Editor’s note: the author is a co-convenor of the 2025 ANU Indonesia Update Conference, which will be held in Canberra on 12–13 September. The theme of this year’s Update is “Navigating Climate Change in Indonesia: Mitigation and Adaptation Pathways.” You can live stream the conference proceedings, which will include updates on recent political and economic developments, on Zoom from 09:00 AEST on 12 September.

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Back in the 1960s, American folk singer Pete Seeger posed a haunting question in his anti-war ballad: “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” The song spoke of loss, forgotten promises, and the tragic cycles we repeat. Today, one would ask a similar question in Indonesia: Where have all the energy transition policies gone?

In 2021, Indonesia boldly committed to achieving net-zero emissions by 2060—a pledge meant to confront climate change and improve urban air quality. For a time, energy transition dominated national discussions. But recently, it has quietly slipped off the agenda.

In his State of the Nation Address on 15 August 2025, marking Indonesia’s 80th year of independence, President Prabowo Subianto spoke extensively about free school meals, land reform, and state investment restructuring. There was no mention of the 2060 net-zero commitment. While these priorities matter, sidelining energy transition is a critical mistake—one that threatens our health, economy, and future.

Indonesia still relies heavily on coal and fossil fuels for power and transport. Combined with deforestation and forest degradation, the country is now among the world’s top six carbon emitters. Without a rapid shift to renewable energy, Indonesia risks undermining its own climate goals—and jeopardising global efforts to limit warming. Scientists warn that failing to act could push the planet past a dangerous tipping point.

This isn’t about distant projections; it’s about what’s happening here and now. Burning coal and gasoline releases toxic pollutants—PM2.5, sulphur dioxide, nitrogen oxides—causing respiratory illness, heart disease, strokes, and premature deaths. In Jakarta, where air quality ranks among the worst globally, pollution already cuts life expectancy by an estimated 2.4 years, according to the University of Chicago. Thousands of Indonesians, especially children, suffer from pollution-related illnesses every year.

Recent findings from a University of Chicago–ADBI–SMERU–ANU collaboration reveal an even grimmer reality. Between June and December 2024, researchers monitored air quality inside Jakarta homes. The WHO’s safe PM2.5 limit is 5 µg/m³. Yet not a single second during the study met that standard. Outdoor levels averaged 37.8 µg/m³, while indoor levels were even worse at 40.7 µg/m³. At times, indoor spikes exceeded 300 µg/m³, once nearing 500 µg/m³—exposures comparable to severe forest fires, happening inside people’s living rooms.

So, why the silence? Why has energy transition faded from political debates? Yes, challenges exist: renewable projects need financing, the grid requires upgrading, regulations remain patchy, and entrenched fossil fuel interests resist change. But none justifies inaction. On the contrary, they demand rapid and smarter responses.

Under the previous administration, policy discussions gained momentum, and international support was growing. But much of that progress has stalled since 2024.

Some initiatives persist, such as the Indonesia Update Conference at ANU this week, where around 15 leading academics and 300 participants will discuss Indonesia’s prospects for meeting its emissions targets and achieving net zero by 2060. Yet isolated events cannot substitute for consistent political will.

Indonesia’s energy transition isn’t just about climate—it’s about health, economic opportunity, and national development. It’s a chance to breathe cleaner air, reduce dependence on imported fuels, create new industries, and safeguard future generations. Delaying this shift means locking in more pollution, more illness, and fewer choices for a just and prosperous future.

The good news: it’s not too late. Indonesia can revive the conversation, build stronger policies, and forge the partnerships and infrastructure needed to move forward. But this demands real leadership—from government, business, civil society, and ordinary Indonesians tired of choking on smog and broken promises.

If we keep asking, “Where have all the energy transition policies gone?” without demanding answers, we risk becoming like Seeger’s song—nostalgic, mournful, and too late. But it doesn’t have to be that way. We still have a choice. We still have time, but not much. And we still have the power to turn things around.

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The wave of protests that swept through Indonesian cities and towns last week bore more than a few resemblances to those that brought down the Suharto regime in 1998.

Some of the similarities are obvious. On both occasions, violence by security forces caused protests to escalate. In 1998, the shooting of students at Jakarta’s Trisakti University triggered mass rioting, generating the final crisis that forced Suharto to step down. Last week, the killing of a motorcycle taxi driver, Affan Kurniawan, sparked an uptick of rage across the country. Protestors began to attack and burn government buildings (at least eight regional parliament buildings were burned down, by my count) and to launch mass raids on the homes of prominent politicians, such as People’s Representative Council (Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat, DPR) member Ahmad Sahroni and Finance Minister Sri Mulyani.

In 1998, as today, the backdrop of the protests was partly economic. In 1998, the Asian Financial Crisis caused Indonesia’s economy to collapse, driving millions into poverty and forcing many companies into bankruptcy. Economic conditions are not so severe today, but the economy is slowing, and the middle class is shrinking. Central government efficiency measures have badly affected numerous sectors: many regional governments, for instance, have raised land and property taxes in response. Labour informality and precarity are rising, both with the growth of the gig economy and with layoffs in manufacturing. And all this comes amidst severe economic inequality.

This setting helps to explain key features of the recent protests, such as participation by members of labour unions and rideshare drivers, even the targeting of the home of Sri Mulyani—so long the darling of middle-class liberals and reformers, now the public face of austerity to many protestors.

