Introduction

In February 2001, violence erupted in Sampit and radiated across Central Kalimantan, Indonesia. It was not merely a riot; it was a moral failure compressed into days, as neighbours turned into targets, streets into killing grounds and fear into a social contagion that displaced vast numbers of people.

Over time, the Sampit tragedy came to symbolise how quickly communal relations can collapse when long-simmering grievances, political weakness and dehumanising narratives align.

Commemorating the tragedy’s 25th year is not only about mourning but also about refusing amnesia. Those who died deserve more than to be remembered as victims of a tragic episode. They deserve to be remembered as a warning: multi-ethnic societies are not “naturally” stable, and peace is not simply the absence of violence but the daily presence of fair institutions, accountable governance and social dignity.

The dilemmas that fed the tragedy – such as identity politics, unequal access to resources, elite manipulation, forced or unmanaged mobility, and weak protective institutions – recur across Southeast Asia today. These fault lines are visible in the Rohingya crisis, in the renewed tensions along the Thailand-Cambodia border, and in the long arc of conflict and peacebuilding in Mindanao.

ASEAN cannot address each crisis as an isolated exception. Sampit taught us that when exclusion becomes normal, violence becomes possible. When violence becomes possible, displacement becomes predictable.

What Happened in Sampit?

The Sampit conflict is often described as inter-ethnic violence between indigenous Dayak communities and Madurese migrants. The most intense phase lasted days, but its effects echoed throughout the year and across the province.

Crucially, this was not a spontaneous chaos; it reflected a combustible mixture of structural and political factors.

First, a resource economy creates clear winners and losers. This was the case in Kalimantan before the tragedy (e.g. logging, plantations and extractive industries). When jobs, contracts and informal market control became markers of ethnic competition, everyday disputes were easily reframed as “our people versus theirs”. Over time, small grievances hardened into collective ones.

Second, migration, ideally, requires integration mechanisms that protect both newcomers and host communities: fair labour systems, community mediation, shared civic identity and responsive local governance. But these were absent in Sampit, causing rumours and stereotypes to fill the vacuum.

Third, elites do not always create hatred, but they often normalise it, weaponise it or fail to stop it because doing so is politically costly. Before and during the tragedy, the state responses had been slow, inconsistent or perceived as biased; thus, communities turned to self-help violence.

Fourth, Sampit is remembered not only for the scale of killing but also for its brutality. Such brutality rarely appears out of nowhere. It is usually preceded by language that recasts neighbours as threats, parasites or invaders, creating a system primed for ignition. Once the violence began in Sampit, it spread because fear spread and because displacement itself became a driver for further violence.

The Sampit tragedy illustrates a recurring four-part pattern: structural inequality, politicised identity, elite manipulation and institutional failure. These dynamics are not confined to Indonesia’s past. They now echo across Southeast Asia in different political forms.

Governance Failure

The uncomfortable truth is that violence like the Sampit tragedy is often preceded by governance signals that are ignored. These include unresolved land disputes, discriminatory access to work, corruption, selective policing and the absence of credible local mediation.

This lesson matters for ASEAN because its instinct – reinforced by the norm of non-interference – is to treat communal violence as a domestic matter until it spills across borders.

Sampit reminds us that waiting for spillover is waiting too long. Communal breakdown is not only a humanitarian issue; it can become a regional security problem through displacement flows, trafficking, cross-border crime and diplomatic tensions.

The Rohingya crisis illustrates how identity-based exclusion, combined with securitised narratives, can produce mass displacement. When a group is cast as illegitimate, its rights become negotiable. Temporary shelters then become semi-permanent, generating secondary tensions in host communities.

An example from Pekanbaru, Indonesia, where local authorities mediated Rohingya refugees’ demands related to living support and facilities to maintain social stability, captures this dynamic in miniature. It shows how humanitarian strain can morph into social friction if left unmanaged.

Strategically, regional analysis increasingly recognises that population movement in and around Myanmar is entangled with geopolitics and border dynamics. Displacement functions as a strategic diagnostic, revealing how power calculations shape human survival. For ASEAN, forced migration is therefore not only a charitable concern; it is a stress test of regional order.

ASEAN can draw several lessons. First, humanitarian response must include support for local services, transparent aid distribution and community dialogue so refugees are not framed as competitors. Second, early-warning indicators (e.g. hate speech spikes, discriminatory policies, livelihood disputes and policing breakdowns) must be tracked systematically. Third, responsibility cannot rest solely with frontline locations; concentration of burden breeds resentment and weakens protection.

Cross-Border Escalation

The Thailand-Cambodia border dispute shows how quickly nationalist politics can harden positions and intensify clashes. Deadly border clashes and nationalist sentiment reshaped the Thai political dynamics ahead of the February 2026 election, with significant casualties and evacuations. There was also large-scale displacement during periods of fighting.

At first glance, Sampit’s communal violence seems different from an interstate border conflict. Yet the connective tissue lies in how narratives turn “the other” into a threat and how institutions falter when violence becomes politically useful.

The Thai-Cambodian border conflict occurs in a complex environment that includes scam networks and other illicit economies. These are not side issues. They corrode governance, fund armed actors and make peace harder to sustain.

Sampit shows how quickly hate and fear spread. Border crises show how quickly nationalism spreads. ASEAN, therefore, needs consistent crisis-communication norms and rapid de-escalation channels, not only ad hoc diplomacy.

Justice Is Not Optional

Communal violence persists partly because perpetrators often expect impunity. Accountability is selective, delayed or absent.

ASEAN has historically been cautious about legal integration, but the signing of the ASEAN Treaty on Extradition signals a modest shift toward strengthening regional criminal justice cooperation. The treaty will not end conflict, but it can introduce safe havens and reinforce a regional norm: that borders should not protect wrongdoing.

This links back to Sampit in two ways. First, when traffickers and organised criminal actors can be pursued regionally, the incentive structure changes. Second, communities are less likely to resort to vigilantism if they believe justice is real.

Peacebuilding That Lasts

Mindanao’s conflict history in the Philippines is long and complex, rooted in colonial legacies, dispossession, identity and armed struggle. Yet it also offers a contrast to Sampit by demonstrating what negotiated political solutions can look like when sustained.

Key milestones – including the Comprehensive Agreement on the Bangsamoro and the Bangsamoro Organic Law – show that peace requires more than signatures. It demands governance capacity, inclusion and credible security transitions.

Comparing Sampit and Mindanao highlights several lessons. Invest in local mediation ecosystems. Translate autonomy and inclusion into real services. Protect pluralism, especially when regional order is under strain and domestic fractures are easier to exploit.

Practical Steps

If ASEAN truly wants to honour lessons from the Sampit tragedy, it needs a forward agenda that treats communal violence, displacement and border instability as connected problems.

First, build a regional prevention compact around displacement and social cohesion. Displacement should be treated not only as a humanitarian metric but also as a predictor of future instability. ASEAN should standardise early-warning indicators and pair them with rapid-response support for host communities.

Second, treat illicit political economy as a peace-and-security issue. Border disputes are rarely only about maps; they are also about markets. When violence becomes profitable, governance erodes.

