On September 4, after weeks of protests, viral chants, and general unrest, the government finally blinked. Coordinating Minister for Political, Legal, and Security Affairs Yusril Ihza Mahendra stepped forward with what sounded – at first – like an olive branch.
“We’re responding positively,” he said, before immediately shifting gears to warn of “firm action” against anyone guilty of arson, destruction, or looting.
It was the political equivalent of offering a band-aid with one hand and a stick with the other.
Meanwhile, presidential advisor Wiranto said the president had heard the people’s demands; he just couldn’t deliver on all of them at once.
For the public, it felt less like a conversation and more like a politely worded delay. But beneath the predictable official language, something more compelling was happening on the ground.
Still, amid the procedural jargon and official statements, something was taking shape on the ground.
The protests may have been sparked by frustration, but they ignited something far more enduring: a growing, organised civil movement.
A coalition of activists, academics, and content creators launched the Wise Monitoring Consortium”, a civic initiative to redirect outrage into something more constructive.
From that emerged the “17+8 People’s Demands” – a crowd-backed political manifesto launched on August 31.
It set out 17 immediate demands, such as removing corrupt officials and ending military involvement in civilian policing, along with eight longer-term goals, including reforming Indonesia’s political parties and restructuring the powerful security forces, the military (TNI) and police (Polri).
This last point is of particular sensitivity. The armed force, once central to Suharto’s authoritarian rule, were formally separated from the police after 1998, but their overlapping roles in politics and internal security remain a source of public tension.
The manifesto was a signpost for reform, shaped by citizen voices and carried by collective effort.
Now the people will need to carry this momentum forward if they want to see change in the upper echelons.
And the government cannot continue to shy away from responding. It has to roll up its sleeves and meet the people halfway.
This means real transparency in how budgets are used. That means social programs that work – and proper oversight over them. And that means serious political reform that curb entrenched oligarchic power, not just the illusion of it.
Indonesia’s future doesn’t rest solely in the hands of policymakers. It depends just as much on civil society – and, increasingly, on a digitally connected public that refuses to stay quiet.
If that energy is met with openness rather than obstruction, then the glimmer of hope seen in recent weeks might just turn into lasting change.
Indonesia’s democracy may have taken a few hits, but the spirit of reform is far from gone. If anything, it’s getting louder, smarter, and harder to ignore. And if the powers that be are paying attention, they’ll realise that the people aren’t just asking for change; they’re planning for it.
Broken Promises, Fragile Democracy in Indonesia
Indonesia’s democracy is on fire. As President Prabowo touts trillion rupiah programs, reality tells a harsher story: poisoned children from “free meal” schemes, MPs flaunting perks while millions go hungry, and protesters met with tear gas and rubber bullets. Viral calls to “Shut Down the DPR” captured the nation’s fury over corruption, repression, and nepotism that bring back somber echoes of the New Order regime. Yet from the chaos emerged the “17+8 People’s Demands,” a manifesto for reform. Whether power listens – or doubles down on moves that have sparked public ire – will define Indonesia’s fragile democratic future.
Every year, just before the fireworks of Indonesia’s Independence Day on August 17, the President steps up for what’s meant to be a serious national ritual: the annual state address.
It’s when the country gets a peek at the government’s draft budget for the coming year –formally known as the APBN – and hears all the promises attached to it.
This year, President Prabowo Subianto took the podium with the 2026 APBN draft in hand, dropping some serious numbers: IDR 335 trillion (USD 21 billion) for free nutritious meals, IDR 332.25 trillion (USD 21.9 billion) for defence, and a whopping IDR 757.8 trillion (USD 49.5 billion) for education.
On paper, it reads like a bold investment in human capital, national strength, and generational progress.
But as always, the budget’s real test lies in its implementation.
While President Prabowo spoke of job creation and feeding the nation’s youth, many Indonesians weighed those promises against the realities they see every day.