Subcultures of protest

Perhaps the greatest similarity between 1998 and 2025, however, is that both protest waves built on a subculture of street protest that had been growing for several years. The trigger in 1998 may have been the Asian Financial Crisis, but protesters that year were able to draw on the experiences—and the antipathy to governmental authority—many of them had built up through several years of escalating social and political unrest. An ethos of protest and opposition to the Suharto regime had spread on campuses, in sections of the middle class, and among many members of the urban poor, laying the groundwork for 1998.

Today, the dynamics are similar. The protests of 2025 definitely did not come out of nowhere. Instead, they are at least the fifth major wave of youth-led mass protest since 2019. First came protests in September and October of 2019 that were triggered, above all, by DPR and government moves to strip the hitherto very effective Corruption Eradication Commission (Komisi Pemberantasan Korupsi, KPK) of key powers.

A year later, in 2020, another wave of protests greeted the passage of the so-called Omnibus Law on Job Creation, which among things accelerated the shift toward casualisation of the labour force and weakened environmental protection for natural resource investments. The “emergency warning” (peringatan darurat) protests of August 2024 the February 2025 “dark Indonesia” (Indonesia gelap) protests had distinct triggers and immediate targets, but all of these waves expressed a similar critique of Indonesia’s political elite and the corruption that pervades it. The economic and class dimension is stronger in the current protest wave, but that too builds on features already present in earlier episodes.

Each of these five waves of protest has represented another marker in Indonesia’s democratic decline and authoritarian revival. But they are also significant in their own right, pointing toward the emergence of a new protest counterculture in Indonesia’s towns and cities.

Building on earlier traditions of social protest, this new counterculture is centred on a deep and growing antipathy to Indonesia’s governing elite. United by new modes of online communication, ever-changing networks of loose organisations, as well as connections among more established institutions, such as student executive councils, labour unions, and NGOs, this movement is ideologically diverse—but it’s united around common threads of opposition to oligarchy, anger at the corruption of the ruling elite, and rejection of growing economic inequality.

Indonesian scholars and activists have noted the “rhizomic” quality of the new youth protest and social movements, and their diffuse and leaderless patterns of organisations. While some celebrate these qualities, pointing out the participatory character of the new youth movements and how their flexibility makes them difficult to eradicate, others have argued they lack the organisational strength and ideological clarity needed to bring about fundamental social and political change.

Two worlds at odds

The recent protests can thus be understood as product of a clash between two worlds of Indonesian politics: the world of official representative politics and the subculture of youth protest that rejects it. Part of what explains the severity of the protests is that, while the protestors understand the world of the politicians quite well, the reverse seems not to be true—at least until now.

When it was announced that DPR members would gain generous new allowances—a key precipitating event in the current round of protests—on top of their already large salaries, these politicians obviously saw themselves as gaining a well-earned reward. Elected politicians routinely complain about the onerous expectations of cash and other forms of assistance they face from constituents, and doubtlessly many of them believed their de facto wage increase would help them address this problem.

But the announcement and the verbal somersaults of those justifying it—to say nothing of footage of DPR members dancing happily during a recent parliamentary session—came while many Indonesians were experiencing deepening economic hardship, betraying a remarkable lack of understanding of how such news might be received by members of the public.

Throwing fuel on the fire, some DPR members went on social media to mock and disparage the protestors. Ahmad Sahroni, a particularly wealthy and brash politician, called protestors seeking the dissolution of the DPR the “stupidest people on earth”, prompting media outlets to remind readers of his fantastic wealth. Sahroni soon got his comeuppance when protestors attacked and looted one of his homes, parading luxury items they found there—such as a life-sized Ironman sculpture—on social media.

How could the gap between these worlds become so wide that Sahroni and other DPR members could make such fateful miscalculations? In the early years of the post-1998 Reformasi period, elected politicians were at least somewhat attuned to the world of street protest. They had seen how it could bring down a regime, and they were careful to pay attention to what protestors wanted and, where possible, to concede—even if only partly or symbolically—to their demands.

Time passed, and most of that first generation of post-Reformasi politicians passed from the scene, to be replaced by a new breed of politicians (often the children of the first generation) who were inculcated in, and products of, the culture of money-politics that has grown within Indonesia’s democratic institutions. As vote-buying and other forms of patronage politics became increasingly entrenched as the main way to win elections, DPR members and other politicians had to invest increasingly vast sums of money in their campaigns. More and more of them come from wealthy business backgrounds, or from established political dynasties.

These shifts have changed the political culture and patterns of work within Indonesia’s representative institutions too, increasing representatives’ need to use their official positions to generate income, or at least to access streams of patronage. A decade or so ago, as a researcher one had to tread carefully when investigating topics such as vote buying or informal fundraising within the DPR. As time has passed, my impression is that DPR members and other politicians have become increasingly open about discussing such topics, as these practices have become normalised.

Insiders, too, give accounts of how new members of institutions like the DPR are inducted into a culture of corruption by their seniors. A few months ago, one relatively young member of the DPR explained to me and colleagues what it’s like to be a member of that institution:

“…if you talk about defending the rights of the people, they will laugh at you, they will come to you and say ‘don’t be too serious’…‘don’t be so holy’….But if you talk about money, well, they will all come and deal with you very seriously and carefully. If you want to explain which projects will give you 30%, they will brag about it.”

Ordinary Indonesians notice these changes too. Corruption investigations—especially those launched in the past by the KPK—exposed the fabulous wealth of many politicians, with raids on their homes exposing collections of Hermès bags, Lamborghinis and similar luxuries. Politicians themselves have become increasingly open about flaunting their wealth on social media. At the same time, we know that politicians’ policy preferences track with those of high income voters, rather than with ordinary citizens, in areas such as social welfare and redistribution.