Third, balance sovereignty with responsibility through credible, rules-based regional practice. Regional legitimacy weakens when mass suffering is treated as a side issue.

Conclusion

Just as neighbours once became targets in Sampit, today’s failures of governance can still turn difference into danger, unless ASEAN chooses prevention over denial.

The conditions that enabled the Sampit tragedy (economic inequality, unmanaged mobility, elite incentives to polarise and institutional weakness) are not extinct. They reappear in refugee crises that strain local communities, in border disputes amplified by nationalism and illicit economies, and in long-running internal conflicts where peace requires patient institution-building.

The most meaningful memorial is prevention. Every displaced family is also a governance signal. Every spike of dehumanising language is a security alarm. Every failure of justice is an invitation to retaliation. If Sampit taught Southeast Asia anything, it is this: diversity does not automatically produce harmony. Harmony must be built daily, fairly and together.

Introduction

Signature policies by Indonesian presidents – whether they are major infrastructure projects or socioeconomic programmes – always carry deeper political nuances than those that meet our eyes.

Dr Yuan Wang’s book The Railpolitik: Leadership and Agency in Sino-African Infrastructure Development examines why large Chinese-financed railway projects in African countries produce divergent political and economic outcomes, despite appearing similar in financing models, technology, and external partners.

She advances a leader-centred theory of political agency to explain these different outcomes, challenging dominant views that emphasise China’s strategic interests or African institutional weakness. Her concept of “political championship” maintains that the success or failure of infrastructure projects depends largely on whether national leaders actively champion them.

Political champions invest personal authority, manage bureaucratic coordination, negotiate with Chinese actors and sustain support across electoral cycles. Where such leadership is absent or inconsistent, projects face cost overruns, delays, weak integration into national development strategies or long-term underperformance.

Beyond railways, Wang situates infrastructure as a political process rather than a purely technical or financial one, shaped by domestic power struggles, leadership priorities and state-society relations.

The question is this: what happens when we apply this theoretical framework to Indonesia’s own Jakarta-Bandung high-speed rail (HSR) Whoosh, a major infrastructure project initiated by former president Joko “Jokowi” Widodo?

Valuable Lessons

In Wang’s framework, a political champion is a national leader who personally commits political capital, intervenes to overcome bureaucratic resistance, aligns domestic institutions and sustains support for an infrastructure project despite controversy or risk.

Jokowi’s approach to Whoosh fit this pattern in several major ways.

First, Jokowi made infrastructure the signature agenda of his presidency and personally endorsed Whoosh as a symbol of Indonesia’s moder

Second, Jokowi intervened directly to manage coordination problems among SOEs, local governments and Chinese partners. When financing difficulties emerged, particularly after the project departed from its original “no state budget” promise, he authorised policy adjustments and state guarantees to keep the project alive, a classic act of political championship to prevent project collapse.

Third, like Kenya in The Railpolitik, Jokowi’s championship was shaped by political incentives. The Whoosh project functioned as a legacy project (much like the relocation of the national capital to Ibu Kota Nusantara [Nusantara Capital City – IKN], the country’s megaproject of unprecedented level), intended to demonstrate delivery capacity and technological advancement before the end of his second term. This helps explain why support persisted despite public criticism over debt, land acquisition and cost overruns.

Ongoing discussion about extending the Whoosh line to Surabaya has gained traction under the current administration, with the government conducting feasibility studies and promoting the project. The state railway operator has also taken a cue from a presidential directive that modern railway infrastructure should not be stopped and that expansion should proceed, underscoring top executive involvement in steering the project’s trajectory rather than leaving it purely to technical planning bodies.

This reflects continued high-level commitment to a major strategic project beyond its original scope, a hallmark of political championship where leaders persistently push forward ambitious infrastructure agendas.

However, the Whoosh case also exposes the limits of political championship. Despite its successful launch, the project’s weak feasibility studies, pessimistic ridership projections and opaque decision-making reduced long-term economic clarity.

These also echo Wang’s warning that political championship prioritises project delivery over sustainability. Political champions often have to navigate non-technical areas to sustain legitimacy and momentum, especially when expansion threatens communities or sensitive ecosystems.

Thus, there is a growing need for robust environmental and social safeguards should the extension line to Surabaya proceed, as the project’s success increasingly depends on how well the sitting president addresses broader public and ecological impacts.

For now, President Prabowo Subianto appears to be practicing the political championship concept in the realm of infrastructure. Early in his administration, he inaugurated dozens of electricity projects, signalling a leadership push on critical infrastructure to underpin national growth. He also inaugurat

Recently, Prabowo has also reaffirmed a strong commitment to the IKN project, allocating US$32 billion to ensure the continuity of the project’s key phases, such as legislative and judicial buildings. His first official visit to the IKN site signalled this project’s symbolic and strategic importance, and such sustained executive endorsement in the face of budget constraints shows active leader intervention beyond bureaucratic momentum.

But how about his “true” flagship programmes, such as Makan Bergizi Gratis (Free Nutritious Meal – MBG) and Koperasi Desa Merah Putih (Red and White Village Cooperative – KDMP)?

Another Type of Championship

Arguably, the MBG programme is alsoshaped by the concept of political championship, though it represents

First, MBG is unmistakably Prabowo’s signature policy. He elevated it from a campaign promise into a core governing priority immediately upon taking office, framing it as central to national resilience, human capital development and long-term competitiveness. This mirrors political championship’s defining feature: a leader who personally defines the project as politically and symbolically essential, rather than delegating it to technocrats.

Second, the programme has faced sustained criticism over fiscal cost, implementation capacity, and opportunity cost, yet Prabowo has consistently defended it and pushed for rapid rollout. Such persistence aligns strongly with political championship, where leaders override scepticism and accept political risk to keep a priority project alive.

Third, the programme requires coordination across ministries (education, health, social affairs and finance), subnational governments, and suppliers. Prabowo’s decision to create special task forces and fast-track budget reallocations shows active executive intervention to align the state apparatus, another hallmark of political championship.

Lastly, as with Jokowi’s Whoosh, the MBG programme is closely tied to political incentives. It delivers visible, immediate benefits to households and children, reinforcing political legitimacy while also serving as a long-term legacy project aimed at shaping Indonesia’s future workforce.

Where MBG diverges from Wang’s original framework is that it is not a single, discrete infrastructure project but a recurrent, nationwide social programme. This raises a critical issue Wang also hints at: that the concept of political championship is effective at launching and scaling initiatives, but sustainability ultimately depends on robust institutions, strong fiscal discipline, and effective policy monitoring.

Conversely, KDMP is a stronger example of Prabowo’s policy that reflects the concept of political championship in the socioeconomicdomain. There are arguably several reasons for that.

First, Prabowo has attached his personal authority and agenda directly to this programme. He initiated the policy through a presidential instruction to rapidly establish cooperatives in 80,000 villages across Indonesia. This shows executive prioritisation well beyond normal bureaucratic processes.

The cooperatives are part of Prabowo’s broader Asta Cita national agenda, especially the rural development and poverty alleviation pillar, demonstrating that KDMP is not an outlier programme but a core strategic initiative of his administration.

