There is a pattern I have observed among those born into wealth: they tend toward one of two extremes. The first is insatiable hunger--money as scoreboard, as validation, as life itself. The second is indifference--lives that simply do not revolve around money. They pursue art, philosophy, relationships that compound slowly, because they never had to learn the language of scarcity. They were already safe.
I find this split fascinating because it defies the obvious assumption. You would think that growing up with resources would create a uniform relationship to wealth--either everyone becomes protective of it, or everyone takes it for granted. But the reality is more like a fork in the road, and the direction people choose seems to depend on something deeper than their bank account.
The Hungry
For the first group, wealth is a scoreboard. They treat money like oxygen--something you can never have enough of because its absence feels like death.
The Indifferent
The second type grew up in the same houses, attended the same schools, wore the same brands, and somehow emerged with an entirely different orientation. Money is there, like electricity or running water. Because they never learned the language of scarcity, they never learned to equate survival with their net worth.
The Nonchalance
I used to handle specialized, often off-the-books development for government or state-owned agencies. While the compensation was usually standard, there was one instance where the project manager had me inflate my quotes so he they could take a kickback from the surplus.
A kickback is an illegal, secret payment made to someone in a position of power or influence as compensation for preferential treatment, such as steering contracts or business to a specific party. It is a form of negotiated bribery where a portion of the illicitly gained funds is "kicked back" to the influencer.
What struck me was the nonchalance of it all. Like this was simply how the machine runs--everyone knows it, everyone does it, why are you looking at me like that? There was no lowering of voices, no checking over shoulders, no sense that we were discussing something that could end careers or send people to prison. Just: quote higher, we'll pocket the difference, everyone wins.
It was so casual that saying no felt almost rude. Like rejecting a cup of coffee someone offered you. Of course you'd want more money--who wouldn't? The assumption was universal. The corruption was ambient. Part of the atmosphere you breathed but never questioned.
Which of the two
I said no.
I need to be clear about something: I'm not tone deaf enough to deny that I was born into wealth. We're not talking Swiss bank accounts and private jets. Not the kind of money that gets you into society pages. But from where I'm from, I easily fall into the upper class category. The kind where you don't worry about rent. The kind where you can quit a job that isn't fulfilling without feeling like the floor is about to drop out from under you. The kind where you can spend your days doing things that make zero financial sense--painting, reading philosophy, writing things like this--and still know you'll be okay.
This matters because it changes the math. When that project manager offered me the cut--when he leaned over and casually suggested I inflate the invoice--it wasn't a lifeline. It wasn't the difference between eating and not eating. It wasn't even the difference between comfort and discomfort. It was just... extra. More zeros in an account that, to me, already had enough.
And that's exactly why I said no.
I've thought about this a lot since then, trying to be honest about what would have made me say yes. Because I don't think it's as simple as "good people refuse, bad people accept." I think it's about where you're standing when the offer gets made.
There are two scenarios where I would have taken that money.
The first scenario: desperation
If I didn't have this stability--if I was living paycheck to paycheck, if I had family depending on me, if the difference between that inflated invoice and the real one meant being able to fix the roof over my family's heads or pay medical bills or just breathe for a month--I probably would have said yes. Not because I'm naturally corrupt, but because survival bends ethics. When you're drowning, you don't ask if the rope is clean; you just grab it.
I would have been swept into the culture of corruption not because I'm evil, but because I was vulnerable. Because when you're that close to the edge, the abstraction of "integrity" feels like a luxury good, and luxury goods are for people who can afford them.
The second scenario: the hunger
The other way I say yes is if I were the hungry type. If i treated money like oxygen--if I believed that my worth as a human was directly tied to my net worth, if I thought that more was always better and that enough was a myth. If I was the kind of person who checks stock portfolios at 2am, who calculates their value against their neighbors, who believes that security comes from accumulation.
If I were that person, I would have said yes not because I needed the money, But because I needed the win. the scoreboard tick. The validation that comes from extracting maximum value from every transaction. I would have seen that inflated invoice as smart business, not ethical compromise.
