The recent escalation of tensions around Iran and the Strait of Hormuz is often framed as a geopolitical risk for oil markets. But for Indonesia, it is better understood as a stress test of structural exposure, unveiling the need to move away from coal dependence and treat decarbonization as a key to maintain industrial competitiveness. Let me explain:

Indonesia has long wrestled with a quiet yet consequential problem: premature deindustrialization. Manufacturing peaked early, way before the country could fully capture the productivity gains typically associated with industrial transformation. Data show Indonesia’s manufacturing share at about 19 percent of GDP in 2024, down from a historical peak of 32 percent in the early 2000s.

In recent years, the government has responded with a renewed ambition, placing downstreaming at the center of its economic strategy. Indonesia aims to move up the value chain and reclaim industrial momentum by prioritizing strategic sectors, including fisheries, agriculture, energy, and mineral-based industries. The scale is significant. Government estimates suggest that downstreaming initiatives could mobilize close to Rp 600 trillion (~US$ 35 billion) in planned investment, positioning Indonesia as a key node in global supply chains linked to the energy transition.

But as I reflect on this strategy, I find myself returning to a critical tension that is often left unspoken: while downstreaming is framed as a forward-looking industrial policy, its energy foundation remains firmly rooted in fossil fuels.

Much of Indonesia’s mineral processing industries, particularly nickel, is powered by captive coal plants, built specifically to supply industrial operations. The data is striking: captive coal capacity has expanded rapidly in recent years, reaching around 30 GW when including projects in development, with nickel smelters alone accounting for a significant share. In effect, coal is embedded in the very architecture of Indonesia’s industrial strategy.

This matters because energy is an important determinant of competitiveness. If the industries Indonesia is betting on are structurally tied to carbon-intensive energy, then fossil fuel dependence is more than an environmental issue. It is shaping the future viability of those industries.

This is where events far beyond Indonesia’s borders suddenly become relevant.

The Strait of Hormuz carries roughly 20 million barrels of oil per day (about a quarter of global seaborne oil trade) and nearly 20 percent of global LNG flows. Around 80 percent of that oil is destined for Asia. Any disruption, even temporary, sends shockwaves through global prices.

Indonesia may not import all its oil directly from the Middle East, but it does not need to. As a net oil importer, Indonesia is exposed primarily through prices, not routes. And those price shocks have real consequences. A research shows that a 10 percent increase in global oil prices can lead to roughly a 3 to 4 percent increase in Indonesia’s consumer price index (CPI) over time. The transmission mechanisms are well understood: higher subsidy burdens, adjustments in administered fuel prices, rising transport costs, and broader inflation expectations.

The fiscal implications are equally significant. Estimates suggest that even a modest US$ 1 increase in oil prices can add about Rp 7 trillion to Indonesia’s fiscal burden, once subsidy and compensation mechanisms are taken into account. In other words, oil price volatility is not just an abstract risk anymore. It directly affects Indonesia’s budget, inflation, and macroeconomic stability.

What strikes me is how this intersects with Indonesia’s long-standing policy approach.

For decades, energy policy has been anchored in a simple logic: affordability supports growth. Fuel subsidies, price controls, and compensation mechanisms have been used to shield consumers and industries from global volatility. This has delivered short-term stability, but it has also entrenched a deeper vulnerability. When affordability depends on global fossil fuel prices, stability becomes contingent on forces outside Indonesia’s control.

The lesson from Hormuz, then, is not that Indonesia needs to secure more fossil fuel supply. It is that fossil fuel dependence itself is the source of insecurity.

This raises a more fundamental question: if not cheap fossil fuel, what should underpin Indonesia’s growth?

Here, international experience offers useful contrasts. Malaysia, for instance, has historically relied on subsidies to maintain affordable energy. While effective in the short term, this approach has imposed persistent fiscal costs and required repeated reforms. China, on the other hand, has pursued a different trajectory. Over the past two decades, it has systematically invested in energy efficiency, electrification, and industrial upgrading, enabling economic growth to increasingly decouple from energy consumption growth.

For Indonesia, the implication is not to abandon affordability, but to redefine how affordability is achieved. Stable, predictable, and increasingly domestic sources of energy, particularly from renewables, offer a more durable foundation than imported fossil fuels subjected to geopolitical risk.

This is where decarbonization takes on a different meaning.

Too often, decarbonization is framed narrowly as a climate agenda. But in the context of Indonesia’s current trajectory, decarbonization is fundamentally about industrial competitiveness. If downstreaming continues to rely on coal-based power, Indonesia risks locking itself into a high-carbon production model just as global markets shift toward low-carbon supply chains. Investors, buyers, and regulators are increasingly sensitive to the carbon intensity of production. What is competitive today may not be competitive tomorrow.

At the same time, the opportunity is equally clear. There is growing evidence that renewable energy can support the next wave of economic growth, particularly when combined with efficiency improvements. Energy efficiency alone is estimated to deliver returns of three to five times the initial investment, while reducing overall system costs.

For industrial sectors, this translates into lower operating costs, greater resilience to price shocks, and improved market positioning.

In practical terms, this means Indonesia’s industrial policy must evolve. Downstreaming should focus beyond scaling production towards transforming the energy systems that power it. Reducing reliance on captive coal, integrating renewable energy into industrial zones, and prioritizing efficiency are not peripheral adjustments anymore. These efforts are central to ensuring that Indonesia’s industrial strategy remains viable in a changing global landscape.

As I think about the implications of the Iran crisis, I do not see it as an isolated geopolitical event. I see it as a signal that reinforces a broader pattern we have witnessed repeatedly. Fossil fuel dependence exposes countries to risks that are increasingly difficult to manage, whether through fiscal policy, subsidies, or market interventions.

For Indonesia, the response should not be reactive. It should be strategic. Decoupling from fossil fuels, particularly oil, will reduce exposure to external shocks. Investing in clean, reliable, and efficient energy systems will strengthen industrial competitiveness. And doing so while maintaining Indonesia’s non-bloc foreign policy stance will preserve the country’s strategic autonomy in an increasingly fragmented world.

In the end, the question is not whether Indonesia can afford to decarbonize.

It is whether Indonesia can afford not to.

Because in a world shaped by both energy transition and geopolitical uncertainty, the countries that succeed will not be those that simply extract resources but those that build resilient systems around them.

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Making amends with tense geopolitical realities

Pertalite fuel is still Rp 10,000 per liter today. The price will stay like this at least until Eid comes. At the pump, nothing appears to have changed. What has changed is everything behind it.

Since the Iran conflict escalated, oil prices have become deeply volatile. Brent oil surged past US$100 a barrel for the first time since Russia’s 2022 invasion of Ukraine, briefly touching US$119 before pulling back as markets processed mixed signals from Washington about the conflict’s duration.

As a result, the state budget absorbs a net Rp 6.7 trillion for every dollar oil climbs above the government’s own benchmark. Every dollar rise in the Indonesian Crude Price adds Rp 10.3 trillion in subsidy expenditure while generating only Rp 3.6 trillion in additional revenue. The net loss is Rp 6.7 trillion per dollar, based on the figures from the Coordinating Ministry for Economic Affairs.

Indonesia has budgeted Rp 210.1 trillion for energy subsidies in 2026, up from Rp 203.41 trillion the previous year. That allocation represents more than a quarter of the entire national education budget, an inversion of priorities worth sitting with.

At the same time, Indonesia still consumes 1.6 million barrels of oil per day, while producing less than half of the consumption. The consumption gap is now filled with imports. Of all petroleum imports, gasoline alone accounts for 45 percent, which is heavily subsidized.

The subsidy structure compounds the problem further. Designed to protect low-income families, such as the online ride-hailing driver or the factory worker commuting by motorcycle, the subsidy instead disproportionately benefits upper-income households who own cars and consume more fuel in absolute volume. Redirecting even a fraction of that allocation toward incentives for lower-income households would reach the commuters the subsidy was originally designed to protect.

Indonesia became a net oil importer in 2004 and formally left the Organization of the Petroleum Exporting Countries (OPEC) in 2008. For decades, every major oil shock has produced similar measures: subsidies, absorption, and monitoring. From the 2008 shock to the Ukraine conflict in 2022, the response was always the same: hold the price and absorb the cost.

Today’s geopolitical escalation, however, is different in degree. Oil prices surged 35 percent in a single week, the largest weekly gain for U.S. crude futures in the history of the contract dating back to 1983. Indonesia’s 2026 state budget assumed oil at US$70 per barrel. It is already trading above that, with no solution to the conflict in sight.

Furthermore, the fiscal burden has not come in one dimension. A waning rupiah means more pressure on the state budget. These two vulnerabilities reinforce each other, and neither resolves without structural intervention from the government.

An electric solution to the structural gap

There is a structural exit from this exposure. Indonesia has already partially built it: transport electrification.

In Indonesia, the transport sector accounts for 36% of energy demand. A huge part of it is consumed by two-wheelers, which comprise more than 130 million registered vehicles as of now. Almost every household now owns at least one motorcycle.

Each gasoline motorcycle, averaging 30 to 40 kilometers of daily commuting, consumes roughly one liter of gasoline per day. A significant part of it is imported, globally priced, and exposed to whatever happens next in the Strait of Hormuz.

Given that dependency, electric two-wheelers offer a structural alternative. At current tariffs and oil prices, electric motorcycles carry up to 72percent lower total cost of ownership (TCO) over five years compared to gasoline motorcycles.

For lower-income households running on tight margins, that operational saving is not abstract. It is money that stays in the household rather than going to the fuel pump and straining the state budget with costly fuel subsidies. Electricity is domestically priced and, while not yet fully renewable, is structurally insulated from geopolitical disruption.

The Asian Development Bank (ADB) estimates that aggressive two-wheeler electrification, backed by consistent policy and urban mobility measures, could save Indonesia US$3.4 billion annually from reduced fuel imports and emissions costs. With the state budget under mounting pressure, those savings are a fiscal necessity.

Presidential Regulation No.55/2019 targets 13 million electric motorcycles by 2030, a framework the government actively reinforced as recently as 2023 through Presidential Regulation No.79/2023, adding new incentive mechanisms and updated provisions.

A valiant push forward for a more resilient future

The destination was never abandoned. The policy mechanism was temporarily removed. What is required now is policy consistency from all levels.

The electric passenger car market can be the ideal example. With coordinated policy on incentives, the battery electric car market share surpassed 5 percent in 2024 and reached 13 percent by 2025. A key driver was a consistent incentive policy that brought more models to market and increased price competition.

Electric two-wheelers can follow the same path even at a far greater scale with policy certainty. At a lower price point and a larger market base, the two-wheeler transition has stronger structural conditions than the car transition that already succeeded.

On the other hand, the upfront purchase price remains the clearest barrier. Sticker price parity, the stage at which an electric vehicle is equal in price to its non-electric counterpart, is not expected until around 2030, which remains a real constraint for lower-income households making immediate purchasing decisions.

Nevertheless, the total cost of ownership for electric two-wheelers is now competitive, especially when the oil price fluctuates. By switching to an electric motorcycle, a commuter riding 30–40 km daily saves meaningfully on fuel and maintenance, with those savings compounding over the first five years of ownership.

Deploying even a portion of the subsidy budget as electric vehicle purchase incentives would make the transition more equitable and more durable, targeting the commuters the current subsidy was meant to serve. The question is whether Indonesia wants to spend that money absorbing the current shock or building insulation against the next one.

After all, the incentives program for electric two-wheelers is not new for the Indonesian government. The government introduced an electric motorcycle incentive program, then terminated it abruptly in 2024, just as the market was responding.

Electric motorcycle sales peaked at 1.4 percent of total sales in Q2 2024, then fell to 0.6 percent by the end of the year. The lesson is not that the subsidy failed the market. It worked well, but the program withdrawal ended the sales growth prematurely. The car market succeeded for precisely the same reason the motorcycle market contracted: policy consistency, not product readiness, determines the outcome.

That misstep must not be repeated. Reinstating and sustaining commitment to enabling policies is essential, especially during oil price spikes. Electrification is not an immediate answer to this crisis. It is the structural answer to the next one if Indonesia commits now.

Nothing has changed at the pump. The price of oil still reads Rp 10,000 per liter. But behind that stillness, the state budget is silently absorbing Rp 6.7 trillion for every dollar oil climbs. The oil price is climbing faster than the budget can accommodate.

The structural answer is already within reach. The next war is not a matter of if. The only question is whether Indonesia is still paying for it at the pump.

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Sixteen months in, President Prabowo Subianto’s first term has been eventful… to say the least. From announcing the 100 gigawatt solar power ambition to nominating himself for mediating geopolitical rows, you can say that his plate’s been full.

Yet one program continues to stand out from the rest: the “free” nutritious meal or Makan Bergizi Gratis (MBG). With a Rp335 trillion price tag—roughly 8.7 percent of the 2026 state budget—this is, in every way, shape, or form, Prabowo’s flagship program.

A year ago, I read The Reformist’s piece on MBG. I recommend reading this one first, as this builds on the strong case it already made. Unfortunately, things have not improved much since then. MBG’s problems unraveled over time: from food poisoning to fictitious partner kitchens (Satuan Pelayanan Pemenuhan Gizi or SPPG).

Before you dig in…

A 2025 report by the Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO) estimates that 43.5 percent of Indonesians cannot afford healthy and nutritious food. That said, I think we can all agree that MBG is not an inherently bad policy in and of itself. In fact, school meals provision is common across the world. What is alarming from MBG is the “how.”

MBG is a signal that President Prabowo prioritizes electoral appeal over structural improvements. Of course, he is far from the only politicians who think this way. However, the problem lies in the fact that MBG has evidently constrained Indonesia’s already-weak fiscal structure: a low tax-to-GDP ratio, heavy reliance on income and value-added taxes, and significant spending on social, infrastructure, and vanity initiatives.

One might argue that perhaps MBG’s current implementation is plagued with problems because we’re not giving it enough time to succeed. Perhaps things will fall into place as we learn more about how to do it properly. But the thing is, MBG is not the first program of its kind. We already had a version of it—way before—and it is a superior one, I would argue, as it didn’t trade off prudent decision-making for the sake of scaling up.

New Order-era school meal program that made sense, unlike MBG

Okay, I know that putting the “New Order” regime and “sense” don’t really, well, make sense, but hear me out.

In 1997, then-President Suharto issued Inpres No. 1 of 1997, formalizing the Supplemental School Feeding (Pemberian Makanan Tambahan Anak Sekolah, hereafter ‘PMT-AS’) project. Some forms of it had already existed since earlier in the decade, but this regulation established a structure and remit around the practice.

Here is how it differs from present-day MBG:

I. Clarity in intention

PMT-AS was specifically designed for students in underdeveloped areas first and foremost. Unlike MBG, it did not create a massive infrastructure and hierarchy that required trade-offs across other sectors to run.

It’s almost like PMT-AS was designed as a trigger: over the course of 9 months, elementary students get PMT-AS intake at least 3 days per week for a total of roughly 108 days. That means no food delivery while the students are on school break, also unlike MBG.

Moreover, PMT-AS was targeted and anchored in how nutritious meals are leveraged to improve education. Whereas MBG clearly lives by “the bigger, the better” principle.

See how PMT-AS is distinct from MBG on key aspects from this comparison table:

After reading the table above, it’s tempting to think that MBG is the superior project. After all, it feeds more people and the government centrally manages it—something that we often read as a signal of stronger political will.

Interestingly, the evidence suggests otherwise.

Consider this: The World Food Programme (WFP) advocates school feeding programs globally as they are widely recognized as an effective tool for very specific purposes: improving school attendance, increasing short-term concentration and learning, enhancing dietary diversity, and providing social protection buffers for students from low-income households.

But this is where MBG stops making sense. It sets out to do one thing and then claims to have accomplished something entirely different.

What MBG does is provide school lunches. What it purports to achieve is—let’s pick one from the many on the list—to reduce stunting. There is a logical acrobat here. To start with, science says that stunting prevention is concentrated in the first 1,000 days of life, roughly until a child reaches age 2. That is years before they begin receiving MBG in schools, which typically starts at age 6–7.

Alas, this “confusion” may not be surprising if we look at the governance of the institution mandated to implement MBG: the National Nutrition Agency (Badan Gizi Nasional, or BGN). Among its 10-person leadership structure, none has public health or education credentials, and six are retired police and military personnel. Infamously, Deputy Speaker of the House of Representatives, Cucun Ahmad Syamsurijal, claimed that MBG does not need nutrition experts to run effectively. Well, what gives?

Ultimately, there was one thing that PMT-AS was clearly superior in: intention.

It did not try to make the grandiose claim of providing lunches and magically eliminating stunting abruptly. It was honest about what it was aiming for: promoting local food with its “I love Indonesian Food” (Aku Cinta Makanan Indonesia, or ACMI) jargon, healthy diet, and the importance of breakfast for children who otherwise would have skipped it. Most importantly, PMT-AS was run by the aunties and uncles; the moms and pops of your communities, who wanted nothing more but to put great care into the food served on the table.

II. Procurement irregularity risks

Both PMT-AS and MBG require the government to deal large-scale, centralized contracts with many vendors. This process should be transparent, competitive, and accountable. In Indonesia, government procurement is overseen by the Government Procurement Policy Agency (LKPP), the Supreme Audit Board (BPK), and the Business Competition Supervisory Commission (KPPU).