Second, the programme involves multiple ministries, state agencies, subnational governments and even regional-owned enterprises (e.g. logistics and distribution support), with the president actively coordinating implementation. This kind of inter-institutional mobilisation is a key aspect of political championship, where a leader aligns the state apparatus to achieve an ambitious national priority.

Third, the programme is pitched as a transformative economic empowerment tool – from controlling supply chains to stabilising prices and absorbing agricultural products – and is tied to the narrative of inclusive prosperity and rural upliftment. That gives it not just a technical economic role but political and ideological significance for Prabowo’s leadership narrative, similar to how Chinese-funded railways in The Railpolitik serve broader symbolic and political functions.

In the end, the mass launch events, large numerical targets (tens of thousands of cooperatives), and prominent presidential involvement create visibility and public awareness akin to flagship infrastructure projects championed by leaders in Africa with high political agency.

In line with Wang’s logic, political championship can apply to any large, politically salient state initiative where sustained high-level leadership shapes outcomes. MBG and KDMP fit this criterion, even if they are not infrastructure projects.

Budget 2026: Shielding the Policies

Unlike previous year’s state budget, which Prabowo inherit

The budget signals selective expansionary intervention that protects flagship programmes (e.g. MBG, KDMP, Sekolah Rakyat as well as food and energy estates) despite tight fiscal constraints. Should cuts occur, these initiatives are politically shielded because they are central to the president’s narrative and objectives. That is exactly what political championship entails: leadership proactively defending core projects against competing budgetary pressures.

These flagship policies have visible social impacts (children’s nutrition, cooperative empowerment, schooling in underdeveloped areas as well as food and energy resilience). They also carry symbolic value, cast as state commitments to public welfare and national strength. Furthermore, they mirror how African leaders in The Railpolitik frame infrastructure projects not as narrow technical endeavours but as national development symbols that warrant continuous top-level advocacy and coordination.

The continued prioritisation of flagship programmes reveals a political calculus as well: protecting signature policies to maintain legitimacy and fulfil core campaign promises, while asking other sectors to adapt. This reflects political championship’s blend of strategic commitment and risk management.

These patterns show that, much like the expansive railway infrastructure under Jokowi, Prabowo’s leadership exhibits agency that shapes both policy direction and political narratives, anchoring national development in a set of centrally championed programmes.

Taken together, Indonesia’s recent policy trajectory suggests that political championship has become a defining feature of executive governance across administrations.

Under Jokowi, it enabled the realisation of ambitious infrastructure projects such as Whoosh, albeit with notable trade-offs in sustainability and transparency.

Under Prabowo, the same logic is being extended beyond infrastructure into broader socio-economic ecosystems – ranging from MBG to KDMP – and reinforced through deliberate budgetary protection.

As Wang cautions, political championship is powerful in mobilising state capacity and delivering visible outcomes. However, its long-term success will ultimately hinge on effective institutionalisation, sound fiscal discipline and comprehensive policy learning that extends beyond individual leadership.

Introduction

The ecological disasters that struck Aceh, North Sumatra and West Sumatra in November 2025 were the result of human greed, manifested both through the hands of established corporations and through ill-conceived government development projects.

Tropical Cyclone Senyar merely served as a natural trigger that exposed and accelerated this latent destruction.

The Mining Advocacy Network (Jaringan Advokasi Tambang – JATAM) has stated that the total number of mining business permits across the island of Sumatra has nearly reached 2,000, with concession areas covering approximately 2.5 million hectares of land. Their findings further highlight that 546 of these nearly 2,000 permits are located in areas that are particularly prone to natural disasters.

Drawing upon deeper personal experience and knowledge of the history of agrarian disputes in the bona pasogit (ancestral homeland), I limit the following reflections to the political-economic dynamics that have culminated in the current ecological disaster in North Sumatra.

Mapping the Extractive Frontier

I was born in Sidikalang, the capital of Dairi Regency, a region with long and significant historical value for the people of Batak Toba. In the past, Dairi served as a place of exile for those banished from Bakkara, the epicentre of the Toba Kingdom, and later as the final guerrilla stronghold of Sisingamangaraja XII, the last king of the Toba Kingdom, before he was killed by the Marsose troops.

Dairi Regency is the site of an ongoing dispute concerning the environmental impacts of extractive mining between local residents and PT Dairi Prima Mineral, which is backed by a business consortium owned by the Chinese government.

The Dairi region also contains a concession held by a major pulp-processing company, PT Toba Pulp Lestari (TPL). This company occupies forest areas spanning at least 12 administrative regions, including the regencies of Humbang Hasundutan, Simalungun, Toba, Pakpak Bharat, North Tapanuli, Central Tapanuli, South Tapanuli, Samosir, North Padang Lawas, Asahan and the city of Padangsidempuan.

TPL has divided its overall concession into six sectors: Aek Nauli, Aek Raja, Tele, Habinsaran, Sidempuan/South Tapanuli and Sarulla. However, under the fourth revision of its Industrial Plantation Forest Licence issued by the Ministry of Forestry in 2011, its permit in the Sarulla sector was revoked. Legally speaking, TPL is therefore only permitted to operate in the five remaining sectors since then.

TPL’s concession in the sectors of Sidempuan/South Tapanuli directly borders the Batang Toru forest, a vital and biodiverse ecosystem renowned as the sole habitat of the critically endangered Tapanuli orangutan, the world’s rarest great ape.

Batang Toru is also the site of a massive hydropower development project: a “run-of-river” dam planned for electricity generation by PT North Sumatra Hydro Energy (NSHE), a special purpose consortium established for the project. Dharma Hydro Nusantara holds a 52.82% stake in NSHE, while Pembangkitan Jawa Bali Investasi and Fareast Green Energy hold 25% and 22.18%, respectively.

The power plant is intended to supply up to 15% of North Sumatra’s peak electricity demand with an installed capacity of 510 MW, but a report has suggested that the Batang Toru dam project is not viable on commercial, economic or social grounds. The current plans are costly and carry an unacceptable environmental impact.

Gold mining activities are also present in Batang Toru through the Martabe Gold Mine, one of the world’s largest gold mines run by PT Agincourt Resources, which is owned by Jardine Matheson, a United Kingdom-based conglomerate.

Last year, WALHI – together with Friends of the Earth (the United Kingdom’s largest grassroots environmental organisation) – visited the offices of Jardine Cycle & Carriage Limited in London to demand accountability and to call for the cancellation of the planned expansion of the Martabe Gold Mine.

What factors have made the post-disaster impacts in Sumatra, particularly in North Sumatra, so extraordinarily destructive? And what roles have TPL and PT Agincourt Resources played in this process of devastation?

Agrarian and Cultural Conflict

One of the most devastating consequences of the Java War (Java Oorlog, 1825-1830) was the near-bankruptcy of the Kingdom of the Netherlands. In an effort to rescue its domestic economy, the Netherlands East Indies formally adopted the cultuurstelsel, known in Indonesia today as the “forced cultivation system”, under which peasants across Java and certain areas of the outer islands were compelled to deliver commodities such as coffee, sugar and indigo to state-owned warehouses.

