1 October 2022 was the last day for Margaretha, a 17-year-old victim of Kanjuruhan football stadium disaster in Malang, East Java. Margaretha was lying lifeless when her family found her in the hospital that night, clutching a bag, and with her identity documents still intact.

Margaretha’s mother was psychologically traumatised after the tragedy, always blaming herself, and remembering what had happened to her daughter. If she could have forbidden her daughter not to watch the match that day, then it is possible that her daughter would still be safe.

The family of another victim, Okto, was offered psychological assistance from one of the universities in Malang. The family did not take it, because they thought that it would mean Okto’s mother would continue to remember her son’s death. Before leaving for the stadium, Okto borrowed his father’s shoes. The family found Okto lifeless, wearing a white jumper, with his father’s shoes left on. Okto’s body was found at Wava Husada Kepanjen Hospital without any identity documents. His wallet and mobile phone had disappeared.

Their suffering exemplifies the psychological effects felt by the families of the victims in the year after the tragedy, in which 135 people were killed after police fired tear gas on crowds after a pitch invasion.

The trauma of survivors and families feeling the heavy loss of family members has been compounded by intimidation by authorities.

These traumas for the victims’ families have been compounded by their experiences of intimidation by outsiders beginning shortly after the tragedy occurred. Some of the alleged threats and intimidation directed at witnesses and victims’ families are quite diverse, ranging from illegal searches and confiscation of evidence by investigators, intimidation of medical personnel, surveillance and threatening behaviour towards victims’ parents by unknown persons suspected to be police, to intimidation for expressing opinions in the Kanjuruhan trial decision.

One survivor, Devi, felt the deep loss of losing his two daughters to the Kanjuruhan tragedy. In the midst of the autopsy process, Devi’s emotional outburst was so strong witnessing the death of his daughters and this deep sorrow also prompted him to declare that “this tragedy is a massacre” on the part of the police. This psychological pressure was not only experienced by Devi, whose story was reported in Vice News, but also by the families of other victims whose stories were not covered by the media, some of whom also experienced psychological intimidation by the authorities.

One of these families is Maria’s., where field observations have shown that this family not only felt a deep loss for the departure of their family members, but they also felt non-physical intimidation from security personnel after the Kanjuruhan tragedy. In the case of Maria’s family, they expressed their feelings of loss when they learned that Maria (the third of the five children) was taken from her son by the tragedy. The family found it difficult to explain to their son about their mother’s true condition.

When Maria died, her son (aged one year) did not leave the house for almost two months. Until his hands were like scratching, changing skin like that. Then crying for his mama. Yesterday, his body was hot for one week, crying for his mama. Then I said mama he said he was looking for money, looking for work….ooh how come he forgot (crying). (Interview with Maria’s family, 16 May 2023)

Lost lives, lost livelihoods

The Kanjuruhan tragedy on 1 2022 hast left a painful imprint for its victims. A year after the tragedy, the loss of life for the families of those killed and injured by tear gas is not the only impact. The families of the victims continue to experience long-term psychological, social, and economic consequences.

Numerous kinds of government and non-governmental aid have been distributed to the victims. However, the nature of this assistance is still partial and spontaneous as a form of responsibility to the survivors. In addition, the aid distributed has not been able to answer the long-term needs of those who survived, so a sense of justice to them has not been present in handling the aftermath of this tragedy. A series of interviews conducted by Malang Corruption Watch with 20 families of those killed in the Kanjuruhan disaster, conducted over a two week period in May 2023, shows that many families’ socio-economic conditions have changed drastically. In many cases, the person on whom the family relies for income is now gone. Based on information from the victim’s family who was left behind by the victim in the tragedy explained:

So far, my husband has been the backbone of the family. With his death, now I have to struggle harder. Until now, I have not been able to find a permanent job, only as a housemaid to fulfill the family’s needs” (Interview with victim’s wife, Dimas, 16 May 2023).

One of our interviews reveals that one victim’s wife was forced to become the female head of the household to support her only daughter. The wife was forced to make important decisions in the household by herself. Their lives are increasingly isolated.

Almost all of the victims’ families have something in common, namely a high potential for social vulnerability. This condition makes it more difficult for them to face life both socially and economically.

One of the victims in Malang’s Tajinan sub-district had just started a motorcycle and carpet washing business for three months before his death at Kanjuruhan stadium. While managing the business, he was financially independent and able to break even, with enough profit for his daily needs after graduating from Vocational High School (SMK). However, after the tragedy, there was no effort to compensate the loss of income according to the income of the victims’ families. In fact, just for the procurement of a machine or work tool, Suyono (the victim’s father) had to ask a state institution. The machine was not an initiative of the state officials who were also part of the litigants in the Kanjuruhan tragedy.

In addition to the uncertainty around income compensation, the certainty of access in the form of legal fees or expenses incurred by victims as part of their participation in the trial of five individuals, including three police officers, implicated in the disaster. There is almost no ease of access victims’ families at the trial. One of the victims’ families in Malang Regency was even encouraged by some unscrupulous state officials to “not exaggerate the problem”, with the implication that there was no guarantee of transportation to attend the trial in Surabaya.

Tali Asih: inadequate assistance to victims

Victims have rights to assistance and compensation, including ensuring free medical treatment and trauma healing for victims and their families. Victims’ rights are regulated in legislation, specifically in Indonesia’s 2014 Law on Witness and Victim Protection (Undang-Undang No 31 Tahun 2014 tentang Perlindungan Saksi dan Korban), which regulates the rights of witnesses and victims to claim protection from the state; these rights are considered part of human rights. The government or the private sector should not just provide compensation, but should handle events and fulfil rights from a victim’s perspective.

