This article responds to The Reformist vol. 29 on BPJS Ketenagakerjaan, which discusses the shortfalls of the program and how relevant ministries responsible for social security have fumbled protection amid a flailing economy. Read here.

The Reformist recently asked in a volume whether BPJS Ketenagakerjaan can “save” Indonesia’s vulnerable workforce. It is a sharp, well-sourced piece, and it is right about the danger: seven out of ten workers stand outside the employment social security system.

As the article pointed out, the clock is ticking toward financial deficits by 2038. Without genuine reforms, BPJS Ketenagakerjaan, as a social protection program, faces the risk of collapse.

But the article seems to put BPJS Ketenagakerjaan, an implementing agency, on trial for “crimes” committed by the legislature, the Finance Ministry, and the Manpower Ministry. This misdirection risks letting the actors who actually hold the levers walk away free from the consequences of their misdeeds.

An operator on trial for laws it never wrote

Let’s begin with what BPJS Ketenagakerjaan legally is. Under Law No. 24/2011, it is a public legal entity, or, in plain words, an operator. It can collect contributions, manage Social Security funds, and pay out claims across five programs.

It cannot, however, decide the rules of the game it plays. Contribution rates, benefit formulas, eligibility criteria, investment mandates, and enforcement powers are all set upstream. They are stipulated in Government Regulations (PP) and in Ministerial Regulations issued by the Manpower Ministry, the Finance Ministry, the National Social Security Council (DJSN), and ultimately the House of Representatives (DPR).

BPJS Ketenagakerjaan can’t legislate its own coverage, just as a cashier can’t rewrite the menu.

Therefore, please allow me to “defend” BPJS Ketenagakerjaan by redirecting the problems listed in the Reformist’s article to those who are actually responsible:

I. The JHT withdrawal scandal was a policy reversal, not an operator’s blunder

The article treats the hemorrhage of Jaminan Hari Tua (JHT) funds, with more than a million workers cashing out in a single year, as evidence that the program is misdesigned.

It is misdesigned. But BPJS Ketenagakerjaan did not design it.

The lump-sum withdrawal upon resignation or layoff was stipulated in PP No. 60/2015, when the government reversed its own retirement-preservation principle under pressure from organized labor.

The agency administering that rule, BPJS Ketenagakerjaan, had no vote in the matter. To blame the operator for honoring a regulation it is legally bound to honor is to mistake obedience for authorship.

II. Weak enforcement is due to a lack of sufficient manpower (in the ministry inspectorate)

The article correctly references the Ombudsman’s 2021 finding on weak enforcement, especially towards non-compliant employers. Yet it then splits the blame between BPJS Ketenagakerjaan and the Ministry of Manpower, as though the two share the mandate.

They do not.

Labor inspection is the exclusive authority of the Directorate General of Labor Inspection. BPJS Ketenagakerjaan cannot impose sanctions on a non-compliant employer. It can only refer to one.

With roughly 2,400 inspectors stretched across a workforce of more than 150 million, the 523,000 unregistered employers are not a symptom of operator negligence. They are a symptom of a state that funded an obligation without funding the means to enforce it.

III. The missing subsidy is a budget decision

The article accurately notes that BPJS Kesehatan, the country’s national health insurance program, has reached near-universal coverage, while BPJS Ketenagakerjaan languishes. This is true, but it’s not the operator’s fault that it doesn’t have the budget to provide universal coverage.

BPJS Kesehatan thrives in this area largely because the country introduced a scheme called Penerima Bantuan Iuran (PBI), a state-funded program that pays premiums for the poor. But there is currently no equivalent for employment social security.

That absence is not an institutional limitation of BPJS Ketenagakerjaan. It is a deliberate fiscal choice by the Finance Ministry and ratified by the House. Article 14 of Law No. 40/2004 actually mandates PBI for both BPJS, but this is not the case in practice today. In other words, the comparison The Reformist’s article uses to indict the operator is thus, in fact, an indictment of the government’s budgeting decisions.

What the operator can do once the architecture lets it

While it would be wrong to direct responsibility for solving the above-mentioned problems to BPJS Ketenagakerjaan, that doesn’t mean the agency is entirely absolved of blame.

It should also communicate more openly with the public about these constraints, especially the workers it serves, so that it does not bear the brunt of public frustration alone.

But these are second-order problems. The binding constraint is upstream, and that is precisely why the agency’s potential is being underestimated.

Consider what the operator already has: a national collection and investment machine, a grassroots agent network (Perisai), digital enrolment channels, and a growing web of cooperation agreements with sub-national governments. The premium cut of Rp 8,400 for informal workers, stipulated in PP No. 50/2025, shows the instinct is there.

What this machinery lacks is not competence. It lacks a mandate with teeth, a fiscal instrument to subsidize those who cannot pay, and an enforcement partner that is actually resourced.

If we give BPJS Ketenagakerjaan a statutory coverage mandate backed by a functioning inspectorate, a PBI-equivalent subsidy carved out of the APBN, and the DJSN’s willingness to coordinate rather than spectate, the coverage curve that has crawled fourteen points in twenty-eight years will bend. The limiting “ceiling” is not the operator but the policy architecture. In fact, the operator has been trying to break it with one hand tied behind their back.

What genuine cooperation would actually look like

If the constraint is the architecture, the remedy must be architectural, and it requires that every party move at once. The point is not that BPJS Ketenagakerjaan is blameless. It is that no single actor can close a thirty-point coverage gap alone. Here is what the actors’ orchestration could look like:

The government holds the heaviest instruments. The Finance Ministry should carve a contribution subsidy for the poorest informal workers out of the State Budget, a PBI for employment modeled after the health version, beginning with the cheapest and highest-impact floor (work accident and death coverage, JKK and JKM, at roughly Rp 16,800 a month) before layering pensions on top.

Enrolment should become automatic immediately after a regulation is formalized, bolted onto the OSS business-licensing system, the issuance of a business identification number (NIB), tax registration, and the Regsosek social registry. This will ensure that protection follows the worker instead of waiting for the worker to discover it.

The Manpower Ministry must properly resource its Directorate General for Supervision and Occupational Safety and Health, with more inspectors reaching the district level and a live data bridge to BPJS so that non-compliance becomes visible and actionable. And the DJSN must finally start coordinating rather than merely spectating, gradually restoring JHT’s retirement-preservation purpose.

Employers will comply when evasion costs more than compliance. Registration should be tied to procurement eligibility, license renewal, and tax and export clearances, so that the billion-rupiah fine written into the 2011 law stops being a useless deterrent it is today. Firms that comply should be rewarded with recognition and lighter reporting, not merely spared punishment.

Workers, especially in the informal and online gig economy, will not enroll on their own through a counter they do not know exists. Gig workers should be automatically enrolled, with the right to opt out, as a condition for platforms (e.g., Gojek, Grab, Maxim) to operate at all.