And some felt strongly that he was spinning a fairytale of empty promises.
The total state budget for 2026 – at nearly IDR 3,786.5 trillion (about USD 250 billion) – marks a substantial increase from the IDR 3,621.3 trillion for 2025 (USD 241.4 billion). And it’s sparked conversations around whether size equates to impact.
The free meal programme, in particular, was announced with much fanfare. One of the centrepieces of Prabowo’s presidential campaign, it’s a policy with heart – one that speaks to the government’s desire to tackle child malnutrition and educational inequality.
But its early rollout saw growing pains.
Reports of food poisoning in some regions, and concerns over fund mismanagement raised alarms, particularly in a country where many families still face food insecurity.
While these incidents don’t define the program entirely, they highlight the importance of ensuring that social initiatives are matched with strong oversight and coordination. If not, doubts begin to creep in, especially in a country where corruption and abuse of power have long haunted governance and public administration.
Economically, Indonesia continues to walk a tightrope. Growth may be steady, but inequality is glaring. Informal workers and the youth – many of whom voted for change – are bearing the brunt of rising living costs and insecure jobs.
Programmes like the free meals scheme should be lifelines, not landmines.
These government initiatives carry immense potential. But their success depends not just on funding, but on transparency, infrastructure, and local collaboration.
When corruption, poor oversight, and tone-deaf leadership become the norm, even well-funded social policies collapse under the weight of incompetence.
And in that collapse, what’s revealed is more than just failed implementation.
It’s a crisis of trust.
A government that can’t deliver on its promises, no matter how grand, risks losing the legitimacy it needs to lead.
When Parliament lives large while people go hungry
Lawmakers now receive up to IDR 2.5 billion (USD 163,000) a year in recess funds, alongside IDR 50 million (USD 3,300) monthly housing allowances, and perks like travel allowances, and fuel subsidies.
As everyday citizens tighten their belts, these figures have sparked frustration.
Public anger erupted into mass protests across Indonesian cities, with thousands taking to the streets demanding greater transparency and accountability in budget management.
Demonstrators also called for cuts to parliamentary perks and allowances, urging for public funds be redirected to essential services such as education, healthcare, and infrastructure.
In response, the government offered explanations and made adjustments, including revoking the just-approved monthly housing allowance for MPs, and placing a moratorium on further increases in MP salaries. But criticism of public spending persisted, fuelling heated debate in the media and society.
The protests across Indonesia mark the peak of public anger at a series of parliamentary statements seen as anti-people and lacking empathy for those they represent, says Annisa Yudha, researcher coordinator at the NGO Imparsial, or the Indonesian Human Rights Monitor.
This was the right moment for the public to voice their grievances, yet instead of being protected by parliamentarians, they faced increasingly repressive police action, she adds.
“The public has no trust in either the executive or the legislature,” Yudha says.
Meanwhile, Wirya Adiwena, deputy director of Amnesty International Indonesia, says that the parliament entrusted to represent the people is instead perceived as prioritising elite interests over human rights and social justice.
“Shut down the DPR”
It started as a hashtag but quickly grew into a headline.
The frustrations fuelling it are layered: rising legislative allowances, vague budgeting processes, and a sense that public money isn’t being spent wisely. For many, it’s less about actually closing parliament and more about demanding reform, accountability, and better representation.
But the situation didn’t improve when some lawmakers decided to engage – and not in the way many on the ground were hoping for.
On August 22, MP Nafa Urbach posted about her frustrating commute through traffic – in a luxury car, en route to the DPR building. That same day, fellow MP Ahmad Sahroni referred to critics of parliament as “the dumbest people in the world,” while another DPR member Eko Patrio chose to respond to criticism with a TikTok-style dance video.
All three were later suspended by their respective parties.
As public frustration reached a boiling point, the online outrage grew legs and soon marched straight to the gates of Parliament.