Assistance is carried out in the form of giving money, goods, or services, to individuals, families, groups and/or communities to protect them from social risks. The assistance distributed is not merely a substitute for the loss of a loved one’s life, but proof of attention as well as friendship from various parties to the victim’s family.

In this case, various kinds of aid have been distributed to the victims, both monetary and non-monetary. However, the majority of the aid distributed has been in the form of monetary aid, which a diverse array of stakeholders have provided to the families of the Kanjuruhan victims. It can’t be denied that the distribution of cash assistance is the quickest way to fulfill their responsibility to help the families of the victims. However, it has yet to address the needs of the victims’ families—especially long-term needs such as education and careers—nor does it provide full justice for the victims’ families.

In general, there were two parties that have provided assistance to the families of the Kanjuruhan victims. The first is the government. At first glance, almost all levels of government participated in this mission, from the central government to local governments. At the central government level, the Ministry of Social Affairs and the Witness and Victim Protection Agency (LPSK) are the most dominant stakeholders in providing assistance. In an interview with Malang Corruption Watch, Suyono, a father of one Kanjuruhan victim, mentioned the assistance he received from the Ministry of Social Affairs in the form of compensation of Rp10 million to each of the victim’s families, although he also stated that the assistance was also unevenly distributed to all of the victims’ families.

Meanwhile, the majority of assistance from LPSK has come in the form of psychological assistance and trauma recovery services for victims’ families. This assistance was received by almost every victim’s family. However, not all of the victims’ families accepted the assistance, either because they did not need it or because they were afraid that accessing such services would exacerbate their trauma.

At the local government level, the East Java provincial government under the leadership of Governor Khofifah Indah Parawansa, alongside the Malang City and Malang District governments have become central channels for providing assistance to the families of Kanjuruhan victims. Some data obtained as part of Malang Corruption Watch’s interviews shows that many families were given assistance by Khofifah’s provincial government, mostly in the form of cash and business capital assistance. The cash assistance provided ranged from Rp5–10 million for each victim family, while business capital assistance was provided in the form of money, machine tools, and jobs.

Second, assistance was voluntarily provided to victim families by non-governmental parties as a form of their concern for this tragedy. This has included political parties, for instance, Golkar Party, where Malang Regency Leadership Council of Golkar Party (DPC Kabupaten Malang) provided education assistance to the family of one victim, Caca, amounting to Rp10 million per month and the assistance was intended to finance her siblings who were still in school. This assistance, was paid from the internal finances of the DPC Golkar, will last for two years until Caca’s siblings have graduated from school.

Aside from assistance from political parties, private educational institutions such as kindergartens also provided education assistance for the family members of the victims who were still in school. The family of Ningsih, another victim, for example, received education assistance for her younger brother who is still in kindergarten to be extended until he graduated from kindergarten.

Table 1: Summary of the types of assistance received by the families of the victims of the Kanjuruhan tragedy

No	Types of Help	Helper		Number (families of beneficiary victims)
		Government agencies	Non-Government
1.	Cash			20
2.	Groceries			20
3.	Funeral expenses			2
4.	Education			7
5.	Work aids			1
6.	Psychological rehabilitation			9
7.	Population administration relief			2
8.	Health/medicine			1
9.	Tax relief			1
10.	SIM free			1

All these forms of assistance are certainly not enough to make up for the loss of life of the victim for their families. However, due to the voluntary nature of the assistance, the families of the victims accepted it openly. The assistance they receive does not guarantee the fulfillment of long-term needs, that should be safeguarded by the state.

From our interviews, it can be concluded that the types of assistance received were not well planned. Victims’ families’ descriptions of the forms of assistance also vary from one another. There are no standardised mechanisms that can ensure that the various forms of assistance are distributed fairly and transparently to the survivors and victims’ families.

As a result, miscoordination in the field the distribution of assistance to survivors is often apparent, and a lot of assistance was assembled immediately after the tragedy, without being able to be utilised for further long-term needs. In addition to the problem of miscoordination, the provision of this assistance also experiences limitations in the aspect of reach, and makes the existing assistance feel that it does not meet recipients’ shifting needs.

Justice beyond aid

Providing material assistance to those impacted by the Kanjuruhan disaster in this way is not very effective in delivering an element of justice to them. If the process of providing assistance is not done properly, there will be various conflicts caused by unfair decision-making. The fulfillment of victims’ needs will be achieved if there is a coherence in the work of a coordinated distribution system that can consider the characteristics of the individual needs of victims.

Indonesia’s Law No. 11/2009 on Social Welfare (Article 1, section 9) states that social protection is all efforts directed at preventing and dealing with risks from social shocks and vulnerabilities. The shocks and vulnerabilities in question are conditions that occur abruptly, as a result of social, economic, or political crises, disasters, and natural phenomena. Thus, the Ministry of Social Affairs is responsible for formulating policies and programs for the implementation of social welfare and the provision of social assistance.

However, due to the limited resources owned by the Ministry of Social Affairs in providing direct assistance, crowdfunding method has become an alternative to recover Kanjuruhan victims by raising funds from the community.

If we look at the practice of fundraising for victims of the Kanjuruhan tragedy, so far the parties who have channeled aid have directly met the victims or through organisers at the Aremania football team’s supporter club. The victims are in a vulnerable position not only in terms of facing the criminal justice system, but also economically, socially and politically. In addition, many of them currently lack long-term social and economic security because the majority of aid was distributed shortly after the Kanjuruhan tragedy took place.