Everyone else is best reached through the associations they already trust, the ojol communities, the market-trader cooperatives, the fishing and farming groups, rather than through atomized individual sign-ups. And, importantly, JHT must stop being treated as a severance ATM, which requires both financial literacy and a redesign that makes the long-term products genuinely worth holding.

Trade unions, including this author’s own, must own their share of the problem too. The 2022 campaign that forced the reversal of JHT preservation protected short-term liquidity at the direct expense of long-term retirement adequacy.

The labor movement should now spend its considerable mobilizing power on the opposite goal: an adequate retirement pension (Jaminan Pensiun) and stronger job-loss insurance (Jaminan Kehilangan Pekerjaan), so that defending workers no longer means defending their own poverty in old age.

Unions should also drag the tripartite forums from grievance toward genuine co-design, and extend their organizing to the informal and platform workers that the whole system currently forgets.

This is what cooperation between the State and individuals, in Beveridge’s phrase, would actually require. Not just a slogan, but a synchronized set of decisions by the very actors the original article left out of frame.

Let’s stop asking the wrong question

So the question is not whether BPJS Ketenagakerjaan can save Indonesia’s vulnerable workforce. The honest question is whether the other actors will finally do their part by writing the laws, funding the subsidy, and staffing the enforcement that an operator cannot conjure on its own. The agency can carry the load. But it cannot be asked to build the road, pass the budget, and hire the inspectors while doing so.

The time bomb is real. But it was assembled in the ministries’ and the parliament’s meeting rooms, not in the operator’s offices. Pointing the spotlight at BPJS Ketenagakerjaan makes for a tidy villain. But it also lets the people holding the detonator stay comfortably out in the shadows.

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The latest K-Drama craze, “Teach You A Lesson,” has sparked heated discussion about the roles of schools, teachers, and the government in teaching kids to be good people. Watching it made me think about our own education system: Do we have anything in our curriculum that ensures our kids know how to be good people and, by extension, good citizens?

In the upcoming 2029 elections, Gen Z (born 1997-2012) is predicted to dominate the voting demographic. Meaning, the next election year will be a big day for the digital natives and, for some, first-time voters.

Voting is a pivotal decision-making process for a good citizen. The question is: are they prepared? One is choosing their leaders and regulators, so two minutes in a voting booth could affect a voter’s life for years to come (it is, quite literally, life-changing). So, shouldn’t voting be something that one is well-prepared for? And even more importantly, shouldn’t students be aware of their duties after casting their ballots?

If a student could spend days and nights preparing for university entrance exams, shouldn’t an important civic duty get a somewhat similar preparation?

Gen Z has proven to be more politically aware. Thanks to the internet, they grew up with endless information at their fingertips, which has affected their media consumption and literacy, as well as their exposure to global socio-political and economic issues. A UK study in 2024 even showed that Gen Z are more willing to express their moral convictions, including through civil disobedience. In a nutshell, younger generations are more digitally literate and unafraid to express themselves.

But one question remains: Where is the best place for young adults (17- to 19-year-olds) to learn about this, if not school, where they already spend a great chunk of their time?

We already have the answer to that: Civic Education, or, as you might be more familiar with it, ‘PPKn’. The tool for teaching kids about civic duties has been part of our curriculum for decades. Though whether or not it has been effective–or even enough–remains to be seen.

It’s time we take PPKn at school seriously

Let’s first walk down memory lane. What do you remember from your PPKn class at school? We had it in elementary school, junior high, high school, and even at universities. But if you’re like me (the old me, at least), you might only remember being taught that civic duties are helping the elderly to cross the street, never skipping classes, or joining the neighborhood rotating night watch (siskamling).

That was how a “good citizen” was portrayed for years, and unfortunately, it is still the case today. Grab a 12th-grade PPKn book now, and this is what you will find.

Civic education is one of the most strategic platforms through which a state can deliberately reproduce its ideological values across generations. In Indonesia, PPKn clearly reflects this pattern. It has undergone multiple name changes and curricular overhauls, but its core logic has remained consistent; it adapts to serve the political needs of the era in which it operates.

The pattern is visible across our history. After independence, our civic education focused on instilling the value of patriotism and guiding the newborn country as it began its journey. Over time, its scope expanded to discuss the role of government, civil rights, and civic duties. During the New Order, PPKn taught the country’s history, our geographical presence, our constitutions, and the manifestation of Pancasila as our core value.

So, is PPKn, our civic education, good enough? Before we answer that question, let’s take a quick world tour.

PPKn around the world

In democratic countries, civic education is a platform for nation-building. Most civic education subjects worldwide cover topics such as history, core values and principles, culture and norms, and political awareness. Some Scandinavian countries (e.g., Denmark, Finland, and Sweden) even incorporate intergenerational topics such as climate change and justice, digital citizenship, and economic inequality.

Some newly democratic countries, on the other hand, shared a common tendency to teach their “dark” history by building the discourse around “unity”.

South Africa, for example, has reformed its high school history curriculum to “heal the divisions of the past” — taking lessons from its painful apartheid history to build a united and democratic country. Another example is Rwanda, which in 2007 launched its civic education program, called “Itorero,” aimed at enabling Rwandans to reacquaint themselves with the values and taboos of their culture under a post-genocide government.

What about Indonesia?

Well, if it’s up to me, I say that our civic education has long been stuck in a superficial portrayal of a utopian society, in which no conflict is ever clearly and rightfully explained (why did conflicts happen, and how?), and reality is too distant (or perhaps too scary) to be put in the book.

Bad things that have happened in our past, particularly those we can clearly draw lessons from, are just swept under a metaphorical rug. Take the New Order-era mass murders. In PPKn books, we are taught that murder is wrong and violates basic human rights. Yet, the books never fairly mention why and how the mass murders that happened during 1965-1966 happened, who ordered them, and why communism was to blame. Students at school are expected (or rather, forced) to go on with their lives without learning about the dark sides of our history, pretending all is well.

It is as if, no matter our past, as long as we help the elderly cross the street, never skip classes, and join siskamling, our democratic society would be fine.

But this kind of civic education ultimately risks offering our younger generations smoke and mirrors about democracy, civic duties, and being a good citizen.

If we want the younger generation to actually be better citizens who exercise their duties and know how to demand their rights from the state, so that they can live better lives in a well-maintained democratic society, we need to start taking PPKn seriously.

Reforming the education space, even just one subject, is a complicated task that would require years to complete and involve multiple actors. But what can we start doing now?

Reimagining the PPKn that we deserve

First, we have to rebrand the idea of what a “good citizen” is.

Being a good citizen can actually take many forms: paying our taxes, keeping public areas clean, respecting different opinions, and following the law. But in a growing democracy, good citizens are also responsible for keeping the government in check.