On August 25, thousands gathered outside the DPR building in Jakarta and beyond, echoing their online concerns in person. The protests showcased a broader disconnect between lawmakers and the people they represent.
For many Indonesians, the viral slogan was less about burning the whole system down and more about lighting a fire under it: pushing for change, and hoping their leaders finally start to listen.
Public distrust and the cracks in democracy
While public frustration bubbled over in the streets, a very different scene unfolded inside the State Palace.
In a move that raised more than a few eyebrows, President Prabowo went ahead with a planned ceremony to award national honours to 141 public figures — more than double last year’s count.
The awards felt oddly timed to many. In a week when protests were erupting across cities and economic inequality was at the center of public discourse, celebrating high-profile figures – some closely tied to power – seemed to send the wrong signal.
Instead of acting as a unifying gesture, the honours sparked skepticism about political priorities, especially when many citizens are asking for more transparency and responsiveness, not ceremonies.
To critics, it felt tone-deaf at best and dynastic at worst. In a year already marked by debates over parliamentary perks and allegations of elite overreach, the awards seemed to underline a deeper issue: a democracy increasingly shaped by insider interests.
Political observers say these moments – rising allowances, symbolic gestures, and the heavy-handed response to protests – aren’t just isolated missteps. They reflect a lingering post-reform tendency toward oligarchy, where power and privilege remain concentrated in the hands of a few.
Ultimately, what’s being expressed on the streets and online is less is a greater desire for accountability, and for institutions to better reflect the everyday concerns of citizens.
People are losing faith in the system to represent them. And that trust, once broken, is hard to rebuild.
Populism, power, and the elite divide
Maintaining a façade of popular legitimacy has remained a particular concern for the Indonesian political elites, even during the height of the New Order regime, according to Ian Wilson, a senior lecturer in politics and security studies at Murdoch University in Perth, Australia.
This remains so for Prabowo who came to power on the back of populist campaigning and image rebranding as an affable and lovable leader, Wilson notes.
At the same time, people see that the divide between elite politicians and regular Indonesians that has grown increasingly stark over the years.
Post-98 there was a strong awareness of the power of street protest, and the sense that political elites needed to at least pay some kind of nominal or symbolic lip-service to protestor demands.
Authoritarian reflexes resurface
The tipping point was the tragic death of Affan Kurniawan, an online motorcycle taxi driver, who was fatally struck by a police tactical vehicle. His name quickly became a symbol of unchecked force and deepening public frustration.
What began as anger over rising parliamentary allowances escalated into a nationwide reckoning. Government offices were torched. Demonstrators gathered outside major police headquarters. And when military personnel showed up in fatigues, they weren’t welcomed as peacekeepers, but were met with chants of, “You’re all the same, go back to the barracks!”
Authorities responded with tear gas, baton charges, and arrests.
Wirya of Amnesty International Indonesia says the authorities’ reliance on force mirrors a long-standing approach: treat dissent as disorder, and answer it with control rather than conversation.
From student protests, labour strikes to demonstrations in Papua, security forces routinely deploy excessive force, criminalisation, and surveillance to silence dissent. This reflects a state that perceives citizens’ demands as threats to order, rather than legitimate expressions of people’s rights, he notes.
Imparsial’s Yudha echoed Adiwena, arguing that the state treats its own citizens as a threat. These forces are built to crush. Put them in front of protesters and violence is a given.
“Tear gas and rubber bullets are fired with arrogance, not hesitation,” she says.
Digital dissent meets digital control
If the streets have become difficult terrain for protest, the digital sphere has become the new battleground. Social media platforms, particularly TikTok and X, played a key role in galvanising mass support, spreading real-time updates, and shaping public discourse.
But digital freedom is facing its own headwinds.
During the peak of the demonstrations, platforms reported restrictions on livestreaming, while several activist accounts mysteriously disappeared or were targeted with coordinated harassment. For some observers, this was a sign of a digital crackdown with authoritarian undertones.