Policy-wise, the aid distribution system requires coordination from multiple actors who are competent in distributing aid. It is necessary to analsze the burden borne by victims based on the criteria of economic capacity, the number of family members, and the scale of the economic impact of the disaster on them. Fulfillment of victims’ welfare rights is not only about monetary assistance, but there needs to be a clear calculation in measuring losses to victims. Thus, it should consider more vital aspects such as age, income, actual conditions, and the years left before reaching the national life expectancy. If we take the Inter-American Court of Human Rights’ compensation system as an example, the calculation of compensation can even reach a very specific amount with a formula that includes the age of the victim, the national life expectancy at the time of death, and the income earned before death.

This compensation, in turn, needs to be jointly fought for by the entire community to ensure the establishment of justice for Kanjuruhan victims from a legal perspective. Thus, the struggle agenda to demand usut tuntas—thorough investigation—as the slogan of the Kanjuruhan tragedy demands collective awareness. This demand should not come from a particular group, but as a manifestation of a struggle that is in line with the will of the victims.

This means that all processes of defending victims must be based on the victims’ perspective. The victims’ perspective means that all forms of voices issued to the public regarding the Kanjuruhan issue comes from the victims. Understanding the true demands of the victims is what is so important to be pursued immediately. After the tragedy, various impacts have been experienced by the victims, but as our interviews have highlighted, they did receive various kinds of assistance from both the government and the community.

However, can anyone measure the price of losing a life? Of course, learning to listen to the voices of the victims is very important for the government to do immediately.

The post Justice after Kanjuruhan: lost Lives, lost livelihoods appeared first on New Mandala.

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Given the heterogeneity, tonnage and toxicity of modern waste, a convincing argument could be made for waste as the inscription of the Anthropocene. Even though it is both organic and inorganic waste that contribute to the transition to this new planetary epoch—in which human activity has become the dominant force shaping Earth’s climate and ecosystem—it is the chemical composition, durability and omnipresence of plastics that make some scholars designate our age as the Plasticene.

Considering that Indonesia is ranked as the world’s second-biggest marine plastic polluter, one might refer to this large archipelagic country as plastipelago. Indeed, a comparable designation was made by Dandhy Dwi Laksono and Rahung Nasution for their documentary film Pulau Plastik (“Plastic Island”) that explores the magnitude of plastic pollution in Indonesia.

However, the postulated age of the Plasticene should denote not only our plastic footprint and its impact on both people and the environment, but also the pliability of contemporary waste management regimes, where waste can be seen as both a problem and an opportunity. What this ambiguity shows is that our modern waste is not only difficult to handle, but also difficult to define. This is especially so in Indonesia, where more than half of the country’s population is still without access to basic waste collection services, and where the government of President Joko Widodo is promoting the economic value of waste as part of a wider effort to address the country’s waste crisis.

With Indonesia standing at a critical juncture of a waste crisis, one should welcome the fact that in 2017, the Indonesian government has adopted the universally popular anti-waste strategy known as the “circular economy” as the new paradigm for its national policy on the management of solid waste. Known as Indonesia Clean from Waste (ICFW), the aim of this policy is to reduce by 30% the total annual production of waste by 2025, and to handle the remaining 70% according to environmentally friendly and effective technologies.

In the province of West Nusa Tenggara (NTB), where I conducted my doctoral field research on the island of Sumbawa, the government of Governor Zulkieflimansyah has translated this policy into an implementing regulation at the provincial level under the flagship name of NTB Zero Waste. Here, the term “zero waste” is used to communicate the goal of waste prevention, while the notion of circular economy refers to specific mechanisms through which to achieve that objective.

Unlike the current linear economic model of “take–make–dispose”, the circular economy recognises that natural resources are finite and aims to eliminate waste by keeping materials in circulation for as long as possible, through strategies such as reusing, recycling and responsible manufacture. This said, the circular economy can play an important role both in making waste management systems more resilient and in strengthening national self-sufficiency by lowering of the import demand of virgin and secondary materials.

In Indonesia alone, this could mean reducing the amount of waste going to landfills and increasing the quality and quantity of locally sourced plastics as “feedstock” for recycling and thus reducing the country’s dependence on waste imports. While waste imports to Indonesia are small compared to the total production of waste in the country, they too have a negative impact on Indonesia’s environment and society. Overall, the aim of the circular economy is to close loops of resource flows by galvanising people and industries into “durable” entities able to turn waste into a resource.

This ambition can be seen in the words of Siti Nurbaya Bakar, the Minister of Environment and Forestry (MoEF), who in 2021 said that now is the time “to manage waste in ways that can make a real contribution to economic growth”. This was echoed by the Vice-Governor of NTB, Sitti Rohmi Djalilah, who argued that waste cannot be seen as a problem; instead, it has to be managed as a blessing. There is, of course, an inherent incongruity in this statement, for “blessing”, by definition, does not have to be managed. Here, by drawing on data from my doctoral thesis, I trace the development of the ICFW policy through the policy’s processes of problem definition to solution design so as to identify some of the key challenges and (limits) of this naïve and hasty rebranding of waste as resource.

Problem definition

Broadly speaking, public policies are enacted following the problematisation of an issue. Often expressed in the form of a crisis, an issue is something that can be defined as unwanted outcomes of an action (or lack thereof) that affect a certain group of people. However, crisis is not merely a moment of panic but also an opportunity for reflection in the sense of a critical moment that can lead to social change.