This is what is currently missing from our PPKn curriculum. Yes, it already taught about voting as our constitutional right. It also taught about voter abstention (golput) and its implications for democracy. But it stops there. It doesn’t teach students what happens after we elect a leader.

A good PPKn should teach that a citizen’s duty does not stop at the voting ballot. Monitoring, offering opinions and feedback, and criticizing policies that seem not to be working are also duties a good citizen must perform.

Civic education should inform students that criticizing the shortcomings of the government, state administrators, policymakers, and their policies or programs is a civic duty. This would prevent the false belief that many, unfortunately, subscribe to today: that criticism of the government is an attack on democracy.

Here is an analogy. If we love someone, don’t we want our partner to be the best version of themselves—to fulfill their potential? Wouldn’t we want to stop them from making the same mistakes over and over again? Apply that to our relationship with our country, and it would be the same.

Second, talk about real problems in class.

PPKn teachers can start by encouraging students to talk about the past or any ongoing issues in their own city. Let them realize that they do not live in a vacuum.

For example, students in Bekasi and Tangerang can talk about the waste management problem in their city; students in Gresik can talk about the correlation of growing industries in their city to people’s quality of life (or the lack thereof); students in Jakarta can talk about how integrated public transportation can change people behavior and relationships to green public spaces; or students in Maluku can talk about why renewable energy options like solar panels are more reliable than state-provided electricity.

My point is that schools should broaden their students’ horizons. Then, only after the class has become a safe place for students to breakdown real problems in their surroundings, teachers then can tune up the conversation level to more complex issues, such as Indonesia’s dark history of mass murders and activists kidnapping in President Suharto’s New Order dictatorship, or signs of state’s oppressions to our rights and freedom of expression, or the juxtaposition between the Nutritious Free Meal (MBG) program’s well intent and its problematic implementation on the ground.

Third, “overlay” the online world into the classroom.

The internet is a whole different world, and Gen Z and their younger counterparts, Gen Alpha, spend half their time there. They not only learn and get information online, but also participate in political discourse, build community, and shape new culture.

Civic education should actively respond to this by incorporating a digital literacy curriculum. In class, students (and teachers) can learn together to differentiate real and fake news, critically assess AI content, and detect misinformation, cybercrime, and cyberbullying. Students and teachers can also benefit from understanding algorithmic biases, such as confirmation bias, sampling bias, and representation bias.

This digital fluency has direct implications for civic participation.

With the abundance of information available online, young people theoretically have every opportunity to be well-informed before they cast a vote — candidate track records, professional backgrounds, and business affiliations are all publicly accessible.

Teachers can play a crucial role here: guiding students to verify whether what they read is accurate and not misleading, and facilitating open, critical discussions about power structures in politics.

When students encounter information that a political candidate has ties to or is heavily affiliated with certain business interests, they should be equipped to ask how much that would factor into the candidate’s future decision-making — and whether the candidate’s personal interests might override their mandate to serve the public.

That kind of critical readiness is ultimately what prepares students for election years.

Lastly, the way students learn about citizenship should change.

We can learn from Germany for this one, unironically. Their foundational frameworks for civic and political education, called the Beutelsbach Consensus, adopt three principles:

First, civic education classes should be free from indoctrination. Students should not be overwhelmed, caught off guard, or hindered in forming an independent judgment. Second, controversial issues must be taught as controversial. Teachers should not, by any means, only present their own opinions or favor only one opinion. Different opinions should be discussed and compared. Third, students should be given fair weights to express their personal interests. Teachers must facilitate students’ analysis of real political situations.

While that model is still being tested for its effectiveness to protect democracy, we can learn a thing or two. The banking model of education — where teachers remain the sole authority in the classroom to “deposit” knowledge into students, a practice Paulo Freire criticized — is no longer an appropriate tool for cultivating critical thinkers.

To counter that passive model, Freire proposed “problem-posing education”, where teachers and students co-produce knowledge and co-examine their reality through dialogues, reflections, and mutual engagements.

A bet for cultural change

Look, I’m arguing for a cultural change here. Let us take a minute to imagine.

What would it look like in 2029 if young, first-time voters learned this version of PPKn? Would they critically assess the presidential candidates’ track records in class with their peers and teachers? Would learning about Indonesia’s dark history inform their voting decision to not repeat the cycle? Would openly discussing political dynasties discourage Tangerang high school students from voting for a candidate who will retain power for years?

It is only in my imagination (and now yours) today, but changes like these can, and will, happen if we design our civic education responsibly.

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This article first appeared in Kenapa Harus Peduli in Indonesian, written in response to The Reformist’s vol. 28 on cultural heritage and museum management reform.

In recent years, public discourse about cultural heritage has gotten increasingly popular. At first glance, it gives the impression that the state has been paying serious attention to the largely ‘abandoned’ cultural sector. However, such narratives primarily grapple with surface-level debates that overlook a fundamental issue: how is culture actually understood, and for whose interests are these agendas executed?

That is why we found this Reformist article titled “Why is it so difficult for ‘Wonderful Indonesia’ to make culture a priority?” both intriguing and ironic.

First of all, we’d like to concede that the author has commendably mapped valid problems. The Indonesian government has indeed paid little attention to its cultural heritage, as proven by the lack of budgetary support. They also astutely contextualize the repatriation of artifacts within the history of Dutch colonialism in the archipelago.

The problem, however, is the author’s state-centric approach, reducing the cultural crisis to mere managerial issues. Cultural heritage is imagined as an inanimate object that needs to be “managed well” in museums, strictly through administrative reform.

While this perspective is not entirely wrong, it becomes problematic when it fails to recognize that neither cultural heritage nor museums is ever a neutral entity.

We’d like to offer three critical notes. First, The Reformist’s article positions the government as the primary actor in managing cultural heritage, while it might not be. Second, the article’s illusion of decolonization stops at the repatriation of artifacts, without dismantling coloniality. Third, the article tends to center institutional reform as the primary solution without examining its accompanying limits and contradictions.

What is a “cultural heritage” and who decides?

Just as our understanding of inheritance often becomes an object of dispute, cultural heritage is equally an arena of contestation. Something becomes cultural heritage not simply because of its high intrinsic value, but because an authority in power deems it worthy of preservation and institutionalization.

This dynamic is captured by the concept of the Authorized Heritage Discourse (AHD), which describes the professional practices that institutionalize cultural heritage to legitimize an “official interpretation” of the past. The government has a structural advantage that enables it to play a dominant role in defining the nation-state’s identity.

In the context of The Reformist’s article, AHD is highly apparent when the Indonesian government is positioned as the principal actor in determining the direction of cultural preservation. But studies have indicated that this framework poses significant problems for public participation, or the lack thereof.

The current regulation, Law No. 11/2010 on Cultural Heritage, has yet to fully grant latitude to non-governmental actors to independently determine what cultural heritage is important to them and the best ways to preserve it for future generations.