But MBG operates within a hollow space where procurement rules do not seem to apply. Deploying such a budget size within a single fiscal year is a feat—sure, but it comes with major risks. It is particularly worrisome when you consider that, according to the Anti-Corruption Commission (KPK), procurement fraud is the second most common after gratification and bribery.

I am not saying that corruption risk is entirely absent from PMT-AS. But the decentralized model does mitigate risks better compared to MBG’s direct appointment model.

But if the government must initiate an open tender process for every MBG partner kitchen (SPPG), how long would that take?

Well, exactly. That’s my point.

There is a reason why procurement is designed in sequence. It is exactly to prevent hasty decision-making, conflicts of interest, and irregularities that cause the misuse of public funds. Building a programme with a daily turnover year-round like MBG requires a vast, complex supply chain that simply cannot—and should not—be rushed, as it has been made apparent.

Imagine if Borobudur were built on a swamp. That’s what President Prabowo is doing now. MBG drains so much of the state budget, but there is no structural integrity that protects it from crumbling down.

By all means, go big, but do it at scale, please.

III. The lost opportunity cost

So many others have made this point already—most especially this Project Multatuli’s masterpiece—so I’ll be brief.

For every rupiah spent on MBG, the government is sacrificing another priority. From healthcare provision, school expansion, early childhood support, climate adaptation, infrastructure maintenance, to so many other things that could create a bigger, more sustainable impact lasting beyond the day’s lunch break.

The main contrast between MBG and PMT-AS in this respect is that PMT-AS was financially “controlled” and geographically targeted. It didn’t claim to create impact beyond what it actually did. It had an effect on attendance, dietary habits, and dropout rate—nothing more. Because of that, it was able to actually achieve its goals.

MBG’s model of SPPG kitchens also defies FAO’s recommendations, which advocate home-grown school feeding models that link local agriculture to school meal procurement. And this goes beyond “local wisdom” or creating jobs. It supports smallholder farmers, stabilizes demand and supply at the local level (hence more resilient and independent communities), encourages economic diversification, reduces transport costs, and most importantly, instills community ownership of the feeding programme.

But PMT-AS was not without its flaws

In 2013, a thorough evaluation of PMT-AS underlined several structural problems: lack of funding, unclear guidelines, insufficient training for technical staff, inconsistent food quality, insignificant nutritional increase, poor hygiene, and weak integration with other social assistance initiatives.

MBG, as things stand now, seems to have “solved” the first of these problems—lack of funding—and glossed over the rest.

But there is a reason universal programmes like MBG are politically popular. After all, they are an effective tool to build broad constituencies of support—even if they do not materially and structurally make lives better for people in the longer term.

After all, how can anyone hate feeding children?

This debate is not about whether or not feeding children is a good policy. There is virtually no argument there. It is about whether Prabowo’s policy ambition comes at the expense of other key sectors or, even worse, a fiscal collapse.

MBG neither builds on nor improves the foundation established by its predecessors. It instead rolled back the objectively good aspects it had already been on track to achieve.

To fulfil the promise of MBG, President Prabowo must first begin at the most fundamental part: Reframe it as an education-linked social protection initiative, not a public health policy.

Only once that happens should he revisit scaling MBG nationwide—with a phased rollout plan that begins from the most disadvantaged regions and only expands into wider locations once operations mature at the top-priority spots.

In doing so, adopting an open, transparent procurement process through public tendering would be key to ensuring that MBG doesn’t haunt him in the future. Otherwise, I think it’d be remiss not to end with the cautionary tales of Hambalang in Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono’s otherwise net-positive legacy or KPK’s disarming which continues to define Joko Widodo’s administration and weakens government accountability today.

It’s just like when you climb a mountain too fast, and your body collapses from not having enough time to adjust to lower oxygen levels and reduced air pressure. MBG’s hasty redirection of trillions in public funds risks collapsing the country’s fiscal health and, when that happens, nobody benefits from saying, “I told you so.”

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Since 2013, Indonesia has sent around 58,000 students to higher education through its championed scholarship programs under the Indonesia Endowment Fund for Education, or LPDP. Half of these awardees pursued their degrees abroad, but what if they came home to find that the skills and knowledge they’ve obtained have no place in their homeland?

This is unfortunately not a hypothetical scenario, and I fear the Indonesian government is raising an army of scientists with no place to exercise their expertise. At the end of the day, no country wants a horde of unemployed talented experts. The question is, what can LPDP do to prevent this and actually foster national growth?

LPDP needs to change the way it’s spending money

At the time of this writing, the LPDP was kicking off another year of awarding scholarships to Indonesian students. An online debate would usually ensue, revolving around the awardees’ ethics and contributions, or whether or not they deserve the scholarship. Finally, by the end of the year, we would have the annual evaluation by the House of Representatives (DPR), often reiterating the same point as the previous year, closing the loop that feels destined to repeat.

While we remain stuck in this endless cycle of debating the fairness of the selection, we overlook why LPDP exists in the first place. To the public, LPDP looks only like a scholarship provider, a machine that hands out tickets abroad. However, when you look at its conception, LPDP was never just meant to print diplomas. LPDP’s raison d’être was (and is) to establish a national innovation ecosystem so that high-caliber individuals can thrive and contribute to the country’s growth.

Conceptually, helping nationals get diplomas and establishing a national innovation ecosystem would complement each other. But the current situation tells a different story, because LPDP has been focusing only on the sending-people-to-school part.

We could first look at LPDP’s past spending. Each year, they spend more than 80 percent of their budget on scholarship programs, hitting an all-time high of 92 percent in 2024.

What is confusing is that with the total budget spiking by 137 percent between 2022 and 2024, research and ecosystem development programs saw a meager increase. This leaves them fighting for a shrinking slice. This spending decision suggests the government believes that by going all-in to produce more highly educated individuals, the dream of national growth will simply fall into place.

Now, here is the core question: given the goal to pursue national growth, prosperity, and inclusion, does the way LPDP utilizes its budget make sense?

I don’t think it does.

Producing more supply without growing the demand

Harvard’s Economic Complexity Index (ECI) tells an uncomfortable truth. Despite spending more than a decade investing in sending people to school abroad, Indonesia’s economic complexity remains at the same rank as it did in 2010.

In 2023, we still do the same thing we did in 2010 to make money. To put it into perspective: We have people capable of making electric vehicles, but our economy still relies on making becak (pedicab) to generate wealth.

Some may argue that 10 years is not enough time to see the ROI of education. However, this data serves as a warning sign: our highly educated individuals lack the tools to translate their knowledge into real economic value. The pressing challenge now lies in providing the tools to materialize this advanced knowledge into productive outputs.

Another study confirms this disconnection. It finds that Indonesia suffers from an education-occupation mismatch: a majority of our university graduates are overqualified for the jobs they take. In other words, there are not enough appropriate jobs for the level of education we have.

This all means that Indonesia is at a critical point where it must develop an industry that can absorb the influx of highly educated Indonesians. If the government fails to do so, Indonesia is on the brink of a brain drain that, in recent years, has been amplified by younger generations through the “#KaburAjaDulu” (#RunAwayFirst) movement.

The missing link that leaves us in this critical juncture is the lack of a national innovation system. This is a system that must be deliberately grown and not left to chance. Conceptually, it will enable a network of institutions, usually government, industry, and research bodies, to coordinate and foster a well-oiled and synchronized innovation culture in a country.

Unfortunately, in Indonesia, the oil is pretty dry.

A key metric that best demonstrates this problem is the Gross Expenditure for R&D (GERD). Indonesia’s R&D spending took up just 0.28 percent of GDP in 2020 (this is Indonesia’s latest available data). To compare, present-day Malaysia and early-2000s China spent 1 percent of their GDP on R&D, while Vietnam’s latest spending stands at 0.42 percent. This commitment contributed to their good, if not great, ECI and national growth.

The bottleneck goes beyond the money. Reports have noted several issues that hinder Indonesia’s ability to improve its innovation environment, including the disconnect in our regulations, private institutions’ disengagement from the national innovation system, and the highly centralized innovation process. Although the same report deemed Indonesia’s conceptualization of the innovation system to be decent, the poor implementation has rendered its design ineffective.

We could contrast our situation with Vietnam. Despite its relatively smaller share of GERD compared to China and Malaysia, it has managed to establish its presence in the semiconductor industry through a robust implementation of its innovation system.

To sum it up, there is a huge disconnect between LPDP’s mission and its spending. The way they have been spending their budget is too concentrated on sending people to higher education without preparing the industry and innovation environment to absorb them. But, in theory, what can they do more?

From scholarship provider to innovation architect

While building the national innovation system sounds like a cross-ministry mandate, LPDP is actually well-equipped to lead this shift. It has the agility, the programs, the funds, and the talent pool to hit the ground running. To shift from printing diplomas to becoming an innovation architect, LPDP should shift three things: its mindset, its wallet, and its actions.

First, LPDP needs to challenge its definition of education. It is currently locked into the traditional frame of formal learning as the legitimate means of education, putting a red carpet for master’s and PhD, while sidelining other forms of education. This is a missed opportunity, since, as OECD has highlighted, non-formal and informal learning has its own merits in equipping individuals for actual industry needs.

A working model for non-formal learning can be seen in Australia Awards Scholarship (AAS) short-course programs, in which participants engage with industry-specific, highly relevant topics. Moving beyond a traditional definition of education will help LPDP establish not only credentialed leaders but also industry-capable leaders.

Secondly, LPDP should put the money where the mission is. The innovation system cannot be built if 92 percent of the budget is spent on creating supply, while the demand is struggling. Rebalancing the program portfolio is imperative.

LPDP has to increase its share of spending on its existing (but arguably underused) innovation-enabling programs, such as the productive innovation research (RISPRO) funds. As the supply of highly educated talent keeps growing in Indonesia, sectors that can absorb them (R&D, high-tech, creative sectors, etc.) need to catch up. This development is crucial to prevent exacerbating the current mismatch. In essence, we should avoid planting high-quality seeds on barren soil, where they are destined to wilt.

Finally, to fix the current disconnect with the private sector, LPDP must act as a matchmaker. It could establish strategic partnerships with major industries, providing spaces to foster high-impact research and match awardees’ skills and expertise with industry needs.

These steps could shift the dynamic entirely, pivoting LPDP from a scholarship provider into an active driver of the national innovation system.

These recommendations ultimately aim for one thing: ensuring our investment in education translates into real economic impact, not just vanity statistics. They could also address LPDP’s poor ROI risks by ensuring our graduates have a place to implement their expertise and flourish.

LPDP in itself is a great initiative. However, goodwill is not enough. It needs to evolve from just a scholarship provider to an innovation driver, ensuring that national growth is not just a pipe dream, but a delivered reality.

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There are moments in international affairs when history does not turn on wars or treaties, but on something far quieter: a word.

Last week, Indonesia’s language body changed the definition of ‘sawit,’ oil palm, from ‘plant’ to ‘tree.’ This single lexical shift has opened a debate that stretches far beyond linguistics. It reaches into forests, markets, climate diplomacy, and the future credibility of Southeast Asia’s largest economy.

Well, language is never neutral. Especially in policymaking, where words can shape incentives, unlock permissions, and redraw boundaries. Thus, it became important when the Great Dictionary of the Indonesian Language (Kamus Besar Bahasa Indonesia, or ‘KBBI’) classified oil palm as ‘tree’.

Oil palm is botanically a monocot, closer to grass than timber. It does not form wood in the ecological or carbon sense used by forestry science or international climate accounting. By redefining oil palm as ‘tree,’ the country collapses a long-standing legal distinction between agricultural crops and forests.

In Indonesia, that distinction governs where plantations may grow, how emissions are counted, and what qualifies as deforestation. Meaning, this language shift could create a new set of ‘rules’ for how we make decisions about oil palm.

The ‘sawit’ dilemma and the danger of its redefinition

The thing is, sawit is rather important for Indonesia. We produce more than 50 per cent of the world’s palm oil. It contributes roughly 4.5 per cent of our GDP and supports an estimated 16 million livelihoods directly and indirectly. For many rural regions, palm oil has meant roads, schools, and income where few alternatives existed. No serious conversation about Indonesia’s future can ignore this economic reality.

But neither can it ignore the costs. Research from Stockholm Environment Institute’s Trase platform shows palm oil expansion has been responsible for a significant share of Indonesia’s forest loss since the early 2000s. Between 2001 and 2020, more than 3 million hectares of forest were converted for palm plantations. These losses are not abstract. They translate into declining biodiversity, rising flood risks, peatland fires, and transboundary haze; costs borne not only locally but also across regions.

If an oil palm is a tree, then an oil palm plantation is a forest. This redefinition is not semantic pedantry. It risks turning deforestation into paperwork. A forest cleared and replanted with palm could, on paper, become reforestation. Carbon sinks could be counted where emissions are rising. This will be tricky as international partners, investors, and climate mechanisms rely on shared definitions. When those definitions drift in this direction, what’s going to happen to our credibility?

This matters for Indonesia’s strategic position. Jakarta has worked hard to present itself as a responsible middle power under President Joko Widodo: deforestation rates fell to the lowest levels in two decades, supported by a forest moratorium and international partnerships, including results-based payments from Norway and other donors (UNDP reported US$340.7M disbursed as of 2025).

Yet, something changed with the new administration in office. President Prabowo Subianto’s description of palm oil as a ‘miracle crop’ reflects a deeply held belief in sovereign development: Indonesia must not be constrained by rules written elsewhere, including by the international society. This instinct resonates strongly with domestic audiences and with many developing economies facing similar pressures.

The financial, environmental, and cultural costs

Sovereignty exercised through linguistic manoeuvre carries risks. The European Union’s deforestation regulation, delayed but not abandoned, hinges on verifiable land-use data. Australian supply-chain laws are moving in the same direction. Markets increasingly price not only commodities, but credibility. If Indonesia appears to be redefining forests to suit short-term goals, future access to green finance, carbon markets, and premium export markets could narrow rather than expand.

There is also a regional dimension. Southeast Asia’s forests are shared ecological assets. Fires in Sumatra darken skies in Singapore. Carbon released in Kalimantan warms the planet far beyond Indonesia’s shores. ASEAN’s strength lies in collective trust. If environmental data becomes contested, cooperation becomes harder.

The deeper issue, however, is cultural. Indonesia’s language has always been more than vocabulary; it is a social contract. When citizens sense that official language serves power rather than truth, confidence in institutions weakens. Environmental governance depends not only on enforcement, but on belief that rules are fair, data is honest, and sacrifices are shared.

None of this requires rejecting palm oil. The challenge is not palm versus forest, but short-term expansion versus long-term resilience. Yield improvements on existing plantations could meet much of future demand without clearing new land. Agroforestry, landscape restoration, and genuine reforestation can coexist with a profitable palm sector. Many Indonesian companies are already moving in this direction, driven by investor pressure and market logic.

Don’t weaponize language

What is needed now is alignment. Linguistic authority should not operate in isolation from ecological science or legal consequence. Definitions that carry regulatory weight must be developed transparently, with input from environmental scientists, legal scholars, indigenous representatives, and regional partners. Language can evolve, but it should not be weaponised.

Indonesia has a rare opportunity. As a country whose language is celebrated globally, whose economy anchors Southeast Asia, and whose forests matter to the world, it can show that development and integrity are not rivals. By anchoring policy in science rather than semantics, Indonesia can strengthen its negotiating hand, protect its ecosystems, and preserve the moral authority that has underpinned its rise.

In diplomacy, as in ecology, credibility grows slowly and is lost quickly. A nation’s words, like its forests, are most powerful when they are rooted deeply, grown carefully, and allowed to stand on their own truth.

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In Indonesia, using data to make policy decisions related to the environment is required by law. Article 16 of Law No. 2/1982 states, “every development plan likely to have significant impacts on the environment must be supported by an analysis of its environmental impact.”

Technological advancement has made this requirement, in theory, easier to fulfill. In forestry, for example, remote sensing, satellite mapping, and digital land registries have significantly increased the precision with which forest cover can be measured. However, improved technology hasn’t necessarily improved data use, especially in forestry.

Research conducted in 1991 by ORSTOM-IRD revealed significant inconsistencies in Indonesia’s official forest data. In 1989, the Forestry Ministry reported over 143 million hectares of forest. Yet FAO’s 1990 data reported 108 million hectares, with a 1.2 percent annual deforestation rate. The stark discrepancy was highly questionable, implying a loss of 35 million hectares within a single year and pointing to serious inaccuracies in national forest data reporting. Yet the availability of better, more sophisticated tools have not translated to better forest governance.

More than two decades later, in 2015, the Center for Indonesian Policy Studies (CIPS) reported that approximately 61 percent of forest land was inaccurately classified, failing to reflect the ecosystems that actually exist on the ground.

These inconsistencies were not isolated errors, but an early indicator of systemic weaknesses in our forest classification and reporting. It raises critical questions about how forest data is produced, validated, and ultimately used in policymaking. In this article, we inquire into the reasons behind the failure of our forest data governance.

Are we unequipped, or purposely creating loopholes?