There are two distinct, yet interrelated crises that led to the enactment of the ICFW policy. The first refers to the actual crisis of waste that is manifested most viscerally in the country’s clogged up rivers, filthy beaches, toxic air and overflowing landfills. For illustration, the material evidence of such crisis can also be found in more obscure places, such as local abattoirs—where it is common for Indonesian meat merchants to find plastic discards in animal entrails.

While these plastics will not be consumed by humans, which is why they have been put aside following their discovery, the toxins and chemicals that are associated with these materials can undoubtedly enter our food chain through a process known as “trophic transfer”. There are multiple reasons why finding plastics in the stomachs of beef cattle is anything but uncommon for abattoir workers in Indonesia. Given the lack of available grasslands caused by changes in land function, some cattle herders in Indonesia use landfills as “pastures” for their livestock. By doing so they help to reduce the amount of food waste in Indonesian landfills, for there is little incentive to valorise organic waste in Indonesia, due to the country’s fertiliser subsidy policy.

In this context, this animal infrastructure is sustained insofar as it helps to sustain human livelihood and reduce the pressures put on landfills due to increased food consumption. However, animals do get sick as their digestive systems become clogged up with plastics. Due to high rates of littering along riverbanks and roadsides, it is common nowadays to also find plastic discards in the entrails of cows that feed on grasslands. Perhaps the most littered (and landfilled) items in Indonesia, single-use plastic bags are used excessively not only in traditional markets and modern retails in urban centres, but also by vendors and their customers in more remote rural areas.

The second crisis refers to the crisis of reputation that was sparked by a study conducted by a group of scientists led by Jenna R. Jambeck from the University of Georgia (USA) that gave Indonesia the stigmatising label of the world’s second-biggest contributor to marine plastic pollution, after China. At first, the government of Indonesia tried to dispute this study by proposing to make its own research on the matter of marine plastic pollution. Such protestation was, according to Dr Dirhamsyah—the Director of Research Centre for Oceanography at the Indonesian Institute of Sciences (LIPI)—a matter of Indonesia’s reputation.

Nevertheless, a detailed examination of a range of government and academic publications shows clearly the influence that Jambeck’s study had on the enactment of the ICFW policy. With the need to clean the nation not only from its waste, but also from the stain on its reputation, the architects of the ICFW policy relied on the characterisation of waste as a major problem. Hence, it is no surprise that in Indonesia, like elsewhere in the world, waste is often represented as a monster.

This evocation can be seen, for example, in Riyana Rizki’s online fairy tale Raksasa Sampah di Kerajaan Lolontar (Garbage Monster in Lolontar Kingdom). In this short story, the Queen of Lolontar is shocked as she witnesses her people running away from a giant creature made from littered garbage. With an heirloom sword in her hand, the Queen runs towards the garbage monster and slays it with a single slash. “This is the result of your littering”, the Queen says to her people as a cloud of thick black smoke escapes from the monster’s body. Shaken by the experience and ashamed of their habits, the people of Lolontar promise not to litter again.

Here, as in Indonesia, the problem of waste is attributed, in large part, to littering behaviour. However, this failure to keep discards within the technopolitical domain of manageable waste should be understood as having an array of causal factors. These include the country’s shift to a consumption-oriented economy and the resulting changes in consumption practices from biodegradable to plastic materials, as well as the failure to meet these transformations with necessary developments in waste management infrastructure and environmental education.

Another reason why this tale is interesting is because it chooses a female leader to confront both the monster and the immoral actions of the populace. This reflects quite nicely on the fact that women in Indonesia are the key agents of kebersihan (cleanliness). This gendered division of labour in waste management can be seen not only in the brushing, sweeping, dusting and washing activities of Indonesian women across different cultural groups, but also in the relevant positions of authority that are occupied by female leaders.

Take, for example, Siti Nurbaya Bakar, the Minister of Environment and Forestry and Rosa Vivien Ratnawati, the Director General of Waste and Toxic Waste Management at the MoEF. In terms of Indonesia’s bureaucratic structures, these two women are the most senior figures responsible for addressing the country’s waste problem by promoting the circular economy, including its ambition to create entrepreneurially-minded individuals who would recognise and take advantage of the economic value of waste. Within such discourse, waste is no longer represented as a problem. Instead, it is seen as an opportunity or a resource.

Solution design

The most important instrument of the ICFW policy through which to encourage citizens to participate in the circular economy is the waste bank program. Waste banks (bank sampah) are private or semi-private waste collection facilities where people can exchange different recyclables for money or services. At present, there are around 8,000 waste banks in the country, mainly on the highly populated island of Java that is also home to the majority of recycling companies in Indonesia.

As part of the enactment of the ICFW policy, the national government has instructed local governments to help establish at least 31,000 new units across the whole of Indonesia by 2025. One key objective behind the desired proliferation of waste banks is to encourage people to separate their waste—a practice that has previously been done exclusively by the highly stigmatised informal waste pickers (pemulung) who collect recyclables at landfills and kerbsides, and then sell their stock to waste collectors (pengepul) further up the supply chain. In terms of the circular economy, separating products and materials at the end of their life cycle is a crucial action for an optimised recycling, for it reduces leakage and contamination.

While waste banks can increase public participation and awareness and make waste management systems in Indonesia more resilient, their proliferation across the country is relatively slow and their impact on recycling rates is moderate when compared to the contribution made by those working in the informal sector. In 2021, Siti Nurbaya Bakar claimed that waste management was one of the few businesses sectors in Indonesia that continued to grow during the pandemic. However, it was also claimed, by her Ministry, that waste banks reported a significant drop in revenue during this crisis, mainly because of social distancing measures. This means that the reason why the waste management sector proved resilient during the pandemic is mostly because of the informal waste workers, especially pemulung, who continued to retrieve recyclables from landfills during the health crisis. It is important to note that some people have joined the informal sector and become pemulung precisely because of the pandemic and the related lack of social security and job opportunities.