In short, years of patronage politics have created an ever widening gap between the political world of the governing elite who inhabit Indonesia’s democratic institutions, and that of the young protestors whose forebears played such an important role in putting those institutions in place.

The targeting of protest

Despite the many similarities, differences between the protests of 1998 and 2025 also stand out. For one thing, much of the violence on the part of rioters, and the looting, has been much more targeted so far than in 1998. In 1998, especially during Jakarta’s May riots, people attacked symbols of wealth and property in general, and there was a lot of racist targeting of ethnic Chinese persons and property in particular. This time, as well as violence generally being at much lower scale, there have not been (so far as I am aware) verified reports of anti-Chinese violence—despite many rumours and fears that it was imminent. Instead, violence has been directed against figures and symbols of state authority: the police, DPRD buildings, the private homes of politicians, and the like.

The political objectives of the current protestors, in contrast, are much more diffuse than those of their forebears in 1998. What gave the Reformasi movement much of its power was the precise nature of its goals, embodied in a number of daunting, but ultimately achievable, goals: the overthrow of Suharto, the end of the military’s “dual function” (dwifungsi), the dismantling of restrictions on political expression, and so on. Those goals could be achieved in part because the protestors were able to find allies, not only among members of mainstream political parties, religious organisations and the like, but also within the ruling civilian and military elite, many of whose members ultimately abandoned Suharto and threw in their lot with Reformasi.

Today the protestors’ goals are not limited to forcing out any particular leader or party, or even to repeal a limited set of laws or regulations. To be sure, they have many such targets—many of the protestors call on President Prabowo Subianto to step down, for the DPR to be dissolved, and for various laws and regulations to be repealed. But what they really stand for, above all, is rejection of the entire ruling elite.

And the entire ruling elite, more or less, stands united against them. This was symbolised dramatically on 31 August when leaders of all the major political parties lined up next to Prabowo as he delivered a speech in which he mixed concessions (cancelling the DPR members’ new allowances) with threats (accusing protesters of engaging in treason—makar—and terrorism).

As a result, it’s hard to see any way by which the current confrontation between the two worlds of Indonesian politics will disappear soon. To be sure, the current wave of protest may well disperse soon, as did the previous ones—in fact, it seems to be on this pathway as I write this piece. But so far, each wave has been followed by another, on virtually an annual basis. That pattern seems likely to continue. Elite politicians are trapped in a system of patronage politics that they would find hard to escape even if they wanted to. As a result, the protestors are a long way from achieving their goals, and their antipathy to Indonesia’s political class is unlikely to dissipate.

This, too, makes the current period seem different from the late Suharto era: back in the 1990s, even when protests were suppressed by the military, the most militant groups always believed they were working toward a defined goal: the overthrow of the Suharto regime. Today’s targets are not so well defined, and are captured by terms—oligarchy, corruption, and the like—which point toward deeply entrenched informal relations of power. Ending such phenomena will require deep systemic change, rather than a limited number of formal legal adjustments or reforms.

It’s hard to envisage such change occurring with the current crop of elite politicians holding elective office. Yet replacing them is also not easy. When progressive activists have ventured into the electoral arena in Indonesia they have almost invariably failed (in sharp contrast, for example, to Thailand). The elite politicians the protestors so revile enjoy massive organisational and material advantages that make them very difficult to beat, especially when so many voters have come to expect patronage in exchange for their votes. These politicians also operate political machines that reach right down into the communities where ordinary Indonesians live throughout urban and rural Indonesia—something the protestors also lack.

Overthrowing Suharto was a titanic achievement. The goals of the current round of protestors arguably are no less daunting.

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17 August 2025 marks the 80^th anniversary of Indonesia’s independence. Surrounding the commemorations are various discourses on whether Indonesia was colonised by the Netherlands for 350 years, or less than that. Regardless of the answer, traces of colonialism prevail. And the commodification of those traces is perhaps one of the very first steps to understanding the multiple narratives on history in Indonesia today.

The commodification of colonialism is part of a broader trend across postcolonial countries, where visible relics of empire, often in the form of enduring infrastructure, pose a choice: to erase them through neglect or demolition, or to repurpose them for new uses. In Indonesia, the early decades after independence saw leaders such as Soekarno and Soeharto promote a nationalist vision, favouring modernist designs by Indonesian architects. Yet the risk of erasing the colonial past altogether raised concerns that history itself might be forgotten.

From the 1980s onwards, heritage conservation initiatives emerged, seeking to preserve colonial-era buildings while embedding them within narratives of nationalism. Restoration projects multiplied, but the challenge remained: static plaques and written histories struggle to compete for public attention in an era when much of social life unfolds on phone screens. Recognising that people value immersive experiences over textual storytelling, governments and private actors began converting colonial clusters into open-air or “living” museums. This model, visible in Indonesia’s Taman Mini Indonesia Indah, Singapore’s Battlebox in Fort Canning, and the Netherlands’ Archeon, promises visitors not just a history lesson, but a sensory encounter and countless souvenirs they can take home: Instagram-ready shots.

While this approach integrates preservation with the economic demands of tourism, it also risks reducing complex historical narratives to a kind of theme park. The emphasis shifts from engaging with the realities of colonial oppression to offering an aesthetically pleasing, marketable fantasy. In Modernity at Large (1996), Arjun Appadurai refers to a yearning that is not rooted in lived memory as ersatz nostalgia—a longing for a stylised, imagined past where nostalgia and fantasy are reduced to consumption.

