hajj simply exploded. The economy grew, the Muslim middle class expanded, and access to information improved. Millions of people who had never seriously considered registering—partly because the old system offered no guarantee of when, or indeed whether, their turn would come—now queued in their droves, drawn by the promise of a numbered place in an orderly, transparent list.
A formal waiting-list system based on registration order began to take shape around 2005, and was given statutory force by Law No. 13 of 2008. The principle was egalitarian and appealing: whoever registered earliest would depart earliest, regardless of wealth or connections. Everyone would eventually get there.
The trouble was that Saudi Arabia’s annual quota for Indonesia did not grow nearly fast enough to absorb the torrent of new registrants. The result was a catastrophic lengthening of the queue—year upon year, decade upon decade.
The Numbers That Take Your Breath Away
Today, there are roughly 5.7 million people on Indonesia’s hajj waiting list. The national average waiting time stands at 26.4 years. Certain provinces have recorded waiting times of up to forty-seven years—nearly half a century. A twenty-year-old who registers today might not set foot in Mecca until he is almost seventy.
The administration of President Prabowo Subianto has, since late 2024, taken steps to address this injustice. One significant measure is the standardisation of waiting times across all provinces at a maximum of twenty-six years—ending the scandalous disparity between regions where the queue stretched to forty-seven years in one province and a mere eleven in another.
This is a step in the right direction. Yet twenty-six years is still a very long time to wait for an act of worship. (Quoting President Prabowo's remarks in one of his speeches.)
Part II: The War Ticket—Solution or Fresh Trap?
What Exactly Is a “War Ticket”?
In early April 2026, the Minister of Hajj and Umrah, Mochamad Irfan Yusuf, floated a proposal that immediately set off a wave of reactions across the country: what if the waiting-list system were abolished altogether and replaced with a “war ticket” mechanism — open registration, available to anyone who is financially and physically ready, with no queue stretching into the following decade?
The term “war ticket” draws on the now-familiar phenomenon of fans scrambling online for concert tickets: a limited allocation released simultaneously to all comers, with success going to whoever is quickest off the mark.
In the hajj context, the mechanics would work roughly as follows: each year the government announces the available quota and the full cost of the pilgrimage. Registration opens for a set period. Whoever registers and pays first secures a place for that very year. No registration number, no decades-long wait.
This is not, in fact, a new idea. It is essentially a return to the system that operated before the Hajj Financial Management Agency (BPKH) was established in 2017—and in many respects it mirrors the New Order model discussed in Part I.
Why Has This Proposal Emerged Now?
Several pressures have converged to bring the war-ticket notion back to the surface.
First, there is a profound unease about the distortion of the pilgrimage’s spiritual meaning. In Islamic jurisprudence, the condition for the hajj to be obligatory is istithaah—capability: physical, financial, and mental readiness. The waiting-list system creates a painful contradiction: a person registers when young and able, yet departs—if at all—when elderly and possibly infirm. At that point, can she truly be said to be ‘capable’ in any meaningful sense of the word?
Second, there is a looming demographic and financial challenge. Saudi Arabia is targeting a capacity for five million pilgrims worldwide by around 2030—nearly ten times Indonesia’s current quota. Should Indonesia’s annual allocation rise to half a million, the existing investment model under BPKH will struggle to subsidise every pilgrim. New financing arrangements will be needed.
Third, proponents of war tickets argue for simplicity. A direct registration system strips away layers of bureaucracy, eliminates the complexity of managing funds for decades before departure, and makes the process more transparent: you pay, you get a place, you go.
Why Are So Many People Opposed?
Despite these arguments, public reaction has been overwhelmingly critical. Why?
Most fundamentally, the war-ticket model transforms access to worship from a right guaranteed by equal queuing into a right determined by speed and wealth. Under the current waiting-list system, a Javanese farmer who has been saving for fifteen years holds an equal claim to a place as a wealthy city businessman—their position in the queue is identical in principle. Under war tickets, victory goes to whoever has the fastest device, the best broadband connection, and the most immediately liquid funds.
Second, there is the acute injustice to the 5.7 million people already in the queue. Many have been waiting ten, fifteen, or twenty years. A grandmother who, under the present system, is due to depart in two years—what happens to her if the system is suddenly reset? Does she have to compete from scratch against a generation of younger, faster applicants?
Third, there is the digital divide. Indonesia still has tens of millions of citizens without reliable internet access or the digital literacy to navigate an online ticketing rush. Older Indonesians—the very demographic most likely to be seeking the hajj—are the least equipped to compete in such a system.
Fourth—and of greatest relevance to the corruption discussed in the next section—war tickets would create new and far harder-to-monitor opportunities for touting, brokerage, and institutional manipulation.