A central obstacle to effective forest governance lies in the persistent deficiency of reliable data and planning tools at the local level. Recurring errors and distortions in forest management are due to the lack of precise and compatible maps. In many cases, spatial data produced by different institutions are inconsistent or incompatible, making it extremely difficult to establish a shared understanding of how much forest actually remains and where it is located. This problem is exacerbated by a shortage of trained field staff capable of physically demarcating and enforcing the boundaries of regulated land on the ground.

It has become increasingly difficult to find official data sets that agree on the true extent of forested land. These discrepancies are particularly visible at the subnational level. In South Sumatra, for example, local forestry authorities have estimated that more than 40 percent of the land under their care is no longer forested, despite still being officially classified as such.

Similarly, while the Forestry Ministry reported more than 5.1 million hectares of forest in the region, the Regional Physical Planning Project for Transmigration maps from the 1980s indicated that only about 3.5 million hectares of primary forest remained. These discrepancies reveal not only technical inconsistencies but also structural and technical failures in how forest status is defined and updated over time.

We’ve then become compelled to interrogate a systemic feature that benefits vested interests inside: when ministries, local governments, and the National Land Agency (‘BPN’) cannot agree on what constitutes a forest, this creates what we call a “Gray Zone of Legality.” Within this zone, large corporations and investors can secure forestry or plantation permits in areas where forest status is unclear, effectively expanding land use rights without triggering strong regulatory enforcement.

In regard to this, Transparency International recently reported that forest cover in key watersheds across Sumatra has declined sharply, with degraded river basins losing their ecological buffering capacity, yet formal planning systems continue to lag what satellite data reveal. Trend Asia estimated that about 3.68 million hectares of forest across Aceh, North Sumatra, and West Sumatra, for example, were cleared between 2014 and 2024, much of it for plantations and mining activity.

Why decades of deforestation data failed to warn us

Despite decades of scientific warnings, deforestation persists in Indonesia. The reason behind it might be best explained by the structural priorities embedded in Indonesian policymaking.

From the early 1980s, short-term economic stabilization repeatedly outweighed long-term environmental sustainability. A notable instance is what happened between 1980 and 1988: in response to severe budget constraints following the second global oil crisis, the government accelerated transmigration and agricultural expansion as instruments of economic recovery. This policy was made to ensure forests can produce long-term sustainable yields. But enforcement was lax.

Here, two interrelated factors reinforce one another. On the ground, logging companies routinely exceed extraction limits, while farmers move into logged and even protected areas. Forest land is then opened rapidly for cultivation, often without adequate irrigation or spatial planning, producing fragmented plots and uneven productivity.

At the same time, this laxity is enabled by a political–economic incentive structure: local governments have become increasingly dependent on revenue from private plantations. This dependence creates strong pressure to tolerate over-logging and informal settlement, as immediate fiscal returns are prioritized over ecological preservation.

Incentives to delay: The politics behind bad data governance

The attitudes of Indonesian decision-makers toward economic “development” at that time constitute a central driver of deforestation. However, one should acknowledge that these attitudes are deeply rooted in colonial experience and reflect a Western understanding of development: prioritizing economic growth over environmental and social considerations.

Under Suharto’s New Order regime, many senior civil servants were trained in the United States. Consequently, Western development paradigms largely shaped state policies. As argued by William Leiss, Western environmental values tend to define nature primarily in relation to the demands of continuous economic growth, measured through rising Gross National Product, granting legitimacy to policies that promote industrialization, often regardless of their political, social, or ecological consequences.

This growth-oriented logic was institutionalized in our forest governance. Marc Pain demonstrates how forest reserves and protected agricultural zones were repeatedly reclassified to serve short-term economic interests. Such administrative changes were often omitted from official maps, leaving enforcement agencies unaware of shifting legal boundaries and eroding accountability. Official responses to environmental disasters further illustrate the perception of forests as expendable assets.

Following the 1983 fires in East Kalimantan, the Forestry Ministry described the burned areas as “conversion forest,” framing the disaster as a cost-free method of land clearing. This reveals a utilitarian understanding of nature, in which forests are valued primarily for their potential contribution to industrial and agricultural expansion rather than for their ecological or social functions.

Now, it is comprehensible that these attitudes are reinforced by political and economic structures that disproportionately benefit powerful actors.

Gov’t should stop ignoring data and start using it to inform policies

Last year, we watched as floods devastated Aceh and Sumatra. These were not merely the result of unusual weather patterns. While heavy rainfall associated with tropical storms and cyclonic interaction certainly played a role, the disaster’s magnitude was amplified by decades of environmental degradation. Data from government bodies show significant net forest loss in these provinces, and independent monitoring finds that Sumatra’s watersheds have been severely degraded due to commercial land conversion.

Viral videos showed logs, presumably remnants of upstream land clearing, being swept through towns, a visual proof of extensive deforestation that weakened natural water retention and slope stability. Local and international environmental groups have explicitly linked years of deforestation and weak enforcement of environmental regulations to the severity of the floods.

As early as 1989, Marc Pain observed that policies often changed on paper but not in practice. He said that research has long provided accurate data on how population movement, spontaneous settlement, and regional development interact.

But research and data mean nothing if there is no political will that could translate them into enforceable policy, supported by adequate resources and institutional coordination. Policy must not remain stagnant while social and environmental pressures evolve. Rows between the government and independent groups over the exact figures of deforestation also risk shrinking the civic space, which can lead to governance problems beyond the environmental management sector.

The state already possesses the authority to regulate land use, enforce boundaries, and act against violations. Thus, problems that recur due to a lack of prevention despite available data and warnings are not natural disasters, but governance failures. Their inaction reflects choice, not incapacity.

Now, the question is no longer what should be done, but whether the state is willing to listen before the next disaster forces it to.

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In recent months, a renewed debate emerged over the political elites’ proposal to reverse direct regional elections (Pilkada) to an indirect mechanism through local parliaments (‘DPRD’). Supporters argue that the move could reduce the costs of politics and corruption. Meanwhile, critics warn it would erode democratic accountability.

Beyond these policy arguments lies a deeper question about the moral foundations of our republic: what does it mean for citizens to govern themselves, and how should freedom be understood in a democratic community?

The forgotten spirit of the ‘Republik’

When our founders in 1945 proclaimed Indonesia as a “republic,” the word carried deep philosophical weight. It embodied an ethical vision of political life, a community bound together by shared commitment to the public good.

Republicanism, in its classical sense, envisions freedom not merely as the absence of interference, but as freedom from domination. As political philosopher Philip Pettit argues, a republic is sustained by citizens who are vigilant against any concentration of arbitrary power, whether in the hands of rulers, parties, or elites.

For early Indonesian thinkers like Soekarno and Mohammad Hatta, this moral dimension was clear. They did not imagine independence as a license for self-interest, but as an opportunity to build a society governed by public virtue (‘kebajikan publik’). Soekarno, in his orations, often invoked mutual cooperation (‘gotong royong’) as the moral glue of the new republic. Hatta, on the other hand, emphasized the cooperative economy (‘ekonomi koperasi’) as a way to ensure freedom from economic domination.

Today, these ideals feel like distant echoes.

A democracy without virtue

Post-Reformasi Indonesia has made undeniable progress in consolidating democratic institutions. Yet, lies beneath a troubling paradox: our democracy functions, but our republic weakens.

Political competition produces alliances of convenience rather than ideological commitment; parties that campaign as reformists often join the ruling coalition soon after elections. Citizens are treated as consumers of politics, not participants in public life. This is what republican thinkers have long warned against: democracy without virtue breeds domination. When politics loses its moral compass, power concentrates in elites, oligarchs and dynasties. The republics, while producerally alive, become ethically weak.

The result is a democracy that looks alive but feels empty. A political order that meets procedural standards but fails to cultivate the moral habits that sustain freedom. As Robertus Robet sharply observes, Indonesia’s political culture is “rotting from within,” eroded by moral fatigue and the collapse of public reason.

The decline of political party: Goodbye civic virtue, say hello to patronage

The decline of civic virtue is not unique to Indonesia, but it manifests in particularly acute ways here. The collapse of ideological politics after Reformasi, accelerated by the weakening of party identity, has transformed parties into electoral machines rather than vehicles of public philosophy.

Party recruitment often prioritizes loyalty and fundraising capacity over integrity and competence. Legislative candidates are expected to self-finance their campaigns, creating structural incentives for clientelism. Once in office, many see their position as repayment of political debts rather than a public mandate.

This patronage-driven system erodes the ethos of republican citizenship. Leaders no longer model virtue; citizens no longer expect them to. Cynicism, consequently, becomes a rational stance. In this climate, even well-intentioned reformists struggle to survive without compromising ideals. The problem, then, is not merely one of corruption or inefficiency. It is a deeper moral crisis, a corrosion of the civic foundation upon which the republic rests.

It is within this vacuum of civic morality that the proposal to return regional elections (Pilkada) to indirect mechanisms via DPRD has resurfaced. Proponents justify it under the guise of reducing costs and preventing corruption. But beneath this rhetoric lies a regression: when elites propose to limit the people’s right to choose, it signals not reform but fatigue with democracy itself.

Threat of returning to indirect elections

Recently, leading politicians have revived discussions about abolishing direct regional elections and returning to the pre-2005 system in which governors, mayors, and regents were chosen by local parliaments (‘DPRD’). They frame this as a pragmatic response to “expensive” elections and rising corruption. But the logic is deeply flawed.

To claim that corruption stems from popular participation is to misread the problem entirely. The disease lies not in the act of voting, but in the decay of institutions tasked with cultivating civic virtue.

If campaign costs are high, the answer is not to strip citizens of their rights but to reform political financing, enforce transparency, and democratize party recruitment. Returning Pilkada to DPRD would not purify politics; it would return it to the shadows, where deals are made without public scrutiny. It would entrench domination, the very condition republicanism seeks to eradicate.

Freedom, in a republic, is inseparable from participation. When citizens are excluded from the right to choose their leaders, freedom shrinks into permission, granted, not exercised. The irony is that those advocating indirect elections cite corruption, clientelism, and political cost, the very symptoms of the moral failures of parties themselves. The proposed cure is indistinguishable from the disease.

What Indonesia needs is not less democracy, but better republicanism, a revival of civic virtue in institutions, integrity in parties, and moral imagination in governance. Reform should not mean retreating from the people, but returning to them with humility and accountability.

Yet, from another point of view, proponents of DPRD-based elections could argue that such a return might not be entirely anti-republican. After two decades of costly and clientelistic direct elections, they may see indirect selection as a form of institutional prudence, an attempt to restore deliberation over popularity, restraint over excess.

In classical republican thought, not all power must flow directly from the people’s hands; what matters is that authority remains accountable to the public good. If DPRD truly acted as a deliberative body of virtue, embodying reasoned judgment rather than factional interest, one could claim that entrusting it with regional elections is consistent with the spirit of res publica: government by the wise for the common good.

But that ideal collapses against Indonesia’s present political reality. DPRDs are not immune from oligarchic capture. Nor is it exemplary in civic virtue. They often magnify the very maladies they claim to cure: money politics, transactional alliances, and patronage networks. Thus, the call to return Pilkada to DPRD does not reflect the restoration of republican prudence. Instead, it signals a loss of trust in citizens, in institutions, and in the moral capacity of the republic itself.

A republic worth reclaiming

Reviving republicanism does not mean resurrecting the past or idealizing the founders. It means rediscovering the ethical infrastructure of democracy; the shared moral commitments that make institutions work.

To do this, I suggest we change the very institutions that constitute our representative bodies: political parties. An important thing that we could reform is the ways political parties are financed: introduce strict caps in campaign spending, expand public funding tied to performance and transparency, and penalize opaque donations.

Moreover, political parties must start to reward virtue and merit. Party recruitment and financing mechanisms must shift from transactionalism to integrity. Public funding for parties could be linked to transparent performance indicators, gender representation, policy innovation, and ethical compliance. Without internal democratization, parties will remain the weakest link in our political system.

Beyond institutional reforms, we also need a cultural reawakening. The language of civic virtue must return to our public vocabulary. Media, academia, and civil society can play a key role in reintroducing the moral vocabulary of republicanism, reminding citizens that politics is not just about interest, but duty.

The current debate over returning regional elections to DPRD captures this crisis of civic virtue; a quiet retreat from the republican faith in citizens’ capacity for self-government. To believe that democracy can be purified by reducing participation is to misunderstand its moral foundation.

The path forward, therefore, lies in rebuilding the ethical and institutional soil in which participation can bear good fruit: transparent parties, virtuous leaders, and a vigilant citizenry. In a time when politics feels increasingly cynical, remembering that we are a republic, a community of free and equal citizens bound by shared virtue, may be the most radical act of hope we can undertake.

Early in the year, the push to reform Indonesia’s Hajj (annual Islamic pilgrimage) management has resurfaced, once again, due to a scandal. The Corruption Eradication Committee has recently named two new suspects in the Hajj quota corruption case, including former Religious Affairs Minister Yaqut Cholil Qoumas. As a refresher, throughout 2023–2024, investigators uncovered inflated costs and irregularities tied to the allocation of additional Hajj quotas: seats meant for regular pilgrims were diverted, and subsidies were distorted.

Public trust towards the country’s Hajj management took another hit. To many Indonesian Muslims, this is less about lost funds, and more about their rights being violated by the very people they have entrusted with their very sacred (and costly) obligation.

Last year, a window opened for reforms to reshape the entire Hajj management system as the new ‘Hajj Law’ (Law No. 14/2025) passed, forming a new Hajj Ministry. I was hopeful to see changes considering, for decades of sending the biggest group of pilgrims every year, the Religious Affairs Ministry’s governance of Hajj was plagued with chronic problems: from long waiting times and declining health of elderly pilgrims, to financial obscurity and recurring errors in data management.

Over the years, watching how the Hajj process unfolds up close, it becomes clear that these issues are not isolated incidents. As the call for better Hajj governance has become more timely than ever, this article will attempt to provide insights on what could be done to improve the notoriously problematic Hajj management in Indonesia, now that a new ministry is in charge specifically for it.

However, before getting into the solution, I’d like to open by outlining four core problems that have been plaguing Indonesia’s Hajj management.

Four core, stubborn Hajj management problems

1. Long waiting list

The biggest issue in Hajj management is the long waiting list. Every year, Saudi Arabia gives Indonesia the largest share of quotas, but it is still not enough.

In some provinces, the wait can stretch for more than 20 years. In an extreme case, one district in South Sulawesi reportedly faced a 47 years waiting time for regular quotas. As a result, many Indonesians who register in their thirties and forties only get to leave when they are already elderly.

Data from the Religious Affairs Ministry shows that a large share of waiting pilgrims are 60–79 years old or above, whose health often declines once it’s their turn to attend the pilgrimage that requires walking long distances, staying in crowded places, and enduring desert heat. Saudi officials even say our system is “sending pilgrims to death,” because so many pilgrims are no longer strong enough when their turn finally arrives.

The mismatch between waiting times and life expectancy has become one of the hardest truths of today’s pilgrimage.

2. Opaque Hajj deposit fund management

Millions of people pay deposits and fees every year, so the government is handling an enormous sum of money. By the end of 2024, the Hajj Fund Management Agency (‘BPKH’) reported to have managed Rp 171.65 trillion of funds. In 2025, it is targeting Rp 11 trillion in investment returns from those deposits.

Naturally, the public wants to know how those funds are invested, how the returns are used, and who benefits. Yet that clarity is often missing. Pilgrims still face unanswered questions about quota distribution, contract negotiations in Saudi Arabia, and management of pilgrim data.

Reports from past seasons reveal recurring mistakes: double entries in payment records, mismatched flight manifests, and delays in visa processing. In 2023, for example, hundreds of pilgrims were left behind because their data was not properly synced with Saudi systems, despite having completed all payments. Some errors may be unavoidable at this scale, but without openness they easily create distrust.

3. Weak data system meets Saudi’s messy syarikah policies

However, much of the complexity in Hajj management comes down to Saudi Arabia’s own policies. The syarikah system, which assigns different contractors to handle accommodation, transport, meals, and guidance, was supposed to streamline services but often does the opposite.

In 2025, more than five different syarikah were tasked with Indonesian pilgrims. Instead of bringing order, this division created fresh problems, especially when combined with Indonesia’s weak data systems. Families were split across providers, spouses and elderly companions were separated, and service quality varied widely depending on which syarikah was in charge.

The situation grew even more difficult when Saudi authorities abruptly canceled the special ‘Furoda Hajj’ visa, which allows pilgrims to pay more to get a Hajj invitation from the Saudi government that is not taking up the national quota, just days before departure. As a result, thousands of Indonesians were unable to travel despite already securing accommodation. This decision showed how vulnerable Indonesia remains to last-minute policy shifts beyond its control.

This problem is one of the most critical issues addressed by Indonesian pilgrims in 2025.

4. Rampant corruption

As if logistical and structural problems were not enough, corruption has added salt to the wound. KPK has uncovered inflated travel costs in the 2023–2024 Hajj period tied to the allocation of an additional 20,000 quota seats.

By law, 92 percent of those seats should have gone to regular Hajj participants, but authorities split them evenly between regular and special packages. This misallocation drained state funds and cut into subsidies for many regular pilgrims. The KPK has now named former Religious Affairs Minister Yaqut Cholil Qoumas a suspect in this case, along with another senior official within the ministry under his tenure.