In Surabaya, the ghosts of the Dutch East Indies have not merely lingered; they have been revived through commodification in tourism. Wander through the revitalised “European Zone” of Kota Lama (Old Town) or a long-standing ice cream palace in the city, and one is bound to feel the seduction of a colonial past repackaged for modern consumption. Whether through architecture or cuisine, a certain narrative is quietly whispered: the colonial past was not only orderly and elegant, but perhaps even desirable.

In Surabaya today, following the revitalisation of the old town quarter that used to be reserved for the European community, colonial aesthetics have become central to city branding and urban placemaking. While such nostalgia can serve as a tool for historical reflection, its unchecked commodification risks perpetuating colonial myths, erasing uncomfortable histories, and displacing local narratives.

A “digital postcard” of colonialism

Surabaya’s revitalised old town complex comprises four quarters: the European Zone, Chinatown, Arab, and Malay Quarters. Yet it was the erstwhile hub for the Dutch East Indies’ European population—uncannily dubbed the “European Zone”—that quickly became a hit due to its stark black-and-white colonial façades, restored buildings, and tourism experiences such as period costume rentals, vintage military Jeep tours, and the influencer-endorsed toerwagen car rides.

After its grand relaunch on 3 July 2024, the European Zone quickly became one of Surabaya’s most photogenic destinations. Here, local and domestic tourists don lace dresses or aristocratic Javanese beskap and velvet kebaya, posing against a backdrop that once marked European privilege and native exclusion. The place has been transformed into a stage for colonial cosplay and a theatre of nostalgia.

This performative longing reflects the tendency to reduce a historical site into a glossy, consumable aesthetic. The area, once a colonial enclave of Dutch offices and military officers’ houses, has been restored into a site that offers middle-class tourists the fantasy of playing historical elites for a day. For as little as US$2–5, one can rent a costume; for a bit more, a professional photographer guides the experience, somewhat blurring the line between heritage and an accidental state-supported theme park.

While this may seem questionable at first, it could also be viewed as a means for people to exercise agency over the legacy of colonialism. The romanticisation of the colonial era here serves multiple agendas. Economically, it fuels tourism revenues and supports local microenterprises. Politically, it aligns with a nationalist desire to reclaim and repurpose colonial spaces. Yet culturally, it risks perpetuating a dangerous myth: that the Dutch East Indies were cosmopolitan, orderly, and benign—egalitarian, even, considering that the space is now accessible to the general public. In short, a time worth being longed for. The cost of such nostalgia is the erasure of the structural violence, exclusion, and exploitation that defined colonial life for the vast majority of Indonesians.

This transformation is not isolated. Colonial nostalgia has emerged as a potent aesthetic in urban Indonesia, particularly among middle-class members of a generation who never experienced colonisation directly. The new Kota Lama is a vivid example of a manufactured memoryscape that prizes photogenic charm over historical substance.

The tourism infrastructure here is telling. While electric becak pedicabs are mostly ignored by tourists for not fitting the European fantasy, the Jeep tours led by drivers in vests emblazoned with “Surabaya Heritage Tour” and the toerwagen are booked solid. The route begins and ends with the historic Red Bridge and a replica of Brigadier A.W.S. Mallaby’s car that was supposedly caught in a grenade explosion during a ceasefire that escalated into skirmishes on 30^th October 1945.

Though the circumstances remain contested, the car is symbolic of the struggle for independence for the people of Surabaya. On 25 October 1945, Allied forces, accompanied by the Netherlands Indies Civil Administration (NICA), landed in Surabaya under the pretext of disarming Japanese troops. The events that followed became one of the most decisive confrontations in the Indonesian National Revolution: the Battle of Surabaya, which began on 10 November 1945. Their defiance became a powerful rallying point for the independence movement, cementing 10 November as Indonesia’s Hari Pahlawan (Heroes’ Day). The monument is supposedly intended to provide a counter-narrative of anti-colonial resistance by the people of Surabaya, but is very much overshadowed by the charm of the architecture. Now, the sirens of the Jeep punctuate the ride like theme-park sound effects, reenacting military patrols of the allies rather than nationalist defiance.

Frozen fantasies: ice cream and class at Zangrandi

Down in the city centre, another site of colonial memory quietly churns out nostalgia by the scoop: Zangrandi Ice Cream Palace. Established in 1930 by Italian immigrant Roberto Zangrandi and his wife, affectionately dubbed Mevrouw Zangrandi, the parlour has long claimed its place in Surabaya’s culinary imagination. Today, it is celebrated as a heritage destination and “Dutch ice cream” among unknowing people, despite its Italian origins.

Aside from being a sweet indulgence, Zangrandi’s appeal carries a myth frozen in its image. The parlour markets itself as a “taste of tempo doeloe” (“olden times”), a culinary relic of the colonial era. Its trademark flavour is the Macedonia, with its rum drizzle, served in delicate glass bowls, evoking a gentler, more “refined” age. As the parlour mostly caters to the locals now, customers could choose between actual rum or a non-alcoholic essence. For Surabaya’s middle-class families, visiting Zangrandi is a symbolic ritual of a nostalgic journey inherited from parents and grandparents who once glimpsed, or aspired to, colonial cosmopolitanism. An escapism from the harsh reality of colonialism, an effort to assert their agency despite borderline cosplaying the coloniser.

Now we come back to the matter of what is being remembered here—and what is being forgotten.

Colonial cuisine in Indonesia has always been a marker of class and cultural hegemony. In the Dutch East Indies, milk products and ice cream were expensive and exclusive, inaccessible to the pribumi or locals except for the elite middle-upper class or those working in colonial institutions. Zangrandi thus represents not only nostalgia for a colonial aesthetic, but also for a colonial class structure that is still asserted until now. Only, it is not reserved on the division between the coloniser and the colonised, but rather between the local lower and middle-upper class itself, considering its prestige and price marks. Its survival and success are due in part to the myth that it offers an “authentic” experience of that imagined, upper-class past.