Indigenous peoples and local communities are treated as the Other, whose voices and knowledge are not truly considered a valid epistemic foundation. Furthermore, heritage discourses tend to fixate on material dimensions alone.

Stripped of its living context, cultural heritage is prone to being reduced to something purely technical: a problem that can be resolved simply through governance reform, institutional modernization, and regulatory improvements.

It is unsurprising, then, that the “success” of cultural heritage is measured by how professionally it is managed and by the extent to which it meets global standards that stem directly from Western knowledge paradigms.

Half-hearted decolonization

If we are to truly address the “elephant in the room” when talking about Indonesia’s cultural heritage issues, the next necessary step should be to deconstruct the reality that its management systems and interpretations remain highly centered on the interests of those in power—and the coloniality that has yet to crumble.

Obviously, Indonesia is no longer under Dutch East Indies rule, but many of its cultural heritage institutions operate with a mindset akin to that of the former colonizer. Even the National Museum of Indonesia participates in reproducing the colonial gaze in its representation of Indonesian history.

This coloniality feels increasingly palpable when we observe the celebrations surrounding the repatriation of artifacts to Indonesia.

Repatriation becomes a stage for state political performance; celebrated as a diplomatic victory and a resurgence of national dignity, with state ceremonies and heroic narratives about bringing the nation’s history home.

Cultural heritage, here, manifests as “symbolic capital”. A value of prestige and honor that converts into political legitimacy for the regime.

Such is the very issue that needs to be criticized about the approach taken in The Reformist article. The author moves too swiftly toward institutional optimism without sufficiently challenging the colonial nodes that still shape the understanding and management of cultural heritage in Indonesia today.

We could see it in the way the state fails to resolve various crucial issues within the domestic cultural landscape, from evicting indigenous people from their living spaces and the commercialization and illegal sale of artifacts, to the destruction of cultural heritage and the marginalization of local communities from decision-making processes related to their cultures.

Indigenous communities’ cultural heritage, having been uprooted from its living context by European colonialism during the Dutch occupation, is at risk of undergoing a second uprooting through the centralization of Indonesia’s cultural heritage authority.

Repatriation brings heritage items home—yes. But it merely shifts the center of historical legitimacy from the colonial metropole to the national capital.

Another problem arises when museum reform in Indonesia is directed to follow the standards of Western institutions. The Reformist article views the British Museum model as a crucial step toward more professional museum governance. The issue is that the British Museum itself grew from the accumulation of colonial wealth and to this day remains the most naked symbol of colonialism itself.

Therefore, we must be deeply cautious when adopting such institutional models, as blindly replicating them risks importing the very power dynamics we seek to dismantle.

Reform, or commodification?

During his tenure as the Director-General of Culture in the then-Ministry of Education and Culture, Hilmar Farid proposed improving and utilizing “cultural infrastructure” as a form of “cultural investment”. But the use of cultural infrastructure, including museums, should not limit public participation, technological upgrades, or improvements in internal management.

Enthusiasm for the repatriated artifacts must be followed by practical understanding of their management and use, for the good of the people, education, and science. Even if some repatriated artifacts possess neither sacred value nor functional use in our modern society, access to them as research objects must be guaranteed.

Law no. 66/2015 on Museums specifically mentions the use of museums, among other things, for research, thereby making such research compulsory for museum administrators, individuals, or customary law communities (masyarakat hukum adat) under the authorization of the head of the museum.

But despite being legally mandated, information on the authorization process for conducting research in museums is not yet widely available. Thus, the stereotype of museums as decrepit institutions hinders effective research efforts.

The establishment of the Culture Ministry, however, has led to significant changes in the conception of Indonesia’s cultural policies, focus, and budgets. But even before making Cultural Affairs a standalone ministry, the establishment of the Indonesian Heritage Agency (IHA) as a Public Service Agency (BLU), which manages state-owned museums nationwide, shifts a considerable share of operational costs onto museums, forcing management to address funding challenges.

This has led museums to be rebranded as recreational destinations. For instance, the installation of Imersifa room in the Indonesian National Museum, which on the surface provides a pragmatic solution: the public goes to the museum, pays the entry ticket, enjoys the installation, takes some pictures, and then departs.

This approach to public participation could be misinterpreted as viewing the public as a market for the museum, shifting museums from activating their spatial place as a part of public space in a balanced way to extreme commodification. The selection of artifacts installed in the exhibition hall and the museum’s main narratives would become subjects that constantly adapt to changing public tastes and political interests.

Indeed, museums have recently become photogenic weekend destinations, yet all the artifacts on display become meaningless. It looks modern, but the relationship between society and its cultural heritage becomes severed and distant.

If we keep on positioning the state as the authoritative party on interpreting and developing Indonesian culture, every change of ruling groups in Indonesian politics, with their own logic on the collection management issues, would impact the public access to the artifacts and the kind of narratives that have been manufactured by it, in turn reducing public initiatives.

Beyond our time

Cultural heritage always becomes an arena of negotiation between political and economic interests. It also became an arena for creating kinds of memories that would be passed down to future generations.

Museum reforms should be understood as an interactive process. Both the public and the government should act as equal partners in utilizing the obtained cultural heritage for the betterment of all. Limiting our view to the government as the only authoritative party would narrow the room for exploration together. The public has the right and the capacity to participate even more deeply in the cultural ecosystem, since they are, in fact, the main engine driving it.

The repatriated cultural heritage as a part of the assets of the Indonesian cultural ecosystem offers massive potential to explore new fields of research, development of new disciplines and methodological approaches, and even provides a new career pool for humanities scholars and workers, especially with the emergence of new opportunities for researching the artifacts, or other activation programs.

Following the 2022-2023 Indonesian repatriation program, the Cultural Heritage Scholarship Programme for Indonesia (CHS) was established in 2024 through a joint Dutch-Indonesian effort, targeting early scholars and master’s students from Indonesia interested in enrolling in graduate programs at four leading Dutch universities.

Intensive cooperation between Indonesia and the Netherlands also commenced via the Rijksdienst van het Cultureel Erfgoed (RCE), which itself is part of the Ministry of Education, Culture and Science of the Kingdom of the Netherlands. Other overseas counterparts on the joint works also include the cultural consultative agency DutchCulture and a bipartisan agreement between Dutch and Indonesian universities.

The “caderization” of new researchers using education as the channel is the first important step. Preparing the implementation of the new knowledge gained by these first waves of cultural heritage specialists who are intended to manage the Dutch repatriated artifacts should become the next top priority.

Another issue is knowledge reproduction. The development of cultural heritage management in Indonesia should never depend solely on frameworks and methods derived from foreign countries or foreign researchers. Specific problems of cultural heritage management in Indonesia would never be similar with other countries.

There would also be different interpretations of the artifacts and their utilization for the Indonesian public. This would breed different results, methods, theories, and actions. Foreign researchers’ contributions in this field should be positioned as guidelines and tools for comparison.