After the cultuurstelsel attracted widespread criticism, the colonial government altered its economic approach. The primary objective became facilitating the expansion of private European plantations and other business interests by making vast tracts of land available to them through long-term leases of up to 75 years.

To achieve this, any land not burdened by specifically designated European or indigenous rights was automatically declared state property under the Agrarian Law (Agrarische Wet) of 1870 through its embedded principle of domein verklaring (free state domain). This declaration effectively disregarded the pre-existing communal rights (hak ulayat) of indigenous communities over uncultivated customary lands.

The forest maps codified under the Agrarian Law of 1870 continued to serve as a reference for the Indonesian government following the proclamation of independence in 1945. A brief exception emerged with the enactment of the 1960 Basic Agrarian Law, which ostensibly affirmed its foundations in indigenous rights.

In practice, however, the law introduced a system of individual land rights that further weakened communal tenure and strengthened state control. This trajectory was consolidated by the 1967 Basic Forestry Law, which declared that designated forestry zones would be under direct government authority as state forests.

The consequences are easily predicted. Horizontal conflicts proliferated throughout the country, particularly between local residents (especially indigenous communities) and state authorities or private entities claiming land-use and exploitation rights granted by the state.

Throughout the New Order era, these disputes remained suppressed and unresolved. However, with the advent of the Reformasi period, the voices of

Guardians of the Land

Each region in Indonesia, in fact, possesses forms of local wisdom oriented towards environmental stewardship that must be respected by outsiders who enter its territory.

One example is the lubuk larangan (designated pools) tradition practised in Riau to preserve aquatic ecosystems such as rivers and lakes. This tradition prohibits fishing or catching fish in lubuk larangan in order to safeguard the purity of water flows. The prohibition applies for a specific period, usually ranging from several months to a year, to allow fish populations sufficient time to reproduce while restoring ecological balance.

The supervision of lubuk larangan is carried out by local customary leaders. Anyone who violates the rules may be subject to customary sanctions, including monetary fines, confiscation of the catch or temporary social exclusion from the community. At a predetermined time, such as during the fish harvest season, lubuk larangan is ceremonially opened. All community members are then allowed to fish together, and this moment often becomes a deeply memorable expression of social solidarity.

In the context of North Sumatra, all land in the Tapanuli region has been divided into clan-owned territories for hundreds of years. Each clan possesses land corresponding to its ancestral village, and this land is passed down through generations.

As the people are predominantly agrarian, they naturally have traditions comparable to lubuk larangan. One such tradition is known as Bona Taon, a series of New Year celebrations that also mark the beginning of the planting season.

The Bona Taon tradition is rooted in the ancestral beliefs of those who seek blessings from Mulajadi Nabolon (God Almighty) so that their harvests may be abundant. The term “Bona Taon” itself literally means “the beginning of the year”, underscoring the strategic importance of this tradition within the agrarian calendar of the Batak community.

The Bona Taon ceremony is usually led by customary elders. It begins with a ritual known as manguras, or spiritual purification, during which the community prays together for protection and blessings, followed by the slaughter of a chicken or pig as a symbolic offering to God.

After the ritual, the community gathers for a communal feast. The main dishes served typically include traditional Batak foods such as naniura or ikan arsik. Traditional music, such as gondang, accompanies the atmosphere of gratitude and hope throughout the feast.

Bona Taon is usually concluded with a large family discussion (margabung), which strengthens kinship ties while addressing customary matters or discussing future village plans. Once the entire sequence of traditions has been completed, the community prepares to plant rice, the primary staple crop.

Furthermore, the people uphold a sacred proverb: “sidapot solup do na ro.” This proverb means that any outsider wishing to enter the bona pasogit must do so as a respectful guest, adhering to the prevailing norms and customs of the local community.

Corporate Greed

TPL (established as Inti Indorayon Utama in 1984 until its closure by former president Habibie on 19 March 1999 and later re-established under its current name on 29 January 2003), PT Agincourt Resources, and PT Dairi Prima Mineral are examples of external entities that have brought business interests into the domain of bona pasogit.

By right, they ought to respect the principle of sidapot solup do na ro (similar to the concept of free, prior and informed consent – FPIC) that applies to each parcel of land they seek to exploit.

In reality, in relation to ecological disasters, TPL and PT Agincourt Resources have failed to do so, arguing that they already hold Industrial Plantation Forest Concessions (Hak Pengusahaan Hutan Tanaman Industri – HPHTI) from the Ministry of Forestry and Mining Business Permits (Izin Usaha Pertambangan/IUP) from the Ministry of Energy and Mineral Resources. As a result, conflict has been unavoidable.

The flash floods and landslides that occurred in late November were not the first of their kind. Exactly two years earlier, a similar disaster had struck the village of Simangulampe in Baktiraja Subdistrict, Humbang Hasundutan Regency. Baktiraja is the official administrative name for Bakkara, which is also the ancestral homeland of my clan.

Deforestation in the upper hills of Simangulampe (specifically in Habeahan Village, Lintong Ni Huta Subdistrict) is strongly suspected to have triggered the disaster, which claimed many lives, including those of my dongan tubu (fellow clan members) who reside there. The discovery of extensive eucalyptus plantations, TPL’s primary commercial commodity, in the hills of Habeahan Village has inevitably intensified local residents’ resentment towards the corporation’s activities.

And just like rubbing salt into an open wound, a few years ago, an unsavoury report emerged from Europe concerning Sukanto Tanoto, the founder and principal decision-maker at TPL, who purchased a historic building in Munich, Germany, for almost €350m through a Luxembourg-registered company. That amount is equivalent to almost Rp7t in today’s rupiah, calling into question the extent of his capitalist operations and indicating potential tax evasion measures.

Beyond Temporary Solutions

Article 33 of the Indonesian Constitution indeed stipulates that the earth, water and natural resources contained within the national territory are to be controlled, rather than owned, by the state. In practice, however, the government has frequently treated pre-existing communal rights as falling entirely within state control.

A direct consequence of such treatment has been the loss of forests in Aceh, North Sumatra and West Sumatra, averaging 36,305 hectares per year over the period 1990-2024. In aggregate, the loss of 1.2 million hectares of forest over 34 years is equivalent to twice the size of the island of Bali.

The highest rates of forest area reduction were recorded in North Sumatra (500,404 hectares), Aceh (379,309 hectares) and then West Sumatra (354,651 hectares). The conversion of forest land into oil palm plantations was also greatest in North Sumatra (354,865 hectares, representing 70% of the total forest loss), followed by West Sumatra (176,330 hectares) and Aceh (159,581 hectares).

In order to dismantle this persistent misconception, the state must promptly recognise the existence of indigenous peoples throughout Indonesia, together with all customary land rights in accordance with their respective traditions. The most effective way to achieve this is through the immediate enactment of the Indigenous Peoples Bill, which has remained stalled for nearly two decades.

