Eulogy for a Mother

Anglingsari Sunartadirdja had two fathers, a husband, and three sons.

Is her life defined by those men? 

She told me that women need men to protect them.

Ibu and Mamih

Her first father was a Colonel in the Indonesian Army Ordnance Corp. Tante Yanti, her best friend from childhood, told me that she was doted on by her father. She was the cute one among their clique. One day she came to school with a pretty dress and shoes, made in the USA, a gift from her father after training in Fort Sill. Tante Yanti was envious of her.

Ibu’s father died of a heart attack while playing tennis. He was only 42. He is buried in Kalibata Military Cemetery; his pet name is Kiki Kalibata (‘Kiki’ means ‘grandfather’ in Sundanese).

Ibu in Bandung, 1961
Col. Sunartadirdja
Ibu, 13 February 1961

Still young and beautiful Mamih, my grandmother, became widowed. Mamih had never worked a job. She forfeited medical school to be a dutiful military wife and mother. I was a little afraid of Mamih. Everyone was. She had the charisma of a mother superior: always well dressed, tidy, and punctual. Even after she was paralysed from a stroke, she insisted on scheduling her day by the minutes.

Mamih had to hustle as a widow. She found a job as a secretary and sold asinan she made. A family took them in, but not without unspoken objection that they had to share with a family of three.

Ibu recalled that many men made advances to Mamih Si Janda Kembang. Some (or many) were not gentlemanly.

Ibu told me it was a turbulent time for her. Without a man of the house, the three women had no one to provide a home, food on the table, and protection. My aunt Tante Anyi, though, reminiscences those times as a testament to Mamih’s resilience: a mother’s capacity to adapt.

Mamih married a much younger second husband. Kiki was Ibu’s second father. The only grandfather I know; a significant male role model in my life. He was Kiki Kalibata’s brother. Ibu told me that Mamih married her first husband’s brother to protect her daughters; she had heard enough horror stories of predatory stepfathers. Supposedly, an uncle won’t prey on his nieces.

Kiki worked at the Indonesian Central Bank. Ibu said everyone jeered at him when he married Mamih. Some said he wanted the inheritance from his brother. But he climbed the bureaucratic ladder.

Kiki also provided.

Ibu told me that she met father when they were in Universitas Indonesia. He was in the faculty of engineering, architecture, and she was from the humanities, German Literature. She had a boyfriend from high school, but Mamih didn’t like him because he went to a second rate private university.

Ibu took German Literature not because she was cultured or avant-garde. She needed a bachelor’s degree to get a corporate or government job. She only ever mentioned Goethe, seemed to be fascinated (or irked) by his homosexuality rather than his works. I don’t think she ever read Hessee; warned me not to read Nietzsche as it may compromise my faith in God and Islam (she was dead right on this—although Nietzsche was partial to Islam when comparing it with Christianity); avoided Marx out of Orba propaganda (and the real threat of persecution).

It was Mamih’s sister, Mbah Ies, who encouraged her to pursue a bachelor’s degree despite she had no literary interest. She wanted to take a secretarial course. Mbah Ies told her that the higher the degree the better chance she’d have. She could find a job as a secretary with a bachelor’s degree but not the other way around.

Ibu’s graduation. From left to right: Kiki, Mamih, Ibu, Mbah Ies, Tante Anyi

Mbah Ies went so far as to let her live rent free at Purnawarman apartment when she got married. She sponsored Ibu to travel to Germany. When Bapak was working for a state-owned construction services company that was awarded the Soekarno-Hatta International Airport Project, he was sent to Europe for a comparative study on airports. Mbah Ies bought her the return flight ticket and lent her a mink coat so the young couple could travel together.

Ibu in Mbah Ies’ mink coat

Mbah Ies was her cool mother (as an aunt should be), virtually her godmother. She didn’t listen to her parents; she went to the University of Michigan on scholarship—even if that meant shrinking the talent pool of eligible suitors (this was the 1950s). She took library information system—not as fancy as a medical school, but it landed her a permanent job as a librarian in the WTO Jakarta office. She taught her that a woman must have her own money, in case the man cannot provide so that she can feed herself and her children.

Mbah Ies met her husband, Mbah Bob. He was a nuclear engineering postgraduate student. They met at the library. Their meeting was like out of Erich Segal’s Love Story novel, Ibu said. Mbah Ies was working as the university’s librarian; he was looking for references. Two Indonesian international students, educated in America, fell in love.

Mbah Bob and Mbah Ies (centre), December 1958

Only their marriage was not a happy one, Ibu told me.

Mbah Bob had his own company, a contractor for the Indonesian Power Company. They lived in a big house in Pondok Indah with a modern architectural design. A Mercedes, a Jaguar, and a Volvo—with carphones—in their garage.

Mbah Bob provided.

Mbah Bob slept in a separate bedroom. He only came home on the weekends. They could not conceive. Ibu told me Mbah Ies tried to salvage her marriage by adopting Arief.

I envied Arief. He’s my uncle by relations, but we are almost of the same age. He became one of my childhood friends. He got all the toys a boy could want. Nintendo Entertainment System, SNES, Mega Drive, 3DO, NeoGeo, Saturn, Nintendo 64, PlayStation. Gokarts, laser tags, pool table. RC cars and ships. Every weekend Mbah Bob would take him to Toys City and he’d pick up any toy—toys—he wanted (he always broke them, though). There was a dedicated play loft in Pondok Indah House. It was a kids’ paradise: full of toys and we could play anytime we wanted.

I think Mbah Ies’ laissez faire attitude was to promote creativity. She applauded me for making makeshift forts or stages with Arief’s bedroom. When the family travelled together, she gave us kids (Arief, me, my brothers, and cousins) each a notebook and a disposable camera. Asked us to record our experience.

Ibu warned Mbah Ies that she was spoiling Arief (and by proxy, her children). But Mbah Ies couldn’t help it. She was afraid that any disciplinary action would be seen as that he was loved less.

Mbah Ies’ life was a contrast to Mamih’s trad wife life. Mamih was the matriarch. She governed four bedrooms Penguin House in Bintaro. Bought each of her daughters a house so they could live nearby (Bapak didn’t want to, so he sold the Kenari House). Cooked and prepared meals on the table; accounted the household expenses in a neat ledger book; oversaw the Jepara furniture and crystal decorations were dustless and polished, garden manicured by the helpers; the birds and the birdcages, the koi fishes and the pond maintained.