Active public participation in cultural heritage issues would help foster a closer connection with the objects themselves, ensuring a more reflective and grounded approach to the creation of Indonesian history as a shared collective memory. This subsequently produced a more critical approach to Indonesian national consciousness.

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The authors are analysts at the Supreme Audit Agency (BPK). This article reflects the authors’ own analysis and views and does not necessarily represent the official positions of their employers or those of The Reformist.

Every year, over 200,000 Indonesian Muslims perform the annual Hajj pilgrimage in Saudi Arabia. With millions of registrants, hundreds of thousands of annual departures, and coordination across domestic agencies and partners in Saudi Arabia, managing the Hajj is one of Indonesia’s most complex public services.

A sharp lens on these complexities can be found in the 2025 Hajj audits conducted by the Supreme Audit Agency (BPK). The report flagged financial inconsistencies and highlighted the need to address segments of Hajj governance that must be accounted for.

Successful Hajj governance should not be measured only by the absence of major issues during the pilgrimage. It requires fair queue management, rigorous data verification, clear cost structures, and readiness of health and operational services before any pilgrim touches down in Saudi Arabia.

A previous Reformist article has noted public expectations for the Hajj around four key principles: transparency, care, reliability, and spirituality. This is where the 2025 BPK audit findings sharpen the discussion, providing valuable insights into principles that must be translated into tangible controls well before pilgrims depart every year.

Satisfaction is commendable, but it does not tell the whole tale

The 2025 Hajj saw several positive results: the Pilgrims Satisfaction Index rose from 88.20 to 88.46, over 99.9 percent of the pilgrim quota was filled, and pilgrims received improved meal services. The government also introduced Istithaah (the Islamic principle that a pilgrim must be physically, mentally, and financially capable of performing Hajj) requirements before final payments are made. These achievements are important and deserve recognition, since organizing departures and services for so many pilgrims in a short time can be very challenging.

But satisfaction indexes alone do not capture the full pilgrimage experience. For example, it does not capture whether the queue was fair, whether procurement was properly controlled, or whether public funds reached the right people. A pilgrim can feel well served in Makkah, while the system that determined their departure contained weaknesses in queue integrity, digital control, and fiscal discipline.

1. The integrity problem behind Indonesia’s Hajj waitlist

One main concern from the audit findings is that planning to fill the regular Hajj quota is incomplete and does not fully comply with Law No. 8/2019 on Hajj and Umrah Pilgrimage Administration. Indonesia’s national Hajj registration and queue management database (SISKOHAT) remains faulty with glaring weaknesses.

For instance, the system lacks sufficient controls to verify data for merging mahram—a male guardian whom Islamic law requires to accompany a woman during Hajj, typically a husband or close blood relative—nor can it transfer quota numbers from ineligible pilgrims to new replacements.

Other weaknesses include missing checks for file completeness, reliance on manual verification, inadequate control over verification steps, the use of shared accounts, and poor separation of duties. These increase the risk of abuse and can delay eligible pilgrims.

Another finding revealed that Rp 161.73 billion in public Hajj funds was spent to cover the pilgrimage costs of 4,760 individuals who did not meet departure requirements. This group includes 504 pilgrims who had performed the pilgrimage within the past ten years, 2,682 with non-familial mahram combinations, and 1,574 with portion transfers that did not comply with regulations.

With long queues, every seat matters. Poor verification burdens potential pilgrims who are sidelined despite meeting all Hajj requirements.

2. More providers, more coordination gaps

In 2025, the Multisyarikah model—a system in which Hajj services are distributed across multiple providers in Saudi Arabia—was used for the first time, allowing services to be shared among several providers. However, this poses significant coordination challenges, especially when a flight group is linked to more than one provider.

BPK finds that visa services for regular pilgrims are still lacking. Preparing pre-manifests and manifests is not fully in sync with how services are divided among companies. As a result, some groups are served by more than one company, and service allocation does not always follow the rules.

These coordination problems are especially clear in Armuzna services, the collective term for the three sacred sites of Arafah, Muzdalifah, and Mina, where key Hajj rituals are performed. Changes to the departure plan were not well planned. This led to delays, insufficient transport fleets from Muzdalifah to Mina, too many pilgrims at the markaz, overcrowded tents, and supplies being sent to the wrong places. These problems show the need for clearer work instructions and better coordination in using the Multisyarikah model.

3. The medical service blind spots of Hajj administration

Health services also need special attention. The BPK report found that some health goods and services have not fully met contract terms or have not been used enough. The Indonesian Hajj Health Clinic in Mecca is underused because its Civil Defense certificate—an official emergency-safety license required by the Saudi Civil Defense before any facility can legally operate—had not yet been issued at the time of the audit.

Medicines and health supplies worth Rp 2.61 billion were also reported to have a shorter shelf life than legally required, meaning that they will be ineffective come next year’s Hajj season.

On top of that, Rp 1.74 billion in polio vaccines have not been used despite Indonesian pilgrims being elderly or having pre-existing health risks. The volume of resources maintained does not align with actual needs in the field, resulting in public funds tied up in vaccine stocks that fail to provide adequate protection.

In this regard, the planning and procurement stages of Hajj health-related goods and services must be tied to verified needs and certification, which are to be completed before the season commences. That way, the government can detect weaknesses and mitigate risks before departure, rather than rediscovering them in the next audit report.

4. Addressing the corruption in the room

Improving Hajj governance also means looking at how costs are structured. BPK found that last year’s pilgrimage included Rp 64.37 billion in costs that were not directly related to pilgrim services. These include management activities, financial manager fees, financial operations, monitoring and evaluation, and support for asset maintenance in Indonesia. Taken together, these concerns paint a sad picture of potential rent-seeking that has no place for a sacred event like the Hajj.

Some governance activities are necessary to organize the pilgrimage, but it is important to separate costs that directly benefit pilgrims from those that are purely administrative or supportive. Without this clear separation, the Rp 87.4 million pilgrimage price point—determined by the government—becomes opaque, raising corruption concerns that have long plagued the Hajj sector.

Reforming the sacred, one institution at a time

Corruption and rent-seeking in Hajj affairs are not novel. A few years ago, corruption investigators alleged irregularities in the allocation of additional Hajj quotas, with state losses calculated at Rp 622 billion during the 2023-2024 season. In 2014, a former minister was convicted of misusing state Hajj funds. The structural lesson is consistent. Allocation rules that can be altered through opaque discretion create an avoidable risk of corruption.

Fixing this requires more than better administration. It requires governance architecture. The most urgent starting point is the institutions that govern the Hajj themselves.

SISKOHAT, for example, should function as an auditable rights engine rather than a passive database with no executive functions. Saudi Arabia’s Nusuk platform offers a useful design reference by integrating registration, verification, payment, and service authorization into a more traceable digital process. Indonesia does not need to replicate Nusuk, but it may benefit from the same design principle.