These problems show that the Hajj management system suffers not only from external pressures but also from internal weaknesses. When poor oversight at home collides with unpredictable policies abroad, pilgrims bear the brunt.

The 2025 Hajj once again demonstrated how dependent Indonesia remains on Saudi’s decisions and how fragile the system is without stronger coordination, greater transparency, and better bargaining power.

It all boils down to the big question:

How, then, should management change?

It was against these long-standing problems that the new Hajj law was passed. For 75 years, the Religious Affairs Ministry has overseen Hajj. But with the new Hajj Law , major reforms are now underway. The new law not only responds to long-standing problems but also restructures how Hajj and Umrah (minor pilgrimage) are managed.

The new law introduces nine important points:

1. Forming a dedicated Hajj Ministry to manage both Hajj and Umrah to ensure direct accountability and authority on its management.

2. Development of a Hajj–Umrah ecosystem through new working units, state service agency (BLU) financial management, and cooperation with relevant partners.

3. Separate quotas for officials and pilgrims so staff allocations no longer reduce the public quota.

4. Regulation of additional quotas to maximize Indonesia’s access to Hajj slots.

5. Clear rules on leftover quotas to prevent wasted slots.

6. Tighter supervision of “Special Hajj” for pilgrims using non-quota visas.

7. Defined responsibilities for spiritual and health guidance to ensure adequate preparation and care.

8. Transition mechanisms to smooth the institutional shift from the old structure to the new one.

9. An integrated information system to improve data management for hajj and umrah

These changes show that the government is not simply reshuffling bureaucracy with this new law, but trying to address specific weaknesses such as quota distribution, financial clarity, health support, and data transparency.

But the critical question remains: do these nine points meaningfully address the real problems pilgrims face, or do they merely rearrange responsibilities without fixing the underlying system?

In the next section, I will examine what issues these reforms actually tackle, what they leave unresolved, and whether this package of changes is sufficient to improve hajj management in practice.

What the nine points addressed

For the first time, the Ministry of Religious Affairs will no longer run Hajj. Its role shifts back to regulating religious affairs, while a new Ministry of Hajj and Umrah takes over logistics, quotas, health, and guidance. Centralizing these tasks should bring clarity after years of overlap that previously involved multiple agencies like the Ministry, BPKH, and others.

The newly running ministry has started to manage operations on 2026’s Hajj events while also starting to apply quota reform with uniform waiting times.

But the transition’s success depends on two things: whether the shifting of responsibilities goes smoothly and whether the new one can build capacity fast enough to serve millions of pilgrims.

When the law was passed, Law Minister Supratman Andi Atgas, speaking for President Prabowo Subianto, emphasized that reform was meant to strengthen state responsibility for a sacred duty that touches millions of Indonesians.

The expectation is clear: a more unified management system, stronger quota arrangements, better guidance, and more reliable data.

What they didn’t

Still, not every problem is addressed. Oversight and public communication on millions of deposit money, data management, and transparency on quota deals are still weak.

Indonesia’s limited bargaining power with the Saudi government has also not been addressed, leaving Indonesia dependent on arrangements that are not always clear or favorable.

At the end of the day, Indonesians want a hajj that is not only efficient but also dignified.

What to do to ensure management improves

The next step is to make sure these changes happen. A stronger ministry-led system will only succeed if it is transparent, coordinated, and responsive to the needs of pilgrims (especially the elderly) while preserving the spiritual meaning of Hajj.

Four things stand out in public expectations:

1. Transparency: Clear information about quotas, finances, and contracts.

2. Care for the elderly: Services must be designed to provide health facilities and mobility assistance for mostly elderly pilgrims.

3. Quality delivery: Standardized delivery for accommodation, meals, and transportation.

4. Spiritual focus: Pilgrims should be able to focus on their pilgrimage; not be overwhelmed with logistical chaos.

Hajj remains one of the most important milestones in the life of an Indonesian Muslim, yet it is also among the most demanding tasks the state must deliver. Each year, it involves millions of families and directly affects nearly 10 percent of the population.

With a new law and dedicated ministry, Indonesia now has both a legal and institutional foundation to push these improvements forward. These are not just technical fixes; they signal an attempt to make Hajj more transparent, elderly-friendly, and spiritually meaningful.

However, success will depend on whether policymakers and institutions can translate legal commitments into practice. If the reforms are carried through with competence and integrity, Indonesian pilgrims will no longer be burdened by uncertainty (or inefficiency) so they can fulfill their sacred duty with dignity and peace of mind.

Even though creating a new ministry may pose a burden for an already bloated bureaucracy, that is a different evaluation for another day.

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Despite having displaced more than 800 thousand citizens, a number comparable to the 2004 Aceh tsunami, President Prabowo Subianto insisted that the ecological disaster currently affecting the Aceh and West Sumatera region should not be declared as a national disaster emergency.

His decision has been criticized by many. Even more after he was adamant about rejecting foreign aid, asserting that the Indonesian government has everything under control. This approach paints a stark difference compared to the 2004 tsunami response framework, when then-president Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono introduced the “Open Sky Policy”, opening the region’s airspace and waters for international relief flights and ships.

In Indonesia’s disaster-management framework, declaring the disaster as a national emergency would allow the National Disaster Mitigation Agency (BNPB) to obtain facilitated access to mobilisation of personnel, equipment, logistics, emergency procurement, emergency financial management, as well as command authority to instruct other governmental agencies. Given this ability, why did the President shy away from enacting an emergency declaration despite pleas from various stakeholders, including those most affected?

Years of research in the field of behavioural science may explain the drivers behind this decision. In this article, I will explore the President’s actions, or rather inactions, through this particular lens.

What the cognitive bias lens tells us about Prabowo’s ‘controversial’ disaster relief approach

To begin, humans are prone to cognitive biases, defined as systematic errors in thinking that may influence their judgments, decisions, and sometimes perceptions of reality. While cognitive biases may aid individuals in making swift decisions amidst time constraints, they often result in flawed decision-making, particularly in complex situations like disaster response.

First, the President may have overweighted the government’s capacity to handle things while simultaneously underestimating compounding bottlenecks, such as access risk, sanitation risk, disease risk, or other secondary hazards. This is an example of overconfidence, a cognitive bias characterized with believing we are more capable than we actually are – or at least more capable than our peers.

Aligned with this, individuals are also prone to optimism bias. Under stress, optimistic forecasts might become aspirational: believing conditions will normalise quickly despite conditions in the field suggesting otherwise.

Second, the President may see the declaration of a national emergency as admitting failure. Throughout his campaign, sovereignty and national capability have been salient identity themes. Hence, evidence may have been filtered through that lens: accepting foreign aid is interpreted as weakness or loss of control, so counterevidence is discounted.

Confirmation bias may also persist. In the age of algorithms and echo chambers, we tend to only look for and believe in evidence that supports our pre-established belief. The President may only “see” indicators that support control, such as filtered reports from loyal chains of command, which may not show the whole picture. Disconfirming signals from NGOs, local officials, media, or the people could be ignored and labeled as “noise” or “politicized”.

Lastly, the government may anchor on certain selected thresholds. Even with 800 thousand displaced, the President hinges on a particular metric favourable to his view, such as noting how the disaster ‘only’ happened in 3 out of 38 provinces. Doing so treats everything else, including the number of fatalities, displaced people, and disease risk-individuals, as secondary.

Behaviourally-informed ways that may assist in suppressing cognitive biases in this case

First, the declaration of national emergency could be framed as a time-limited administrative escalation to provide ease of access for BNPB and other relevant authorities. Making it time-limited shows that the declaration is simply for administrative and bureaucratic purposes in an emergency, instead of declaring governmental “defeat” or incompetence.

Second, a short set of triggers can be set, derived from the rapid assessment domains in Indonesia’s disaster-management framework. For example, if X or Y indicators exceed a certain threshold, the disaster status is automatically escalated for a set number of days, and will be reviewed regularly.

Third, as already urged by several civil society organizations, the President can set up a temporary office in the affected region. When local leaders report fuel, food, and clean-water shortages and blocked logistics, those signals must reach the head of state without being softened, so he knows what is at stake.

On top of the official dashboard, a secondary dissent dashboard can be set up, where reports from non-governmental sources, such as hospitals, logistic operators, and NGOs can directly reach the President. This may reduce confirmation bias and hierarchical filtering, which plenty of media outlets suggest are happening at the moment.

Fourth, if refusal to accept foreign aid is driven by identity and reactance, a constrained foreign aid option that preserves control can be proposed. For instance, aid has to be time-limited, government-led, and only targeted to logistics gaps, where the rest of the disaster management aspects are still handled by the government and local organisations.

Lastly, the President could have shown a genuine display of leadership by personally leading the disaster response, declaring a national emergency, only, as a tool to accelerate logistics coordination. The optics would have gone in his favor and it would have been a great show of strength, contrary to what the President may believe in. This approach could have perched him as a respectable leader he has long aspired to be. Conversely, sticking to hollow patriotic jargons without personally leading the nation through this disaster signals the notion that he’s only been yearning for the “President” title, not the job itself.

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A couple of ASEAN countries, Indonesia and Vietnam, have achieved remarkable economic growth over the past three decades, outperforming the global average by 50 percent and double, respectively, yet both remain heavily dependent on fossil fuels for the vast majority of their energy needs. This presents a critical policy question: can Southeast Asia’s fastest-growing economies decouple emissions from growth without sacrificing development momentum?

The answer, demonstrated through comparative analysis of their renewable energy policies, is yes—but the pathways differ fundamentally. In this piece, I will comparatively explore the financial prospects and overall future of renewable energy in both Indonesia and Vietnam. While challenges persist, driving towards a cleaner energy mix can and must be done to ensure a sustainable and decarbonized Southeast Asia.

A tale of two ASEAN economies: Indonesia and Vietnam

Indonesia and Vietnam are among ASEAN’s fastest-growing economies over the past three and a half decades. Since 1990, Indonesia has recorded average annual GDP growth of roughly 5 percent, with only two contractions, during the Asian Financial Crisis in 1998 and the COVID-19 shock in 2020. Vietnam’s growth has been even stronger, averaging around 6.8 percent per year over the same period.

To put this in perspective, the global economy expanded at an average rate of about 3.4 percent annually during these years. Indonesia, therefore, outperformed the global average by roughly 50 percent, while Vietnam nearly doubled it.

When population size is taken into account, around 280 million people in Indonesia and 100 million in Vietnam, the two countries’ GDP per capita levels have recently begun to converge. This raises a critical question: what has driven such sustained growth?

As with most emerging economies, the answer lies largely in fossil fuels. Today, around 80 percent of the total energy supply in both Indonesia and Vietnam still comes from coal, oil, and gas. This heavy reliance is reflected in their emissions intensity, measured as kilograms of carbon dioxide emitted per dollar of GDP. Vietnam emits approximately 0.39 kilograms of CO₂ per US Dollar, while Indonesia emits around 0.22 kilograms per US Dollar.

For comparison, Singapore, the least carbon-intensive economy in ASEAN, emits roughly 0.11 kilograms of CO₂ per dollar of GDP, one of the lowest ratios globally. Singapore’s experience shows that economic growth can be decoupled from emissions with the right policy mix, making it a useful benchmark rather than an outlier.

Energy systems in context: where Indonesia and Vietnam diverge

Three structural features of Indonesia’s and Vietnam’s energy systems help explain both their similarities and differences.

First, trade in energy. Indonesia’s coal production has expanded nearly ninefold since 2000, making it the sixth-largest energy exporter in the world. Around half of this coal output is exported, even as domestic industrial use, particularly captive coal for industry, continues to grow. Vietnam, by contrast, is a net energy importer. Close to 50 percent of its energy supply now comes from imports, primarily coal from Indonesia and hydropower from Laos.

Second, emissions levels. Both countries have reduced their carbon intensity since 2000, but absolute emissions remain high. Indonesia currently emits around 659 million tonnes of CO₂ per year, while Vietnam emits approximately 293 million tonnes of CO₂. These figures significantly understate the full climate impact, as they exclude other greenhouse gases such as methane and nitrous oxide, as well as emissions from land-use change. When these are included, total climate-related emissions are likely two to three times higher.

Third, renewable electricity—where the contrast is sharpest. Vietnam now generates close to half of its electricity from renewable sources. Indonesia, despite its vast natural potential, generates less than 20 percent of its electricity from renewables. This gap is the most consequential difference between the two countries, and it is where policy choices matter most.

Vietnam’s rapid solar expansion

Vietnam’s renewable surge is most visible in solar power. As recently as 2017, the country had virtually no installed solar photovoltaic (PV) capacity. Today, it has more than 18 gigawatts (GW), a scale-up achieved in under a decade.

Vietnam’s technical solar potential is estimated at around 1,600 GW, largely concentrated in the southern regions. Indonesia’s potential is even larger, at roughly 3,400 GW, more than double Vietnam’s. Yet Indonesia has installed only about 0.7 GW of solar capacity, less than 5 percent of Vietnam’s current total. Clearly, natural potential alone does not explain Vietnam’s success.

The decisive factor was policy-driven investment certainty. Vietnam introduced a feed-in tariff (FiT) in 2018 that guaranteed solar producers a fixed purchase price of 9.35 US cents per kilowatt-hour through long-term contracts. This single policy unlocked large-scale private investment by reducing revenue risk.

Vietnam’s solar boom was further reinforced by three complementary factors:

1. Foreign direct investment, largely from Chinese firms

2. Access to subsidized Chinese solar components

3. Productivity spillovers from multinational firms to domestic suppliers

While FiT rates have since declined and become more differentiated, particularly to encourage pairing solar with battery energy storage systems, the early clarity and generosity of the policy were enough to establish Vietnam as ASEAN’s leading renewable electricity producer.

Can Indonesia be next?

Indonesia adopted a different approach. Around the same time Vietnam launched its FiT, Indonesia introduced a net-metering scheme aimed at installing 1 GW of solar capacity by 2021. Under this system, rooftop solar producers could sell excess electricity back to the grid, but only at 65 percent of the retail tariff. The policy was further weakened by complex licensing requirements and uncertainty surrounding contracts with the state utility, PLN.

The result was predictable. As of today, Indonesia still has less than 1 GW of installed solar capacity, and the net-metering policy has since been scrapped entirely, leaving a policy vacuum.

Despite this, ambition remains. There are approximately 17 GW of solar projects currently in the pipeline, including Green Corridor Indonesia, a proposal to export renewable electricity from the Riau Islands to Singapore.

There have also been isolated successes. Indonesia’s largest operational solar project—the Cirata floating solar plant in West Java—has a capacity of 192 megawatts (MW) and can generate around 300 gigawatt-hours (GWh) per year, enough to power roughly 50,000 households. However, this project is an exception rather than the norm.

By contrast, Vietnam’s Dau Tieng solar complex, operational since 2019, has a capacity of approximately 600 MW, more than three times larger than Cirata. At least seven other solar plants in Vietnam individually exceed Cirata’s capacity.

In the absence of strong national incentives, Indonesia’s solar growth has instead been driven by commercial and industrial rooftop systems. Companies such as Xurya, Suryanesia, and Hijau bypass the grid altogether by selling power directly to businesses under long-term purchase agreements. Collectively, these firms have attracted over US$ 100 million in climate-focused venture capital, suggesting that investor interest persists despite weak policy signals.

Leaving (behind unsustainable economic growth) on a JETP(lane)

Solar power alone will not deliver a full energy transition. This is where the Just Energy Transition Partnership (JETP) becomes central.

Indonesia secured US$ 20 billion in JETP commitments at the 2022 G20 summit in Bali. Vietnam followed shortly after with US$ 15.5 billion in pledged funding. While modest relative to total investment needs, JETP financing is intended to be catalytic, crowding in much larger pools of private capital.

1. Indonesia: untapped potential, execution gap

Indonesia’s renewable energy potential is vast. Of its estimated 3,686 GW of technical renewable potential, around 333 GW is considered financially viable under current conditions. This includes not only solar, but also geothermal energy—where Indonesia holds the largest reserves in the world due to its position along the Pacific “Ring of Fire.”

Modelling by the World Resources Institute suggests that Indonesia can achieve 8 percent annual GDP growth by 2029 while still reaching net-zero emissions by 2060, provided its JETP pathway is implemented effectively. This transition could create nearly 3 million green jobs and significantly reduce public health costs through lower air pollution.

The scale of required investment is large, around US$ 600 billion by 2050, equivalent to US$ 20–30 billion per year. Yet this figure is less daunting when compared with Indonesia’s projected US$ 236 billion in fossil fuel subsidies over the same period. Every dollar invested is also estimated to generate US$ 1.41 in economy-wide benefits, indicating strong returns.

2. Vietnam: rapid growth, fragile foundations

Vietnam’s challenge is different. Its renewable expansion has outpaced the development of grid infrastructure and energy storage. Large volumes of solar power are now being generated in the south, while demand remains concentrated elsewhere. Without sufficient transmission capacity and storage, curtailment risks are rising.

This is why Vietnam’s first JETP-funded project focuses on grid transmission and stability, implemented in partnership with the French Development Agency. Additional support from the Asian Development Bank is targeting battery energy storage systems, which are essential for managing solar intermittency.