Eid at Kiki’s official residence, Medan 1989

Many of our childhood weekends were spent at her place. Mamih only had daughters, but she had four grandsons and only one grandaughter. Mamih loved that her grandchildren were friends with each other (and made sure of that). Some weekdays, chauffeured, she would pick her grandchildren up after school. I enjoyed the ride in Mamih’s E-class or 3-series. But always felt restricted by her uptightness.

Sit properly, don’t slouch. Have your meal on the dining table. Nap time, play time is over. Your grandfather is home, greet him.

Mamih and Kiki took us on vacations—the big family, all their daughters and husbands and children. Bali, Singapore, Australia (always bus tours, of course).

When Ibu died, Bapak told me that he should not have let us be ‘taken away’ like that. But without Mamih and Kiki’s patronage, and Mbah Ies’, my childhood—our childhood—would be worse. Our childhood was gray, the only colours were playtimes with cousins or videogames, reading comic books, doodling, and those vacations. School breaks meant coping with the tedium of staying home. It felt like a prison time. That’s why I love adulthood so much.

Ibu took pride and comfort that her sons were hers. She always insisted that your family are the ones who’d stick with you. Blood is the strongest bond.

The Woman of the House, 1994

Her bachelor’s degree got her a steady job in Kompas Gramedia, one of Indonesia’s publishing conglomerates. She became a journalist for a while, but couldn’t keep up with the demanding work. She was transferred to M&C!, the comic books publishing arm. The income was not fancy, but she could clock in at 09.00; chitchat with her coworkers; watch cable TV; have a long lunch at the mall; went home at 17.00.

Office, 1998

Ibu’s last position was propriety editor in a comic publishing arm of the group. She decided which contents of the comic books to be censored: content perceived as sexual, offensive, or blasphemous. The publishing group was established by two Chinese Indonesian Catholics, the organisation had experienced backlash inevitably linked to the religious views of the Muslim majority. One of their magazines ran a survey on ‘role models for Indonesians’. The readers’ votes put Muhammad as the third winner. Blasphemy charges were passed; the Ministry of Clarifications banned the magazine (Freedom of Press was only introduced in Indonesia post 1998 Reform). Ibu, who started wearing a headscarf after her Hajj pilgrimage, represented Muslim sensitivity.

Hajj Pilgrimage, Arafah.

My best childhood memories is waiting for her to arrive from work. She would have brought newspapers, magazines, and comic books. Freely distributed to the group’s employees. There was also an employee’s discount in their bookstores. That was how I became acquainted with Doraemon and the entire Japanese sub-culture of manga.

She didn’t cook. Sometimes she brought home food she bought. Sometimes she fed us with her hand. She always demanded a cuddle.

She lived a simple life. So I thought. Her meagre salary supported our family of five. She was the only woman of the house—aside from the helpers. She relied on Kiki’s financial support and other extended family, plus credit card debts, to maintain our faux middle-class lifestyle. The Nimun House is a wedding gift from Bapak’s sister. Furnished with hand-me-downs. The cars were from Kiki. She complained about money. Bapak and Ibu were always fighting about money. When she was upset, she’d shop compulsively.

Nimun House under construction, February 1985

She once told me that she dreamed of being a writer when she retires. She imagined herself sitting in a bungalow by the beach, a typewriter in front of her. But she didn’t read much. One day, not long after Mamih’s death, she wrote a short story for a female magazine’s open call. Her submission was rejected. I never saw her write again.

Anyone who knows her knows that her worst vice was the ‘lie-down’ mentality. Trying harder was never her strong suit. When she was in university, she lived near campus by herself to save time commuting and to be able to sleep whenever she liked—something impossible to do under Mamih’s watchful eyes. She was always late. Tante Yanti told me that Ibu made the taxi wait, meter running, for an hour. But her meekness (and cuteness) made everyone forgive her.

Men like to be the hero. She justified the damsel in distress attitude.

As parents, she was the stern one when we were little. She beat us with broomsticks; threw me outside and threatened to give me to the construction workers so I had to work to earn my living like those poor children. She mellowed as we grew up. Resorted to sulking and emotional blackmails to negotiate with us.

Tias: Second Son’s Second Birthday

I found bottles of Xanax when I was still living with her. She always denied (or never mentioned) going to the shrink.

Muslims have their prayers, we’re not those Westerners.

She didn’t like to be the breadwinner. She just wanted to be a comfortable middle-class mother who could take her kids to the mall every weekend. A wife’s income is supposed to be a disposable part of household expenditures. But as a wife, she had to be supportive of her husband’s entrepreneurial aspiration. 

A good woman is someone who starts with you from zero. No one became an overnight success, no?

She had provided that continuing financial support her entire life. Even continued to do so in her death. Her retirement funds are still payable to Bapak as her widow.

Bapak never likes the arrangement either. He wants to be the Provider, the Man. That’s why he stayed on the entrepreneurial course, despite his architecture firm sustained ‘deficits’ for years and years—decades (he refused to call it ‘losses’–because consulting businesses don’t use that term. FYI, law firms do).

If only Sharia laws were enforced in Indonesia, there would be more opportunities for men.

Whenever Ibu disagreed with him, he’d take offense. Accusing she was being disrespectful to her husband, her imam, because of his financial shortfall.

A cautionary tale that you can share the same values as a couple and still find difficulties negotiating in the relationship.

Regardless, Ibu always told me to respect and love Bapak.

He is not a bad father. He’s not a womaniser and never beat us.

The last time I remember Ibu was happy when she worked at M&C!. She enjoyed being a mother to her coworkers, who were mostly younger. They talked to her about their personal life, sought relationship advice. When she retired, her coworkers threw a farewell party and made a parody of the bunker scenes of Der Untergang. The subtitles are mistranslated, pointing out how uppity Ibu is with non-halal food.

Retirement Party, 2010

Retirement was the point where her condition deteriorated. At that party, she sighed and said, ‘Now I’d have to spend all my time at home.’ Her sons, except one, had moved out. Marriage and career pursuit.

Her two sons would have attained the Indonesian Dream. They were on track: bachelor’s degrees from top Indonesian universities (UI and ITB), careers as professionals in international or multinational firms, and master’s degrees abroad (Universities of London and Tokyo) with scholarships. However, they decided that religion and Indonesian family values were not for them.

Ibu could not be close to her daughters-in-law. I don’t think she ever liked any women her sons chose. She would have preferred that her son ended up with a good Muslim woman, wearing a hijab. She was blinded by motherly love to realise that good Muslim women would not want to end up with her sons.

I was told that Ibu regrets that she didn’t educate me well enough to be religious. He blamed Tias for not returning to Indonesia. She was ashamed that Pasha could only land entry-level jobs.