Adiwena says incidents of police violence against peaceful protests, such as the persistence of intimidation, arbitrary arrests, and excessive force echoes New Order–era repression, showing how authoritarian logics of control endure within policing institutions.
“They might use new tools such as spyware softwares but the authoritarian logic and practices persist,” he notes.
Yudha points out that those who criticise government policies now face digital intimidation, she said.
“Social media accounts are terrorised, doxxed , and critics are smeared as paid buzzers,” Yudha said.
The implications are serious. If peaceful protest in the streets is met with tear gas, and digital activism is met with surveillance and online intimidation, then where, exactly, is free expression supposed to exist?
Can a democracy thrive in the digital age if the space for dissent is shrinking – both offline and online?
A glimmer of hope
On September 4, after weeks of protests, viral chants, and general unrest, the government finally blinked. Coordinating Minister for Political, Legal, and Security Affairs Yusril Ihza Mahendra stepped forward with what sounded – at first – like an olive branch.
“We’re responding positively,” he said, before immediately shifting gears to warn of “firm action” against anyone guilty of arson, destruction, or looting.
It was the political equivalent of offering a band-aid with one hand and a stick with the other.
Meanwhile, presidential advisor Wiranto said the president had heard the people’s demands; he just couldn’t deliver on all of them at once.
For the public, it felt less like a conversation and more like a politely worded delay. But beneath the predictable official language, something more compelling was happening on the ground.
Still, amid the procedural jargon and official statements, something was taking shape on the ground.
The protests may have been sparked by frustration, but they ignited something far more enduring: a growing, organised civil movement.
A coalition of activists, academics, and content creators launched the Wise Monitoring Consortium”, a civic initiative to redirect outrage into something more constructive.
From that emerged the “17+8 People’s Demands” – a crowd-backed political manifesto launched on August 31.
It set out 17 immediate demands, such as removing corrupt officials and ending military involvement in civilian policing, along with eight longer-term goals, including reforming Indonesia’s political parties and restructuring the powerful security forces, the military (TNI) and police (Polri).
This last point is of particular sensitivity. The armed force, once central to Suharto’s authoritarian rule, were formally separated from the police after 1998, but their overlapping roles in politics and internal security remain a source of public tension.
The manifesto was a signpost for reform, shaped by citizen voices and carried by collective effort.
Now the people will need to carry this momentum forward if they want to see change in the upper echelons.
And the government cannot continue to shy away from responding. It has to roll up its sleeves and meet the people halfway.
This means real transparency in how budgets are used. That means social programs that work – and proper oversight over them. And that means serious political reform that curb entrenched oligarchic power, not just the illusion of it.
Indonesia’s future doesn’t rest solely in the hands of policymakers. It depends just as much on civil society – and, increasingly, on a digitally connected public that refuses to stay quiet.
If that energy is met with openness rather than obstruction, then the glimmer of hope seen in recent weeks might just turn into lasting change.
Indonesia’s democracy may have taken a few hits, but the spirit of reform is far from gone. If anything, it’s getting louder, smarter, and harder to ignore. And if the powers that be are paying attention, they’ll realise that the people aren’t just asking for change; they’re planning for it.
Hot off the press
From village life on the banks of the Sarawak River to shaping national policy in Putrajaya, Dato’ Sri Nancy Shukri has led with quiet strength, deep cultural grounding, and an unwavering commitment to public service. As Malaysia’s Minister of Women, Family and Community Development, she’s championed women’s empowerment, youth opportunity, and inclusive leadership.
In our Jun/Jul 2025 issue, MillionaireAsia puts the spotlight on this East Malaysian trailblazer who’s redefined what it means to lead with purpose. We follow Nancy’s journey from a childhood shaped by strong female role models to a career in politics that continues to break barriers and uplift communities.
We also continue our mission to spotlight the women shaping Southeast Asia’s future – with stories, programmes, and partnerships designed to empower, inspire, and ignite change.
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