In Indonesian politics, we seem to be experiencing what medical professionals might delicately call a case of institutional constipation. The body politic, swollen with the largest cabinet in our history—48 ministers and 56 deputy ministers—appears to be struggling with its basic functions. Like an overtaxed digestive system, the government has grown too large too quickly, gorging itself on political appointments and coalitions, while simultaneously attempting a puzzling feat: a massive Rp 306.69 trillion budget cut that seems to squeeze every ministry except its own bloated core. The symptoms are familiar to anyone who's ever suffered this uncomfortable condition: things move slowly, if at all, pressure builds up, and everyone pretends not to notice the obvious discomfort. The absence of meaningful opposition in parliament only adds to this peculiar political ailment—there's no natural mechanism to help things flow smoothly. President Prabowo's first 100 days present us with this paradox: a government that has expanded to unprecedented size while simultaneously trying to tighten its belt, creating a kind of institutional gridlock that nobody wants to discuss in polite company, but that we ignore at our peril.
The surgical precision with which Prabowo has wielded his budget-cutting scalpel would be almost admirable if it weren't so bewildering. Through Presidential Instruction No. 1/2025, he has prescribed a harsh diet for the bureaucracy—switching off air conditioners, herding civil servants into shared spaces lit only by natural light, and treating business travel as if it were a luxury spa treatment that must be rationed. The Finance Minister, Sri Mulyani, typically known for her steady hand at the tiller, now finds herself in the peculiar position of explaining why government offices must operate like austere monasteries while the cabinet continues to expand like a bureaucratic universe after the Big Bang. The stated purpose, we're told, is to redirect funds to Prabowo's flagship Free Nutritious Meals program, a noble cause that somehow requires both the largest cabinet in Indonesian history and civil servants working in semi-darkness. It's as if the government is attempting to diet while simultaneously preparing for a feast, counting calories with one hand while adding extra place settings with the other.
The most fascinating aspect of this fiscal theatrics isn't just the numbers—though Rp 306.69 trillion in cuts would make anyone's eyes water—but the political choreography behind it. While ministries scramble to slash their budgets by up to 58% in some cases, Prabowo has assembled what amounts to a political Noah's Ark, with nearly every party comfortably aboard his government vessel. The Interior Ministry cuts 57.46% of its budget while learning to love natural lighting, but apparently can't trim a single position from the unprecedented array of 104 ministers and deputy ministers. This isn't just regular political accommodation; it's political gluttony dressed up as fiscal responsibility. The opposition, what little existed of it, has been effectively digested into this expansive governmental body, leaving Indonesia's democracy in the curious position of having its largest-ever government and its smallest-ever opposition. It's as if we've built the most expensive consensus money can buy, only to discover we can't afford to keep the lights on.
Opposition forces
In the midst of this grand budgetary purge, one institution remains curiously untouched by the spirit of austerity: the parliament itself. While civil servants across Jakarta huddle in dimly lit offices and count their remaining business trip allowances like precious pearls, our representatives in the DPR continue their activities unperturbed by such earthly concerns as budget cuts. It's a telling exemption that speaks volumes about the current power dynamics in our democracy—those tasked with scrutinising the government's belt-tightening apparently don't need to tighten their own belts.
This parliamentary immunity to austerity might be more palatable if it came with robust oversight and vigorous debate. Instead, we're witnessing what might be the most compliant parliament in recent memory. The same political arithmetic that produced our supersized cabinet has effectively neutered parliamentary opposition. When the government announced its sweeping budget cuts, the response from parliament wasn't scrutiny or skepticism, but rather an eerie silence that would make a monastery seem rowdy by comparison. The Free Nutritious Meals program, despite its enormous price tag and complex implementation challenges, sailed through parliamentary discussions with barely a whisper of questioning. It's as if our legislative branch has transformed from a check on executive power into an elaborate rubber-stamping mechanism.
The implications for Indonesian democracy are profound and potentially long-lasting. When Terry Karl wrote about "imposed transitions" in 1990, he probably didn't envision a scenario where democratic institutions would be hollowed out not through outright authoritarianism, but through a kind of political osmosis—where opposition is absorbed rather than suppressed, and where acquiescence is bought with cabinet positions rather than enforced through coercion. The result is a peculiar form of democratic constipation where the normal push and pull of political debate, the healthy tension between government and opposition that keeps democracy regular and functioning, has been replaced by a kind of institutional paralysis masked as consensus. We've created a political system that's too bloated to move effectively but too well-fed to complain.
As we assess these first 100 days of Prabowo's presidency, we find ourselves in the grip of a peculiar political paradox. On the surface, we see a government preaching fiscal discipline while practicing political extravagance—a contradiction that would be comical if it weren't so consequential. The president's simultaneous moves to slash spending while maintaining the most bloated cabinet in Indonesian history isn't just an administrative curiosity; it's a symptom of a deeper democratic malaise. When civil servants are told that working in dark offices is an expression of patriotism while dozens of deputy ministers enjoy their new positions, we must question what kind of governance model is being constructed before our eyes.
The prescription for our current political constipation isn't simply more opposition for opposition's sake, nor is it blind acceptance of a government that speaks of efficiency while practicing excess. What Indonesia needs is a return to genuine democratic discourse—where budget cuts can be debated on their merits, where cabinet appointments serve governance rather than political accommodation, and where opposition isn't seen as an obstacle to be absorbed but as a vital component of democratic health. The risk we face isn't just fiscal inefficiency or administrative bloat; it's the gradual normalisation of a political system where consensus is manufactured through coalition-building rather than earned through debate and deliberation.
As Prabowo's government moves beyond its first 100 days, the true test won't be how much money it saves on electricity bills or how many civil servants it can fit into a sunlit room. The real challenge will be whether it can resolve the fundamental contradiction at its core: a government that grows larger while demanding others grow smaller, that preaches austerity while practicing excess, and that speaks of efficiency while embodying its opposite. Until then, Indonesia's democracy remains in an uncomfortable position—overfed but undernourished, expanding yet constrained, and desperately in need of the kind of political fiber that only genuine opposition can provide.
