Indonesia Doesn't Need the Corleone Family

The student representatives who staged a protest in Jakarta were received directly by Vice‑President Gibran on Monday, 15 June 2026, while President Prabowo was contending with a wave of demonstrations. This meeting may be viewed as a political manoeuvre, in which Gibran opened direct access to the protesting crowd. More accurately, however, it should be described as an attempt to preserve Gibran’s image and position amidst the pressure of demonstrations, rather than as a hidden threat.

The students welcomed by Gibran came from UBK (Universitas Bung Karno), UT (Universitas Terbuka), and UMh Thamrin (Universitas MH Thamrin). These institutions are not traditionally recognised as strongholds of student activism, unlike UI, UGM, Unair, or ITB. This lends the situation an unusual air: suddenly there was a protest over the MBG issue, which is typically championed by students from major universities with a robust activist base.

The presence of only fifteen participants further undermines the notion of a “large‑scale protest” deserving national attention. Stranger still, after the orator announced the agenda, the students were promptly received by Gibran in a process that appeared swift and highly structured. The meeting itself lasted an hour behind closed doors, with the media barred from entry and asked to wait outside, thereby raising concerns about transparency.

Possible interpretations include the idea that this was a “manufactured” or “co‑ordinated” protest, perhaps initiated or supported by certain parties to exert pressure on the government. Students from smaller universities may have been “steered” towards demonstrating on a specific issue. While the MBG controversy is undeniably a hot topic nationwide, which could plausibly draw in students from less activist‑oriented campuses, the circumstances remain peculiar. With such a small number of participants, the action seems more symbolic—an opportunity to gain access to Gibran—rather than a genuine attempt to destabilise the government.

Questions worth raising:

• Who actually organised the demonstration?
• Why did BEM UBK suddenly issue a 5×24‑hour ultimatum, despite its usual inactivity?
• Do these fifteen students represent a broader protest movement, or were they acting alone?
• The observation that “it seems odd for them to protest in isolation” is indeed reasonable. It suggests that this was not a purely spontaneous student movement, but rather one facilitated by a co‑ordinator or third party.

Gibran’s meeting with representatives from non‑traditional universities raised significant questions about its motives and substance. Amidst the public scrutiny surrounding this political manoeuvre, he then appeared in a video that proved equally controversial: speaking about artificial intelligence whilst stroking a cat, a gesture that immediately drew comparisons with Vito "Don" Corleone in The Godfather.

Many observers argued that the video emphasised image over substance. The act of stroking the cat rendered his political message more akin to a visual “gimmick”, with audiences more inclined to note the resemblance to Don Corleone than to listen to the content of his speech. Some even suspected that the AI discourse might serve as a potential business or commercial project, particularly should Gibran pursue the presidency.

The video can be interpreted as an attempt to project a “modern and technologically attuned” persona, yet it ultimately reinforced the impression that Gibran relies more on visual symbolism than intellectual capacity. With public doubts about his competence already widespread, the cat became a symbol that further entrenched the perception of style prevailing over substance.

A Family at the Wrong Address

Picture a dimly lit room. Velvet curtains seal off the windows, and the only light falls from a single desk lamp, trained squarely on the host’s face. In his lap sits a Persian cat, stroked slowly, in time with words delivered low and measured, as though each one were a bullet too precious to waste. “I’m going to make him an offer,” he murmurs, “he can’t refuse.”

We know this scene so well from the cinema that we forget it isn’t merely fiction. It is a mirror—and, unfortunately, that mirror sometimes hangs in rooms that ought to contain a roadmap for the people’s welfare, rather than a roadmap for one family’s grip on power.

In the world of film, the Corleones operate by their own logic: loyalty above the law, honour above truth, power handed down like an heirloom. That makes for gripping cinema. But a nation is not a crime family, and a president is not a Don bequeathing the throne to his eldest son with a murmured, “It’s not personal. It’s strictly business.”

Regrettably, some of our elites seem altogether too fond of playing the lead in their own family saga: deciding who may run, who must step aside, which projects are “safe”, and who is fit to kiss the ring before being granted their blessing. The difference is that in the film, the casualties are fictional extras. Here, the casualties are the budgets that should have built schools, clinics, and village roads.

Lighthouses That Dazzle Rather Than Guide

There is a particular species of project that always seems to spring up in election years: vast, grand, christened with an imposing name, unveiled with a red ribbon and a rousing speech. A “beacon project”, they call it—a symbol of progress. But a true lighthouse guides ships safely home; it does not blind the public to the sight of other vessels sinking under the weight of poverty, nor obscure the fact that its dazzling beam is funded from the very same purse as healthcare and education.

More damning still is the rumour that some of that light also illuminates the path to the party congress, the roadside billboards, and, naturally, the ambition to become the country’s most powerful man. The beacon project, then, is no longer about lighting the nation’s way—it is about lighting one man’s way to the throne, with the electricity bill quietly settled by the public.

 

Not the Inheritance the Founders Intended

The founding fathers did not gather in committee to draft a dynasty. In the Preamble to the 1945 Constitution—not as decorative prose, but as a solemn pledge—they wrote that this nation was established to protect the entire people, to advance the general welfare, to educate the life of the nation, and to realise social justice for all Indonesians.

Not one of those four aims reads: to ensure a particular family remains in power. No clause states: beacon projects are permissible, provided they benefit the sponsoring party. The founders bequeathed an ideal, not a signet ring to be kissed down the generations. 

Closing: Stroke the Cat, but Don’t Take the Public for Fools

There is nothing wrong with stroking a cat—it is, after all, a soothing private habit. What is wrong is when that soft-spoken, dignified delivery is used to mask a cold calculation: how many projects can be secured, how much can be funnelled into party coffers, how many steps remain to the top seat—while poverty and inequality are left as a footnote, skimmed over rather than read.

Indonesia does not need a family that speaks in gentle, veiled threats. It needs leaders who speak plainly about the price of rice, the wages of labourers, and access to healthcare in the furthest-flung villages. Not an offer that can’t be refused, but accountability that cannot be avoided.

For in the end, a great nation is not measured by the grandeur of its beacons, but by how brightly it lights the way home for those left furthest behind—without requiring anyone to kiss a ring to get there.

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