With comprehensive and official recognition from the state, indigenous communities would possess strong bargaining power to compel problematic corporations to sit down and negotiate. Should no mutually beneficial agreement be reached, indigeno

Rather than offering temporary solutions that are politically ambiguous, the central government is in fact fully capable of realising agrarian social justice for its people. However, the accumulation of conflicts of interest at the elite level has become so complex that natural phenomena culminating in the recent ecological disasters are merely the tip of the iceberg, one that continues to hold government policy hostage.

From this ecological disaster, we can also observe the profound lack of harmony between the central and regional/subnational governments in the implementation of various tactical policies.

Editor’s Note

This essay is a critical analysis of the themes and issues that transpired in Indonesia’s cinematic phenomenon Sore: Istri dari Masa Depan (Sore: Wife from the Future; “Sore” pronounced as “So – Ray”), a romantic drama that touched the hearts of millions of Indonesians and earned eight nominations at Festival Film Indonesia 2025.

For a greater immersion into this piece, readers are advised to watch the film beforehand.

In short, Sore tells the story of the eponymous woman (Sheila Dara) who gains the capability to travel to and repeat a specific portion of her husband’s (Dion Wiyoko) past life in Croatia (before he even met her). She does this in an effort to change his destructive behaviours (such as excessive drinking and sedentary lifestyle) and pessimistic worldview, which would eventually lead to his death by heart attack in the future.

Sore, thus, exists in a time loop, making the movie similar in structure to others such as Edge of Tomorrow, Groundhog Day or Netflix’s Russian Doll series. Every time Sore beli

Morbidly, for the reset to take place, she has to die, assumingly from a brain haemorrhage. Worse, Sore’ husband will have no recollection of who Sore is every time the cycle begins anew, which means Sore’s journey is one of solitude that requires a lot of strength.

Part I: SPACE

When someone attempts to deceive time, the most effective way of doing so is by manipulating space. I suspect that this very strategy crossed Sore’s mind when she came across a page in Jonathan’s diary that read, “The North Pole, the only part of the earth without a time zone.”

Building on this premise, I am interested in analysing the journey of Sore, Jonathan’s wife from t

Furthermore, I view the entire spatial representation throughout Sore: Istri dari Masa Depan, Indonesia’s submission for the 98th Academy Awards’ Best International Feature Film, as inseparable from the classification of space proposed by Henri Lefebvre, a prolific Marxist philosopher and sociologist, over three decades ago.

In his famous book, Lefebvre states that space is not a simple geometric concept. It is constituted by both cultural and social elements.

According to him, space is divided into three categories: spatial practice—the material actions and activities that constitute a specific space; representations of space—how that space is imagined or felt in formal or informal knowledge, and; representational space—how it is subjectively experienced by people who inhabit it through signs, symbols, and associated images.

At first glance, the space we see appears singular, and it is Sore who undergoes repetition within it. This seemingly identical space then takes on a different meaning each time Sore alters certain details.

Her interpretation of the elements she encounters in each cycle of repetition generates a new understanding of the space’s existence; thus begins the phase of spatial practice. In other words, she transforms the very nature of the space through which she “travels”.

Sore attempts to instil a teetotal lifestyle in a past version of her husband. When this effort fails, she turns to Carlo, Jonathan’s manager. When this also fails and all avenues are exhausted, she chooses to withdraw from Jonathan’s life for a time—until, eventually, yet another version of her husband happens to cross paths with her.

The wife’s struggle to manipulate the space of her husband’s past unfolds on two simultaneous fronts: on one hand, she aims to change the character of the man she loves; on the other, she strives to evade the eventuality of Time itself—at least until her plan bears fruit.

Ironically, the profound realisation that comes to Sore midway through the story – that her efforts to change her husband are in vain – does not arise from within herself but from an external force. Frustrated by a lack of progress, Sore abandons her quest and seeks a job at a bridal tailor shop in Zagreb. This is where she finds her realisation in the form of Marko, her new employer and an unexpected individual who appears just as she is about to give up.

At t

Part II: FATHER

Watching Sore: Istri dari Masa Depan is, essentially, watching Jonathan. We come to know all of his bad habits, his pessimism, his love of photography and details about his beloved mother. We even learn about his older sister’s identity, his

But what do we actually know about the wife? Who are her parents? Is she an only child? Why has she never been in a relationship before? What are her aspirations? How have her flaws shaped the person we come to know in the movie?

As a future husband, Jonathan is also potentially a father-to-be. That status likely intimidates him, as he has no reference for what it means to be a good father. His biological father simply walked away, leaving him trapped in a negative space—one that ultimately led to an unchecked dependence on alcohol and cigarettes.

Jonathan’s lack of self-confidence results in the traditional paternal role – typically the one holding the main authority within a family – being taken over by his partners: first by Elsa, his past girlfriend, then by Sore, his future wife.

Women, in this story, bloom as father figures to Jonathan. Yet, the image that emerges from both of these women is not that of an authoritative figure but an authoritarian one.

Authoritarian actions, in the form of the women’s controlling behaviour, inevitably provoke rebellion—thus, Jonathan’s secret smoking activity gains a sense of justification. This has forced Sore to repeat the cycle again and again endlessly, which also means she dies a thousand times to restart Jonathan’s rehabilitation process.

However, Sore, having been awakened by Marko’s authoritative words, begins to shift this dynamic. Instead of continuing with her effort to control Jonathan, she tries tackling the root cause of Jonathan’s bad habit, which is Jonathan’s damaged relationship with his father. She tries to nudge Jonathan to reconcile with his father.

Unfortunately, Time finally catches up with Sore and forbids her from intervening any further. She is powerless to resist until she utters the final, resonant line: “I am Sore, your wife forever.” At this point, I would argue that Sore consciously assumes the role of the father figure in its entirety, in a bid to conquer Time itself.

What happens next? Sore transforms into a ubiquitous being. She exists everywhere—occupying the deepest corners of Jonathan’s soul and instilling in him a longing for something. Her apparition-like presence even shows up in Jonathan’s photo of a sunset over a beach, reminding the audience that she does not truly perish but just disappears.

Her ever-present nature, in turn, creates a kind of representations of space, serving as a force that gently encourages her husband to face and resolve his issues, one by one. She ceases her effort to change Jonathan through control and instilling fear; instead, she finds success in transforming Jonathan through acceptance and love. Indeed, she succeeds; Jonathan eventually visits his father’s house and leaves a note containing words of forgiveness.

We cannot ignore the fact that Yandy Laurens, the film’s director, was both raised in and lives out the values of a Christian upbringing. The abstract longing Jonathan experiences seems less directed towards a future life partner and more intensely orientated towards an authoritative figure—specifically, a good father.

The metaphors presented in the movie become increasingly difficult to dismiss: omnipresence, the father figure, the master of space and time, and, of course, unconditional love—do these not echo the core tenets of Christianity?

The wife from the future has “died”. The figure that appears on screen now is that of a father. Does this figure still take the form of a woman? Perhaps we will never truly know.

Part III: RESURRECTION

Jonathan’s future has been laid out with striking clarity. Within eight years from the period depicted in the movie – a time which never truly progresses but remains frozen due to the endless repetitions orchestrated by Sore – he will surely die.