Even though the informal waste sector forms a vital part of the entities involved in waste management in Indonesia, its contribution to the system has long been unrecognised and uncompensated. Such devaluation stems from the historical association of informal activities with poverty and criminality. For example, during the authoritarian New Order regime (1966–1998), scavenging for waste was made into an illegal activity because it conflicted with modern policies of land-use and town planning. In today’s Indonesia, it is not uncommon to see signs in front of urban neighbourhoods and complexes that read, Pemulung Dilarang Masuk (No Scavengers).

The fact that the ICFW initiative makes no consideration for this informal infrastructure, suggests that the policy may not only seek to make Indonesia clean from waste, but also clean from the informal waste sector. This can be seen, for example, in the policy’s strategic plan to establish number of parental waste banks that would be equipped with waste processing technologies (i.e. press and waste shredding machines) needed to process plastics before they could be sold to the recycling companies. This enables waste bank operators to sell plastics within the waste bank family instead of having to go to informal waste collectors who have historically been adept at preparing plastics for recycling. By seeking to circumvent pengepul and by reducing the amount of waste otherwise available to pemulung, the waste bank program is illustrative of how the circular economy and the related commodification and formalisation of waste can lead to the “gentrification of reuse”.

Unlike the informal waste sector, waste banks are seen by policymakers as having the potential to nurture environmental and entrepreneurial values among the populace. Hence, besides helping to raise awareness through waste separation, waste banks also serve as places of experimentation where waste bank operators (and their customers) are encouraged to upcycle some of the collected materials into new products, such as grocery baskets, plant pots, handbags, or even paving blocks or bricks, all made, to varying degrees, from plastic waste.

These upcycled products are often referred to using the prefix “eco”—hence eco-bricks, eco-paving, eco-fashion and the like. As once noted by Anies Baswedan, the former governor of Jakarta, the terms ecology and economics can actually go hand in hand, because they have same prefix—oikos, or household. While waste banks provide opportunity for waste valorisation, it is the Indonesian household where the initial sorting of waste has to take place. Given that women’s main field of activity in Indonesia has historically been inside the house, this role is often fulfilled by the ibu rumah tangga (housewife).

Though most prevalent within the waste bank family, these upcycling principles are being promoted across the wider society, including in formal schooling and rural development programs. There is a lot of enthusiasm around this plastic rush among certain segments of Indonesian society, especially the young. However, turning plastic waste into new and shiny products, such as the paving block seen above, is rarely done with the use of environmentally friendly and effective technologies. Instead, people rely on makeshift devices whereby plastic is melted into a tar that is then moulded into blocks. The heating process relies on the open burning of plastic waste—a practice that takes no consideration for the emission of toxic gases and ash into the air and soil, respectively. Common in rural Indonesia where there is a limited access to basic waste collection services, open incineration of (mixed) wastes is a significant source of pollution. The open burning of plastics is particularly problematic as it is linked with an increased risk of cardiorespiratory and neurological disorders, as well as with toxic contamination of the soil and groundwater. The act of turning plastic waste into paving blocks produces adverse human health and environmental effects. However, these effects are rarely acknowledged by the advocates of these practices.

Not all of the upcycling projects that are currently being propagated and practiced in Indonesia as part of the circular economy aspiration rely on the open incineration of plastics. One such example are grocery baskets and handbags that women and children in Indonesia are encouraged to make out of plastic sachets used previously as packaging for food, cosmetic, medicinal and toiletry products. From my observation, these and other upcycling projects often fail, or they end up serving different—often symbolic/ceremonial—functions.

In most cases, it is both the ecological and economic goals that are not realised. Being difficult to valorise, these products regularly end up being discarded. Because they are produced with mixed materials—not only plastic waste, but also new materials, such as tapes, strings, wires, glue and the like—they are unrecyclable. It could be said that making these products increases rather than reduces consumption and waste. In general, these entrepreneurial projects have the capacity to place responsibility for waste in the hands of consumers, rather than producers. This discursive endorsing of creativity has the potential to engender real effects, such as when certain practices and values regarding waste reduction (i.e. extended producer responsibility, and reductions in material throughput and consumption) are valued less than others.

This alchemic-like ambition to turn discarded plastics into new objects can also be seen at the hands of government agencies. One such example, is the efforts of the Indonesian Ministry of Public Works and Public Housing (MoPWH) to incorporate discarded single-use plastics into road tar for building national roads in the country. According to Danis Sumadilaga, the head of the Agency for Research and Development at the MoPWH, mixing plastic waste with asphalt will result in stronger and more stable roads.

While it is certainly better to have wild plastic discards sequestered inside a road, rather than scattered in the environment or buried deep inside animals’ entrails, this development undoubtedly erects a speed bump on the road towards the nationwide ban on single-use plastics. In other words, mixing single-use plastics with asphalt makes plastic appear as unproblematic. To return to the concept of Plasticene, the plastic road is representative of both the human alteration—the plastification—of the environment, and the blind assumption that the circular economy can coalesce economic growth with sustainability.

I would urge policymakers in Indonesia to recognise and acknowledge that waste is indeed a serious problem. Reframing waste as only an economic resource does not convey the urgent need for waste management and waste reduction, nor does it call for greater responsibility among all segments of the populace. What the examples presented here show is that turning plastic discards into new products of economic value is anything but easy. Instead, such efforts often lead to pollution and obstruct meaningful actions aimed at waste prevention.