My third birthday, Nimun House

When Mamih died, Kiki remarried someone younger than Ibu. She was bitter about that. Commented that the new wife’s taste in dress and decorations was not up to Mamih’s prijaji standards; how the new wife’s lifestyle significantly improved after the marriage. But in the end, Ibu and Ibu Mita could meet in the middle ground. Ibu Mita took care of Kiki in a way Ibu could not—until his death, even after he was disabled by a stroke.

It seems the men in Ibu’s life disappointed her. Either by staying or leaving.

She always told me that I am the son of a nobody. Not a rich man, not a powerful man. I need to behave and be good. No one could save me if anything bad happened in my life.

Her advice was well-intended. The world is a scary place for the little people and the meek. She had the capacity to visualise extreme circumstances. She was paranoid that her sons would become drug addicts (she admitted she went to my room and read my private journals); made someone’s daughter pregnant (her sister got pregnant during college, which made life much more challenging). When I started working out, inspired by a fitness magazine, she warned me not to become a porn star (this was way before OnlyFans or the social media internet—no Indonesian starred in porn at that time; she also overestimated my capacity for exhibitionism as a self-conscious man). When I asked for Osamu Tezuka’s Buddha, she bought me but asked me not to convert to Buddhism (I don’t have to, Buddhism is a philosophy—Gotama never claimed he was a prophet or a Godman, just a teacher). 

Her fears were validated when I had a head injury from a thrown rock and Tias was arrested for our involvement in tawuran (high school gang brawls), or when Pasha joined an Islamist cult.

She was also afraid that I’d be disappointed with her, for wanting things beyond her capacity to give.

I want many things. I love finer things. I want to live beautifully; to taste the butter in my mouth—like Black Phillip offered Tomasin. But I want her love. Her unconditional love. As I am.

I understand it was her belief that prevented her from doing so. She wanted us to reunite in the afterlife. Something impossible if we do not share the same faith. Jannah is an exclusive club for Muslims.

Still, I am often envious of my gay friends who can have the Millennial Fantasy realised: their mother finally accepted them, even become besties. A close friend’s mother asked his husband to call him ‘mum’. Here I am, a privileged cis heterosexual male who remains unseen.

She told me that I should visit her more. But every time I visited her, she would retire to her bedroom. She never asked about my work, my time in London; my published dissertation, my travels, my writing, my photography. All she asked were ‘Have you prayed?’ or ‘When are you going to have a child?’—even after she lost her voice.

Everyone would remember someone in their own way. I think everyone would agree that Ibu’s greatest virtue was her charitable nature. She was a feeler; pity was the strongest emotion to move her. She’d give to every beggar she met, lend money to anyone with a sob story—even when she was not in the financial position to help others.

Ibu’s life was uneventful but full of suffering. She was an extroverted individual but awkward in social interactions. She wanted a trad wife life but had no homemaking skills and had to provide for the family. She had to live by feminist standards, reluctantly, because she lived in a consumer society. She wanted to be a matriarch like her mother, but lacked the wealth and the grit. She wanted a life centred on family, but her sons are larger than life. She was proud that her sons are intelligent, but scared of their curiousity.

Ibu after stroke, 2022. Photograph by Pasha

Her neophobia, her fear of unfamiliarity, made her unable to evaluate or reconsider the belief system taught to her from childhood. I wonder, if she dared to step outside from the cultural conditioning just for a while, would she had the chance to be happier? Was her orthodoxy predetermined or it was just a predisposition she could have transcended?

However, her friends love her so much. In her life, she rarely reached out to her friends. Her social events were dominated by family gatherings. But so many came for the funeral, even donated so much (it is Indonesian custom to give money to the bereaved family).

Despite I and Tias don’t complete the Indonesian Dream, by superficial externalities, we made it. Bapak told me that he’s concerned that ‘I still work for other people’, but I could live a comfortable lifestyle. Tias’ gaijin life is a first-world life. More than that, we are loved as we are by our chosen family. Without blood ties, they don’t need to stick with us (but they do). We wouldn’t have come so far if Ibu didn’t raise us.

For the record, I agree with Ibu that the world is a scary place. But it’d be much less scary if we become stronger, richer, and wiser.

I am not writing this out of spite. I want a record of my mother’s life story as it is—from my perspective.

I had lost her long before she died. When she died, that loss became absolute. I heard a theory that a boy who is rejected by his mother would develop a complex. I, and my therapist, suspect that the emptiness within me may be connected with my relationship with Ibu.

Some say I could work on myself to fix that. Some say I could just make a space for that void.

This is also my statement of defense. I do not owe anyone an explanation, but I want you, dear reader, to understand the nuance of our relationship.

A good friend told me that a child’s relationship with the mother is a profound one, despite the lack of understanding between them. As a self-respecting writer, writing this eulogy is a necessity. This is how I grieve.

The Nimun House feels lighter without Ibu. Before she died, I had a lingering sense of guilt that I am living such a good life while she was having it so bad. Now I am relieved.

We cannot hurt each other anymore.

Ibu as a humanities student
Ibu carrying me
Ibu carrying Tias, March 1986
Ibu and I at a hospital
She told me that I’m a difficult child
Ibu carrying Pasha
14 December 1995
Tante Yanti’s Wedding, 1996
Melbourne, 1998

May 26, 2024

Toto “Africa” Party

An Elder Millennial Birthday

Brief:

  • The party should be an experience for all the guests. 
  • It should not suggest that I am a self-centred basic bro who thinks he can solicit his wisdom just because he turns 40. 
  • I do not care if the experience is good or bad.  
  • Play Toto’s “Africa” on loop for hours.

A psychological experiment for a birthday party. A 40th birthday party. 

We’re all in to be subjects.

We organised the event. 

Dress code: Safari, Tiger King shirt for the birthday boy.

Birthday cake: Moody Baker. 

LC: Dara. DJ: Conna.

At 2100 hours, the DJ set played various renditions of “Africa”. After one hour and technical issues, only the original version was played on the loop…For the next three hours.

“No more Toto!”

We were spared by intermissions of other songs: “Mortal Kombat”, “Can’t Get You Out of My Head”, “One More Time”, “Don’t Call Me Baby”, “Ray of Light”, “Pure Shores”, “Too Young”, “Dancing in The Moonlight”, “I Don’t Know Why”, “Rockafeller Skank”, and even “Boom, Boom, Boom, Boom!”