"The hajj is an answer to a divine calling, not a race to click the fastest. If war tickets were introduced, victory would go to those with the slickest gadget, the fastest broadband, and the readiest cash."
— Member of Parliamentary Commission VIII, Atalia Praratya
The government has since clarified that war tickets remain no more than a discussion piece, not a firm policy. But the very fact that the proposal was aired at the ministerial level has been enough to shake a public trust that was already badly frayed.
Part III: Behind the Queue—Corruption That Returns Like the Seasons
Not a Hypothetical Fear
When Indonesians worry that changes to the hajj system might open fresh avenues for corruption, they are not speculating. They are reading a pattern that history has recorded with painful clarity.
Three Ministers of Religious Affairs—the minister who, among other responsibilities, oversees the hajj—have been embroiled in serious corruption cases:
Said Agil Husin Al Munawar (Minister 2001–2004): Convicted of embezzling Rp275.9 billion from the Endowment Fund for the Ummah. Sentenced to five years’ imprisonment in 2006.
Suryadharma Ali (Minister 2009–2014): Convicted of abusing his office in hajj administration — dispatching 1,771 ‘sponsored’ pilgrims outside proper procedure (including favourites of parliamentary members), appointing unqualified family members and personal staff as official hajj personnel, and inflating the costs of catering, accommodation, and transport. Sentenced to six years, increased to ten years on appeal.
Yaqut Cholil Qoumas (Minister 2020–2024): Remanded in custody by the Corruption Eradication Commission (KPK) in March 2026 in connection with the hajj quota corruption case of 2023–2024. State losses: Rp622 billion.
Three ministers, three cases, three different eras. The same pattern: authority over quota allocation and financial management becomes a private revenue stream.
How Quota Corruption Works
The Yaqut case is the most recent and the most nakedly mechanical in its operation. It begins with good news: in 2023 and 2024, Indonesia received additional hajj quotas from Saudi Arabia—8,000 and 20,000 places respectively—under the government of President Jokowi and the public is wondering why the latter has never been investigated. These additional places should have gone directly to shorten the queue for ordinary, long-waiting pilgrims.
What happened instead was extraordinary. Under existing law, hajj quotas are allocated 92 per cent to regular hajj (ordinary citizens on the waiting list) and 8 per cent to special hajj (premium-class pilgrimages operated by private travel agencies). Yet Minister Yaqut signed a decree splitting the additional quota fifty–fifty—half for regular, half for special hajj.
The KPK’s investigation revealed that private hajj travel operators had intensively lobbied officials at the Ministry. Knowing that an 8 per cent share would yield only modest profits, they approached senior officials and negotiated a far larger slice. The 50–50 split emerged from those back-channel conversations and was then formalised by ministerial decree.
The price of this ‘acceleration’? KPK investigators found a flow of fees amounting to USD 5,000 per pilgrim—an unofficial tariff for smoothing the allocation of special-quota places outside the normal process.
The human cost: 8,400 regular-queue pilgrims who should have departed in 2024 were displaced because the quota that rightfully belonged to them was redirected to commercial operators. Their wait grew by a further year—not through any fault of their own, but through corruption.
This case matters because it illustrates that corruption in the hajj sector is not merely the theft of money. It is the theft of the opportunity to worship, taken from people who have waited patiently and honestly.
Touting: From Street-Level Brokers to Institutional Manipulation
Alongside institutional corruption, there is the more everyday problem of touting—and this would become dramatically worse under any war-ticket system.
In the current waiting-list framework, registration numbers are transparent and auditable: first in line departs first, and the order can be checked publicly. It is imperfect, but there is a relatively clear line of accountability.
In a war-ticket system, success depends on speed of access, speed of payment, and—most dangerously—the possibility of prior access to information before registration opens to the general public. This is fertile ground for digital touting: services offering to ‘click faster’ on behalf of clients, insiders selling advance notice of when registration will open, and agents claiming special back-door connections to the booking system.
Indonesians have already witnessed precisely this phenomenon in online concert-ticket sales, COVID vaccine queues, and competitive school admissions. Every time a scarce resource is released simultaneously online, an entire ecosystem of brokers emerges to exploit the gap. In the context of hajj, with a quota of 200,000 places per year and millions of would-be pilgrims, the scale of touting that might emerge is deeply alarming.
Part IV: Funds of the Ummah—A Giant Best Not Woken Carelessly
What Are ‘Funds of the Ummah’?
To understand the controversy that has gripped Indonesian public discourse since early April 2026, one must first understand what is meant by dana umat—the ‘funds of the ummah’ (the Muslim community).