Ensuring that all people have access to basic waste collection services, not only those living in urban areas, would be more effective in reducing waste pollution than encouraging groups and individuals to take advantage of the economic value of waste. This would require the modernisation of existing landfills—the majority of which are mere open dumpsites—and the development of new landfills in the country.

This proposition might not be popular in the discourse on circular economy. However, without effective and integrated systems designed to capture and handle waste, waste will inevitably put more pressure on both people and the environment. Such developments should include efforts to incorporate informal waste workers into formal waste management systems. As the case with pemulung showed, policymakers in Indonesia need to take seriously the issue of social justice and equity in the circular economy-inspired transformations.

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Observers of the Indonesian 2024 presidential race recently witnessed a surprising turn of events. After a period of relative silence on the matter, presidential hopeful Anies Baswedan finally declared his choice of running mate. To the astonishment of many, it was none other than Muhaimin Iskandar, the chairman of National Awakening Party (PKB), a member of the coalition of parties that had until that point supported Prabowo Subianto’s presidential bid.

The sudden political marriage of Anies and Muhaimin—brokered by Nasdem Party chairman Surya Paloh—sparked outrage within Anies’ own coalition. The Demokrat Party—whose chairman, Agus Harimurti Yudhoyono, had been seen as the strongest candidate for Anies’ running mate, immediately declared their departure from the coalition. Demokrat grassroot cadres expressed their dissatisfaction by dismantling party’s banners and campaign materials and deleting postings on social media featuring Anies. Even the Prosperous Justice Party (PKS), another member of Anies’ political coalition, was deliberately absent during the declaration of the Anies–Muhaimin ticket, as well as the first post-declaration coalition meeting, implying their dissatisfaction.

The rise of Muhaimin to the forefront of presidential race fuelled dissent not only among the competing coalition of parties, but also internally within Nahdlatul Ulama (NU), the Islamic mass organisation PKB is closely associated with. As the largest Muslim organisation in Indonesia, the votes of NU grassroots followers—or nahdliyin—have always been highly prized, and even considered a decisive factor in securing victory in presidential elections. Since Indonesia’s first direct presidential election in 2004, NU higher-ups like Hasyim Muzadi and Salahuddin Wahid have contested as vice presidential candidates. Most recently, Jokowi’s victory in the 2019 presidential election has widely been credited to the selection of Ma’ruf Amin, a senior NU kyai (religious scholar) as his running mate, which allowed him to reap the votes of nahdliyin.

However, the declaration of the Anies–Muhaimin ticket brought into light existing fissures within the nahdliyin community—over NU’s ideological orientation, its involvement in electoral politics and its relationship with PKB, and the role of Muhaimin within its political and religious milieu. In the absence of the distinctive political conditions that unified NU behind Jokowi and Ma’ruf Amin in 2019, the political role of NU and its followers in the 2024 elections will be the subject of intense contestation.

Factionalism and dissent within NU

Ideological concerns have been at the forefront of many objections to Muhaimin’s partnership with Anies. Ever since Anies successfully courted the support of hardline Muslim groups during his ascendancy to the governorship of Jakarta in 2017, he has had a conservative image which goes against the values of moderation, openness, and tolerance highly esteemed by nahdliyin.

As such, Anies’ partnership with Muhaimin—someone expected to epitomise and advocate NU values—has been seen as ideologically incompatible by some elements of the nahdliyin. This is not to mention that Anies is also supported by the conservative PKS—which, with its roots in the Muslim Brotherhood-inspired tarbiyah movement, is ideologically different to NU. Hence it is not surprising that there were many nahdliyin who hoped that PKS would exit Anies’ coalition after the declaration, as Muhaimin himself admitted in a recent interview.

These ideological concerns arise in the context of a continuing debate within NU communities about the organisation’s political role and its relationship with PKB. At the grassroots level, and especially on social media, tensions surrounding Muhaimin’s nomination have been reflected in a split between those who oppose the nomination on the grounds of maintaining the “neutrality” of NU as a social organisation and those who believe that the political identity of PKB is inseparable from NU’s socio-ideological milieu.

These tensions surfaced immediately after kyai Yahya Cholil Staquf, the chairman of the executive leadership board of NU at the national level (PBNU), publicly warned any presidential candidate not to drag the organisation into pragmatic politics. Coming just days after the announcement of the Anies–Muhaimin ticket, Yahya’s statement was undoubtedly directed at the PKB chairman.

Responding to this public warning from Yahya, many pro-Muhaminin NU cadre and PKB members took to social media. The hashtag #SayaNUSayaPKB (“I am NU therefore I am PKB”) has been widely posted and tweeted to show that NU and PKB are essentially inseparable. Among the proponents of this movement is the young and influential kyai Imam Jazuli, as posted on PKB’s official Twitter channel.

This grassroots discord is essentially rooted in elite-level factionalism. At its heart is the political rivalry between three main NU factions: Muhaimin’s camp; the “Rembang” establishment; and the loyalists of Abdurrahman Wahid (affectionately called “Gus Dur”), the former Indonesian president and one of the founders of PKB. The Rembang establishment encompasses the PBNU chairman Yahya, and his younger brother, Minister for Religious Affairs Yaqut Cholil Qoumas, along with other kyai and NU functionaries under their patronage. These two names hail from a well-respected line of NU figures and pesantren establishments with roots in Rembang, Central Java.

