“What should I do with a PhD if my country in the meantime will change into a communist state? I thought to myself. I made up my mind to stay and fight it out against them. I never did study abroad, but I’ve never once regretted that decision.”
(Shades of Grey: A Political Memoir of Modern Indonesia 1965-1998, page 35)
It was in the mid-2000s as people — White, Black, Asian, Caucasian — gathered in the CSIS building to begin a CSCAP session hosted by the Centre for Strategic and International Studies Jakarta. As I watched from the corner of the room packed with security and foreign affairs experts from across the globe, I realized at that very moment that I had been working for a great man.
The man, Jusuf Wanandi, who was chairing the CSCAP, a prominent hub for tackling security issues in the region, spoke with an authority that commanded the room. He often had to explain facts to bring clarity and keep the discussion on point, directing these brilliant minds with a no-nonsense approach. The attendees were visibly amazed by how knowledgeable and convincing he was.
I was a junior journalist at The Jakarta Post — the English-language daily co-founded by Jusuf Wanandi — and had the privilege of working under his expansive intellectual and political legacy. As a junior reporter at that time, it was an honour to be especially assigned to such a prestigious event. But that’s what Pak JW, as we fondly called him, saw in me: a promising young journalist with a lot of potentials. He put a lot of trust on me early on.
Reading his memoir, Shades of Grey: A Political Memoir of Modern Indonesia 1965–1998, admittedly comes a little late for me — the book was published in 2012 by Equinox, and considering how close I was to the circle, I should have read it long ago. But better late than never. In fact, reading it now feels urgent and timely, precisely because of how relevant it is for today’s generation.
Jusuf Wanandi doesn’t pretend to be neutral. And that’s the power of this book. He writes from the vantage point of someone who was deeply embedded in the Golkar elite, a key adviser to President Suharto, and co-founder of CSIS. His account is filled with honesty and realism. There is no attempt to romanticize or oversimplify the dynamics of power. Instead, what we get is a candid view from someone who knew that power was never black and white — hence the aptness of the title.
His storytelling is both analytical and personal. He recounts the formation of CSIS, the inner workings of the New Order regime, the strategies behind Indonesia’s foreign policy alignment during the Cold War, and the economic modernization that became its central dogma. Along the way, he gives us portraits of the people who mattered: Ali Murtopo, Benny Moerdani, Adam Malik, and of course, Suharto himself. Pak JW describes the balance of paranoia, ambition, and pragmatism that kept the regime afloat for over three decades.
What makes this book exceptional is its tone. There is humour, warmth, even occasional self-deprecation. He tells us about the compromises he made, the alliances forged in smoky meeting rooms, and the sleepless nights spent thinking about national stability. There are admissions of mistakes, particularly in failing to push harder for reforms during the regime’s later years. But never does he dodge responsibility. He owns his role, with nuance.
For today’s young Indonesians, raised in an era of fragmented truths and social media outrage, this book is essential reading. Not because it offers the only version of history, but because it offers one version — deeply informed, grounded in experience, and delivered with clarity. Jusuf Wanandi’s voice matters because he represents a generation that built institutions, held the state together in turbulent times, and negotiated Indonesia’s place in the world.
Reading this memoir in today’s context adds an eerie sense of déjà vu. After a decade of Jokowi’s presidency, which began with promises of reform and ended with rising authoritarianism, military entrenchment, and dynastic ambition, the baton is now being passed to Prabowo Subianto — a former general once accused of human rights violations, now elected through a questionable process marred by constitutional manipulation and electoral opacity. Pak JW’s era may have been a different time, but the political playbook has barely changed.
Behind-the-scenes deals. Unaccountable technocracy. Power-sharing among elites. The illusion of reform amid the consolidation of control. These are not just symptoms of the past — they are alive and well in the so-called new era. Pak JW’s memoir, though written about 1965–1998, reads like a prequel to Indonesia’s current condition. It shows us how enduring the patterns of elite politics have been, how institutions are shaped less by rules and more by personalities and private negotiations.
If Jokowi’s era was one of populist spectacle masking technocratic centralization, Prabowo’s promises of continuity look more like a return to military dominance dressed in civilian rhetoric. And once again, as in the days of Suharto, the real decisions are being made not in public forums but behind closed doors.
This is precisely why Shades of Grey should be widely read. It provides the historical grammar necessary to decode the present. It helps explain why the same names and networks keep resurfacing in Indonesian politics. It reminds us that our democracy, though fought for in the streets in 1998, remains fragile in the face of dynastic succession and institutional inertia.
Above all, this is a lively and compelling narrative. Jusuf Wanandi does not write like a retired bureaucrat. He writes like a man still engaged, still thinking, still aware of how history is shaped by perspective. The book never drags, and it rewards readers with both sharp insights and moving moments of reflection.
If Indonesian universities are serious about educating a generation of thinkers and leaders, Shades of Grey should be on every syllabus. It will challenge students. It will raise uncomfortable questions. And it will expand their understanding of how modern Indonesia came to be.
At a time when revisionism runs rampant and nuance is increasingly rare, this memoir offers a much-needed corrective. Jusuf Wanandi may have operated within the grey zones of politics, but in these pages, he presents a clear, candid, and essential voice—one that merits being heard, debated, and remembered.
Above all, this book affirms what should never be in doubt: Jusuf Wanandi’s unwavering love for his country, Indonesia. And most importantly, the enduring relevance of his reflections for the nation’s future.