These are not a single pot of money. They constitute a vast ecosystem of religious financial flows from Indonesian society, some obligatory in Islamic law, others entirely voluntary:
Zakat: the obligatory annual tithe of 2.5 per cent on qualifying wealth. Its potential in Indonesia is estimated at Rp320 trillion per year—yet BAZNAS, the national zakat body, collects only around Rp41 trillion annually. More than Rp279 trillion a year remains uncollected, held privately by those who have not channelled it through any formal institution.
Waqf (endowment): assets—land, buildings, or cash—permanently donated for community benefit. Annual potential: an estimated Rp178 trillion.
Infaq and sadaqah: voluntary charitable giving, vast in aggregate but difficult to quantify precisely.
Hajj deposits: the registration payments of millions of would-be pilgrims, managed by BPKH. Total assets under management have exceeded Rp180 trillion.
And much else besides: fidyah (expiation payments for missed fasts), kifarah (penalties for certain religious transgressions), dam (the obligatory slaughter during hajj), aqiqah, qurban, and numerous other instruments of Islamic philanthropy. According to the Minister of Religious Affairs, Islam recognises at least twenty-four categories of communal fund that remain largely unoptimised.
If all these streams were harnessed and professionally managed, the Minister calculates that the combined total could reach Rp1,000 trillion per year—a figure approaching Indonesia’s entire annual tax receipts.
The LPDU Proposal: Well-Intentioned, Poorly Received
On 2 April 2026, the Minister of Religious Affairs Nasaruddin Umar announced plans to establish a Lembaga Pengelola Dana Umat (LPDU)—a Ummah Funds Management Institution. In his speech, he deployed a phrase that instantly went viral: “The potential of Indonesia’s ummah funds is like a sleeping giant. And now we shall awaken it!”
The concept is to bring together under one institutional roof all the separate bodies currently managing religious financial flows—BAZNAS (zakat), the Indonesian Waqf Board (BWI), BPKH (hajj funds), and others—thereby improving efficiency, eliminating fragmentation, and concentrating resources for poverty alleviation at scale.
To signal the government’s seriousness, the Minister also mentioned that the LPDU’s headquarters would be built at Bundaran HI—a forty-storey building—on the instruction of President Prabowo. This is the most prestigious address in central Jakarta.
On paper, the idea is not without merit. There is a genuine problem: Indonesia’s religious financial potential is enormous, but fragmented across hundreds of institutions with varying standards of governance. Integration could, in principle, bring real gains.
Yet public reaction has been overwhelmingly hostile. Why?
Five Reasons the Public Has Reacted So Sharply
1. The Trauma of Hajj Corruption
With three former Ministers of Religious Affairs convicted of—or currently facing charges for—hajj-related corruption, public confidence in the state’s ability to manage sacred funds has sunk to its lowest ebb. If Rp180 trillion of hajj money has been repeatedly plundered, what safeguards exist for Rp1,000 trillion? Social media was swift and sardonic: “They couldn’t even keep the hajj fund intact—and now they want a thousand trillion?”
2. The Threat to the Ummah’s Autonomy
Zakat, waqf, and sadaqah are not state property. They have grown organically from the voluntary faith of communities—mosques, pesantren, Islamic civil-society organisations. When the state proposes to pull all of this under a single centralised roof, many see it as an illegitimate seizure of what belongs to the ummah, not the government.
3. The Dangers of Centralisation
History offers sobering lessons. Scholars and academics pointed to the fate of Al-Azhar University in Egypt, whose waqf assets were confiscated by Napoleonic forces in 1798, triggering popular revolt. Closer to home, Indonesia’s own Dana Abadi Umat (endowment fund)—managed by the Ministry of Religious Affairs—ended with a Minister of Religion in prison. That precedent is very much alive in public memory.
4. The Constitutional Question
Leading figures from Nahdlatul Ulama, Indonesia’s largest Muslim organisation, raised a pointed constitutional objection: the state may not use communal religious funds as a substitute for its own constitutional obligations. Article 34 of the 1945 Constitution places on the state a duty to care for the poor and destitute. If poverty alleviation is funded by zakat and waqf rather than the state budget, that is not a solution—it is an evasion of state responsibility, redirected onto the shoulders of the faithful.
5. The Spiritual Dimension at Risk
This is perhaps the deepest objection of all. Zakat is not merely a financial transfer—it is an act of worship that purifies the soul of the giver (the muzaki). When the state seeks to appropriate the collection and distribution of zakat through a bureaucratic mechanism, there is a genuine risk that the spiritual dimension is lost. Zakat paid under administrative compulsion is a different thing entirely from zakat paid from sincere faith.