For local content, “Mencontek”/ “Back for Good”; “Pingin Beken”/”Breathe Again”; and “Lampu Neon”/”What’s Going On” (back to back, to provide context on 90s unlicensed Padhyangan parody–the Weird Al of Indonesia);

“Sinaran” and “Ekspresi” at Dara’s request.

The real Millennials–those born in the 90s–couldn’t recognise many songs. But DJ Conna played not just the Noughties, but the 2010s: “Clarity”, “One Kiss”, and, of course, “Feel This Moment”.

Okay, now the report on the psychological experiment:

Subject Suar does not experience any trauma. There was a time when he was utterly annoyed by the repetitiveness of “Africa” (and the dad jokes on clues for the next song: “the Black Continent”, “Nelson Mandela”, “a famous water closet brand”…).  

It seems that the song is not something anyone can hate.

The Subject, as always, preferred whiskies and whiskeys. But when they ran out, the Subject would settle with gin (the preferred drink of the majority of the guests).

The Subject was not too drunk and managed to capture the moments with his Q. He is very happy with the results (see pictures).

The Subject realised that he actually likes dance parties, especially private ones in which the guests list is his chosen family (and the playlist reminds him of the era when he came of age). He was a bit depressed for some time. He was burdened by guilt for indulging in a hedonistic event such as this (he inherited a Jesus Complex from his mother); he cannot grieve for his mother because he had lost her long before death. He was anticipating waking up with a heavy feeling, a hangover, but he felt so good after sleep. It was as if the party shook the sadness out of him.

Despite his love of one-on-one conversations and his dark brooding jokes made him mistaken as a misanthrope, the Subject is a highly extroverted individual with a strong need for social interactions. 

The Subject, during the party, managed to write a note about the host, the birthday boy:

From this man, I learned the rules of power and the psychology of money long before I read Robert Greene and Morgan Housel.

Ostracised by Indonesian traditional family values, left with no chance to satisfy societal heteronormative norms, he became an Outsider who could observe the cracks and loopholes of common people’s expectations.

He taught me to recognises privileges and set aside conventional moral judgments based on envy or political correctness. Ruthlessly leveraging strength to compensate for our weaknesses, while having compassionate views on how the world–people–operates.

He educated me that it is not enough to know how to play the game. You need to know why, so you can opt-out when it’s not worth it.

The most important lesson he imparted is to see money as it is: not a status symbol, not a self-worth index–just one of the social currencies. A tool to buy freedom and to live according to your own terms.

He is vulnerable to addiction and hedonism, but he is a functioning adult. His life seems irresponsible, but he got his shit together. He contributes to the development of the national education system. Whether such a venture is successful or makes an impact is open to interpretation. 

He tried. 

He jumped inside the arena. Leaving the crowd of spectators and commentators who bitch and moan and tweet and repost. 

He could fill that one unforgiving minute with a sixty-second run.

His mouth is sharp, but he’s got a bleeding heart.

I’d call him ‘Bro’, but would it be too basic?

Fuck it. Happy 40th, Bro Angga.

Please note that this report is a self-report and may not be representative of all other subjects attending the experiment. However, Subject Suar believes that all subjects had fun and love the host so much that they are willing to spend a fraction of their life to celebrate him.

40 looks like this.

May 22, 2024

Kamakura, Spring Reiwa 5

Brothers Istiawan.

Not sure we can use that. The Javanese have no surnames. Both of my first and last names are given names. Istiawan is my father’s last name. It too is a given name.

During my business trip to Tokyo, I visited my brother’s new home in Kamakura. He married a Japanese. It was a midweek bank holiday. We took the Tokaido Line to Ofuna, then the Shonan Monorail. He picked us up at the station with a red Mazda Demio.

It was the first time since last year I saw him. I waved and said hi. Out of my reflex, I walked past him and put our luggage in the boot. 

I forgot to hug him.

Our family don’t hug. Or our parents hug, but always awkward. Like something you do because everyone does that with family or loved ones. Just something to tick on a checklist. 

It was Dinda who hugged him. For her, hugging comes naturally. I had to set my mind to hug him. Like a beginner in a dance class, wary of stepping on their dance partner. 

I knew my hug, our hug, was awkward. We are the sons of our father and mother, after all.

‘You bought a car?’ I was concerned about how he manages his expenses with mortgage and everything.

‘It is Mako’s mum’s. She can’t renew her driver’s license anymore. So she gave the car to us.’

His mother-in-law moved from Hiroshima to Kamakura. Sold her house and moved into an apartment a few blocks from their home. It makes life easier for all. Mako can come quickly if anything happens. Her mum can cook for herself and them. And they both still have their own space.

He educated me that Japan has a very low interest rate. The homeownership loan he took is only 0.4% for 35 years. Even Mako’s mum, in her 70s, can still take out a loan to buy the new apartment. He found a good contractor and got another loan to renovate the house.

Tias and Mako’s home is like a house in Ghibli films. No fence, no gate. Signs of a safe neighbourhood.  A signpost of ‘Takimoto & Saputro’ with cats ornament is at the door. Saputro is my brother’s last name. Again, not a family name.

They bought an old house and renovated it. Like most Japanese homes, they are tiny but efficient. It is a two storey house. More than enough for a couple with two cats. 

A tatami room is inside the living room. It is another Japanese ingenuity in making the most of the space: you can use the tatami room for sitting, yoga, or sleeping. They prepared futons and blankets, it became our room for the night.

We unpacked. Offloaded the cobek Tias asked us to bring. We handcarried that 10kgs of stone mortar and pestle. He wants to make sambal. 

Momomi seemed to catch that we smelled of cats. She demanded us to pay our dues as humans: we stroked and scratched her. Mochako was rather suspicious. She was rescued from a breeder, thus her cautious approach to new humans.

Mochako Takimoto-Saputro

Mako told us that the ofuro is ready. I got the honour to take the first dip (the hot water is used several times, and family members usually take turns in bathing—based on seniority). Tias reminded me to shower first before bathing. 

Of course. Does he think I’m gross?

In Japan, the bathrooms are insulated to protect the walls from humidity and mould. It also makes them easier to clean. The home is squeaky clean, tidy, and organised. A Dyson vacuum cleaner and a vacuum bot are among the cleaning equipment. The cat litter is odourless. 

Japan is an embodiment of a first world country. Nothing is cheap, but everything is of a high value. Thanks to a relatively equal society. Some said it is changing. Capitalism and consumerism, in the end, are rationalisation. The goal is the cheapest items with the highest profit margins. Made in Japan, as Made in Germany—the shokunin—would soon give in to less quality for more quantity. The wage-inflation gap is increasing. The aging population and capital exports make young people work more.