Two transition paths, one shared objective

Both Indonesia and Vietnam remain heavily dependent on coal, but their paths forward differ:

• Indonesia must focus on executing its renewable potential at scale, while managing social and economic impacts.

• Vietnam must reinforce its energy infrastructure to stabilize and sustain its renewable gains.

If policy execution matches ambition, both countries can follow Singapore’s example and decouple emissions from growth. The challenge is no longer technical feasibility, but political and institutional delivery.

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Just a few weeks before the year ends, Indonesia’s 2026 Government Work Plan (RKP) and State Budget (APBN) are still nowhere to be found, at least not publicly. At the time of writing, there is no public information on the promulgation of the Presidential Regulation on the 2026 RKP, nor on the promulgation of the 2026 APBN Law.

Both documents are central to Indonesia’s annual planning and budgeting cycle. They signal the government’s policy direction for the year ahead. But for 2026, they appear to be moving on an unusual timeline.

By this point in previous years, the public could reasonably expect the Presidential Regulation on the RKP, the APBN Law, and the Presidential Regulation on the Budget Details to have been promulgated, allowing ministries and agencies to prepare for execution.

This delay becomes even more consequential when seen against a year marked by the ‘efficiency’ measures and the public reactions surrounding them. The budget efficiency policy reflects not only ongoing debates over national priorities, but also the frictions of inter-period transition and coordination.

This article examines how the delayed promulgation of the 2026 RKP and APBN—together with the turbulence around this administration’s efficiency measures early in the year—reflects the broader process of transition, adjustment, and recalibration of the government’s annual planning cycle.

(Not so) smooth transition?

The 2025 RKP and APBN were drafted in 2024, under the previous administration. At that time, the current administration was not yet sworn into office. This administrative hurdle extended beyond the presidency, but to the entire apparatus of ministries and agencies, which were not necessarily led by the officials who hold those positions today. As a result, the new administration’s policy direction could not be fully translated into the 2025 planning and budgeting documents.

Signs of this transitional posture were evident: the 2025–2029 National Medium-Term Development Plan (RPJMN) was finalized later than in the past four cycles, the rapid corrections introduced through the 2025 efficiency measures, and the updated 2025 RKP was issued only at the end of July 2025. With this in mind, the adjustments throughout 2025 can be read as the complexity of administrative handover and shifting policy orientation.

Intuitively, retaining political coalitions is often assumed as a benchmark for a smooth transition. Yet, even with the President’s coalition consisting of 7 out of 8 political parties in the House of Representatives, the government’s efficiency measures introduced after taking office signal otherwise.

Both the 2025 budget and its plan were produced under a technocratic and political environment that had been relatively stable for eight years. Meanwhile, through public channels and campaign pledges, the new administration introduced new priorities. But upon taking office, it faced not a blank canvas, but a highly structured fiscal architecture, ongoing contractual commitments, and a bureaucracy oriented around inter-period continuity.

This is where governance tensions begin to surface. New goals point toward tomorrow, but the machinery of government runs on frameworks built yesterday. The 2025 Efficiency measures can be read as an early response to this tension—and a test of the administration’s operational readiness.

Plan as we go

In Indonesia’s planning and budgeting system, the current year is not only for implementation; it is also the workspace for drafting the following year’s plan and budget. Throughout 2025, while the state budget is executed, the following year’s RKP and APBN are being simultaneously prepared.

For the first time under the current administration, the entire planning and budgeting cycle sits within its own political mandate, free from the shadow of a previous administration’s direction.

Historically, institutional timelines have been stable. The RKP is usually issued before or around the start of budget discussions in parliament. The APBN is promulgated with sufficient time for ministries to detail the budget and finalize the RKP. This cadence anchors certainty for ministries, local governments, businesses, and the public.

Substantively, the 2026 RKP has already been discussed with the Budget Committee and reported to the House plenary on 24 July 2025. In every previous year, the RKP was issued before the APBN, in line with Law No. 25/2004 on National Development Planning System and Law No. 17/2003 State Finance Law, which positions the RKP as the basis for the APBN.

Additionally, even though a government regulation mandates that the RKP be issued by June, in practice it has always been issued in either August or September. In that sense, perhaps the 2026 RKP has already been signed but is yet to be published.

According to the State Secretariat website, at the time of writing this article, the existing Presidential Regulation numbers were incomplete. These include Presidential Regulations 66, 68-79, 82, 93, 95-96, 98, 101, and 103-112. Presidential Regulation 113/2025 is the latest Presidential Regulation, enacted on 24 October 2025.

If a Presidential Regulation on the RKP has indeed been ratified but not yet made public, this raises further questions on fulfilling regulatory transparency regarding the government’s delivery of legislation through the public’s most accessible medium: the internet.

Meanwhile, the 2026 Draft Budget (RAPBN) has already been approved by the DPR during the 23 September 2025 plenary session, as required by the State Finance Law. Under the Constitution, the APBN Law should have been publicly announced by the end of October, signed or unsigned by the President. Again, perhaps it has been made but not made public.

Regardless, the agreed 2026 budget plan suggests that substantive agreement between the country’s political elites has already been reached. But without official promulgation or publication, the usual procedural rhythm breaks down. From the outside, the issue appears more administrative than political. Still, procedural delays can have real impacts on government operations.

With shrinking time comes operational risks

If this is merely an administrative issue, everyone likely hopes the RKP and APBN will be issued soon.

Even if there are issues beyond administration, the public has to be informed on substantive issues, such as the process of rearranging government priorities, negotiations between institutions within a shrinking fiscal space, and fiscal caution in the face of economic uncertainty. These three issues are not mutually exclusive and can occur simultaneously.

Now, with only a few weeks left in 2025, the question shifts from normative to practical: what happens if the year ends without formal promulgation?

The Constitution provides guidance only for a scenario where parliament rejects the Draft Budget; in which case the government shall run on the previous year’s budget. But that is not the case here; the DPR has approved the state budget plan, but it has not been promulgated.

Given that other national planning documents have also been promulgated past their statutory deadlines (such as the RPJMN and RKP), it is not hard to imagine that late promulgation will not trigger administrative complications.

But if the APBN is delayed, the Presidential Regulation on Budget Details will likely be delayed as well. This would push back the promulgation of the budget execution lists, which the Finance Ministry requires to be finalized by December before the new fiscal year begins.

Ideally, these administrative issues should not delay the execution of government programs–especially those that directly benefit the public.

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On Tuesday, 18 November, the House of Representatives (DPR) officially passed the country’s new Criminal Procedure Code bill (KUHAP), which has been left untouched since 1981 under the New Order regime. The change is made to accommodate the new Criminal Code (KUHP), revised in 2023, which will come into effect in January 2026.

While a new Criminal Code and its guidelines must be made to modernize the country’s legal system, the haste in creating this new law to arrive simultaneously with the incoming KUHP has led to controversial articles being passed.

Throughout the deliberation process of KUHAP, the Civil Society Coalition for KUHAP Reform has continuously demanded that several key articles be either revised or erased to ensure that law enforcement cannot intentionally use the law to target innocent individuals. With the bill’s passing, the coalition has now called for President Prabowo Subianto to step in and suspend the KUHAP bill from coming into effect.

This latest debacle serves as a stain on what could have been a key reform in creating a modern and democratic Criminal Procedure Code that is transparent and accountable to the interests of the Indonesian people.

The lack of transparency and public participation leaves the new KUHAP with gaping holes

Throughout the deliberation, the public struggled to access the most updated draft of the KUHAP bill. The DPR website frequently went down, documents were inconsistently uploaded, and the user interface made it difficult to verify whether a version was current.

Even in the final days before the bill was passed, the latest consolidated draft was still not publicly accessible. The KUHAP should have been deliberated with far greater transparency, beginning with the basic requirement that the public be able to view the law they are being asked to comment on.

To ensure legislative legitimacy, DPR should have provided an integrated and user-friendly legislative portal, one that includes machine-readable texts, document versioning, comparison tools, and an accessible archive of all amendments. A minimum 30-day review period should have been guaranteed so that civil society, academics, and practitioners could meaningfully evaluate the draft.

DPR also ought to have developed an evidence-based public submission platform with a standardized template (issue – analysis – recommendation – sources) to allow structured and academically verifiable input. Such mechanisms would have enabled more substantive public participation rather than the symbolic procedural engagement that occurred.

A reform of this scale requires openness and deliberation. Instead, the limited accessibility and rushed timeline left many stakeholders unable to contribute meaningfully to one of Indonesia’s most consequential legal reforms.

What should have been included in the new KUHAP

In this article, I list 7 key analyses and recommendations that should have been essential in the creation of this new KUHAP bill.

1. On judicial control over coercive measures

Arrest and detention are the most invasive intrusions on personal liberty. However, the passed bill preserves broad authority for investigators and prosecutors without rapid judicial oversight.

The new KUHAP does not include an obligation to bring a suspect before a judge within a specific timeframe after arrest. Law enforcers may arrest a person and authorise detention for extended periods before any judicial authority becomes involved. This leaves Indonesia without the early judicial confirmation mechanism recognised in international human rights law.

By contrast, the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (ICCPR) and European Convention on Human Rights (ECHR) explicitly require any arrested individual to be promptly (usually within 24-28 hours) brought before a judge. This safeguard is a central principle of due process, designed to prevent arbitrary detention and unlawful coercion at the investigative stage.

This gap means placing suspects in a highly vulnerable position, as the legality, necessity, and proportionality of early detention remain largely unchecked during critical investigative windows.

KUHAP should have incorporated mandatory judicial confirmation within 48 hours, periodic judicial reviews of ongoing detention, and tighter, objective criteria that courts, not only investigators or prosecutors, must evaluate.

Expanded pretrial powers, including the review of suspect designation, evidence admissibility, unreasonable delays, and improper termination of cases, would have brought KUHAP closer to international standards and protected citizens from arbitrary state power.

2. On the role of lawyers and legal aid

The new KUHAP expands the formal list of rights of suspects and defendants to obtain legal counsel, as reflected in Article 142 and the broader provisions on advocates. However, these rights remain largely formal rather than effective. Crucial operational safeguards, those that determine whether legal assistance is meaningful at the most coercive stages, are absent.

The Code does not require investigators to postpone questioning until a lawyer is present, nor does it prohibit interrogation to start before counsel arrives. This leaves the earliest stage of the criminal process, where coercion and rights violations most frequently occur, highly vulnerable.

Similarly, waiver-of-counsel forms may be validated directly by law enforcers (Article 154 (4)-(5)) without independent verification or audiovisual documentation. This creates significant opportunities for pressure or manipulation.

Although it requires the State to appoint legal aid for indigent suspects, it does not establish any system of 24-hour public defenders in police stations, nor does it impose a duty on investigators to provide immediate access to counsel at the moment of arrest. Alarmingly, attorney-client communications may be monitored (Article 152). This undermines the principle of attorney-client privilege, a core safeguard of fair trial rights.

To uphold equality of arms and prevent abuse, the Code should have guaranteed access to counsel before interrogation begins, created independent oversight over waiver forms, mandated audiovisual recordings, and established continuous public defender services across police facilities.

3. On protection for witnesses, victims, and whistleblowers

The new KUHAP strengthens rights for witnesses and victims, but it lacks protection for whistleblowers who expose corruption, environmental crimes, and abuse of power.

Whistleblowers are frequently criminalized (ie. through defamation charges). Yet the KUHAP does not contain any explicit definition of whistleblowers, nor does it recognize them as good-faith reporters entitled to procedural protection.

The Code does not provide mechanisms for identity anonymization or protected testimony. It imposes no obligation on law enforcers to refer reporters to the Witness and Victim Protection Agency (LPSK), leaving them vulnerable in the most dangerous stages of investigation.

There are also no sanctions for leaking confidential identities or intimidating whistleblowers. Modern criminal procedure systems impose strict consequences for retaliation; KUHAP has none.

To ensure accountability and encourage public-interest reporting, KUHAP should have explicitly defined whistleblowers as good-faith reporters shielded from retaliation, mandated confidentiality protections, enabled secure remote testimony, and required LPSK referral for at-risk individuals.

Strong penalties for identity leaks and intimidation should have been incorporated to ensure meaningful protection. Without these guarantees, the procedural framework falls short of safeguarding those who play an important role in uncovering wrongdoing.

4. On restorative justice

The new KUHAP dedicates an entire chapter to restorative justice. It introduces important boundaries, limiting its use to minor offences, excluding corruption, sexual violence, terrorism, crimes against life, and other serious crimes, which are aligned with international practice.

KUHAP also requires that any settlement (apology, compensation, or repair of harm) must be formally approved by the court. But, operational safeguards remain weak as the Code allows restorative justice to be initiated and facilitated directly by police investigators or prosecutors without certified mediators.

The new KUHAP should have required that restorative processes be led by trained, independent mediators. Without it, the process risks becoming an extension of police-led negotiation, rather than a victim-centered mechanism. Although it states that restorative justice must be conducted without coercion or intimidation, it provides no independent assessment to ensure that victim consent is genuinely voluntary.

The law also lacks provisions for secure testimony, involvement of victim-protection experts, and mandatory audiovisual documentation, without which ‘RJ’ risks becoming a quick administrative shortcut rather than a principled approach grounded in accountability, fairness, and victim empowerment.

5. On electronic evidence and digital forensics

The new KUHAP explicitly brings electronic information and documents within the scope of search and seizure. Investigators may now conduct searches of “electronic information and documents” after, in principle, obtaining prior authorization from the district court.

However, KUHAP allows search and seizures without court authorization under “urgent circumstances.” Investigators must seek judicial approval promptly after; if the court refuses, seized items cannot be used as evidence and must be returned. This is a significant improvement compared to the 1981 Code.

However, KUHAP does not establish detailed standards for digital search warrants, such as limiting searches to specific devices, accounts, file types, or time periods. It also continues to give discretion to law enforcers to decide the “urgent circumstances” in which they could act without court approval. This opens room for subjective interpretation by law enforcement and creates potential for abuse.

It should have required that digital searches be narrowly supported by clear factual bases to prevent investigative overreach. It should have regulated key technical safeguards like forensic imaging, hash verification, audit trails, and protocols to protect the privacy of third parties whose data may be swept up in a search.

6. On coordination between investigators and prosecutors

KUHAP still restricts communication between prosecutors and investigators to a single interaction, maintaining a structural barrier that has long caused inefficiencies in the criminal justice system. This limitation creates investigative blind spots, increases the risk of incomplete case files, and prompts delays that ultimately harm both suspects and victims.

The new KUHAP does not introduce any mechanism for early, continuous, or structured coordination between investigators and prosecutors. It also does not grant prosecutors explicit authority to assess evidentiary sufficiency during the investigation phase.

The new Code should have mandated coordination from the outset, granted prosecutors authority to assess evidentiary sufficiency, and specified a clear file-transfer mechanism. Without these safeguards, investigative inconsistencies remain unaddressed, and the quality of prosecutions will continue to vary widely.

A new KUHAP should have reconciled the fragmented nature of Indonesia’s law enforcement bureaucracy. Instead, KUHAP preserves a siloed model that weakens accountability and impedes the delivery of justice.

7. On tight wiretapping

In the context of criminal procedure, wiretapping refers to real-time monitoring of communications to understand a suspect’s behavior, coordination, or transactions–with risks of excessive data collection and intrusion into the privacy of unrelated third parties. Thus, wiretapping must not be conducted carelessly or used as a routine instrument in every investigation.

Currently, Article 136(1) of the new KUHAP states that “investigators may conduct wiretapping for the purposes of an investigation.” The subsequent section states that the conduct of wiretapping is to be addressed in a separate law that specifically governs wiretapping. But this law does not yet exist, meaning that at present, any individual may be liable to wiretapping if investigators deem it necessary, without court approval.

The core principle that should have been applied in KUHAP is that wiretapping may only be carried out for certain serious offenses with broad implications for national security or state finances, such as treason, terrorism, and corruption. Furthermore, the execution of wiretapping must be based on a written order from an Examining Judge, accompanied by specific justifications, a limited time frame, and a post-action auditing mechanism.

Missed opportunities

Having ignored these glaring gaps, KUHAP now poses a looming threat to the nation’s judicial system. What could have been a key reform agenda to apply checks and balances for law enforcement has, in turn, given these institutions greater power to incriminate and target individuals to their liking.

The new KUHAP failed to address three core challenges: effective law enforcement, procedural accountability, and the protection of human rights.

Greater transparency in its drafting would have increased its legitimacy and reduced the risk of public backlash once enacted, given that civil society organizations have, for years, advocated for the Code to address the aforementioned challenges. The Coalition for KUHAP Reform even proposed an alternative bill.

To reemphasize the demands of civil society organizations, President Prabowo must halt the passing of KUHAP and take into account the concerns presented in this article and civil society at large.

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Imagine a small village receiving Rp3 billion funds from the central government to build a koperasi (cooperative). Will villagers benefit, or will they be mere spectators? The Prabowo administration’s Koperasi Merah Putih (“Merah Putih” Village Cooperatives, hereafter KMP) launched through Presidential Instruction No. 9/2025, with emphasis on “local participation” and “gotong royong” (mutual cooperation).