Meanwhile, local alternatives like es puter, a coconut milk-based adaptation developed as a substitute for expensive dairy ice cream in the past, are relegated to street stalls and plastic cups. While es puter evokes a modest nostalgia of postcolonial decades and class struggle following independence (c. 1960s–1990s), Zangrandi invites customers into a fantasy of leisure once reserved for colonial elites. The stark contrast is not just culinary but symbolic: one is a reminder of makeshift resilience, the other a sanitised simulation of European indulgence.

Nostalgia a commodity; history a casualty

In both Kota Lama and Zangrandi, the same logic unfolds: history is aestheticised, class boundaries are blurred, and colonial oppression is rebranded as elegance. Tourists pose before Dutch-era façades or sip milkshakes in rattan chairs beneath sepia-toned murals. The cityscape becomes a stage for a longing that is shaped not by memory but by media, beautiful architecture, and consumer rituals.

Popular films like Bumi Manusia (2019) have reinforced this fantasy. In Hanung Bramantyo’s adaptation of Pramoedya Ananta Toer’s seminal novel, the emphasis on the interracial romance between Minke and Annelies through warm colour grading, courteous gestures, and lace dresses in the film distorts the book’s political and anticolonial message. Mass media, including Instagram reels promoting Kota Lama’s “new face,” similarly reproduce these colonial myths, making the past feel desirable rather than interrogated.

This phenomenon is not inherently insidious, however. Observing these matters firsthand, I would argue that colonial nostalgia can be educational if framed critically. Zangrandi, for instance, could serve as a site to unpack culinary hierarchies, race, and class in the Indies. The Red Bridge and Mallaby’s car could be framed not as quirky backdrops, but more highlighted as symbols of Indonesian defiance. But in the rush to capitalise on nostalgia, the towering black and white buildings around it, these sites risk becoming hollow shells, monuments without memory.

The problem is not that Indonesians are remembering the colonial past, but that they are remembering it selectively. In the case of Surabaya, the interaction between the site and its visitors allows citizens to identify with the former colonisers, rather than with those who resisted. Media outlets endorsing “Instagrammable spots a la Europe” further put the spotlight on the wrong angle.

This myth of “order and prosperity” under Dutch rule is not new. Such narratives have always been carefully curated to project stability and progress. Today, that legacy continues, albeit with new packaging: European and priyayi (aristocratic Javanese) dress-up games, Instagram-friendly façades, and pricey ice cream.

The city government’s efforts to revitalise Kota Lama and the ongoing business of colonial cuisine like Zangrandi are not without merit. Cultural heritage deserves conservation. But heritage is not the same as history, and though the two overlap and complete each other, without critical engagement, heritage can become a dangerous mask.

Surabaya’s colonial past includes defiance, adaptation, mimicry, and survival. There is nothing inherently wrong with photographing an old building or enjoying a scoop of ice cream. But the stories we tell about these pleasures matter. When nostalgia becomes a commodity, and heritage a gimmick, we risk flattening a complex struggle of the past into a digital postcard posted on the ‘gram.

If Zangrandi and Kota Lama are to serve the city’s collective memory, then restorative narratives must accompany their romantic façades. Perhaps tour guides could highlight and put emphasis on class segregation during the Indies period; menu books could mention the economic exclusion that made such desserts inaccessible to most locals, to celebrate what the local people had endured and are allowed to consume now. Doing so would not diminish their charm; it would deepen it, shedding light on something else that should be appreciated rather than admiring their appeal on a surface level.

Only by holding beauty and brutality in the same frame can Surabaya truly honour its past. Colonial nostalgia, then, should not be a detour from history but a gateway into its darker aspects that let people learn from the past and reflect on what they have endured and reclaimed now. Let the tourists flock in, take pretty pictures; let them eat ice cream, but to be fair enough, let them also leave with questions and ponder each time they scroll through their photos.

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In the lead up to Japan’s Upper House elections, scheduled for 20 July, “foreign nationals” have unexpectedly become a topic of discussion during the campaign. Prime Minister Ishiba Shigeru’s assertion that Japan needs to determine “who to permit entry into the country” and his Liberal Democracy Party’s demand for “zero illegal foreign nationals” indicate a resurgence of the security-focused rhetoric that has long been a part of Japan’s immigration debate.

Migration remains a contentious issue across the Global North, often leveraged by right-wing political factions to garner votes and deflect blame for economic uncertainties. Migration is regularly scapegoated and portrayed as the source of social tensions and government shortcomings in addressing economic challenges.

This has become increasingly the case in Japan. Its national migration policy has reflected a hesitancy to accept a role as a destination for immigrants, even its then- thriving economy began facing a shortage of labour. As of the end of 2024, Japan’s foreign population grown to almost 3.8 million people, according to the Immigration Services Agency. This marks an increase of 10.5% year-on-year, and represents the third consecutive record annual high.

The populist party Sanseitō has launched a campaign centred around migration issues, advocating for “Japanese First” policies similar to the “America First” approach promoted by Donald Trump. Recently, Sanseitō secured its first two seats in the Tokyo Metropolitan Assembly at elections held on June 22, and polls suggest it will significantly increase its representation in the national Diet after Sunday’s upper house election.