The Indonesian government should require Hajj authorities to build a parallel set of risk indicators that track system health before pilgrims depart. These indicators should cover visa mismatch rates, manifest revisions, procurement exceptions, unresolved complaints, and the follow-up status of BPK’s recommendations.

Public dashboards need not expose private pilgrim data. But they should make governance performance visible and contestable. A system that publishes its own risk scorecard before each departure season signals that it takes accountability seriously. One that waits for the next audit to surface the same recurring problems does not.

Indonesia already has the institutional experience, digital infrastructure, and audit diagnosis needed to improve Hajj governance. What remains is the discipline to turn them into enforceable controls before the next season begins.

Indonesian pilgrims deserve institutional justice, especially when millions of them have spent decades waiting patiently behind queues that can span over three decades, whilst having to deposit tens of millions of Rupiah, for a once-in-a-lifetime sacred act like the Hajj pilgrimage.

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“A policymaker is cursed to live in the second-best world,” warned Chatib Basri, the former finance minister who prefers to be called Dede (‘without Pak, please!’), as he has reminded me more than once.

Anyone who studied economics or public policy understands this: at its core, public policy is about tradeoffs. When faced with Options A and B, choosing one means letting go of some degree of opportunity cost. The discipline is all about minimizing this ‘loss’ across scenarios. For example:

• Should a government increase the number of sugar imports? Hold off, and domestic prices spike, leaving households squeezed and headlines unforgiving. Act too quickly, and the imports flood a market that didn’t need flooding, hollowing out local farmers.

• Technology C or W for a digitalization program? Option W avoids locking in annual subscription costs but demands a steep upfront price. Option C spreads the cost over time but ties the agency to a vendor for years.

• Should Rp 268 trillion go towards the free nutritious meal (MBG) program? For this one, I’m not entirely sure what the deliberation looked like. You’d have to ask the people in the room.

No decision can please everyone. There will always be winners and losers in any scenario. That is why criminalizing public policy decisions has a fundamental flaw: it fails to understand what public policy actually is about.

Of everything I studied in public policy school, this insight blew my mind the most. Managing something as complex and layered as national-level governance means accounting for a vast range of risks, including those that cannot be predicted at the time a decision is made.

A good decision, therefore, cannot be measured by good outcomes alone. It must be evaluated by the quality of the decision-making process itself:

1. Was it made based on the best available expertise and information at the time the decision was taken?

2. Was it made in consultation with those who would be significantly affected?

The world is puzzled as Indonesia continues to criminalize policy decisions

A policymaker is accountable for weighing all factors carefully, but they should be given room for bad outcomes.

When a legal provision is defined with rubber-like elasticity, every single decision becomes vulnerable to potential criminalization. Especially when, as we are all well aware, judicial processes are not always free from political pressure.

It’s worth acknowledging that not all cases are identical in degree:

• Tom Lembong’s sugar import case last year comes closest to a pure example. The decision he made—authorizing sugar imports to stabilize supply—was a textbook tradeoff call.

• Nadiem Makarim’s and Ibrahim Arief’s Google Chromebook case is more complicated. There are unresolved conflict-of-interest allegations that go beyond policy judgment.

Regardless, what these cases expose is a law that allows the line between administrative error and criminal liability to be drawn by whoever holds political power at the time, despite the absence of criminal intent.

Being a policymaker is a moral vocation that demands the highest level of competence. It is a job requiring genuinely hard skills, but one that is also a calling. Policymaking should be an arena filled with the nation’s best problem-solvers, with the strongest moral fiber. Criminalizing their judgment—without evidence of corrupt intent—does not invoke justice. It empties the room of anyone with the audacity to make hard calls.

So how do we prevent or punish a policy that actually harms the public?

The answer is governance. We can design processes that enable deliberation and accountability to occur before and during decision-making, rather than retroactively through criminal charges.

1. Layers of bureaucracy within the executive. There’s a reason mandates and authority are distributed across the President, ministers, and layers of civil servants below them. Those layers exist to create filters before any decision touches the ground.

2. Legislative and judicial checks and balances. For consequential decisions—like the national budget—the executive must secure legislative approval. In a healthy democracy, elected representatives have the power to halt executive policies deemed harmful.

3. Meaningful public participation. From formal mechanisms like Regional Development Planning Forums (Musrenbang) and public hearings to social media and street protests, governments should have ways to genuinely understand what the public wants—and why.

4. Capitalize on the electoral cycle. If nothing else, casting our vote is how we choose whether to continue a policy direction—or change course entirely.

I said that to my husband after watching the verdict videos for Ibrahim Arief and the prosecution’s charges against Nadiem. I cried for quite a while that night. I didn’t know why it caught me off guard because I already expected this to happen—I am not naïve about the politics of law and what is at play here.

My grief, I think, stems from witnessing the loss of humanity and agency of the entire legal system under political pressure.

I would never fully understand what incentives or threats each legal professional faces when they sit in that prosecutor’s chair or on that judicial bench. It’s impossible to know what they’re thinking, who they need to protect, or what other difficult considerations they carry.

What I do know is that millions are watching and understanding what is happening (the context beyond whether Nadiem is guilty or not guilty), worrying over the same potential injustice, while those with slightly more agency to change the outcome decided to stay put.

In the middle of all this, I hold on to a thread of hope in Josepha, the high school student from Pontianak who called out the panel of ‘expert’ judges in the Lomba Cerdas Cermat MPR. She used her agency to resist injustice.

Sometimes, what separates us as human beings is the split-second when we get to choose to let something happen or actually attempt to do something about it. Or in her case: to raise a hand, question a verdict, and try to change the outcome.

Perhaps we are all deeply invested in Josepha and Team C, because if we can’t get justice anywhere else, let us at least protect it for the next generation.

May those who still have the privilege to resist injustice keep resisting, no matter how small the space may be.

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Indonesia’s digital financial ecosystem is now expanding at unprecedented speed, but regulatory scrutiny has struggled to keep pace with the growing influence of social media personalities who provide investment commentary to millions of followers.

This governance gap was sharply exposed in February 2026, when the Financial Services Authority (OJK) imposed a Rp 5.35 billion fine against Belvin Tannadi, an online financial influencer, for manipulating stock prices and disseminating misleading information through social media platforms.

Investigators found that the influencer used multiple securities accounts to “pump and dump” shares of at least three listed companies, posting promotional recommendations while executing counter-directional trades and profiting from followers’ reactions. The conduct was found to violate Articles 90, 91, and 92 of Law No. 4/2023 on the Development and Strengthening of the Financial Sector (UU P2SK), which prohibit market manipulation and deceptive practices in the capital market. This episode underscores how unchecked social media influence can distort markets and undermine investor protection.