The culture of "everyone does it"
The truth is, my refusal wasn't some heroic act of moral strength. It was the luxury of someone who doesn't have to choose between integrity and survival. But here's what keeps me up at night: in this country, that choice shouldn't be a luxury at all, yet we've built a system where it is.
When that project manager offered me the cut, he wasn't being sinister. He was being normal. This is the part that makes your stomach turn. He wasn't some cartoon villain twirling a mustache--he was a guy trying to get through the workday, offering me what he genuinely thought was a favor. "Everyone does it" isn't a defense; it's a descriptor. It's the atmosphere. Corruption here isn't a shadowy conspiracy; it's the weather. You don't fight the rain; you carry an umbrella.
And that's how it breeds. It starts with the assumption that everyone has a price because everyone needs a price. The civil servant making just enough to pay rent but not enough to save. The contractor who knows the project budget is inflated but needs the gig. The middle manager who takes a cut not to get rich, but to pay for his kid's school fees. It's not greed--it's arithmetic. When salaries don't match the cost of dignity, people start selling pieces of it.
The normalization
What makes this seemingly endless is how thoroughly we've normalized the abnormal. We have language for it now--biaya koordinasi, uang rokok, biaya administrasi--euphemisms that make theft sound like office supplies. It's so embedded in the machinery that opting out feels like jamming a wrench in the gears. People look at you not with admiration for your principles, but with confusion. "Why are you making this difficult?" they ask. "Just flow with it."
And flowing is so much easier. That's the trap. When you refuse, you're not just saying no to money--you're saying no to belonging. You're marking yourself as difficult, as naive, as someone who "Doesn't understand how the world works." in a culture that values harmony above almost everything, being the person who says "This is wrong" is a social death sentence. You become the one who makes things awkward. The one who forces everyone else to look at the thing they'd rather not see.
Why it's so hard to say no
It's hard because saying no isn't just about that one transaction. It's about every transaction after. When you refuse the cut, you signal that you can't be trusted--not because you're dishonest, but because you're unpredictable. You might report something. You might actually care. And in a system that runs on mutual complicity, unpredictability is the only real sin.
You start to notice the cost of your integrity in small ways. The project that goes to someone else. The meeting you're not invited to. The slow fade from colleagues who sense you're not "One of them." it's not persecution; it's just... Exclusion. And exclusion is expensive. It costs you opportunities, connections, the grease that makes the machine run smoothly.
That's why the culture perpetuates itself. Not because everyone is evil, but because everyone is tired. Tired of being the only one who says no. Tired of paying the price for everyone else's convenience. When you know that refusing won't stop the corruption--it'll just redirect it to someone who said yes--the act of integrity starts to feel less like virtue and more like vanity. Like you're keeping your hands clean while the world burns, and calling it morality.
The endless loop
And so it goes. The country keeps running on this parallel economy--the visible one where contracts are signed and budgets are allocated, and the invisible one where the real money moves in envelopes and whispered agreements. We all know it exists. We all participate in it, directly or indirectly. We vote for politicians who promise to fix it while knowing they won't, because fixing it would require dismantling the very infrastructure that keeps the lights on in their districts.
The project manager who offered me the cut--he's not the problem. He's a symptom. He's doing what the system taught him to do: survive, supplement, don't ask questions. The problem is that we've created a world where his offer was the rational choice, and my refusal was the aberration.
Until we fix the math--until civil servants are paid enough that they don't need side hustles, until contracts are awarded on merit instead of connections, until saying no stops costing more than saying yes--this will keep happening. The culture will keep breeding itself, generation after generation, not because we're a nation of criminals, but because we're a nation of people trying to get by in a system that punishes honesty and rewards complicity.
I could afford to say no. Most people can't. And that's not a reflection on their character--it's a reflection on ours, as a country, for building a machine that runs best when everyone agrees to look the other way.