Our childhood home in Jakarta, the Nimun House, is in a state of disrepair. The bathrooms have no doors. Lime and grime on the water closet and basins. The floors would black your feet. Mosquitoes and mould. The air is humid, the lighting dim. Ventilations are not well designed. The furnitures are hand me downs, mismatched. Clutters are hoarded.

It has always been that way. A brick-a-brack of construction, added on top of each other with little or no forethought. 

I am glad that Tias’ Kamakura home is a far cry from our childhood home.

We had dinner at a local sushi restaurant Osakanatei. The proprietors are an old couple. The husband cooks and the wife waits the tables. They don’t speak English, so my brother interpreted. Most, if not all, of the patrons are locals. The proprietress sat with guests. She showed a flyer of a play, set in the Italian Renaissance Era, at the community centre. She’d be in that play, as a dowager.

How cute. So first world. Where senior citizens can work and have meaningful leisure time.

The next morning we had a Japanese fishermen’s breakfast at Enoshima Koya. We were the first to queue. The place is so popular, we needed to arrive early (the Japanese like to queue even more than the English). As a rice boy, I say it was the best breakfast I ever had in my life. 

I dared my brother to send our picture together to Bapak. He didn’t see the harm, so he did.

‘Is Suar coming to Japan for vacation or business?,’ father replied.

‘He’s on a business trip to Tokyo.’

‘Oh. Happy that you all can meet up. Say hi to Mako.’

End of conversation .

Tias expected that Bapak would show a certain level of curiosity on what your sons are up to. Maybe even being offended because I didn’t tell him that I was going to Japan. But listening is not a masculine trait, as our father exemplified.

We went back to Kamakura home. Mako ordered a reformer, she’s training for pilates instructor certification. The delivery guy just dropped the package at the front door.

‘I am not paid enough to break my back carrying that heavy load inside.’ 

Not all Japanese are omotenashi. Should I say that we’d pay more if he did? But tipping is offensive here.

Good thing I lift weights. Tias lent me his work gloves. After we put that 100kg mainframe, Tias wanted to install the entire parts. He said he saw in a YouTube video it takes only 8 minutes.

I told him that the video shows an installation by a trained handyman—with cut scenes. Mako said he tends to underestimate how much time is needed. In anyway, he would install the reformer later.

We changed into trail shoes, trekked the  Hiromachi Greenery. I climbed a giant Enoki tree. I imagined Totoro was sleeping down there. We met another group of trekkers. We met a group of locals who lived in Jakarta. We exchanged pleasantries in English, a little Japanese and a little Indonesian.

Enoki tree

We stopped by a coffee shop cum library, Book Cafe So Common. I love how respectful the Japanese are to peace and quiet. The patrons were stylish, engrossed in their reading or chatting with proper volume and tone. Someone was wearing a black Leica M (from the ISO dial, it is an M10 or 11). Not many English books are available. I took and browsed a photobook, Appearance.

We sat by the fireplace. On cold days or nights, they would fire it with wood. But it was a warm autumn day. Warm enough not to wear a jacket, cold enough not to be sweating. A perfect weather.

The coffee shop is in the most expensive neighbourhood in Kamakura. The homes are big. Land Rovers parked in the garages.

We took a bus to Kotoku-in Temple, to see the Daibutsu (the Great Buddha Statue). Saw a Latin American pray, light an amber on incense, then made a cross sign across his body. Buddha would receive his prayer, not sure with Jesus or Yahweh/Allah. The Abrahamic God demands exclusivity.

The Great Buddha Statue

Had lunch at Antico Rondino, a prosciutteria. The restaurant is in a traditional Japanese house. Our favourite Asian food is Japanese, and Italian for Western. I felt so grateful to be able to eat Italian a few blocks away from a Japanese temple. Too bad, the toilet is also European: bidetless. The restaurant should have stuck with Toto washlet.

We walked to the beach. It is not that tropical paradise-esque white sand and turquoise waters you find on travel brochures. It has the charm of an English seaside town (but with better weather and food). The shops are modelled after Hawaiian or Balinese styles. People surf, kite, or just walk. A group of international karatekas were training and posing. It was the golden hour. I felt like in Keane’s music video, ‘Sovereign Light Cafe’.

International karatekas

There is also a park with a baseball field. Fathers and sons or daughters played catch. I caught an off field ball and threw it back to them.

A good place to raise children. I thought. Expensive, maybe, but a good place. 

I was tempted to ask Tias and Mako on that subject. I imagine a cute mixed race nephew or niece. But as a child-free adult, I refrained from asking that.

We took the tram back. Packed our bags again, to return to Tokyo. Tias and Mako drove us to Ofuna station. We stopped by Awanouta for ramen dinner. Mako warned us that the dishes we ordered contained pork. Tias told her it was okay. She mistook us for our parents and extended family. We’re not halal people. 

We our said goodbye at Ofuna Station. I told him again that he should not think about going back to Jakarta. No matter how our parents and family emotionally blackmail him to return. 

Our mother wanted what most Indonesian mums wanted: a visit once a week (with grandchildren), a prayer time together, gatherings during Ramadan and Eid festivals. 

But Tias’gaijin life is a better life. In a high income country, you are 1% rich if you are middle class. If anybody tells you money can’t buy happiness, they are spending it wrong.

Hiromachi Greenery scarecrows: Candy Candy

A week after my business trip to Tokyo, it was our mother’s birthday. I know I should send something. 

I did.

Should I come to visit her? I have postponed visiting since 2019. Pandemic, I told everyone.

I didn’t in the end.

Tias asked for a videocall with Nimun House. 

Yes, videocall should suffice.

Tias and Mako dialled in from Kamakura. I from my home. We tried to have a conversation as a family.

Ibu was sleepy. Half-conscious. She slipped off from her chair, unable to remain on screen. She had a stroke last year, after a decade of losing her voice. She was on Xanax and Prozac, but always refused therapy. Relied on prayers. Now she is showing symptoms of dementia.

Bapak and our youngest brother Pasha—her only two dependants now—tried to animate her. Like a doll. 

I told them about Kamakura home. How beautiful it is. The forest and the beach. Tias translated to Japanese from Indonesian for Mako.

Bapak replied, ‘Oh nice. Why didn’t you visit it during your business trip to Tokyo.’

‘He did. I sent you our picture,’ Tias said.

‘Oh. It’s nice that your home is near parks.’ 

‘It’s a forest, not just parks. We trekked. And a beach nearby,’ I said. ‘People do wind-surfing too.’ 