Fears among Indonesians

Indonesia is one important source of migrant workers living in Japan. A netnography analysis I employed for this article, which involves observing and analysing online communities, cultures, and behaviours on social media platforms, reveals various reactions to Sanseitō’s mobilisation of “Japanese First” sentiment from Indonesians living in Japan.

On 9 July an Indonesian influencer residing in Japan revealed in an Instagram post that he had been contacted by an “important Japanese figure” who urged him to encourage Indonesian migrant workers in Japan to maintain proper conduct to avoid potential rejection in the future. The revelations followed media coverage of “problematic” behaviours of Indonesians in Japan, ranging from visa overstaying to pretty crime to more serious crimes. Within the Indonesian community, concerns were heightened about Indonesian migrants potentially being “blacklisted” by Japan in 2026.

A concern with defending the good name of the Indonesian migrant community has marked many of the responses to the rise of anti-foreigner political rhetoric. Many comments have centred on the supposedly problematic behaviour of certain Indonesian migrant workers, which has been perceived as drawing increased scrutiny on migration issues during the upper house election campaign.

For example, the Indonesian Community of Japan (ICJ), one of the largest social media groups of Indonesians in Japan, has also addressed this migration concern. A member, referred to as A (pseudonym), shared his thoughts in a status update on the ICJ platform, highlighting the importance of preserving a positive image within the community:

“I felt sad when I first read this thread, especially during the campaign season like now, and so many people are agreeing. I hope that those of you who are currently in this position will be kind when picking up and dropping off your children. There may be some people around you who are a little less pleased, even though they don’t really understand the rights regulated by law, but they want to change the law, which seems impossible.” (ICJ, FB, July, 2025)

A’s post was a response to a Japanese thread that expressed concerns about childcare fees, which the author believes do not serve the interests of Japanese society. The thread questioned why some foreigners can leave their children in daycare while studying, highlighting that newcomers to Japan often have very low childcare fees due to not having a reportable income from the previous year, while Japanese citizens typically pay around ¥50,000– 60,000 (A$500–600). The post also raised questions about how someone can be a student with small children—and expressed confusion about why a particular individual was attending a Japanese university despite not speaking the language.

The social media group Japan Guide Indonesia, a platform that shares everything about Japan for Indonesians on Instagram has also been a space for similar discussions. One member posted news regarding Prime Minister Ishiba’s plan to create a special unit to monitor foreigners and his plans to review regulations that tighten the entry of foreigners. The post was widely responded to by various comments, most of which blamed “irresponsible” Indonesian people and communities in Japan who they considered unable to maintain the good name of the nation while living there.

Among the posts expressing concern, some also attempted inject balance by presenting rebuttals written by Japanese NGOs rejecting negative narratives that marginalise foreigners, including an 8 July statement by 274 NGOs voicing their rejection of xenophobia in the election campaign. Eight Japanese NGOs, including the Solidarity Network with Migrants Japan (Ijuren) and the Anti-Poverty Campaign, led the organisation of this joint statement, which opposed the baseless xenophobic comments made by several legislative candidates in the Upper House election campaign.

More recently the ICJ issued an official statement aimed at the Japanese people, addressing concerns and issues regarding misunderstandings about foreigners. Following this, an official statement was issued by the Indonesian Embassy in Tokyo to clarify the chaos surrounding the rumour on social media that Indonesia will be blacklisted in 2026.

Subsequently, Indonesia’s Minister of Protection for Indonesian Migrant Workers, Abdul Kadir Karding, addressed influencers with an important message: “Please understand the impact of your posts before sharing them. It’s not just about your image; it can influence Japan’s willingness to employ Indonesians. We must not let the actions of a few individuals jeopardise the opportunities for hundreds of thousands of prospective migrant workers, especially when inaccurate information is spread through social media.” He then stressed the importance of upholding the nation’s good reputation in response to several Indonesian individuals facing issues in Japan that could potentially harm Indonesia’s image.

Japanese dreams and unrequited love

Amid the prevalent “Japanese first” narrative and chaotic reactions on social media, Indonesia stands out as one of the countries actively sending migrant workers to Japan. For more than 30 years, the pathway for cooperation on labour migration has been kept open through the Technical Intern Training Program (TITP). During this time, Indonesian migrant workers have played a vital role in addressing gaps in key Japanese industrial sectors, including construction, agriculture, fisheries, food processing, and nursing and aged care.

But the Japanese government’s policy of openness in accepting workers in these fields has been criticised as sluggish, often leading to the exploitation of migrant workers as if they were disposable. The “temporary” policies, crafted under the guise of preserving the integrity of “Japaneseness,” illustrate Japan’s lack of genuine commitment to facilitating the integration of foreigners into society. Meanwhile, Indonesia, as a sending country, remains entranced by this type of cooperation, which offers a temporary solution to the high unemployment rates at home. The mutual interests of both nations have transformed the migration issue into a bartering transaction.

It is therefore not surprising that the hashtag “just run away first (#kaburajadulu)” has gained traction on Indonesian social media, as a reflection of disappointment and despair regarding domestic conditions. This sentiment was met with a promotional response from the Ministry of Protection of Indonesian Migrant Workers (KemenP2MI), which aimed to turn dreams of working abroad into reality. , “Go as migrant, go home as a boss” was the slogan endorsed by government-aligned celebrities such as Rafi Ahmad in support of the scheme.