Not surprisingly, soon after the Anies–Muhaimin declaration and the pair’s public appearances in the media, Minister Yaqut gave a statement that went further than his elder brother’s, appealing for voters not to endorse a candidate who had created and taken advantage of socio-religious polarisation for political purposes. There is no doubt that this statement was directed at Anies, or that it was likely intended to further fan the flames of ideological tension between NU supporters and conservative elements, thus putting Muhaimin at a disadvantage.

The rivalry between Muhaimin’s group and the Rembang establishment revolves around the 2021 PBNU Muktamar, or congress, at which Yahya was elected chairman, defeating two-term incumbent Said Aqil Siroj, who is known to be very close to Muhaimin. The emergence of Yahya as the new Chairman meant the reduction—if not the outright disappearance—of Muhaimin’s political clout in PBNU.

In the wake of Yahya and Yaqut’s veiled criticisms of Muhaimin’s support for Anies, Said Aqil lent support to Muhaimin, stating that PKB was born from the womb of NU itself, hence their inseparability. He also publicly sympathised with Muhaimin when the Corruption Eradication Commission (KPK) suddenly revived an investigation into Muhaimin that had been dormant for more than a decade, alluding to the potential for a politically-charged investigation. While Said Aqil has not yet officially endorsed Muhaimin’s candidacy publicly, he is reported to have asked his loyalists to support whichever political coalition features Muhaimin.

Meanwhile, tension between Muhaimin’s camp and the sympathisers of former president Abdurrahman Wahid, or Gus Dur, stems from the unresolved quarrel over the transition of PKB’s leadership from Gus Dur’s camp to Muhaimin circa 2008, when both sides claimed rightful leadership over the party. Muhaimin emerged as the victor in the legal battles that ensued, gaining official command over the party organisation.

It is no secret that Gus Dur’s family and loyalists still hold a grudge against Muhaimin. This resurfaced publicly after Muhaimin stated in a television interview that he did not mastermind a coup against Gus Dur, but rather that he was the victim of the coup. His statement immediately invited derision from the ex-president’s daughters. Allisa Wahid accused Muhaimin of spreading false information and demanded that he apologise and not use Gus Dur in any way for his own political gain. Meanwhile, Yenny Wahid— whose name has been circulating in polls as potential vice-presidential candidates—has also repeatedly questioned Muhaimin’s loyalty, decency, and moral character, especially in light of his history of conflict with Gus Dur.

Tough race in East Java’s electoral battleground

With attacks coming at Muhaimin from all sides, and factionalism and elite rivalries plaguing the NU establishment, the PKB chairman is facing a situation that is fundamentally different to the 2019 election, when NU unequivocally threw its support behind one man, Ma’ruf Amin, as Jokowi’s running mate.

The condition that facilitated a greater unity within NU back then—the existence of an external threat of conservative Islamic elements—is no longer present today due to the relative success of Jokowi’s systematic, albeit draconian, antiradicalism policy. Muhaimin’s hopes seem to rest on consolidating the support of grassroots NU santri (students of pesantren) and sympathisers through the patronage of local kyai.

Fortunately for Muhaimin, he still commands a great deal of support from charismatic NU leaders who are enthusiastic about his candidacy. Other than the so-called “Cirebon clique”, which includes Said Aqil Siroj and Imam Jazuli, Muhaimin can expect support for his candidacy from notable names in East Java. Chief among them would be kyai Kholil As’ad of Situbondo, whom Muhaimin has repeatedly claimed has given him a mandate to be Anies’ running mate. Former vice chairman of NU’s East Java provincial leadership board (PWNU), kyai Abdussalam Shohib of Jombang—who was recently abruptly dismissed from his position by Yahya’s PBNU—also stands ready to support Muhaimin, as do various other senior and junior kyai such as Abdurrahman Al Kautsar of Kediri.

It has been widely assumed that Anies’ choice of Muhaimin was underpinned by the logic of ameliorating his lacklustre polling performance in East Java. Indeed, East Java will be a central battleground in the upcoming 2024 election, just as in previous presidential elections, for its politico-cultural significance as a nahdliyin stronghold and because of the number of eligible voters there: more than 31 million, the second highest after West Java’s 35 million. Undoubtedly, Muhaimin’s support among kyai in East Java will prove crucial in tilting voters’ favour towards Anies’ camp.

However, it shall be noted that PKB did not score a sizeable majority over the votes in East Java in the 2019 election, obtaining around the same percentage of votes—about 19%—as PDI-P, now the political vehicle of Ganjar Pranowo. Partai Demokrat, which has been gravely disappointed by Anies’ choice of Muhaimin, still holds some influence in East Java and will not likely allow smooth sailing for Anies. Similarly, Prabowo Subianto’s coalition parties Gerindra and Golkar alone won a combined vote of 21% in East Java. When taking account of the disgruntled sympathisers of Gus Dur in the province as well, Anies and Muhaimin shall expect a very tough battle ahead.

With the absence of an external threat to bind NU together, the key to winning the support of nahdliyin in East Java may lie in three areas. First and foremost, any candidate needs to possess in-depth knowledge of NU’s internal dynamics, subtleties, and context to be able to use the rivalries of different factions to his advantage. As shown above, internal frictions within NU are real, and might significantly tilt the balance of the 2024 election.

Second, winning over support in a tight electoral battleground as East Java requires significant investment of material resources as patronage since voters need bigger material incentives to be swayed. The race may be marked by what Edward Aspinall has called “patchwork politics”, where candidates fight long and hard over small plots of local constituencies (e.g. villages or pesantren) over time to win votes. The results of this strategy are often determined by the effective targeting of patronage to voters (and ensuring their reciprocity in the form of votes) through elaborate and systematic networks of brokerage. Local kyai and their networks, who possess granular insights into voters’ behaviour, often become influential players in such settings.