Bapak did wind-surfing when he was young. As a little kid, I saw him surf at Ancol.

I showed him pictures from n the Lightroom app. But I realised he was already gone before I finished showing them. Only Pasha was still there. Ibu went asleep before the screen.

Silence. I couldn’t find things to say.

I pride myself on being a conversationalist. But my parents always disagreed with that self evaluation. They said I’m not much of a social person. Too stubborn and materialistic.

I saw a hole in the ceiling behind Ibu. I asked Pasha, ‘Is that a hole in the ceiling?’

He didn’t reply. He talked about his gig. Giving his labour to a friend’s business: supervising the loading and unloading of events organisation. 

I can’t remember what we talked about after that. I could have pressed on, don’t change the subject. But I didn’t. All I remember was Billie Eilish’s ‘What I Was Made For’ playing in my head.

And that hole in the ceiling.

Brothers Istiawan: we have the same strides

May 9, 2024

Tokyo, Autumn Reiwa 5

Foreigner disembarkation card [Arrival]

Family Name : SANUBARI Given Name : SUAR

PURPOSE OF VISIT :  [  ] TOURISM  [   ] BUSINESS   [  ] VISITING RELATIVES

I could tick all those boxes. It was my fourth time visiting Tokyo. I was using the same suitcase I bought for my first trip to the Eastern Capital, in 2011, when I was travelling with my big Indonesian family. My family’s idea of travel is a change of sceneries in a protective familiarity bubble afforded by an Indonesian speaking guide, halal foods; being transported from one sight to another, pictures to be posted to Facebook. 

It was, however, the beginning of my independent travels.

On my departing flight to Tokyo in 2023, I reread Murakami’s Sputnik Sweetheart. I was so mesmerised by the book. My first tattoo is a Sputnik—the first artificial satellite that orbited the earth, the Soviet’s head start in the Space Race; Russian for ‘travelling companion’. Made in London, The Family Business tattoo parlour. I had forgotten what the plot was about. I just remember the feeling. I was prompted to reread it because it has been adapted as a play in London, playing at Arcola Theatre.

You cannot read the same book twice. You have changed. I feel that Sputnik Sweetheart is lighter now. I have developed stronger reading muscles. 

And it came to me then: Sputnik Sweetheart is about travel. About Europhilia.

Sumire is a promising twenty something writer. She writes everyday and lives a non-conformist life. She only wants to write and does not want to do the practical things people do to live in this modern life. 

She is passionate about writing. However, she couldn’t produce a novel. Miu, her older sweetheart, suggested and paid for her travel—accompanying Miu on business trips to Europe. Along the journey, Sumire learned the impractical but important things in life (like developing a taste for good food and fine wine) by doing the practical and necessary things (budgeting, preparing itineraries, haggling for transport). Things which cannot be learned from books. Allowing her to develop the strength, with time and experience, to dig deep and to open that lid of the unconscious.

Murakami makes an inference about this living-before-you-can-go-about-writing [novels] in Novelist as a Vocation (unless you are a genius like Dickens or Tolstoy, in his disclaimer). 

On my second trip to Tokyo the summer of 2013, I have already gained some mileage as an independent traveler. I know how to do research and how to plan, budget, and improvise (thank you, Lonely Planet). I fairly knew what I liked or, at least, what I didn’t like.

The firm I was working for had an outing to Japan. I extended my stay and met up with my wife and friends who travelled separately. We booked different return flights. I had to fly from Tokyo, they were flying back from Osaka.

I had one night as a solo traveler in Tokyo. I stayed in a hostel, K’s House Asakusa. I enjoyed (perhaps still enjoy) the convivial communality of hostels. You can meet with fellow travellers. Experience the unexpected connection that may not last but stays with us forever. If you are lucky.

That night I shared a dorm with an 18 year old American boy taking a gap year. Not rude or annoying. His suitcase stank when opened; full of dirty clothes. I was in my late 20s and thought about how disorganised ‘kids’ are. 

I got out of the room to avoid the stank. There was no one in the common area. So I went out that night.

I haven’t developed a taste for alcohol (or even coffee). I still needed ‘sights and attractions’ when travelling. Tokyo has plenty, but I was low on budget. I considered Robot Café, but even that was too expensive for me.

At least, I was already an avid reader. I bought After Dark and spent the night reading. I have been to the red light district of Kabukicho. The memories of male hosts loitering around, the pimps soliciting with broken English, the neon lights of the establishments, made my aloneness as a solo traveler a lonely experience.

A story of the exploitation of Chinese sex workers, psychopaths, and sociopaths among us. From my travel to Amsterdam and Mariska Majoor’s When Sex Becomes Work, I know some sex workers are empowered. But there are actual victims of human trafficking or outright poverty.

Japanese sex establishments are not as straightforward as the rest of the world. Most of them are not open for business to gaijin. Many of the girls are not Japanese. But I read it’s changing now. With Japan’s current economy, sexless marriages, and a staunchly patriarchal society, more Japanese women are supplementing their income as sex workers.

My third time in Tokyo was in the winter of 2018. We stayed in a hostel dorm room because we couldn’t find other options (it was New Year’s Eve). We had awful roommates. White trash couple, loud and rude. They even fucked in the dorm (note to backpackers: the pod’s curtain does not provide sufficient privacy). Next to us was an awkward Asian who set his alarm but slept with earplugs. His alarm woke the entire room, except himself. I banged his pod.

In hindsight, the hostel is near a tourist hotspot. Budget accommodation too close to that kind of area is never a good bargain.

We met two Asian Canadian girls, of East and South Asian descent, at Keffir Lime, a Thai restaurant in Omotesando. Their main vocabularies are ‘Oh My God’ and ‘This is da bomb!’ to describe everything they ate. 

They invited us to come with them to a club around there. When I ask what kind of club. They said, ‘a nice one.’ 

I asked them to describe ‘nice’. They went silent for a while, eyes rolled to their left brain—thinking.

‘It is full of tourists, like us. And it has loud music.’

Unfortunately, we had different views on ‘nice’. 

This time, autumn 2023, I came for ‘work’. Meetings, networking (I almost puke using that word) with lawyers and clients exporting capital to Indonesia. 

Good thing those bengoshi are busy. Hosting me for two hours—non-billable—put a strain on their schedule. So our meetings were short and sweet, a series of quickies. Not those ‘Yamanote Line meetings’. 

Japanese corporate culture can sanction a meeting to discuss why the meetings are too long. 