The program’s objectives are ambitious: breaking village poverty cycles, improving welfare, and strengthening villages amid rapid urbanization. The government targets 80,000 cooperatives, each funded with Rp3–5 billion and are expected to operate in sectors such as groceries, pharmaceuticals, savings and loans, clinics, and logistics.

Yet, the policy relies on a top-down, centralized approach, positioning the central government as the primary decision-maker. This echoes the “old public administration” paradigm, emphasizing hierarchy, rigid rules, and quantitative targets over accountability and local responsiveness. KMP forces must follow central regulations, contrary to Law No. 6/2014 on village governance, which grants village autonomy in development.

The lack of meaningful stakeholder participation has already produced inconsistencies: multiple government directives cite differing cooperative targets, reflecting coordination gaps inherent in top-down policymaking.

Proponents’ original vision of cooperatives and contemporary challenges

Cooperatives have deep roots in Indonesia. From Raden Aria Wirjaatmadja’s 1895 vision to Mohammad Hatta’s “from, by, and for the members” model, cooperatives were meant to empower communities through, as suggested by the name, mutual cooperation.

As of December 2023, Indonesia had 130,119 active cooperatives with total assets of Rp275 billion, a 37.9 percent drop from 2014 due to restructuring. Despite this decline, cooperatives remain crucial in villages, providing socio-economic support, financial inclusion, and community empowerment. Studies show cooperatives can increase farmers’ incomes by Rp1.5 million per year, offer low-interest credit, and function as marketing, learning, and collaborative hubs.

However, studies also show challenges persist: Limited resources, weak managerial capacity, and low member participation leave cooperatives vulnerable to decline. With plans to create 80,000 Merah Putih cooperatives, these risks are amplified, demanding careful policy design.

Top-down and centralised: Against the cooperatives principles

The KMP project raises a fundamental question: are they genuinely community-driven, or just top-down interventions? Centralized policymaking risks eroding village autonomy, contradicting Article 87 of Law No. 6/2014, which allows villages to establish BUMDes or cooperatives for local welfare.

CELIOS warns of over-reliance on the central government, while village funds (already limited) are diverted to central priorities. KMP alone could absorb 47.3 percent of village budgets, with annual repayments totaling RP33.6 trillion, potentially displacing critical infrastructure needs like roads, bridges, and irrigation.

With capital injections from the state budget, KMP risks distorting village economies, as the official guide from the Cooperatives Ministry allows KMP to operate in sectors already served by local businesses. CELIOS surveys indicate 23 percent of village administrators fear income disruption for local entrepreneurs. Left unchecked, villages could shift toward oligopolies, with government cooperatives dominating and reducing economic diversity.

Competition between village-owned companies (or BUMDes) and KMP complicates matters further. Merging these entities risks weakening each, with conflicts over authority and unhealthy competition. Local political dynamics (eg. alliances, mobilization, identity politics, and elite co-optation) could intensify fragmentation, reducing policy effectiveness.

Importantly, one should not ignore politics when discussing KMP. The cooperatives risk becoming a vessel for political consolidation: With 5 managers and 3 supervisors per cooperative, 80,000 cooperatives would involve over 640,000 individuals (excluding members) – such networks could be co-opted for elite consolidation, transforming cooperatives into political instruments. CELIOS even estimates they could influence up to 46 House (DPR) seats under a two-party scenario, or 34 seats with eight competing parties.

New Public Governance: An alternative path?

Currently, the KMP reflects “old public administration” – rigid, hierarchical, and ill-suited for trillon-rupiah programs with layered social complexity. On the other hand, New Public Governance (or NPG) may provide a framework for KMP; emphasizing inter-organizational partnerships, networked management, and cross-sector collaboration throughout policy design, implementation, and evaluation.

NPG principles require meaningful involvement of local governments, village officials, cooperatives, and communities, with the central government as facilitator rather than authoritarian actor. Trust and shared values are critical. Cooperatives must reflect “gotong royong” (mutual cooperation), solidarity, and community participation – not stand as centrally imposed entities. Moreover, regulatory frameworks should allow flexibility, enabling cooperatives to adapt to local contexts.

KMP should operate as part of collaborative policy networks pursuing win-win outcomes, not top-down enforcement. Lessons can be drawn from social assistance networks under the Ministry of Social Affairs, which link actors for adaptive, locally attuned policy implementation.

International experiences reinforce the case for NPG. In Belgium, cooperatives address market failures through open, democratic member participation. In Japan, the ZEN-NOH cooperative, founded in 1972, employs 28,351 workers across 927 business units and 841 member cooperatives worldwide . Its success stems from a harmonious government-facilitator and local-executor relationship—an approach KMP could emulate.

Policy recommendations

1. Blended finance models

Reduce dependency on central funds by combining public, private, and philanthropic funding. This model has lower risk, higher success potential, enhanced member ownership, participatory governance, and cross-sector collaboration.

The mechanism could look something like:

• Asset-backed financing: Using shared assets for low-interest loans.

• Bank partnerships: Accessing low-interest loans, including government-supported microloan “KUR”.

• Digital financing: Leveraging e-wallets and e-commerce partnerships.

• Philanthropic funds: Grants from NGOs or donors without repayment obligations.

2. State support for fair markets

The government should guarantee a fair market by protecting cooperatives from modern retail dominance. It could be through affirmative regulations ensuring local access and mandatory partnerships. The state could also offer fiscal incentives, like tax exemptions, logistics subsidies, and technological support. Structural price interventions could also be considered to prevent high costs and low margins in oligopolistic markets. Importantly, policies must consider regional diversity.

3. Human Capital Development

Address weak human resources via partnerships with vocational training centers (Balai Pelatihan Kerja). Training should focus on digitalization, product design, food entrepreneurship, financial management, and other soft skills. Delivery can include blended learning, intensive short courses, and project-based mentoring, ensuring practical impact and institutional strengthening.

Conclusion: A double-edged sword

The KMP initiative is a double-edged sword. It could empower village economies but, under a top-down “Old Public Administration” approach, risks eroding autonomy, duplicating efforts, and introducing political biases.

However, adopting a New Public Governance paradigm (emphasizing collaboration, community participation, and flexible governance) can root the policy in local needs, turning cooperatives into tangible instruments for village welfare. Diversified funding, fair market regulation, and human capital development are key levers to ensure these cooperatives truly serve the communities they intend to empower.

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You might be familiar with the regret of signing an expensive, multi-year gym contract. But what if that contract required you to keep gaining weight just to justify the monthly fee? You’d be paying a premium to actively work against your goal of getting fit.

This, unfortunately, is the logic behind Indonesia’s championed solution to its national waste problem.

We are on course for decades-long, multi billion dollars waste-to-energy (WtE) facilities development. They look sleek, but what’s alarming is that to make their exorbitant costs viable, these facilities require a massive, guaranteed supply of trash for the next 30 years.

This creates a perverse incentive. We are financially locked into a system that must actively discourage the things that make a city cleaner; like recycling to reduce waste, or composting to keep the plants fed.

It is a “solution” that functionally bans us from ever solving the problem. We’re paying a massive premium for business math that is simply, as they say, “not mathing.”

Gov’t latest ambition to roll-out the WtE mega project

At the end of September 2025, Indonesia’s sovereign wealth fund Danantara announced that they will push Indonesia’s long standing WtE agenda. This project took off with the Presidential Regulation (Perpres) 109/2025 as its launchpad; backing the government’s agenda to introduce WtE as the solution to our waste management problems.

According to bisnis.com, the super-holding will commit around a total of Rp66-99 trillion for the WtE facilities development across 33 sites. Each facility is projected to handle 1.000 tonnes of waste per day. In another news, Tempo reported that the operational revenue will rely on power purchase by state-owned electricity company PLN for 30 years at USD 20 cents/kWh, almost 50 percent higher than what was mandated in the preceding regulation, Perpres 35/2018, at USD 13,35 cents/kWh.

Triple-kill: Neither good for people, profit, nor planet

In 2005, rising methane concentration caused a deadly explosion in West Java’s Leuwigajah open-dumping landfill, killing 157. This has since pulled the alarm to do something about Indonesia’s waste management problem.

Since Jokowi’s tenure, the government had been keen to champion WtE as the solution to the country’s complex waste management landscape. Unfortunately, it’s not that simple.

Assessing from the lens of sustainability’s “People, Profit, Planet” (3Ps), we could see a big picture that there is more harm than good in practicing this solution.

1. People: Damaging the marginalized and vulnerable informal sector

The informal sector has been the backbone of waste management in Indonesia. Indonesia Waste Picker Association (Ikatan Pemulung Indonesia, or IPI) estimated there are 3,7 million waste pickers across 25 provinces in the country who rely on combustible dry waste such as plastic waste as their source of income.

On the other hand, that is the very same kind of waste WtE needs to fuel its power generation.

Assuming 15 cities across 12 provinces (as per Perpres 109/2025) will build WtE facilities, that means that around 1.8 million waste pickers’ livelihood would be significantly impacted by removing access from their main source of income.

Moreover, landfill sites, likely to be sites for WtE facilities, will be privatized and therefore displacing informal workers. The scale of the negative consequences this project poses is overwhelming compared to the claim that each facility would provide 500-1000 new jobs.

2. Profit: The business math is ‘not mathing’

The shocking part about this decision is the reliance on power purchase agreement (PPA) and also the USD 20 cents/kWh price point. While this price is theoretically enough to cover all costs associated with the facility, a big question mark has to be put on the PLN’s financial health.

The price is 4-5x higher than electricity from coal power plants and at least 2x higher than renewable sources at 10-20 MW scale based on Presidential Regulation (Perpres) 112/2022 (see annex 1). While a more detailed calculation needs to be done, a ballpark estimate yields a Rp9 trillion of additional expense for PLN to purchase electricity from 33 WtE facilities annually, more than half of their 2024’s net profit.

Moreover, this electricity will mostly be absorbed into the Java grid system where it already surpassed the required redundancy; meaning PLN will buy a very premium electricity that has no demand.

WtE facilities are also not exempted from business risk, as there are many technical aspects that can influence the output. This ultimately shifts the assumed potential revenue.

In conclusion, the current WtE scenario developed is potentially a cannibal scenario between Danantara portfolios, which falls off as counterintuitive since these portfolios should be enhancing rather than killing each other.

3. Planet: Encouraging a wasteful society

WtE facilities will create a lock-in effect towards the waste management landscape. Due to its intensive capital requirements, all policies will be heavily geared to cater to its needs to ensure it generates the desired output. This means that all efforts and policies angled for waste reduction principles, which is the higher priority, won’t be encouraged as it will reduce the WtE’s feedstock.

In fact, it will create a perverse incentive to generate more waste; justified as means to fulfill the WtE feedstock.

In the grand scheme of things, where Indonesia is struggling to even provide a proper source separated collection system, WtE facilities development is a ticking time bomb that will accelerate environmental destruction through its domino effect.

It is also imperative to understand that the triple bottom line does not capture the entire picture of threats associated with WtE facilities. There are risks along the project life cycle from the development to the monitoring of WtE that are too big to overlook.

Two of many apparent examples are governance accountability and public health hazards. These risks are very much visible due to the scale of the finance involved; and the well-known dangers of material combustion from past WtE facilities in countries with similar waste characteristics and human resources to Indonesia. To ensure that we minimize all these risk factors is a gargantuan task; given that there are 33 facilities to monitor with different technical nuances and governance setup.

How the budget could have been used instead

Rp66 trillion is a massive budget for waste management. This amount can be leveraged to impact beyond 33 sites, perhaps enough to drive impact across the country.

The key question here is how to approach the issue that a sound solution can be discovered. Unless the deconstruction is done properly, the government (in this case Danantara) will always arrive at false solutions such as WtE.

How to arrive at a real solution?

First, one should think about waste in specific categories – not seeing it as a mixed waste like the status quo – as each type of waste has their own characteristic and value to be leveraged.

In the case of Indonesia, organic waste has to be seen as a single group of waste due to its dominance in Indonesia’s waste composition, up to 50 percent. Another category is the recyclables, either low or high value. While it consists of several material types, in general they have a similar value and best available treatment method in the waste supply chain. Focusing on these two groups would be impactful as both cover around 60-80 percent of the total waste generated in Indonesia.

Next, after determining which types of waste to focus on, one should determine the type of solution to leverage. The best solution to approach the waste ordeal is a solution that is as close as possible to the generator, replicable, low financial requirements, and has less associated risks. These requirements are made to ensure that the solution keeps waste at its best possible state, flexible to Indonesia’s nuances and changing conditions, and does not pose more harm than the waste itself.

By focusing on these aspects, the solution adopted will not only have a clear market value that can be commercialized, but also fulfill its primary mission to solve the waste management challenge without creating a new hazard.

Finally, one should think about how a solution should be delivered; and how to enable a collaborative business model that involves grassroot communities and private entities. Rather than doing a centralized solution that will create a negative collateral and displace vulnerable communities, the solution has to be implemented in a way that encourages existing stakeholders and new stakeholders to collaborate to achieve the desired output. This way, the economic value won’t only benefit facility owners, but also the vulnerables - improving their livelihood.

At the end of the day, waste management is a truly complex issue, rich in technical and social nuances. Using WtE as a solution that oversimplifies the matter at hand will only lead Indonesia to a murkier layer of the topic.

The available budget made by Danantara can be leveraged to propel better solutions that will not only generate profit, but also promote social justice, and proper environmental preservation.

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Democracy is not just about holding free and fair elections; it requires a vibrant space where ideas clash productively and disagreements are seen not as threats but as necessary ingredients for a healthy political life.

This vision, often referred to by Chantal Mouffe as agonistic democracy, rests on the recognition of political opponents as legitimate adversaries rather than enemies to be destroyed. In an agonistic democracy, debates are fierce but constructive, and political competition strengthens rather than weakens the democratic order.

Yet in Indonesia, such an ideal remains difficult to achieve. Yes, our elections are held regularly, voter turnout is high, and peaceful transfers of power have become the norm since the fall of Suharto in 1998. But this is only what it looks like on the surface; somewhat deceptive signs of democratic consolidation. Beneath this surface, however, lies a structural problem that undermines the depth of Indonesia’s democracy.

The country’s unique combination of a presidential system and multiparty politics, coupled with the paradox of a poorly institutionalized opposition, produces a configuration that looks stable but deprives democracy of the contestation it needs to thrive.

The complexities of presidentialism and multiparty politics

Political scientist Scott Mainwaring once described the combination of presidential and multiparty systems as a “difficult combination.”

In a presidential system, the head of government is directly elected by the people, enjoying strong legitimacy and a fixed term in office. At the same time, when the legislature is fragmented into multiple parties, no single party holds a majority. This forces the president to build broad and often unwieldy coalitions in order to govern effectively.

Indonesia embodies this tension clearly. Since the introduction of direct presidential elections in 2004, every president has faced the challenge of governing without a dominant party in parliament. Instead of working with a single strong base, presidents must negotiate with multiple parties, each with its own interests and constituencies.

The result is that Indonesian presidents routinely build coalitions that resemble parliamentary cabinets, where ministries are distributed as bargaining chips to maintain legislative support. Although the constitution enshrines a presidential system, the day-to-day practice of politics often follows the logic of parliamentarism.

The missing institutionalized opposition

The key difference from a true parliamentary system lies in the role of opposition. In classic parliamentary democracies such as the United Kingdom, the opposition is not only tolerated but also institutionalized. It often takes the form of a shadow cabinet, with clearly defined leaders and portfolios that present themselves as a government-in-waiting.

Opposition in this sense is not destructive. Rather, it ensures accountability by providing the electorate with a visible and credible alternative.

In Indonesia, opposition plays a much weaker role. Parties that campaign as critics of the government often end up joining the ruling coalition once the election dust settles. In some cases, opposition parties cross over mid-term, trading their critical stance for positions in cabinet or access to state resources.

This fluidity produces a paradox. Indonesia’s presidential system emulates the coalition logic of parliamentarism, but without the institutional guarantees of a stable and recognized opposition. The result is a political environment where nearly all parties eventually gravitate toward the government.

This dynamic weakens democratic contestation. Opposition is no longer anchored in parties with organizational infrastructure and long-term strategies. Instead, it becomes fragmented and sporadic. Criticism of government policy tends to come from civil society groups, activists, or media commentators rather than from an institutionalized political opposition. This makes dissent less effective in shaping the direction of government and less visible to citizens who need clear alternatives in a functioning democracy.

The paradox of our democracy

When opposition is poorly institutionalized, the vitality of democracy inevitably suffers. Ideological differences are muted within oversized coalitions. In practice, many parties appear to support the same policies, even if they entered elections with different platforms. Citizens are left with the impression that politics is about power-sharing rather than genuine competition.

This creates a paradox. On one hand, Indonesia enjoys relative stability; most parties fold into the governing coalition, gridlock is rare, and presidents can count on legislative backing. On the other hand, this stability comes at the cost of democratic quality. The space for agonistic debate shrinks, and democracy becomes more about managing elites than about providing citizens with meaningful choices.

In this context, elections risk becoming ritualistic rather than substantive. Voters may participate enthusiastically, but the range of alternatives available to them is narrow. Without a strong and principled opposition, debates about policy direction remain shallow. Democracy becomes procedural, fulfilling the requirements of elections and civil liberties, but it falls short of cultivating the agonism necessary for responsiveness and accountability.