In reality, not everyone has the privilege to migrate safely. Many Indonesian migrant workers who choose to migrate to Japan to fulfill their dreams face numerous challenges. They often encounter difficulties such as accumulating debts before departure, having their documents withheld (such as diplomas and land certificates), and being coerced into signing agreements that violate their human rights. Not to mention the inhumane departure training system, such as asking prospective workers to sign agreements not to marry, get pregnant, or leave the house, and more. All of these obstacles must be navigated in the hope of escaping uncertainty in their home country and improving their lives in Japan. Upon arriving in the destination country, sometimes they have to accept the painful reality that their love is unrequited.

Who really needs to maintain their “good name”?

Overall, framing the issue of migration as a security challenge instead of a humanitarian matter frequently results in policies that violate migrants’ human rights. Moreover, migration is often commodified by irresponsible parties—like labour brokers and so-called “black companies”—by selling the dreams of a better life by exploiting prospective migrants’ vulnerable conditions.

In the end, the phrase “Japanese first” is being leveraged by certain individuals or groups from the sending country as a means to position themselves as a “gatekeeper’’ (in that they control and regulate movement), instilling anxiety and fear among migrants about the potential loss of opportunities for those unable to meet the “compliance” standards they have set for entering the migrant worker market in Japan. This approach encourages discourages migrants from speaking out, questioning their rights, seeking protection, or simply finding solace amidst the fatigue of the often inhumane working conditions.

The political climate in Japan as the election approaches has indeed been strategically exaggerated to create fear among potential migrant workers. This approach could potentially normalise, legitimise, and perpetuate inhumane practices in the pre-departure process, purportedly for the sake of ensuring discipline and compliance once workers arrive in Japan. Such a scenario potentially undermines the urgent need for reform in the pre-departure mechanism.

Indeed, it is essential to maintain the good reputation of your nation wherever you are. Upholding the values and following the rules of the country you reside in is equally important. However, in the end, who should be on blacklists, and be at the centre of politicians’ attention, are the corrupt systems, agencies, brokers who exploit the vulnerabilities of migrant workers, restrict their rights, weaken their solidarity, and prevent their advocacy in the name of gratitude, patience, and obedience.

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From the 1960s to the early 1990s, Indonesia’s development strategy was famously shaped by the influence of the “Berkeley Mafia”, a group of US-educated technocrats—including Widjojo Nitisastro, Mohammad Sadli, Emil Salim, J. B. Sumarlin, and Ali Wardhana—so named for their association with the University of California, Berkeley.

These men held key roles in the finance ministry, the central bank, and other economic institutions, where under the protection of Suharto’s autocratic regime they emphasised pragmatic economic policies, fiscal management, and risk-sensitive governance. After Suharto’s fall, a new generation of PhD economists, such as Sri Mulyani Indrawati, Chatib Basri, Bambang Brodjonegoro, and Suahasil Nazara, inherited the Berkeley Mafia’s dominant influence over Indonesia’s fiscal policies.

However, following the presidency of Joko Widodo (Jokowi), the technocratic landscape began to shift, with bankers and professional investors gaining greater influence. Like academic technocrats, these bankers and investors are neither elected officials nor formal party members. However, their credentials stem from careers in the private sector—particularly in banking and investment firms—where their expertise in asset pricing, risk assessment, and corporate finance contrasts with the policy-oriented, analytical focus of PhD-trained economists such as the Berkeley Mafia technocrats.

In this article, I define a “technocrat” as a government official, policymaker, or leader appointed based on technical expertise and professional skills rather than through election.

The emergence of banker technocrats began with figures such as Agus Martowardojo, who served as Minister of Finance (2010–2013) and later as central bank governor (2013–2018). As CEO of the state-owned Bank Mandiri (2005–2010), Agus played a key role in deepening Mandiri’s integration into capital markets following its stock exchange listing in 2003.

This trend gained momentum during Jokowi’s first term (2014–2019), particularly with the rise of Budi Gunadi Sadikin, who served as Minister of Health under Jokowi and now under President Prabowo Subianto. As Bank Mandiri’s CEO (2013–16), Budi played a central role in facilitating the 2018 acquisition of a majority stake in the US-owned Freeport McMoRan by Indonesia’s state-owned mining firm Inalum.

A distinction needs to be drawn between banker technocrats and professional investor technocrats, despite the often-blurred boundaries between the two. While bankers are by their nature professional investment advisors, not all professional investors come from banking. But does this distinction carry real significance? More importantly, how do their differing professional backgrounds shape their approach to governance?

Bankers largely emerged from the post-reform era of Indonesia’s banking system—particularly within state-owned banks—which tend to adopt a conservative stance on risk. In contrast, professional investors arose from coalitions of conglomerates, creating investment vehicles such as private equity and asset management firms. These conglomerates turned to non-bank financial institutions in response to post-reform regulations that made it difficult for them to establish their own banks.

These divergent professional paths have shaped not only these two new groups of technocrats’ career trajectories, but also their political networks and technocratic styles once they enter government.

The emergence of bankers and professional investors

In the early 1990s, conglomerate-owned banks lent freely to their affiliated companies without oversight, effectively transferring money between entities. This corrupt practice significantly weakened Indonesia’s banking sector, contributing to the 1998 financial crisis.

As a result of this experience, a key priority of Indonesia’s post-crisis banking reform was to strengthen oversight mechanisms. The reformed regulatory institutions—including the central bank (Bank Indonesia, reformed in 1999), the Indonesia Deposit Insurance Corporation (Lembaga Penjamin Simpanan, established in 1998), and the Financial Services Authority (Otoritas Jasa Keuangan, established in 2011)—have closely monitored bank operations and loan disbursements to ensure financial stability and debt repayment capacity. These efforts have been crucial in maintaining capital circulation between banks and corporations.