Sore’s future, however, is far more complex and potentially invites an extended debate. The way I see it, as outlined earlier: she is dead.

Thus, at this point, something extraordinary has just begun. Something that, to me, holds a level of allure surpassing even the stunning orchestral sequence in the film’s third act.

We shall steer clear of discussions surrounding déjà-vu or jamais-vu. What is more important is that Jonathan and Sore are resurrected into versions of themselves that meet – either for the first time or once again (depending on how one chooses to look at it) – in the third act. Both are definitely reborn as different versions of themselves.

From one angle, their reunion might be seen as a metaphysical closure, where unresolved longing finds temporary resolution. From another point of view, it could be viewed as a genuine event within a newly formed reality, bor

We have to remember as well that Time has been overcome by the expression of unconditional love previously offered by Sore. Were it not so, this new timeline could never h

In this new timeline, the new version of Jonathan, overwhelmed by an intense longing, comes to realise that human beings can change through the experience of being loved. That declaration resonates with the version of Sore who, perhaps, at some point in her own life story, underwent a similar experience.

Their fateful handshake at Jonathan’s gallery subsequently unifies all the diverging timelines into a singular line. Past, present and future merge into one. The resurrected Jonathan and Sore finally arrive at a shared subjective experience. Their embrace in the movie’s closing scene, as well as the emotional weight of that final moment, serves as an undeniable manifestation of representational space.

Two souls, shaped and reshaped by grief and unconditional love, finally meeting at the same point of understanding. Whether this meeting occurs in the realm of the real, the symbolic or the liminal space in between is ultimately left to the eye of the beholder.

United by unconditional love, they shall, in time, be parted by, well, perhaps only Time has the ability to tell. After all, as with many things in life, it all depends on where you stand in terms of space and time.

Conclusion: Sweeping the Awards?

This piece is published just before Festival Film Indonesia 2025 that will be held on 20 November 2025.

In the lead-up to such an important event, I think it is worth taking a closer look at Sore: Istri dari Masa Depan and the journey it has had so far.

As mentioned, the film picked up eight nominations at Indonesia’s version of the Oscars, all of them fall under the main categories: Best Feature Film, Best Director, Best Adapted Screenplay, Best Cinematography, Best Editing, Best Actress, Best Actor and Best Original Song.

I am not a prognosticator or an awards pundit. But from where I stand, several of these categories feature contenders who are equally strong, or, at the very least, on a comparable level in terms of quality. I simply believe that this movie should, and will, take home the awards it genuinely deserves from among the categories it has been nominated in. Anyone who has seen it will almost immediately grasp what I am getting at, unless, of course, you happened to doze off in the cinema or found it unbearably dull.

Introduction

The 2024 Regional Head Election (Pemilihan Kepala Daerah – Pilkada) of Banjarbaru emerged as one of the most notable phenomena in Indonesia’s latest local elections.

The dynamics that unfolded during this political contest highlighted the increasingly entrenched influence of local oligarchy, a discernible decline in the professionalism of electoral bodies and an allegation of vote-buying practice.

This particular pilkada marked a historic moment in the post-Reformasi era, registering an unprecedented number of invalid votes that surpassed those cast for the sole candidate, at least for its first round.

This outcome was a direct consequence of Banjarbaru’s Regional General Election Commission’s (Komisi Pemilihan Umum Daerah – KPUD) decision to disqualify the incumbent mayoral candidate pair less than a month before the polling day.

The unprecedented move sparked a chain reaction: four commissioners from Banjarbaru’s KPUD were dismissed by the Election Organizer Ethics Council (Dewan Kehormatan Penyelenggara Pemilihan Umum – DKPP RI), having been found guilty of serious ethical violations.

The reason for their dismissal was the continued use of ballot papers featuring two candidate images, despite there being only one candidate pair remaining in the contest.

This is against Article 54C Paragraph (2) of Law Number 10 of 2016, which states that in an election with only one candidate pair, the ballot paper must display two columns: one showing the photograph of the candidate pair and the other left blank.

Meanwhile, indications of vote-buying practices emerged during the full-scale repeat election (pemungutan suara ulang – PSU), which then were used as

Worse, the 2024 Banjarbaru pilkada fits the pattern of a single-candidate election that is potentially harmful to Indonesia’s democratic process, even though the empty box option only officially appeared in the PSU held on 19 April 2025.

According to data from the General Elections Commission (Komisi Pemilihan Umum – KPU), elections in 36 regencies/cities featured an empty box on the ballot; in two instances, the empty box emerged victorious.

Engineered Candidacy

Following Banjarbaru’s designation as the capital of South Kalimantan – replacing Banjarmasin in 2020 – its political appeal has surged.

As a key economic node on the island of Kalimantan, South Kalimantan holds considerable strategic value. It is therefore unsurprising that Banjarbaru has swiftly gained short-term benefits from its elevated status.

Banjarbaru’s newly elected mayor,

In August 2024, however, she hosted a fun walk with top-tier celebrity couple Raffi Ahmad and Nagita Slavina, attracting attention due to the high-profile nature of the guests and the substantial financial resources required, especially given the proximity to the election campaign period.

This action naturally raised questions: how had Erna Lisa accessed elite networks and amassed funds for such a lavish event?

At this point, Erna Lisa’s connection to Andi Syamsuddin Arsyad, better known as Haji Isam – a business tycoon from Batu Licin, Tanah Bumbu Regency – came into the spotlight. Haji Isam’s support, while not explained in detail, is confirmed by Erna Lisa herself.

Haji Isam is a prominent figure in Kalimantan’s political landscape. Known for his palm oil and coal empire, he rose to the national stage in 2019, serving as deputy treasurer for Joko Widodo-Ma’ruf Amin’s National Campaign Team (Tim Kampanye Nasional – TKN).

Several of his associates secured ministerial positions in the Red-and-White Cabinet, and President Prabowo Subianto appointed him to lead the one-million-hectare rice field project in Merauke, South Papua.

Every two years, Haji Isam’s company, PT Jhonlin Group, organises the Batu Licin Festival (Batfest) to entertain residents of Tanah Bumbu. The most recent edition featured major performances including, again, by Raffi Ahmad and Nagita Slavina.

Haji Isam’s support for Erna Lisa became more evident to the public’s eye when it was revealed that Erna Lisa’s relative, Timothy Savitri, has business ties with Haji Isam’s son, Jhony Saputra, through PT Nusa Mandiri Properti.

All of these seem to indicate that Erna Lisa’s and Haji Isam’s interests might intersect somewhere.

Between Erna Lisa’s stratospheric rise and the subsequent disqualification of a rival pair, this line of argument extends to highlighting a tactic among local economic elites – or oligarchs – seeking to shape regional governance by manipulating electoral conditions to produce a single-candidate race.

Indeed, a single-candidate contest reduces financial costs and limits polarisation. However, it tends to reflect the ambition of an elite circle as well, determined to dominate local politics by any means necessary.

Once in power, these elites often entrench their positions by distributing political rewards to their loyalists. In such cases, pilkada becomes nothing more than a ceremonial mechanism; a mere formality and a symbolic act that bestows legitimacy on a process that has already been predetermined.