A Painful Precedent: The Dana Abadi Umat
It is worth recalling that this furore has historical antecedents. Before BPKH was created in 2017, the Ministry of Religious Affairs managed a fund known as the Dana Abadi Umat (DAU)—money accumulated from efficiencies in hajj spending, intended for the benefit of the Muslim community. The aims were laudable. The reality was that the fund became an informal slush fund, used for purposes far removed from its stated mission. One Minister of Religious Affairs went to prison as a direct result.
When the government now announces an LPDU targeting Rp1,000 trillion, it is entirely rational for the public to invoke the DAU. The question is no longer simply whether the idea is sound in principle, but whether Indonesia possesses the supervisory architecture robust enough to prevent history from repeating itself—at a scale many orders of magnitude larger.
Part V: The Common Thread Running Through It All
One Root, Many Branches
When one steps back and surveys the three great issues examined in this essay—the mountain of hajj backlog, the war-ticket controversy, and the upheaval over ummah funds—they share a single underlying source:
A scarce resource, coveted by many, governed by systems not yet sufficiently transparent or accountable, in a context where public trust in institutions has been eroded to dangerously thin levels.
Saudi Arabia’s quota: 221,000 places per year for more than 240 million Indonesian Muslims. Financial flows of hundreds of trillions of rupiah. Hajj travel operators with large commercial interests. Politicians who need networks and support. Officials who control allocations and decisions. This is a near-perfect recipe for corruption—and history has proved the recipe works, again and again.
Who Suffers Most?
Amid all the policy debate and institutional wrangling, one group is in constant danger of being forgotten: the millions of ordinary pilgrims who have been queuing patiently and honestly.
These are the people who saved for years from modest incomes. Who registered with eager hope. Those who check their registration number in the Ministry’s app each year, counting down how many years remain. Who must then absorb the news that their queue has slipped back by another year—not because of anything they did, but because someone with power decided their place was more profitably used elsewhere.
These are also the people who would be most vulnerable under a war-ticket system: outpaced by those with faster devices, better internet, and more liquid capital in the moments when registration opens.
And they are the people with every right to be furious when they learn that a private travel operator paid USD 5,000 per pilgrim in facilitation fees, or that a Minister of Religion despatched 1,771 sponsored pilgrims ahead of them in the queue as a favour to parliamentary cronies.
What Is Actually Needed?
From the full weight of evidence and argument surveyed in this essay, several fundamental imperatives emerge:
Radical transparency. All data on hajj funds, quota allocations, procurement contracts, and the distribution of financial benefits must be accessible to the public in real time. There must be no more decisions made behind closed doors.
Genuinely independent oversight. Not the Ministry of Religious Affairs overseeing itself, nor parliamentary committees whose members have been found to receive favoured pilgrim placements from the very minister they are supposed to scrutinise. What is needed is external oversight with no conflicts of interest.
Justice as the first principle. Whatever system—queue-based, open registration, or any hybrid—is ultimately adopted, it must be designed with fairness as its paramount value, above efficiency, investment returns, or commercial convenience. An elderly farmer on a remote island who registered twelve years ago must have the same certainty of departure as someone who registered last week.
Respect for the ummah’s autonomy. Zakat, waqf, and sadaqah belong to the ummah, not the state. The proper role of government is to facilitate, regulate, and ensure against abuse—not to seize control and centralise.
Law that genuinely deters. So long as corruption in the hajj sector yields lenient sentences, and so long as the ecosystem of collusion between travel operators and ministry officials is never truly dismantled, any change to the system will simply create new modalities of corruption. The deterrent must be credible.
Closing: An Act of Worship Is Not a Business, and Faith Is Not a Commodity
The hajj is the spiritual apex of Islam. It is not a religious tourism excursion. For tens of millions of Indonesian Muslims, it is a lifelong aspiration, a profound longing, and the most tangible expression of devotion.
When we discuss hajj queues, war tickets, and ummah funds, we are not debating an administrative technicality. We are debating how the world’s most populous Muslim nation treats the holiest aspiration of its citizens.
Is that aspiration honoured by a fair and clean system? Or is it exploited as a revenue stream for a small number of people with privileged access to the levers of power?
Twenty-six years is a very long time to wait. But what is more painful than the length of the queue is the dawning realisation that the queue can be lengthened—or shortened—by those in power, according to their own interests.
For as long as that is what happens, the problem of Indonesia’s hajj is not a technical one. It is a problem of the most fundamental morality and justice.
That sleeping giant is real enough. Its value runs into hundreds of trillions of rupiah. But it slumbers within the hearts of millions of people who have entrusted it to their state. Waking it by the wrong means is not merely dangerous—it is a betrayal of the most sacred trust that exists between a citizen and the institutions that govern her.