The upshot for Indonesia’s state-owned banks of being subject to this regulatory regime was that they have remained relatively independent from political influence compared to other state-owned enterprises (SOEs) like Pertamina, which are often plagued by corruption and vested interests. As a result, Indonesian SOE banks have remained largely free from scandals, have adopted a conservative approach to risk, and have maintained sound financial performance, as reflected in the capital markets.

At the same, it became increasingly difficult for Indonesian conglomerates to establish banks due to tighter regulations, many shifted toward more flexible investment vehicles. This shift gave rise to a new wave of domestic investment firms in the early 2000s, including Recapital, Saratoga Capital, Principia, and Northstar Group. These firms fund various domestic projects, often linked to specific businesses groups or conglomerates. For conglomerates, investment vehicles offer greater flexibility than conventional banks. They enable stock buybacks when prices are low, allow investments in high-risk projects that banks might reject, facilitate direct funding from other business groups, and help avoid high bank interest rates and maximise profits.

Their rise to power

The banking sectors and investment vehicles have created two cultures of financial experts in Indonesia—one  often risk-tolerant, and the other risk-averse. But who are these professionals, and how did they get into the government?

Banker technocrats are represented by figures such as Budi Gunadi Sadikin (Minister of Health, former CEO of Mandiri), Pahala Mansury (former Vice Minister of Foreign Affairs and SOEs, former C-level at Mandiri), Ridha D. M. Wirakusumah (CEO of Indonesia Investment Authority) and Kartiko Wiratmojo (Vice Minister of SOEs, former CEO of Mandiri). Professional-investor technocrats include figures such as Rosan Roeslani (Minister of Investment, CEO of Danantara), Pandu Sjahrir (CIO of Danantara, AC Ventures), Thomas Lembong (former Minister of Investment, Principia Group), and Patrick Walujo (CEO of Gojek, North Star Group). Walujo is the only one who has not held a government position, but he remains politically well connected.

In terms of how they operate, there are two key differences. The first is managerial depth: bankers tend to focus on financial management and operational efficiency. These skills are shaped by a regulatory environment where reputation is defined by the ability to minimise non-performing loans (NPLs) in the conventional banking sector. In contrast, professional investors emphasise valuation and deal-making. Their investment approach typically avoids long-term relationships with assets. Instead, they prioritise gains from selling assets in the capital markets or direct selling, where quick returns are often preferred over long-term holdings.

The second difference relates to political connections—professional investors often leverage their high-level networks, while bankers rely on institutional relationships. Most leaders in the investment sector come from privileged, well-connected backgrounds. Pandu Sjahrir earned his undergraduate degree from the University of Chicago and an MBA from Stanford; he is also the nephew of Luhut Binsar Pandjaitan, one of Indonesia’s key political figures. Rosan Roeslani, a US-educated investor, is a close friend of Sandiaga Uno (former Minister of Tourism) and Erick Thohir (Minister of State-Owned Eterprises). He also maintains strong ties with the Bakrie family, one of Indonesia’s most influential conglomerates. For these figures, connections are crucial in securing investment opportunities.

Many bankers also come from privileged backgrounds, though not to the same extent as professional investors when compared to the current elite among banker technocrats. For example, Budi Gunadi Sadikin earned his undergraduate degree from Bandung Institute of Technology (ITB), while Kartiko Wirjoatmodjo and Pahala Mansury graduated from the University of Indonesia. They later pursued master’s degrees at overseas universities, but only after establishing themselves as bankers.

For banker technocrats, their institutional careers in SOE banks serve as a direct pathway into government, making the banking sector their primary political ladder. In contrast, professional investors have relied much more heavily on high-level social networks to gain access to government circles. Because of that, professional investor technocrats face greater risks from changes of administration and other political shifts among elites. If Luhut Binsar Pandjaitan, for example, were to have a political dispute with President Prabowo or his inner circle, it would immediately affect Pandu Sjahrir’s political capital. High-level connections are effective but vulnerable to elite competition. Banker technocrats, on the other hand, are less exposed to these risks since their credentials were built through careers in the SOE banks. In this sense their careers resemble those of academic technocrats, who also maintained a degree of insulation from elite political conflicts, allowing them greater stability in navigating government transitions.

What this means for Indonesia

The idea that technocrats are free from political interests has always been misleading—none are truly politically independent. However, the degree and layers of political influence on technocrats are vary.

While academic technocrats will continue to play a key role, particularly in the Ministry of Finance, the growing influence of bankers and professional investors in strategic economic positions will create competition between different sets of technocratic groups over state economic policies and asset management. This shift gives Indonesian president alternatives in shaping technocratic policies. They can choose from academic technocrats, bankers, professional investors, combination of these backgrounds, or technocrats from other backgrounds.

President Prabowo has so far appeared to favour loyalty and political connections in his technocratic appointments. A clear example is Danantara, Indonesia’s largest sovereign wealth fund, which directly controls up to US$900 billion in SOE assets and is charged with managing US$20 billion in cash for new investments. Its leadership—Rosan Roeslani, Pandu Sjahrir, and Donny Oskaria—are all professional investors with strong political ties. This stands in stark contrast to Jokowi’s approach. In 2021 he appointed bankers to lead the Indonesia Investment Authority (INA), prioritising conventional bankers over professional investors.

Rosan, Pandu, and Donny are undeniably successful investors and capable technocrats, well-versed in effective policy execution. However, what distinguishes them is the dominant role of political connections in securing their appointments—a defining trait of professional-investor technocrats. This raises concerns about the lack of diversity in technocratic approaches within Danantara and other presidential economic agendas, where well-connected investors increasingly occupy strategic economic positions.

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