A procedural democracy

Indonesia is often celebrated as one of the largest democracies in the world. Its peaceful transitions of power and high levels of electoral participation are indeed impressive achievements, especially given its authoritarian past.

Yet, measured against the standards of agonistic democracy, Indonesia’s democracy appears thin. What has emerged is a procedural democracy. It meets the minimal requirements of electoral competition, freedom of expression, and political participation. However, it lacks the vibrant clash of ideas that could push policies to better reflect the interests and aspirations of diverse citizens.

The presidential-multiparty system incentivizes coalition-building that swallows up opposition, leaving little room for citizens to perceive clear alternatives in either vision or policy.

Stability at the cost of shallow democracy

The Indonesian case highlights an important paradox. Stability has been achieved by constructing oversized coalitions that minimize political conflict. Yet in the process, the very essence of democracy, its capacity for constructive contestation, has been hollowed out.

This raises a critical question for the future of Indonesian democracy: Is stability enough if it comes at the expense of substance?

Agonistic democracy requires visible disagreements and adversarial politics. It depends on the recognition that differences in vision and ideology are legitimate, and that their expression strengthens rather than weakens the democratic order.

Without an institutionalized opposition, Indonesian democracy risks drifting into a form of elite consensus politics, where the absence of conflict is mistaken for harmony, and citizens are deprived of meaningful choices.

Looking ahead: correcting the imbalance

The challenge is how to correct this imbalance. One possible solution lies in reforming the party system. Some scholars argue that raising the parliamentary threshold could reduce fragmentation and encourage the emergence of clearer lines between government and opposition.

Others point to the need for a cultural shift in how opposition is perceived. Rather than treating opposition as disloyal or destabilizing, Indonesian political culture could evolve to recognize its value as a necessary counterweight.

Another pathway lies in strengthening civil society and independent institutions. If parties fail to play the role of opposition, other actors may step in to provide critical scrutiny of government policy. However, this is not a perfect substitute. For agonistic democracy to flourish, opposition needs to be institutionalized within the political system itself, not left to ad hoc movements or individuals.

Ultimately, democracy without a healthy opposition cannot mature into an agonistic democracy. Indonesia has succeeded in maintaining stability through oversized coalitions, but stability without vibrant debate risks producing a shallow democracy. To move forward, Indonesia must confront the paradox of its presidential-multiparty system and the weakness of its opposition. Only then can the country begin to approach the ideal of a democracy that is both stable and genuinely agonistic.

Rosita Miladmahesi is an expert staff at The House of Representatives of the Republic of Indonesia (DPR RI)

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The chants outside Jakarta’s legislative complex in late August felt like echoes from another era. Students waving banners, traffic grinding to a halt, and police barricades standing tense; all reminiscent of Indonesia’s Reformasi struggles a quarter century ago.

Then, anger toppled an entrenched regime. Today, frustrations boil over legislative perks, economic hardships, and police misconduct.

What struck us most was perhaps not only the intensity of the protests, but how familiar they felt: another chapter in Indonesia’s ongoing experiment with democracy, where public dissent tests the resilience of institutions built in 1998.

Behind the unrest

From 25 to 28 August, Jakarta’s streets around the parliament complex and other urban centers became the epicenter of widespread protests. Students led demonstrations against parliamentary allowances, economic struggles, and corruption. What began as peaceful gatherings quickly turned violent, with reports of vandalism, property damage, Molotov cocktails, and escalating clashes with police.

Public outrage intensified after a tactical vehicle fatally struck an online motorbike taxi driver, Affan Kurniawan, drawing national attention and renewed demands for police accountability.

Following Affan’s death, unrest spread across Indonesia, targeting government buildings, police stations, and public infrastructure. Violent confrontations, arson, and looting accompanied the protests, prompting the government to deploy both police and military forces.

Limited policy concessions, including the revocation of parliamentary allowances, were announced, yet tensions remain high. Media coverage continues to highlight the scale of public dissent, the ongoing debate over police reform, and the challenges authorities face in maintaining order while responding to citizens’ demands.

Global patterns found in local realities

Walking through Jakarta’s congested streets during the unrest, it is impossible not to feel that the city’s turmoil is part of a larger, global story. From the chants in front of the parliament building to images of students and laborers confronting police lines, Indonesia’s 2025 unrest reflects patterns seen across continents. Economic struggles, perceptions of elite privilege, and frustrations with government accountability have historically ignited mass mobilization, whether in the Andes, Europe, or Southeast Asia. Several recent cases illustrate these dynamics in concrete ways.

Economic grievances have frequently sparked widespread protest. In Chile, demonstrations began over a subway fare hike but quickly expanded into a nationwide demand for social justice, with students and urban citizens marching together.

Ecuador experienced similar unrest in 2019, when indigenous groups and transport unions blocked roads to oppose fuel subsidy cuts, showing how economic austerity can unite diverse communities.

France’s Yellow Vest movement combined middle-class anger over fuel taxes with broader discontent about inequality, highlighting the difficulty of addressing both immediate and structural concerns.

In each case, protests began with tangible grievances but quickly expanded to challenge systemic inequities.

A balancing act: The government’s response v. civil resistance

Elite cohesion and institutional posture shaped how governments responded. Indonesia’s divided leadership, dominated by security-aligned factions, mirrors Bolivia’s 2019 crisis, where Morales became isolated as military support waned. By contrast, cohesive elites in Poland and Thailand were able to impose decisive, sometimes authoritarian interventions, demonstrating how elite alignment affects state capacity and public perception.

Indonesia’s deployment of both police and military, alongside promises to review policies and hold law enforcement accountable, reflects a balancing act between maintaining order and preserving legitimacy.

Ecuador and Bolivia relied on militarized responses paired with limited concessions, while Chile, France, and Poland emphasized negotiation, legal adjustments, or institutional checks. Thailand represents an extreme case, where military intervention replaced civilian authority entirely.

Patterns of civil resistance further illuminate these dynamics. Indonesian protests spanned Jakarta, universities, and regional centers, mixing peaceful marches with episodes of violence. This mirrors Chile’s nationwide mobilizations, Ecuador’s road blockades, and Bolivia’s polarized demonstrations, whereas France and Poland were more urban-centered and Thailand featured prolonged street occupations.

Social media amplified mobilization everywhere, though press freedom varied. In Indonesia, harassment and reporting restrictions complicated transparency, shaping public perception of events.

Finally, constitutional pathways and institutional guardrails determined potential outcomes. Indonesia’s 1998 Reformasi-born institutions remain tested, with parliament hesitant to relinquish perks. Comparative experiences suggest that negotiation and dialogue (as in Chile and Ecuador), or elections and external oversight (as in Bolivia and Poland) can stabilize unrest.

Indonesia’s 2025 protests demonstrate how economic grievances, elite contestation, and public mobilization intersect, emphasizing that democratic resilience depends on not only street activism but also institutional capacity, media freedom, and measured state responses.

A work in progress: Indonesia’s democracy outlook

The events of August 2025 demonstrate that democracy in Indonesia remains a work in progress. Walking through Jakarta’s streets during the unrest, one encounters the raw energy of citizens demanding accountability, fairness, and justice. Protests over parliamentary perks, economic strain, and police misconduct are not isolated complaints; they reflect a broader conversation about how power is exercised and whom it serves.

Indonesia’s experience mirrors global patterns of unrest, yet its context is distinct. Demonstrations are concentrated in urban centers, media reporting faces restrictions, and Reformasi-era institutions continue to be tested by elite factionalism. The government’s response, combining militarized security measures with limited policy concessions, highlights the delicate balance between maintaining order and preserving legitimacy.

Lessons from past social movements abroad suggest several potential trajectories:

In the short term, over the next month, protests may subside if the government offers credible concessions and engages in meaningful dialogue. Symbolic gestures or intensified security measures, by contrast, risk prolonging unrest or escalating clashes.

Over the medium term, spanning roughly three months, outcomes hinge on institutionalized negotiations and the government’s ability to address structural grievances. Partial concessions may produce episodic violence and persistent instability, whereas sustained engagement with civic actors could stabilize the political environment.

Over the next six months, elite alignment and economic pressures will become decisive. Institutionalized reforms and the channelling of protest demands into formal mechanisms could deliver managed stability. If grievances remain unaddressed, however, chronic instability, economic drag, and eroded public trust are likely. Authoritarian consolidation remains a risk if security and political elites prioritize control over compromise.

These scenarios underscore that Indonesia’s democratic practice is continuously negotiated on the streets, within institutions, and in the spaces between power and the public. Sustainable stability will require transparent policymaking, resilient institutions, and responsive governance.

Short-term concessions may calm unrest, but lasting stability depends on addressing structural grievances while safeguarding democratic accountability. The trajectory ahead will hinge on the ability of leaders and citizens alike to convert public mobilization into durable reforms that strengthen both governance and trust.

Aly Lamuri is a PhD candidate at the University of Groningen. His research focuses on evaluating public policies and their impact on public mental health.

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Amok has once again erupted in Indonesia. It began in Pati, then it spread to Bone, Cirebon, Jombang, and Semarang, as public anger reached boiling point.
In Jakarta, the common people’s economic struggle was met not with empathy, but with arrogance from state officials. The fury inflamed when parliament members awarded themselves daily allowances of Rp3 million, dancing (figuratively, but also literally) on the people’s suffering.

But the people’s grievances and demands were met with violence; culminating in the death of Affan Kurniawan, an online motorcycle taxi driver who was crushed by a police armored vehicle.

Rather than de-escalate, the police doubled down with repression. The death toll has now reached ten, with thousands more injured by police violence.

Affan’s death and the brutality against protesters sparked calls for the removal of the National Police Chief. While legitimate, such demands are not enough. What is needed is not merely a change of leadership, but structural, systemic reform.

A reform that goes beyond symbolic training in “humanist” policing or perfunctory HR management. A reform that restores civilian supremacy by placing clear limits on police powers and subjecting them to oversight by other civilian institutions.

Polri’s constitutional mandate

The 1945 Constitution mandates the police as a “state apparatus tasked with maintaining security and public order, protecting, nurturing, and serving the public, as well as enforcing the law.”

With the second-largest budget allocation after the Ministry of Defense (funds tripling during the Jokowi era, from Rp39 trillion in 2012 to Rp126 trillion in 2025), citizens have every right to scrutinize how their tax money is spent. Just as residents question whether their neighborhood security fees translate into real safety, Indonesians must ask: Has a bigger budget made the police more effective? Has it made people feel safer?

Security and public order

How is Indonesia’s security? The Global Peace Index places the country fifth in Southeast Asia, behind Singapore, Malaysia, Vietnam, Laos, and Timor Leste. For investors, this ranking signals risk compared to neighboring countries. Many businesses end up paying extra for protection services, including security companies run by police officers themselves (Wilson, 2011).

Time and again, police methods of “maintaining order” have only inflamed tensions. The Kanjuruhan tragedy is a stark example: during a heated soccer match, Mobile Brigade (Brimob) officers fired tear gas and blocked stadium exits, leading to 135 deaths, including 40 children. This tragedy sparked public fury and fueled nationwide protests, especially after involved officers were only given weak sanctions.

Most recently, on 28 August 2025, Affan Kurniawan was run over by a 12-ton Brimob armored vehicle. What began as anger over MPs’ lavish allowances quickly evolved into calls for police reform. Once again, the police’s heavy-handed response worsened the chaos, sparking looting and destruction of public facilities.

The police’s centralized authority makes them the most dominant actor in public security, leaving ample room for abuse. As Lord Acton put it: “Absolute power corrupts absolutely.” And as stipulated by Klitgaard’s anticorruption formula, many countries mitigate this risk by dividing authority and strengthening accountability mechanisms.

In the United States, for instance, policing is managed at city and state levels. Even in centralized China, the police answer to both central and local governments. These dual systems are designed to ensure policing is aligned with the needs and characters of local civilian communities.

Protection and public services

The police also control a vast array of public services: issuing police clearance certificates, driver’s licenses, traffic fines, vehicle taxes, event permits, and security guard IDs. In 2023, these services generated Rp9.7 trillion in non-tax state revenue. This makes Polri the second-largest contributor after the Ministry of Communications and Digital Affairs.

But with power and money comes corruption. The Police Corruption Perception Index (2024) ranked Indonesia’s police the most corrupt institution in Southeast Asia, and 18th in the world. The Global Corruption Barometer (2020) also identified the police as Indonesia’s most bribe-prone institution.

Elsewhere, such services are run by civilians. In the U.S., the Netherlands, and Malaysia, licensing and vehicle tax administration fall under non-police local governments. Indonesia itself once placed driver’s license issuance under the Ministry of Transportation.

Shifting these functions back to civilian agencies is not only an anti-corruption measure; it restores roles to their rightful purpose. Historically, policing was never about serving the public; it was about enforcing order for those in power. This militaristic DNA explains why police often side with rulers over citizens (Vitale, 2017).

Law enforcement

The police wield authority over criminal law enforcement. In theory, this means processing offenders through fair trial and punishment. In practice, however, public trust is collapsing; epitomized by the #PercumaLaporPolisi (“No Use Going to the Police”) movement. Statistics back this up: between 2021–2023, only 23 percent of crime victims reported incidents to the police (BPS). This distrust leaves offenders at large, undermining public safety.

Even worse, police often enforce the law by breaking it. The National Human Rights Commission (Komnas HAM) routinely cites the police as the institution most responsible for violence and torture, especially during interrogations. In one case, four teenagers accused of murder in Cipulir were beaten and electrocuted until they confessed; before a court finally acquitted them.

Accountability gaps fuel these abuses. The draft for Criminal Procedure Code (RKUHAP) once proposed allowing prosecutors to take over stalled cases. It also proposed giving judges oversight over arrests, detentions, searches, and seizures. Such checks, common in other democracies, would rebalance law enforcement toward civilian institutions (like the Court or Prosecutor’s Office). Yet, these proposals quietly disappeared during parliamentary deliberations.

The way forward

Recent incidents show that the police have failed to fulfill their constitutional mandate. Reform cannot stop at replacing a police chief or disciplining rogue officers. As Jacqui Baker (2022) argues, police reform in Indonesia is dead. What is needed is political reform—one that repositions the police within a democratic civilian framework.

This means restructuring the police’s mandate, authority, and institutions so they operate with focus and accountability. Only then can policing serve its true purpose: protecting the people, under civilian rule.

Choky R. Ramadhan is an assistant professor at the Faculty of Law, Universitas Indonesia.

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This op-ed reflects the author’s own analysis and views and does not necessarily represent those of The Reformist. This opinion first appeared in Tempo, published originally in Bahasa Indonesia.

President Prabowo Subianto’s speech on 31 August 2025, following waves of demonstrations that turned violent, sparked sharp debate across civil society. Instead of carefully, and specifically, addressing the public’s demands, the President focused narrowly on the issue of removing parliamentary allowances for members of the House of Representatives (DPR).

His unfounded claims about terrorism and treason, combined with a call for the public to trust the government amid police brutality, only deepened public frustration.

Yet the demonstrations raised far more pressing issues: the troubled Free Nutritious Meals (Makan Bergizi Gratis, or MBG) program, the urgent need for police reform, and high youth unemployment.

In a rare moment where the President spoke directly to the public, he could have opened a policy window; signalling a real commitment to addressing society’s core problems. But by choosing to spotlight just one issue, Prabowo squandered a critical opportunity. The disappointment is even sharper given how rarely he makes public statements during his presidency.

Ideally, the President could have paired his remarks with concrete steps (for example, announcing a moratorium on controversial policies); showing he was willing to act – precisely how a policy window is meant to work.

The ‘Multiple Streams’ Framework

In public policy, the multiple streams framework (MSF) explains how major policy shifts can happen outside conventional legislative cycles. It argues that a policy window opens when three streams converge: the problem stream (issues recognized as urgent), the policy stream (available solutions), and the political stream (political will).

When the three streams meet, a golden moment emerges for leaders or organizations (inside or outside government) to act as policy entrepreneurs by advancing solutions.

With his political capital, Prabowo could have stepped into that role. Instead, he narrowed his response to a single viral issue and let the moment slip.

This stands in contrast to his predecessor, Joko Widodo, who often used omnibus laws to accelerate legislation and leave a political legacy, albeit in practice, many of those laws created more problems than they solved.

Prabowo’s speech also leaned on unsubstantiated narratives of treason and terrorism. Tempo reports even told a different story: that Defense Minister Sjafrie Sjamsoeddin had proposed martial law, an alarming contradiction to the President’s framing.

Worse, the President offered no real apology for the death of Affan Kurniawan, who was killed by police brutality, nor did he call for greater professionalism from law enforcement. Instead, he blamed demonstrators and portrayed the protests as mere anger that should have been channeled through “peaceful” forums. This evasive communication only shut doors to dialogue, stoked public anger, and fueled deeper skepticism.

Research by Mintrom and O’Connor on crisis communication stresses the importance of consistent messaging. But, context matters. In a health crisis, a single message may suffice; in mass demonstrations, people expect more. At minimum, the President could have signaled legislative action on issues like corruption; one of the public’s core demands.

For instance, he might have announced a timeline for consultations with the DPR to strengthen anti-corruption safeguards, such as reforms to procurement laws. By failing to do so, the government left the public feeling ignored; fueling anger and opening space for broader calls for reform. These eventually crystallized into the 17+8 movement, spearheaded by activists and amplified online.