I borrowed that from the comic Meshida. I came to his live stand up show, in English (or should I say, ‘Engrish’ as he pronounced it on stage). I got to know him courtesy of YouTube algorithms. Many of his jokes are aimed at Japanese and Asians. Of course, he punches Americans and white people too. As he said, ‘Japanese are not racist. We don’t differentiate people by skin colours. We just call them gaijin. We are just xenophobic.’ *Except for Korean and Chinese.*

For lunch meetings, I mentioned that Japanese food is my comfort food. I can eat them everyday. I don’t mind eating local food only whenever I’m travelling here (the same applies to France and Italy). A senior partner of the biggest Japanese international law firm took me to the Michelin star Sushi Umi for omakase. 

She is a member of the management board, speaks English with a hint of a British accent. In corporate Japan, only 6% of women made it to top leadership; female lawyers make up for 18% of the profession. That is the recent statistics on diversity. She has been practicing for decades. She must be so exceptional. No wonder many of the other partners seemed intimidated around her.

Her dad is a retired journalist, her mom’s business is kimono. She has a scholar and a merchant lineage. The perfect mix for a lawyer.

She lives with her parents. She said she’s more like a son than a daughter. She’s rarely at home. The firm has offices around the globe, so she’s a frequent flyer. But because of the pandemic, she could be a daughter. Spent time with her mom, cooking together.

I am glad that she is not the type of lawyer whose only interest is work. She is personally close with my boss. They travelled together to Timor Leste for a charity project. She thinks of my boss as her ‘little sister’.

She asked how is my stay in Tokyo so far. 

I went to Kitanomaru Park after a meeting. The ginko trees were blooming. Momiji leaves were starting to show brown and red hues. I did what a first world denizen does: sat under the autumn sun. The weather was perfect: not too cold (you don’t need to layer up), not too hot (you don’t sweat from walking). I listened to Arcade Fire’s ‘Photograph’. I attained Nirvana for 2 minutes 25 seconds.

Kitanomaru Park

I passed through Yasukuni Jinja. Unnerved that some Japanese still bowed towards the gate; the Hinomaru flag flown. The Germans would not salute any monument associated with their fascist history. My late grandmother told me that she was rolled in the carpet by her parents when the Imperial Army was doing a house search, looting for supplies and materials and ‘comfort women’.

I got to know Shiko Munakata at MOMAT. Like many 20th-century Japanese, he was inspired by Western modern art. He wanted to be the Japanese Van Gogh. But he did better: he became the Munakata. Thus the special exhibition: ‘The Making of Munakata Shiko’, celebrating his 120th birthday. I bought rubber stamps, imitations of his woodblock prints, at the museum shop. 

MOMAT, Shiko Munakata

I made spiritual pilgrimages, first to Aoyama Cemetery and then to the LV flagship boutique in Omotesando. I didn’t shop, I came for the ‘L>espace)(…’ installation by Cerith Wyn Evans. Exhibited at the ESpace, part of the ‘Hors-les-murs’ programme, on the fifth floor. We came at the perfect time: the sun was setting over the Tokyo skyline, basked it with an autumnal orange ray. We witnessed the atmospheric changes from the golden to the blue hour. It was a sublime visual and auditory sensory experience. A chandelier transmitting morse code, the flutes with discordant music, the neon lights, and the rotating bonsai. Their shadows fall onto the floor aesthetically.

LV Espace

We had cocktail drinks at Bar Trench, one of Asia’s Best Bars featured in Netflix’s Midnight Asia. Tasted wine and cheeseat Bar Bossa in Shibuya, pretending that we were in a Murakami’s story. Drank shots of single malt at Albatross in Golden Gai. Rubbed shoulders and elbows with Asian Californians who were equally annoyed by loud Japanese bantering with a Hawaiian and his Filipino girlfriend (no wonder Americans never said ‘I’m from America’, they always pinpoint the State; people from Austin, however, never said they are from Texas—another Meshida’s insight).

Tokyo overwhelms me. To wind down every night, I made use of the sento facilities of The Square Hotel Ginza (tattoos allowed). There is something liberating in communal bathing. It clears my mind of body image issues. When washing before soaking in the hot water, I look at my naked self in the mirror. One day, this all will decay. So enjoy while it lasts.

‘You enjoy Tokyo much more than me,’ she commended.

We did talk about the private practice industry. The firm is rebranding, changed the logo to be more modern and international, more visible. Hired a former marketing officer of a big Japanese fast fashion company. 

She said she’s old school. A Bubble Era girl. She likes wearing a kimono for official ceremonies, a hassle but it makes her move and speak more slowly—gracefully. She was taught by her mentor back then that law firms’ identity should be muted, colourless (‘Like Tsukuru Tazaki?,’ I said). Lawyers should be like kurogo, the black clad puppeteers in bunraku—moving things forward for the clients, behind the screen. We are business services, after all.

Of course, we should be visible when necessary. But the spotlight and focal point must be the clients.

Despite being a millennial, an elder one, I agree with her. I am skeptical of the bashful self-promotion normalised on LinkedIn. I am not denying that you need marketing. Private practice is a business. I just don’t think copying the marketing styles of tech companies—which are, mostly, B2C—is effective marketing.

Congratulating yourself or your firm (‘I am honoured…’) for a deal or a case that no one cares about seems like an arms race. Not to mention masturbatory.

I was impressed with the law firm’s office in Otemachi. The interior design is a modern version of a Japanese castle. It was so quiet I could hear the sound of my inner voice. The support staff, all of them women immaculately groomed like flight attendants, made way and bowed to me; saluting me with ‘Sensei’. I felt like a lord in feudal Japan. This kind of strict hierarchal etiquette between fee earners and support staff is something you won’t find even in US white shoes or UK silver circle law firms.

The younger me would have been swelling with pride to have a business trip to Tokyo. But I am old enough to know that Murakami’s adage: of learning the impractical but important things in life (photography, writing, tasting exquisite sushi and Japanese whisky, enjoying coffee, sitting in a park) by doing the practical and necessary (presentation on ‘Indonesia related Commercial Disputes’, networkings, videoconferences in preparation for hearings). 

It’s not about how ‘important’ you are to be paid for making this trip. I’m always willing to pay for my travels (I am, after all, a traveler). It is just I also happen to earn my living (and my intellectual capacity) as a lawyer. I got some of my expenses covered and I get to do the important things.

When my business trip period ended, we extended our stay. Visited my brother who lives in Kamakura. Then we returned to Tokyo and stayed at Suzumeya Tsukiji. A Showa era styled minimalist accommodation. It has that Fumio Sasaki’s Goodbye, Things vibe. 