And finally, given that one cannot treat East Java as a homogenised political constituency, the support of other prominent NU figures in the region beyond the warring factions—such as the incumbent governor, Khofifah Indar Parawansa, or Mahfud MD, a senior minister in Jokowi’s administration—may prove crucial. It is widely agreed that Khofifah holds sway over the female cadre of NU in East Java, whereas Mahfud MD might hold the key to winning the votes of Madurese nadhliyin—who often exhibit different voting patterns than their mainland Java counterparts, as the previous elections have shown.

All in all, Anies and Muhaimin will face a rocky road ahead of the 2024 elections. The fact that they declared their ticket early provides an advantage to assess and deal with plausible obstacles before the official formal registration of candidates at the electoral commission. Yet, it also makes them vulnerable to countermoves and manoeuvrings by anyone wishing to tackle their candidacy.

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Indonesia’s General Election Commission (Komisi Pemilihan Umum, or KPU) recently announced the interim list of candidates for the national and regional legislative elections scheduled for February 2024. This list, known as the Daftar Calon Sementara or DCS, provides voters with initial information about candidates’ backgrounds and affiliations. One thing that has caught the public’s attention is the continued trend of retired Indonesian military (TNI) and police (Polri) officers—or the so-called purnawirawan—mounting legislative candidacies.

In spite of having given up their official powers, retired TNI/Polri officers often hold important, if not strategic, positions within Indonesian society, as board members of corporate entities or high-level appointments in state institutions. Meanwhile, there is a tendency from political parties to consider former territorial commanders, notably from the army (TNI AD), as election campaigners or “vote-gatherers”.

Existing studies have pondered the reasons behind the participation of retired officers in politics. Ex-military figures’ decision to involve themselves in political parties and parliamentary politics has been connected with their attempts to protect their own interests and privileges in the political, social, and economic spheres. Aside from such self-centred motivations, the retirees’ political activism has also been interpreted as an attempt to extend their skills in managing organisations and establishing political networks among diverse actors that are useful for their future political ambitions.

To what extent are these factors apparent in the 2024 legislative elections? Using a new dataset drawn from the KPU’s interim candidate list, our analysis shows that at least 69 retired TNI and Polri officers are set to stand for the national legislature (Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat, or DPR) in the elections scheduled for 14 February 2024.

Our examination of these purnawirawan politicians’ characteristics and backgrounds suggests that political parties’ needs to recruit “vote gatherers” has driven Indonesian political parties to nominate retired military and police officers as DPR candidates.

A majority of them have territorial command backgrounds, meaning they were once appointed as a commander in either provincial, city, or district military or police command (see Figure 1 below).

Our study finds that retirees with army backgrounds are more likely to be DPR candidates compared with other services (the navy and air force) and the police. The army is the largest standing force in Indonesia and has fifteen Regional Military Commands (Komando Daerah Militer, or Kodam) all over the archipelago, while the navy and air force respectively only have three regional commands (see Figure 2 below).

Furthermore, a big proportion of the nominated retirees hold two-star general rank: there are 18 army major generals (mayjen) and 14 police inspector generals (irjen). Meanwhile, one-star army general (brigjen) comes in third place (11 candidates). The lowest ranked candidate from a military background is a retired first sergeant from the navy.

Retired officers as “vote gatherers”

Ahead of the 2024 election the Perindo Party, which did not win any seats in at the previous elections in 2019, has nominated at least 20 retired military/police officers. The winner of the 2019 polls, PDI-P, designated 10 purnawirawan candidates, followed by Golkar party with 9 candidates (see Figure 3). A recent survey by Kompas showed Perindo so far has been the best performer amongst the parties not currently represented in the DPR, with 3.4% electability.

Perindo put 15 out of its 20 TNI/Polri retiree candidates in the top three positions on the part list in their respective electoral districts (dapil). It should be noted that under the open-list proportional representation election system, a candidate’s ranking on the party list has no guaranteed impact on their electability. However, Perindo’s move to rank TNI/Polri retirees high on candidate lists showcases its intention to attract voters with their presence. It is no secret that political parties often assign popular candidates and senior party members to these pole positions.

Other parties have also pursued the same strategy, though the number of retired military/police candidates is lower than in Perindo. In total, 43 out of 69 retired officer candidates are listed in the top three of the party list in their respective electoral districts. Here we can see that political parties are attempting to exploit those retirees’ military and police credentials to gather votes.

To attract voters, it is also not unusual for political parties in Indonesia to nominate putra daerah (“native sons”)—those who have an ethnic affiliation with a majority of the population within the respective electoral district—as their legislative candidates. Our study finds that 24 of the retired TNI/Polri candidates are nominated within an electoral district that contains their hometown. Though this practice is small in percentage terms (34.7%), nearly half of the nominated retirees from Perindo, PDI-P, and PAN are putra daerah. There is also a belief that these putra daerah have advantages compared to outsiders or pendatang. Thus, we can conclude that political parties also consider that purnawirawan’s social-cultural background can help generate votes for them.

In conclusion, the participation of the retired military/officers does not merely revolve around the protection of their own interests and the extension of professionalism as some of the above cited literature has suggested. The need to boost electability made political party leaders to act pragmatically by taking advantage of the popularity and credentials of retired officers. Although it is possible that some of these retired military and police candidates run in the legislative elections to fulfil their own interests, we should not dismiss the role of civilian politicians in dragging those purnawirawan into the legislative election battleground.

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