The cost of an empty response

The government’s failure to seize this moment has ironically opened opportunities for civil society. Prabowo’s remark that public aspirations could be directly conveyed to the government created a “new window” for citizen groups to push deeper demands: budget transparency, stronger party commitments, and genuine political dialogue.

Among these demands was justice for Affan Kurniawan’s death. Reviving such calls has re-energized public awareness. Citizens who have tuned out of policy debates are once again sharing and amplifying these issues online.

Yet while participation spaces are open, implementation remains weak. Too often, civil society input goes unanswered. This undermines the right of citizens to be heard and to understand the rationale behind government decisions.

There are proven models of digital public participation to draw from. Platforms like lapor.go.id, Jakarta Kini (JAKI), and the Ministry of Health’s consultative process on the Health Bill show that digital participation can generate clear feedback loops. The government should learn from these practices; using this policy window not just to talk, but to reform how it engages with citizens.

The DPR’s response to the 17+8 movement briefly raised hopes. While the answers were incomplete (lacking detail or strong justification, such as on the issue of lawmakers’ hefty communication allowances) the fact that the DPR responded at all showed a degree of collaboration worth noting.

The 17+8 movement itself, despite its flaws, deserves recognition. Critics point out that it did not initially involve directly affected groups. Still, the movement has modeled a new form of engagement.

By leveraging the policy window, 17+8 has gone beyond pressuring the government. It has become a platform for citizen solidarity and civil society consolidation. It proves that even when the government squanders opportunities, the people can—and will—find ways to reclaim them.

Amanda Tan is a Public Policy doctoral candidate at Monash University, Indonesia.

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Public disappointment towards the House of Representatives (DPR) has reached a new peak. A combination of public grievances has weakened the trust towards the institution: parliament members’ lavish allowances amidst the people’s economic struggles, a series of tone-deaf statements with little to no empathy, and the absence of clear, measurable legislative achievements.

What was once quiet skepticism has now transformed into visible outrage, finding its loudest expression online. Hashtags like #BubarkanDPR (#DismantleDPR) have become rallying cries of collective frustration, circulating widely across social media platforms and resonating with a public that feels increasingly alienated from its representatives.

But while these calls to dismantle the House may feel emotionally justified, they could carry serious and dangerous consequences. Abolishing the DPR would not resolve the systemic and fundamental breakdown of trust between citizens and their representatives. Instead, it would break apart the very system of checks and balances that keeps Indonesia’s democracy in place.

Removing legislative oversight would hand excessive and unchecked authority to the executive branch, creating conditions where emergency laws could be imposed without meaningful accountability.

On Emergency Law: What the Constitution and Perppu 23/1959 allow

Under Indonesia’s current legal framework for emergency powers, Article 12 of the 1945 Constitution, together with Perppu No. 23/1959, grants the president unilateral authority to declare a state of emergency and determine how it is enforced. These provisions, which remain in force today, were designed to give the executive broad discretion in times of crisis, with very few procedural checks in place.

This framework creates a dangerous concentration of power during crises, placing extraordinary authority entirely in the hands of the president. Neither the legislative nor the judicial branch has the ability to review, question, or block such a declaration. Once emergency powers are invoked, there is virtually no institutional mechanism to counterbalance or oversee the decision.

Without these safeguards, the public is left exposed to potential abuse. What may begin as a temporary response to a genuine crisis can, without proper oversight, easily turn into a prolonged or even permanent state of exceptional rule, fundamentally shifting the balance of Indonesia’s democracy and diminishing civil liberties over time.

The historical shift toward executive dominance

Indonesia’s current framework for emergency powers did not always look this way. In the early years of independence, Law No. 74 of 1957 reflected a more balanced approach to emergency governance, one that accommodated a degree of cooperation between the executive and legislative branches. Under that law, the declaration and administration of emergency powers involved a framework of shared authority, ensuring that no single branch could dominate the process outright.

This balance began to erode with the introduction of Law No. 23/Prp/1959, which remains in force today. This newer law consolidated decision-making in the hands of the executive, giving the President unilateral authority to declare and manage states of emergency without meaningful legislative or judicial input. What began as a system of shared responsibility gradually transformed into a model that centralizes power in a single branch, weakening institutional safeguards.

Understanding this historical shift is critical to recognizing why Indonesia’s democratic checks and balances remain fragile in moments of crisis. What was once designed as a collaborative system has evolved into one where the executive stands virtually unchecked during emergencies, creating a structural vulnerability that continues to shape the country’s political risks today.

Lessons from South Korea

We can look to South Korea for an example of how strong institutions can safeguard democracy during moments of crisis. In December 2024, President Yoon Suk Yeol shocked the nation when he unilaterally declared martial law, claiming it was necessary to counter an opposition-led assembly and alleged “anti-state forces.” Yet the country’s legislative branch moved quickly. Within hours, 190 members of the National Assembly voted to lift the martial law decree, forcing the government to retract it almost immediately.

This case showed how powerful constitutional checks can be when institutions function as intended. Under South Korea’s Constitution and Martial Law Act, the president is legally required to revoke martial law if a majority of the National Assembly votes against it. This provision became the first line of defense against executive overreach, preventing what could have escalated into a prolonged constitutional crisis.

Indonesia, in contrast, has no comparable safeguards. Neither the DPR nor the Constitutional Court has the authority to review or reverse a president’s decision to declare emergency powers. Without such mechanisms, any abuse of these powers would go unchallenged, leaving the public vulnerable and the balance of democratic governance dangerously tilted toward the executive.

This imbalance of power highlights a fundamental truth: dismantling DPR would not solve Indonesia’s democratic challenges. What the country needs instead is a way to restore public trust and ensure that the DPR fulfills its role as a true check on executive authority.

Reforming accountability: People-driven Recall Mechanism

The answer to a broken parliament is not to destroy it; it’s to make it more accountable. One of the most powerful tools to achieve this is the recall mechanism, a legal provision that allows legislators who betray public trust or fail to fulfill their duties to be removed before the end of their terms. In principle, this mechanism should safeguard the people’s voice and ensure that elected representatives remain answerable to those they represent.

However, under the current legal framework, the mechanism is controlled exclusively by political party leaders. Only the head of a party has the authority to withdraw a member from the DPR, leaving voters, who are supposed to be the ultimate source of power in a democracy, with no direct say in the process. This arrangement keeps power concentrated in the hands of party elites and sidelines the very citizens whose mandate gave those legislators their seats.

It would thus be transformative to reform the recall system by making it genuinely people-driven.

In Venezuela, the constitution explicitly allows citizens to recall any elected official, including members of the National Assembly, through a petition signed by at least 20 percent of voters in the constituency once the official has served half of their term.

Taiwan has a similar framework under its Election and Recall Act, where voters can initiate a recall of legislators in the Legislative Yuan. The process starts with signatures from 1 percent of eligible voters, followed by a second stage requiring 10 percent, which then triggers a recall vote. For the recall to succeed, the number of “yes” votes must exceed the “no” votes and reach at least 25 percent of the total electorate.

Ecuador also enshrines the right to recall in its constitution, allowing citizens to remove members of parliament after the first year of their term. Likewise, Bolivia treats recall as a constitutional right, making it a core part of its participatory democracy model.

Granting Indonesian voters a similar right would strengthen accountability and make legislators far more responsive to public demands. Such a reform would also help rebuild trust in the parliament by showing that it exists to serve the people, and that the people hold the ultimate power to demand integrity and performance from their representatives. By shifting the balance of control from party elites to the electorate, Indonesia could take a decisive step toward a more responsive and resilient democracy.

Restoring the people’s trust

Indonesia’s democratic future depends not on dismantling its institutions but on reforming them. True balance of power means having a parliament that exercises meaningful oversight, an executive that respects those limits, and citizens who can hold both to account.

Emergency powers will always be a feature of the constitutional system. But the risks those powers pose can only be mitigated by strong, independent, and functional oversight institutions that are equipped to monitor, check, and limit the use of such powers. The DPR should be at the core of this framework, ensuring that no branch of government can act without accountability.

The path forward is more challenging but ultimately more certain: reforming the parliament, empowering citizens, and building a democracy resilient enough to withstand both unaccountable governance and moments of national crisis. Only then can Indonesia safeguard its hard-earned freedoms and prevent them from slipping away under the weight of unchecked power.

Josua Satria Collins is a graduate law student at Universitas Indonesia with a specialization in constitutional law. He previously served as expert staff to a Member of the Indonesian House of Representatives (DPR) during the 2019–2024 legislative term.

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Jakarta’s pre-dawn commuters can smell the city’s reliance on coal: a sharp hint of sulphur, fine ash hanging in the humid air, and a haze that blurs the skyline.

That everyday experience now carries legal weight. On 23 July 2025, the International Court of Justice (ICJ) ruled that knowingly allowing greenhouse-gas emissions to rise is an “internationally wrongful act.”

Routine smog is therefore more than an irritant: it can translate into carbon tariffs on Indonesia’s exports and higher risk premia in its capital markets.

Indonesia’s coal crossroads meets ICJ verdict

For the first time, the ICJ affirmed that legal duties to prevent climate damage extend beyond climate treaties, applying equally under human rights law, the law of the sea, and customary international law. Though the ruling increases pressure on industrialized countries to offer climate finance and reparations, it does not exempt any state, regardless of income or historical emissions, from exercising stringent due diligence.

All states are now expected to take science-informed, timely, and ambitious action to avoid contributing to climate harm. While the opinion is not legally binding, it carries powerful normative weight. Its implications are already rippling across trade, finance, and global risk assessments because markets tend to price legal momentum long before judges ever award damages.

Nowhere is that dynamic clearer than in Indonesia. The country set a fresh coal production record in 2024, mining about 836 million tonnes of coal, nearly one-fifth above the official target. Coal still delivers roughly two thirds of Indonesia’s electricity and anchors an export machine that supplies smelters from Gujarat to Guangdong.

In 2023, China and India accounted for roughly 65% of Indonesia’s coal exports, highlighting the country’s deep integration into Asian industrial supply chains. Yet those same exports face a tightening wall of carbon tariffs. The European Union’s Carbon Border Adjustment Mechanism (CBAM) is already in its reporting phase and will start collecting full charges in 2026. The United Kingdom will introduce a parallel levy on imports from 1 January 2027, and a number of US lawmakers are pushing for a similar carbon border fee.

In the wake of the ICJ opinion, the political case for such measures has become stronger, not weaker, because governments can now claim they are enforcing an emerging duty of care rather than engaging in disguised protectionism.

PLN’s debt trap and decarbonization dilemma

Indonesia’s electricity monopoly, PLN, sits at the heart of the dilemma. Coal and gas still account for about 91% of PLN’s installed capacity, and the company carries roughly USD 25 billion in debt. PLN also pays penalties for power it does not need under take-or-pay contracts with independent coal plants, effectively subsidizing excess capacity.

At COP29 last year in Baku, PLN’s finance director, Sinthya Roesly, spelled out the bind: global investors, she noted, appreciate PLN’s sovereign backing and long-dated bonds, yet many are barred by internal or OECD rules from financing utilities where coal accounts for more than half of generation.

“Indonesia cannot go from brown to green overnight,” she argued; investors have to accept a transition pathway, and new kinds of transition finance, if they want to stay in the game.

Her plea highlights an uncomfortable truth: as long as more than half of PLN’s power generation comes from coal, many global investors are effectively barred from financing it under their ESG mandates. That 50% threshold, used by pension funds, development banks, and export credit agencies alike, means PLN must decarbonize first to access the very capital it needs to do so.

Private miners feel the pinch

That tension is also clear upstream. Indika Energy still earned about 84% of its revenue from coal in 2024, but, as noted by the Energy Shift Institute, it directed more than 90% of its capital spending toward gold, renewables, electric motorbikes, and nature-based solutions.

Despite this shift, creditworthiness-rating providers Moody’s placed Indika on a negative outlook, while Fitch reported that coal will continue to account for 80–90% of its earnings through 2026. The company’s transition strategy is underway, but credit metrics are under pressure as coal revenues decline and diversification costs rise.

The ICJ decision subtly changes that calculus. A court that frames unchecked emissions as a wrongful act also legitimises robust domestic carbon policies, because such measures look less like trade barriers or fiscal grabs and more like compliance with a global duty.

If Jakarta can put a transparent, rising price on carbon and publish an irreversible retirement timetable for its coal fleet, investors and rating agencies gain a yardstick.

Financial models can treat carbon revenues and concessional transition loans as predictable cash flow rather than speculative hopes. Without that visibility, analysts fall back on worst-case assumptions: stranded assets, capped electricity tariffs, and political hesitation.

Indonesia’s carbon-pricing gap

Carbon pricing shifts the cost of climate damage onto emitters, typically via a fixed carbon tax or a cap-and-trade emissions-trading system (ETS). For the moment, Indonesia’s carbon pricing architecture remains timid. A carbon tax of IDR 30 per kg CO₂e (about USD 2 per ton CO₂) has been legislated but not yet collected, and an intensity- based emissions trading system (ETS) covers only the largest coal plants, with recent permit prices well below USD 5.

In 2023 the pilot power sector ETS saw an average carbon price of only IDR 12,000 (USD 0.76) per ton, while secondary market offset credits traded around IDR 58,800 (USD 3.66). The gulf between those figures and the EU ETS price (which has lately bounced around EUR 60–90 per ton) measures the bill that Indonesian exporters will soon pay at foreign borders. The ICJ finding raises the stakes by making that bill harder to contest diplomatically.

Transition plans need legal foundations

Jakarta’s 2025–2034 power procurement plan draft (RUPTL) tries to answer the critics. It proposes 69.5 GW of new generation capacity by 2034, 76% of it labeled renewable (including significant battery storage).

However, the same document leaves room for 16.6 GW of new coal and gas power plants in that timeframe. Achieving the renewable targets would require Indonesia to build green capacity five times faster in 2025–2029 and eleven times faster in 2030–2034 than it has ever managed before.

Credit rating agencies respond to numbers, not aspirations: an unfunded promise to close coal early registers as a liability, not a virtue. Without legally binding milestones, they load a risk premium onto PLN’s sovereign-backed bonds, raising the very cost of capital that PLN needs for new renewables and transmission lines.

The battle of optics on the road to Belém

This year’s COP 30 in Belém, Brazil (in November) will unfold in the long shadow of the ICJ opinion, and every delegation is already adjusting its tone.

Europe will arrive armed with ever-clearer justifications for border carbon measures; Australia is recasting itself as a renewable energy superpower; China and the wider BASIC group are sharpening a fairness message that challenges unilateral trade tools while accelerating their own renewables rollout.

The mid-year Bonn talks (SB 26, the June 2025 climate meetings) offered clues about what Belém’s corridors will really discuss. Negotiators there struggled to finalize guidance on Article 6 carbon trading, leaving the new “just transition” work program hungry for concrete country examples. And, after a fierce debate triggered by BASIC nations, they parked the question of climate-related trade measures for informal consultations.

In other words, the atmosphere in Brazil will reward hard evidence of domestic implementation (especially carbon price integrity, coal exit timetables and worker transition finance) while keeping a wary eye on how those efforts interact with emerging trade rules.

Crafting Indonesia’s pavilion narrative

Indonesia’s pavilion narrative will need to feel at home in that reality. It can still celebrate progress. The first carbon credit auctions in its power-sector ETS, the clean power export links to Singapore, early retraining schemes in coal-mining provinces, but those elements have to knit together into a single, believable arc: we are pricing carbon, retiring coal at pace, and asking the world to recognize that effort instead of taxing it twice.

What will resonate is a clear line of sight from Indonesia’s carbon ledger to its export invoices, and from its coal-town budgets to the “just transition” bullet points that the SB 62 co-chairs want fleshed out.

Indonesia’s pavilion should not just report progress. It should anchor its message in two clear priorities.

First, to unlock cheaper finance, Jakarta must offer investors a transition pathway they can underwrite: a published coal phase-out schedule embedded in PLN contracts, a carbon tax that rises automatically over time, and transparent monthly data on what’s being taxed, retired and built.

Second, Indonesia should use that credibility to press for recognition abroad. If exporters are paying a carbon price at home, that cost should be credited at the border, not paid again. Trade agreements like the CEPA with the EU, and future ASEAN climate alignments, should reward domestic climate action with reduced compliance costs and preferential access.

These are not side issues; they are the test of whether Indonesia’s climate policy can hold its own in the global trade arena Belém is helping to define.

Final words

Early coal retirement disrupts jobs, local budgets and long-standing subsidy structures. But the ICJ has changed the backdrop: climate inertia now reads not just as environmental neglect but as legal risk, and that risk is already finding its way into credit spreads, customs duties and the pavilion narratives that will fill Belém’s Blue and Green Zones.

Indonesia has a narrow window to flip the script, turning its vast renewable potential and improving carbon-pricing tools into something markets reward rather than punish. What’s decided between now and Belém won’t just shape the pavilion story. It will shape how Indonesia is treated in global markets for the rest of the decade.

Harry Wardana is an economist and postdoctoral research fellow at the Institute for International Trade, University of Adelaide. He is the university’s official delegate for COP 30 in Belém this November.

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