With all pieces in place, Erna Lisa and her running mate Wartono formally challenged incumbent Mayor Aditya Mufti Ariffin and his partner Said Abdullah. As if the drama was not enough, Wartono was then the incumbent deputy mayor, which made him Aditya’s second-in-command before he jumped ship.

It was Wartono who lodged a report against Aditya-Said pair in the first place, leading to their disqualification.

Invalid Votes and Empty Box

The decision not to redesign the ballot after the disqualification of the Aditya-Said pair contributed significantly to the unusually high number of invalid votes. All votes cast for Aditya-Said were automatically deemed invalid—whether cast by unaware voters, genuine supporters of the pair or those expressing frustration over what they saw as a chaotic election process.

This mass invalidation triggered a public outrage, prompting calls for a re-election and raising constitutional concerns over Banjarbaru’s 2024 pilkada. The Constitutional Court (Mahkamah Konstitusi – MK) subsequently ruled that there had been serious violations of citizens’ constitutional rights and ordered a PSU with the presence of an empty box on the ballot.

Following MK’s ruling, four KPUD commissioners were dismissed and one received a severe reprimand. A newly appointed KPUD commissioners subsequently oversaw the PSU held on 19 April 2025. The comparison of the original vote count and the PSU results reveals a worrying trend, as displayed in the tables below:

As evidenced above, the Erna Lisa-Wartono ticket gained 19,908 additional votes (in the top row), while the number of votes for the empty box (representing previously invalid votes) decreased by 27,321 ( i.e. difference between 78,736 and 51,,415). Furthermore, the abstention rate also increased.

If we examine the distribution of votes in greater detail, the results are as follows:

A closer look at the district-level results indicates several trends. Firstly, the number of votes cast for the Erna Lisa-Wartono pair across all districts was less than the number of invalid votes in the initial poll. Secondly, the pair won in three districts in the PSU, although their votes increased notably across all districts. Thirdly, the pair’s vote count nearly doubled in Cempaka, increased by 47% in Landasan Ulin and rose by 54% in Liang Anggang. Fourthly, the PSU abstention rate rose by exactly 5% compared to the initial vote count.

All of these suggest that the Erna Lisa-Wartono campaign team successfully mobilised individuals who previously cast invalid votes, convincing enough of them to switch allegiance.

The pair only needed to achieve a specific vote swing to surpass the winning threshold, all wh

Miniature Kings

Over the years, local elections have increasingly devolved into mere arenas of power-brokering between regional oligarchies and ambitious candidates seeking leadership positions. Local businessmen thrive and take part in the political system, often through indirect involvement.

The two sides support each other, with oligarchs providing support to their preferred candidates and if the candidates win, they will provide appropriate rewards, exceptional facilities and even lucrative projects that further enrich the oligarchs.

Another interesting point regarding this patron-client pattern is that the Banjarbaru case, while marked by such a transactional undertone, contradicts a popular argument about uncontested elections: when a candidate, usually but not always an incumbent, is seen as having insurmountable electoral strength, his/her presence will generate a “scare-off effect”.

Support for Aditya-Said was palpable given the number of invalid votes cast for the pair despite their disqualification, which doubled the number of valid ones (cast for Erna Lisa-Wartono). However, a succession of dramatic events eventually placed Erna Lisa-Wartono as the victor of this contest, thus underscoring the unique case of Banjarbaru as an antithesis to this popular argument.

Furthermore, the transformation of Erna Lisa – from an obscure civil servant to the mayor of Banjarbaru – strongly implies the influence of entrenched interests as well. Throughout the campaign period, she repeatedly projected signs of strong support from a powerful local oligarch.

The Banjarbaru pilkada also serves as a cautionary tale for the future of Indonesia’s decentralisation agenda. While it shows how local leaders have portrayed themselves as “miniature kings” over their dominions – influencing political dynamics while and local economy – it has also triggered a degree of consternation from the central government.

The most striking example of this is the surge in proposals for the establishment of new autonomous regions (daerah otonom baru – DOB), which rose from 65 in 2014 to 341 in 2025. President Joko “Jokowi” Widodo’s administration implemented a 10-year moratorium, with an evaluation by the Ministry of Home Affairs revealing  alarming findings regarding the performance of newly formed regions.

These included a heavy reliance on central government funding, limited human resource capacity among local officials, disrupted public service and subnational development projects becoming hotbeds of widespread corruption.

Prabowo’s administration must be sensitive to this worrying decline in the quality of democracy across regions so that the president could swiftly take strategic action to foster an inclusive political culture and restore public trust, rather than allowing various forms of intimidation and suppression of civic freedom run wild.

Conclusion

Almost three decades into the country’s reform era, the decentralisation model faces a stark paradox. The rise of local oligarchies, persistent dynastic politics and recurring corruption cases at subnational levels have become more common phenomena within the framework of regional autonomy.

Decentralisation, instead of empowering the people, has often paved the way for patronage relationships which foster short-term loyalties—serving the interests of a select few local elites rather than prioritising the public interests.

It is vital to monitor how the Erna Lisa-Wartono administration unfolds. If they serve the people of Banjarbaru effectively, their manner of election may indeed be vindicated. If not, we should not be surprised because the signs were already there—we already know how this story began.

Introduction

Indonesia is gradually becoming an ageing society. According to the latest data, the number of elderly citizens in Indonesia has reached 31 million people, or about 11.04% of the total population.

This number is predicted to increase by around 20% by 2045, while by 2050 elderly citizens might number 70 million or 21.2% of the total population.

A rapidly ageing population carries bad luck in terms of national economic performance.

As of 2019, only one in eight elderly individuals received a regular pension in Indonesia – usually former civil servants and retired military personnel. Fast forward to 2024, this figure further declined to one in 20.

The low coverage of pensions in the social protection system for elderly citizens has caused many of them to continue working in low-paying jobs.

In August 2024, the head of the National Population and Family Planning Agency, Hasto Wardoyo, revealed that the peak season of demographic dividend in the nation, which was heavily tipped to come to fruition in 2030, has in fact passed. Consequently, the window of opportunity for Indonesia to elevate its status into the developed country category is getting smaller.

There have been a few talks about the probability of a second demographic dividend if elderly citizens were able to acquire a substantial amount of savings. The hope is that this would provide further boosts to the economic growth by 2045.

Beyond Jakarta, governments at regional levels are also expected to facilitate this objective through the im

Therefore, the government at all levels, including subnational governments, is encouraged to take measurable and necessary steps to anticipate the potential for demographic disaster.

It is crucial to ensure the social security protection of the elderly people. In order to achieve that, Indonesia’s subnational governments (SNGs) – such as governors, mayors and regents – must play a more proactive role.

Gaps

Since reformasi, decentralisation has become a fundamental principle in the nation’s governance system and bureaucratic reform.

An important consideration is the often-forgotten obligation of numerous SNGs to take good care of their elderly residents. By exercising regional autonomy powers, these SNGs have most of the necessary tools to distribute annual revenues to improve the prosperity of the elderly citizens.

That additional income could mean life or death to many of them, particularly those who have lived under the poverty line for years.

