Land that Lies Idle, or Land that Sustains Life?

There is one irony that we quietly inherit: a country with vast lands, but narrow distribution of prosperity. We grow up with the belief that Indonesia is rich—its soil fertile, its water abundant, its forests extensive. Yet in many villages, land becomes a source of anxiety: disputes, uncertainties, even loss.

At that point, the agrarian reform programme should not merely be a technocratic step, but a mirror—revealing how present the state truly is on the land where the people stand. For land is not just a measurable, mappable, or certifiable plot. It is a living space. And a living space is never neutral; it always sides with either prosperity or inequality.

In everyday experience, we often regard land certificates as the ultimate goal. Yet for many, it is merely the beginning. Without a certificate, a person lives in the shadow of uncertainty: today they till it, tomorrow it could be contested. But with a certificate alone, without economic access, the land can become something less meaningful—unproductive, even forced to be sold off when urgent needs arise.

Here lies our longstanding mistake repeated: the state has too long stopped at asset legalisation, without sufficient sincerity in building pathways for that asset to yield benefits. After all, once land has legal certainty, it should open doors—to banking, to markets, to technology. Without that, the certificate becomes just a neatly stored document, while life around it changes little.

From there, we begin to see that agrarian reform cannot be adequately understood as mere land distribution. That narrative sounds fair, but it does not touch the core issue. What is more determining is what happens after the land is given. Can the farmers manage it? Is there a guaranteed buyer? Is there assurance that their labour’s results do not fall into disadvantageous prices? Without answers to these questions, land redistribution merely shifts problems, rather than solving them. Therefore, when we find practices where land is accompanied by guidance, production access, and market certainty, we are witnessing a more complete form of agrarian reform—one that does not stop at ownership, but moves towards sustainable livelihood. In this sense, land becomes part of an ecosystem that mutually strengthens to sustain life.

The same awareness is crucial when discussing customary land. In many regions, land issues are not merely economic, but also about identity. There are communities that have lived generationally in one area, guarding and nurturing it, yet not always legally recognised.

In such conditions, land is not only a fragile source of livelihood, but also a source of frustration: how can one feel ownership if the state does not fully recognise its legality? Thus, when recognition of communal land begins to be granted, what is restored is not just administrative rights, but also dignity. However, that recognition must not stop there. It needs pathways to keep the land productive, without losing the values upheld by the community. In this context, the balance between economy and local wisdom becomes something non-negotiable.

The problem is that the messiness in land management as an agrarian resource has thus far birthed too many conflicts—many of which could actually be prevented. Uncertain boundaries, unsynchronised data, and changing spatial planning without checks and precision have made land a repeated source of contention.

Yet, many of those conflicts do not arise from ill intent, but from a lack of clarity. Therefore, providing certainty from the start—through community-involved mapping, jointly agreed boundary setting, and information openness—is a more important step than conflict resolution itself. The state, in this case, does not always need to act as a judge; it suffices as a guardian to ensure everything is clear and accountable.

In the end, all this returns to one space that has too often been marginalised: the village. For years, development has proceeded in a direction that makes villages seem like places to be left behind, not developed. Many leave not because they want to, but because they see no future on their own land. Here is where agrarian reform should work more deeply: reviving villages as spaces worthy of staying, even thriving. When village land has legal certainty, is managed productively, and connected to fair markets, then villages no longer become starting points of poverty, but can become centres of new growth. We do not lack examples for this; what is often lacking is the courage to make it a shared direction, not just a programme that comes and goes.

In a broader framework, all this truly tests how far the state understands its own mandate. That land and agrarian resources must be used for the greatest prosperity of the people is not merely a constitutional phrase, but a commitment that must be felt in daily life. Prosperity does not arise from the multitude of policies made and enacted, but from tangible changes: when farmers are no longer haunted by land loss, when indigenous communities are recognised with care, when villages are no longer abandoned by their youth.

Thus, the remaining question becomes simple, but not light: is the land we possess today truly sustaining life? If it still lies idle—unproductive, not providing security, not opening opportunities—then our work is not finished. But if the land begins to move, to produce, and to give hope