The problem extends beyond isolated misconduct. Across social media platforms, influencers routinely promote cryptocurrency tokens, speculative stocks, and alternative investment schemes, and often frame their content as “financial education” while monetizing engagement through advertising, affiliate links, or undisclosed commercial arrangements.

Retail investors, as many of them are first-time participants in capital markets, may struggle to distinguish between independent analysis and paid persuasion. In volatile markets, such narratives can amplify herd behavior and exacerbate losses. Without clear regulatory classification, enforcement agencies face difficulty determining when online commentary crosses the threshold into regulated advisory activity.

Indonesia’s legal framework for financial advisory services remains anchored in the Capital Markets Law and implementing regulations issued by the OJK. Licensed investment advisors must satisfy competency standards, ethical obligations, and fit-and-proper requirements. These safeguards exist because financial advice directly influences capital allocation and public trust. However, the regime was designed for conventional advisory firms, not a decentralized digital ecosystem where influence is algorithm-driven and monetized through visibility.

The core legal question is thus substantive rather than formal. If a person provides investment recommendations that influence market behavior and receives economic benefit directly or indirectly, should that activity fall within the scope of regulated advisory services?

If regulatory responsibility depends solely on formal titles, then digital actors can operate in a gray zone while licensed professionals bear disproportionate compliance burdens. Such asymmetry undermines fairness and weakens investor protection. The OJK possesses the authority to clarify this boundary through interpretative guidance or regulatory refinement.

Law often trails behind technological innovation and social development, resulting in delayed and fragmented regulation. Proactive measures, such as predictive frameworks and comparative studies, are essential for governing emerging innovations, particularly in the financial sector.

Regulating financial influencers

The OJK has adopted a regulatory sandbox approach, allowing new business models to be tested in isolation from general regulations, helping authorities assess potential risks before full-scale implementation. Under OJK Regulation No. 3/2024, which replaced OJK Regulation No. 13/2018, digital financial business models, processes, and products may undergo limited testing before obtaining full licensing. The challenge lies in striking the right balance between oversight and innovation.

The sandbox framework should extend beyond business models to include influencers or other entities functionally tied to financial innovation. Such an approach is critical to prevent individuals from exploiting regulatory gaps for personal gain at the expense of retail investors. While criminal provisions exist to address violations, preventive and administrative regulations are equally vital, ensuring that punitive measures remain a last resort rather than the primary regulatory response.

Comparative jurisdictions provide useful guidance. In the United Kingdom, the Financial Conduct Authority (FCA) requires authorization for regulated investment advice and has warned that unauthorized financial promotion on social media may constitute criminal offenses.

In the United States, the Securities and Exchange Commission (SEC) and the Financial Industry Regulatory Authority (FINRA) enforce registration requirements and fiduciary duties under the Investment Advisers Act. Enforcement increasingly targets unregistered crypto promoters and influencers who fail to disclose paid endorsements. The principle is consistent: the substance of influence determines responsibility.

In China, financial advisors are overseen by the National Administration of Financial Regulation (NAFR) as of 2023, while the China Securities Regulatory Commission (CSRC) continues to supervise securities and futures markets. Regulations require firms and individuals to hold CSRC licenses, a framework that has now been extended to internet-based financial services. Authorities have introduced rules to address risks linked to online platforms, covering cross-border service provision, internet information management, and activities such as client profiling, asset allocation, and trade execution.

Indonesia stands at a regulatory crossroad. Digital participation in the capital market is expanding exponentially, particularly among younger demographics. Which is why the objective is not to criminalize online discussion, but to ensure that those who materially shape investment behavior meet proportionate standards of competence, transparency, and accountability.

A credible reform agenda should therefore begin with definitional clarity. The OJK must articulate when digital financial commentary becomes a regulated advisory activity. Disclosure obligations should apply to monetized investment content. Coordination between financial regulators and digital platforms should be institutionalized to address cross-sector risk. Trust is the foundation of the capital market, and it cannot thrive in regulatory ambiguity.

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The strains around the Strait of Hormuz once again highlight how fragile global energy systems can be. For Indonesia, the risk is notably critical because the country consumes around 1.6 million barrels of oil per day, while domestic production has declined to only around 600 thousand barrels per day. The nearly 1 million barrels-per-day gap must then be met through imports. Instability in strategic chokepoints like the Hormuz is thus a direct threat to our energy security, not merely a distant geopolitical disruption, given our exposure to global supply routes.

It is tempting to conclude that Indonesia is facing an energy crisis. But is it really?

​Traditionally, an energy crisis is associated with visible disruptions: blackouts, fuel shortages, or soaring prices. Indonesia has experienced some of these pressures, including rising energy subsidies, vulnerability to the fluctuations of global oil prices, and increasing dependence on imported fuel, though not yet at the level of systemic collapse seen in some countries.

Today, Indonesia is facing a more subtle and structural challenge than simply a supply crisis: a mismatch between the country’s energy consumption trends, resource base, and long-term system readiness.

Indonesia’s energy challenge is paradoxical: We hold vast coal reserves (the world’s 3rd-largest coal producer) and are among the countries with the largest renewable energy potential (estimated at more than 3,600 GW, including solar and geothermal). However, we are still heavily dependent on imported oil to sustain daily economic activity.

All of this boils down to the conclusion that Indonesia’s energy problem lies in how our energy system is managed: which resources are given priority, which infrastructure is built, and which consumption patterns persist.

Structural paradoxes

Currently, Indonesia’s energy system has three structural contradictions:

First, more than 80 percent of our energy mix still relies on fossil fuels, with coal accounting for the majority of electricity generation.

Second, we import nearly 1 million barrels of oil per day, despite being resource-rich, exposing the country to global price volatility and geopolitical risk.

Last, but not least, while the country possesses immense renewable potential, less than 1 percent has been effectively harnessed.

These dynamics do not exist in isolation. They reinforce one another, forming a system that is stable in the short term but vulnerable in the long term.

Further, public discourse on energy challenges is frequently framed as a supply issue. Build more power plants, deploy more renewables, reduce imports. But this is an oversimplification of a fundamentally systemic problem.

Take solar energy as an example. President Prabowo Subianto’s ambition to develop 100 GW of solar capacity is a bold step. However, solar power is inherently intermittent, so the conversation should continue to explore how we will provide adequate grid flexibility, storage systems, and operational preparedness.

Adding new capacity alone could destabilize the very system it aims to improve. Thus, we need to focus on redesigning the system and its management when discussing the energy transition.

System readiness is a missing piece

The question is: Are our energy systems ready?

On the supply side, the bottleneck in our system readiness goes past infrastructure alone. Several challenges endure:

• Our power grid is still largely designed for baseload generation.

• Energy storage infrastructure is limited.

• Regulatory and investment frameworks are evolving, but not yet fully aligned.

• Human capital for managing a more sophisticated energy system is still developing.

However, our system readiness is also reflected in how we consume our energy.