Available data support this. Two provinces with the highest number of the elderly, the Special Region of Yogyakarta (17% of the national elderly population) and East Java (14.4% of the national elderly population), are each showing a staggering statistical fact. Just 10.2% of the elderly in Yogyakarta and 3.6% in East Java regularly receive pension funds.

This paints a bleak picture of the state of welfare of the elderly citizens. If Indonesia sincerely aims to put an end to the probability of demographic disaster once and for all, this shortfall must be dealt with as soon as possible.

It is true that those respective regions have already made some effort over the years. Yogyakarta currently has 40 community-based social welfare bodies which provide monthly empowerment programmes for the elderly, combined with a social security programme for senior citizens who happen to be excluded from any other government’s aid.

However, the so-called social security programme is insufficient, only catering to around 8000 poor senior citizens with each individual receiving Rp300,000 (US$18.08) per month. This figure is far below the real numbers of the elderly in the entire province.

East Java has implemented a similar social security programme since 2019. Every intended recipient receives around Rp2m (US$120.7) per year, with an estimated total of recipients approximately around 50,000 people.

Nevertheless, those programmes are simply not enough. A robust ageing policy requires the government to reach as many older agents as possible, facilitated by the presence of a comprehensive and systematic database.

Unfortunately, this is another classic problem in Indonesia’s bureaucratic system. Multiple state institutions store different data that could complicate the policymaking process, despite the presence of an integrated data-management service called the One Data Initiative. The integration process has been relatively slow.

To overcome those obstacles, SNGs must begin to take over the policy initiative. If every SNG has become fully aware of the incoming threat of demographic disaster, it would not be difficult to decipher which actions must be undertaken.

Paradigm Switch

Last year I conducted research in Jakarta, Surabaya and Medan, which are among the regions with the highest budgets. My study found that all three regions had more than enough fiscal capability to finance an innovative policy called minimum income guarantee for the elderly.

This is a fresh form of an almost-universal (or categorical) basic income-based policy that only excludes former civil servants and retired military/police person

As a way of transforming this policy idea into an executable programme, the executive branch alone is insufficient. It is necessary to conduct some measured and systematic political lobbying towards the legislative branch as well. The designated goal here is that each of the city’s and/or special region’s parliamentary bodies would support the policy implementation by passing a specific regional law to complement the executive branch’s policy design.

In order to reduce the probability rate of political resistance, it is necessary to ensure the budget allocated must not surpass 16% of annual revenue realisation in each municipal/metropolitan area.

This calculation is based on a comparative assessment concerning mandatory spending on education (minimum allocation of 20%) and health sectors (10%).

If the minimum income guarantee policy budget exceeds the funding portion on education, this situation will trigger a considerable risk in terms of public perception. People would see that the government is prioritising elderly citizens over children, a narrative that would bring significant political resistance, especia

Moreover, the issue of welfare and prosperity has always been intertwined with the quality of health service. A growing discourse about eliminating mandatory spending in the health sector from every subnational budget across Indonesia has a bigger chance to disrupt the improving level of health quality of elderly citizens.

In political terms, this minimum income guarantee for the elderly could be framed as something that would be able to bridge the gap to some extent.

The numbers look positive. By calculating and analysing Jakarta’s annual revenue in regions in the past five years, I arrived at the estimation that

This is more than enough to finance the aforemen

Accelerating Poverty Reduction

The potential of this minimum income programme, which could facilitate the elderly group’s ascent above the poverty line, is a subject worth discussing.

By 2032, Jakarta’s expected actual revenue would have reached a point of Rp100t (US$5.93b). By 2035, we predict that the amount would have been at Rp110t (US$6.53b) and the number of Jakarta’s elderly residents would reach 1,640,000. Thus, it is quite realistic that every eligible individual, in today’s calculation, gets Rp10.66m (US$633.30) a year (15.9% of its estimated overall actual revenue that year) or Rp889,000 (US$52.79) a month.

If we compare the money to the Jakarta’s poverty line as of September 2024 (Rp846,085 or US$50.24/capita/month), the income alone would have enabled eligible recipients to get themselves above the poverty line.

In the case of Surabaya, the projected annual actual revenue by 2032 would be at least Rp13.8t (US$895.42m). Three years later, the city’s revenue realisation would likely reach Rp15.2t (US$986.26m), whereby approximately 530,000 Surabaya elderly residents could be included in the recipient list of the programme.

Therefore, any eligible person in Surabaya could get as much as Rp4.5m (US$292) a year or Rp375,000 (US$24.33) a month (15.7% of Surabaya’s expected overall actual revenue that year). Considering the city’s poverty line stood at Rp565,284 or US$34.08 per capita per month as of September 2024, this income would equal 61.9% of that threshold.

Medan could attain approximately Rp8.3t (US$539.82m) in terms of actual revenue realisation by 2032. By 2035, the city’s actual revenue might reach Rp9.1t (US$591.63m). Concurrently, around 465,000 elderly residents would be able to receive the minimum income. The distributed nominals would be at Rp3.12m (US$202.44) a year or Rp260,000 (US$16.87) per month (15.9% of the city’s expected actual revenue that year).

Medan’s poverty line, on the other hand, stood at Rp674,427 or US$40.67 per capita per month as of September 2024. The amount received by each eligible resident would equal up to 40.03% of that point.

We can observe that Jakarta has the fiscal capability to lift all poor elderly out of its regional poverty line, while Surabaya and Medan could offer substantial coverage for eligible participants who live below their respective provincial poverty lines.

President Prabowo Subianto is elderly himself. At 73, he has everything at his disposal to implement a robust and effective ageing policy. However, the probability of this happening is still distant. His landmark programme at this moment is the free nutritious meal, reflecting a mainstream way of thinking of almost exclusively maximising productive-age population.

So far, the country has not updated its outlook by considering the impact of those elderly citizens who are highly educated, technologically literate, financially independent and accustomed to thinking innovatively on the future growth of Indonesia’s economy.

Prabowo’s administration could address this problem by considering two things. Firstly, it must acknowledge that the elderly population has equal rights with the productive-age population. Secondly, it must acknowledge that the elderly’s welfare is key to maximising the demographic bonus.

Though it might seem contradictory at first, the elderly population is a national development asset who can still contribute to the economy if the state knows which policy could support and stimulate

Funds allocated for the minimum income guarantee programme would be difficult to embezzle because prospective recipients are only required to show a national ID card to ensure they are truly residents of the area. After that, funds are transferred directly to the recipient’s account periodically.

Conclusion

Unfortunately, at this stage, the elderly’s welfare remains overlooked. In terms of demographic dividend, their potential contribution is also ignored.

Though an error, there is still some time to rectify this fallacy. A reform in the national outlook, which connects aspects of health, economic empowerment and elderly citizens’ intellectual contribution – while being fully supported by SNGs – must be undertaken before the demographic bonus window is completely closed.

Failing to do this would only elevate the state and regions’ fiscal burden to provide health financing and social security for the elderly. Every SNG in Indonesia could improve the elderly’s welfare and help deliver the long-awaited social justice for them.