Now, let’s talk about the demand side

In Indonesia, conversations on energy transition remain heavily supply-driven. While they are absolutely essential, they overlook a simpler yet powerful lever: energy conservation at the demand level.

Small behavioral changes can have a significant impact collectively. Something as simple as turning off unnecessary lights, setting air conditioners at efficient temperatures (24–26°C), and adopting more conscious energy use could change the way we think about energy transition, beyond the governmental agenda.

The transport paradox and rethinking the real solution

To illustrate, let’s now examine Indonesia’s transport sector, one of the largest consumers of fossil fuels.

The government has taken important steps to endorse electric vehicles (EVs) and reduce emissions. However, this raises a critical question: Does reducing emissions automatically solve our energy challenges?

In cities like Jakarta, it’s not that simple. While EV adoption may reduce emissions, it does not address the underlying issue that has long afflicted the metropolitan: vehicle overpopulation.

Policies that provide privileges to EV users, such as tax breaks and exemptions from traffic restrictions, may unintentionally favor those who can afford to buy more private vehicles. Meanwhile, structural problems remain unresolved.

If the goal is to meaningfully reduce both emissions and energy consumption, switching technologies (from coal to solar, from fossil fuels to EVs) alone is not enough.

For example, investing in accessible public transport offers a more systemic solution. Unlike private vehicle electrification, it reduces both per-capita energy demand and vehicle volume simultaneously.

Towards a complete transition

Ultimately, Indonesia should aim to transition to cleaner, more sustainable, and more resilient sources on one end and change how energy is consumed across society on the other. Otherwise, the transition risks becoming incomplete.

Reframing Indonesia’s energy challenge as a management issue leads to a different set of priorities.

In the short term, the country should improve energy security by reducing vulnerability, managing demand, and decreasing dependence on imported fuels.

• In the medium term, the focus needs to shift to infrastructure: modernizing the grid, scaling storage, and aligning regulatory regimes.

• In the long term, the goal should be transformation, in which renewable energy is not merely added but fully integrated into a resilient and adaptive system.

The question, then, is not whether Indonesia has enough energy. It is whether Indonesia is ready to manage the energy system of the future. Because the real challenge is not a lack of solutions, but the ability to implement them coherently, consistently, and at scale.

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Last month, the Communications and Digital Affairs Ministry officially classified platforms like Instagram, TikTok, X, and Roblox as ‘high-risk’ for children, effectively banning under-16 users from accessing them.

The regulation is outlined in the recently enacted Government Regulation No. 17/2025 on the Governance of Electronic Systems for Child Protection, also known as ‘PP Tunas’. The ministry framed this regulation as a landmark policy, positioning Indonesia as the first non-Western country to adopt such a comprehensive approach to online child protection.

What does PP Tunas govern?

In a nutshell, PP Tunas introduces a set of obligations for electronic system providers (ESPs) to safeguard children in the digital environment. These include features requiring age verification and parental controls, stronger content moderation to remove harmful material, user reporting tools, and restrictions on the commercial use of children’s personal data.

The government argues that these measures are necessary given the scale of children’s exposure to digital technologies. Almost half of Indonesian Internet users are under 18, with estimates suggesting that many children spend up to seven hours online each day.

UNICEF data indicates that a significant proportion of Indonesian children have encountered harmful online content, including sexual material. Further, a growing body of research suggests that excessive social media use may be associated with increased risks of addiction, anxiety, stress, and other mental health challenges.

These concerns have strengthened the urgency for regulatory intervention to ensure safer online environments for children.

Global effort to protect children online

Efforts to create a child-friendly digital environment have gained increasing global attention. International frameworks from UNESCO and the OECD consistently emphasize that protecting children online requires more than regulatory intervention; it demands a holistic approach that combines governance, education, and platform accountability.

Policy developments in Australia highlight both the importance and the limits of regulation in creating a child-friendly digital environment. As one of the early movers in this space, the Australian government has introduced measures to protect children from harmful online content. However, these efforts have also attracted criticism for risking an overly restrictive approach that may undermine children’s agency and do little to address the broader ecosystem in which digital harms occur. This suggests that regulation, while necessary, cannot function as a standalone solution.

Finland offers an example of a more holistic approach, integrating digital literacy into its national curriculum from an early age. This equips children not only with technical skills but also with critical thinking abilities and awareness of online safety. Rather than relying primarily on control, the Finnish model emphasizes empowerment, preparing children to navigate digital spaces responsibly and independently. Such experiences demonstrate that building a safe digital environment requires long-term investment in education and capacity-building, not only technological safeguards.

These global experiences offer important lessons for Indonesia. The recently introduced PP Tunas represents a significant regulatory step, but it largely operates at the downstream level by focusing on controlling risks on digital platforms. Platforms are required to strengthen content moderation, governments are obliged to enhance blocking mechanisms, and parents are urged to increase supervision. While these measures are important, they do not address the full scope of the problem.

Beyond regulatory interventions

Building a comprehensive child-friendly digital environment requires upstream interventions, too. This means policy must be accompanied by:

First, systematic digital literacy initiatives across multiple levels, including children, parents, and schools. Children should be supported to grow into empowered digital citizens capable of navigating online spaces safely and critically.

This also requires equipping parents and educators with the knowledge and tools to guide children’s digital engagement, including issues related to well-being, online safety, and responsible technology use. Without sufficient understanding, protective measures are unlikely to be effective in everyday contexts.

Second, children are not merely objects that need protection, but subjects with rights in the digital environment. Digital spaces must be safe, yes. But it should also enable children to learn, express themselves, and participate. Policies that emphasize restriction too heavily risk overlooking other important dimensions of children’s digital experiences. For example, excessive limitations on access may reduce opportunities for children to develop digital literacy, foster creativity, or build positive social networks.

More importantly, the regulation raises questions about what happens when children turn 16 and suddenly gain access to previously restricted platforms. Without adequate preparation, children may enter digital spaces without the skills and resilience necessary to navigate online risks. This transition period highlights the importance of not only protecting children but also preparing them to participate meaningfully in digital society.

Third, there is also a need for stronger platform accountability. Not all Indonesian children have equal access, capacity, or digital experiences. Given this diversity, regulation needs to move beyond content moderation obligations toward greater transparency of algorithms and safety-by-design approaches. For instance, platforms should be encouraged or required to reduce exposure to harmful content, limit features that may foster addictive use, and provide child-friendly reporting mechanisms.

Ultimately, child-friendly digital environments cannot be achieved through a single policy instrument alone. Regulations such as PP Tunas provide an important foundation, but they are not a standalone solution. Protecting children online should not only focus on reducing risks. It should also enable meaningful and safe opportunities for children to learn, participate, and develop as empowered digital citizens. Policies, therefore, need to move beyond a purely protectionist approach toward one that strengthens children’s autonomy, resilience, and digital capabilities.

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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.

Read it

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 politician 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, instils 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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