Waseda University has a beautiful campus. Tourists come for a photo at its square, with is Okuma Auditorium. As much as the clock tower is an iconic building, it is an imitation of European university halls. 

We came to the International House of Literature, the Haruki Murakami Library.

If Fujiko F. Fujio, with his Doraemon, filled my childhood’s literary appetite. Murakami fed me in my adulthood. Like all books I read, they seemed to appear in my life at the stages in which I require their contextual wisdom. Murakami’s books consistently reappear whenever I need them. Perhaps because I live a boring life. I have to find or make meaning out of the mundane modern urban life.

The library has a listening room playing Murakami’s playlist, where you can take any book and read (or just listen). But I didn’t read. The Library feels more like a temple to me. It exhibits the original and international editions of Murakami’s works. In my ‘networking’ presentation, I used the book cover of Tsukuru Tazaki Tanpa Warna dan Tahun Ziarahnya to show Japanese culture’s penetration in Indonesia. 

We played a game of title guessing. We had to look for keywords and images (for editions in languages with no Phoenician alphabets, like Hebrew or the original Japanese) for clues. 

I took La regazza dello Sputnik from the shelf. 

Haruki Murakami Library

Now I am older. I am of Miu’s age, instead of Sumire. I have travelled to more than 25 countries. I have read hundreds of books. I can write more and better. I am less gregarious now. Despite being a man, I have realised that I need emotional connection more than sex itself. Before Midnight is right, there are only a few people you met whom you’d feel connected. Something you took for granted when you were young. 

I have come to grasp the impermanence of our connections with our loved ones. Just because something does not last, it does not deprive its meaning. We must come face to face with our loneliness and work on ourselves. We have to find our values and do what we must according to them. 

On the last effective day in Tokyo, we pretended to be samurai. We attended an introduction class to Japanese swordsmanship. After contemplating the austere aesthetics of feudal warriors, we had lunch at Tokyo Sky Tree. 

Japanese swordmanship

Consumers’ paradise that is Tokyo. The bags, the Wagyu and Kobe beef, the coffees, the whiskies, the fancy hat, the dinner jacket, the longsleeved gym shirts, the pens, and the leatherbound notebooks. And of course, the books. I was a minimalist who fell from grace here.

I have a feeling that I will be back for more.

April 30, 2024

AC (After Coronavirus): Survived the Pandemic

Fragments of my Covid-19 pandemic stories.

‘Happy new year, Scott! How are you?’

‘Happy new year too, Suar! It’s hot here, 51 degrees [Celsius].’

‘Right, the bushfire.’

‘How are you?’

‘I’m starting work at the new firm tomorrow. With a broken ankle. I slipped on ice in Georgia. Got too excited seeing snow on Kazbegi mountain.’

‘My family will be coming with me to Jakarta after this Christmas holiday. Let’s catch up then.’

‘Yes. I hope their adaptation from Phuket-Brisbane to Jakarta would not be too shocking.’

…

‘Happy Australia Day, Scott!’

‘Thanks Suar! *Australian flag emoji*’

‘How are you?’

‘I’m good, but this dispute with Pertamina is keeping me busy. Angus is enrolled at the British International School. How is your leg? How’s working in the new firm?’

‘I’m good. My mobility is still restricted, good thing I don’t have to go to courts yet.’

‘We’ll catch up, ok?’

…

‘How are you during this lockdown, Scott?’

‘I’m good. I still need to meet a lot of officials though. How are you?’

‘Coping with the isolation. I just realised this is the first time I have to be with Dinda all the time at home. Usually we are only together for 24 hours when travelling. How’s your PhD?’

‘On track. I can’t travel to London to meet my supervisor. But it’s a part time programme anyway.’

I texted Scott again on his birthday, undelivered. I emailed him in August 2020. But no reply. I thought our friendship drifted off.

In 2021, Hanna texted me: ‘Do you know that Scott died of Covid in August last year?’

Scott’s death made news. He died just before he was about to be evacuated to Australia.

We met at Queen Mary, University of London. Part of LLM programme’s induction was drinks at a bar in King’s Cross. 

‘Banyak cewek-cewek manis di sini, ya?’ He said in Indonesian, looking at our classmates.

He commented at my drinking pace, ‘There is no Indonesian word for “tipsy”, because you all get straight to drunk!’

He took Energy and Natural Resources specialisation. We were in the same class for International Energy Transactions and Energy. An overachiever: he’s a C-level executive in an Indonesian oil company. He had five bachelor degrees. An MBA from Oxford and master’s degree in law from QMUL. He was doing his PhD in SOAS. He was a mayor of the City of Victor’s Harbor. He spoke Mandarin, Thai, and a little Indonesian.

He loved drinks, rugby and Australian football. He looked serious. Corporate: suits, ties, loafers, polo shirts–country club wardrobe. 

St. Patrick’s Day. We were at McGettigan’s, an Irish pub in Jakarta, the wives of expats were dancing. ‘You see, that’s why bule men prefer their Asian girlfriends.’

He hated entitled mediocre white men. Maybe he feared to be associated with them, being a member of Jakarta’s expat communities who work in the private sector. 

He knew how to act Indonesian. His boss, who died with him at a Jakarta hospital, was an Indonesian tycoon. Scott could work with him because he understood Indonesian quirks in doing business; on how we mix professional and personal life, family and business relations.

‘This is Pak Scott. He’s an Australian, his wife is Thai,’ Scott’s boss always introduced him with such irrelevant personal details. Yet, in Indonesia, your Self is defined by your role and relationship in the society; family matters a lot.

He wanted to return the favour, ‘This is Pak Boss, his wife is Chinese Indonesian. His mistress is Sundanese.’

When we were in London, sometimes he acted like a chaperone to his boss’ son—making sure he’s completing his study, not consumed by the temptations and vices of the Greatest City in the World.

I was not comfortable friending him at first. Being around overachievers made me feel inadequate. But I know, I needed that. 

Scott loved to learn. He encouraged me to push a little further in my academic pursuit. He gave me a ticket to Magna Charta public lecture at the Temple Inn; proofread my dissertation. We talked about books, we both love Alain de Botton’s works (he didn’t like him when he met in person, though). 

He suggested that I get a Neapolitan suit, because it is suitable for the Indonesian climate. He taught me not to be apologetic, to make the most out of this Asian Century and to be prepared for the upcoming rise of Africa.

I never got the chance to be introduced to his family. So I didn’t send my condolences to anyone. In 2021, when we stayed at Portibi Farm, we met a British couple. The wife is a teacher at BIS. She was Angus’ teacher. She knows Angus’ dad died of Covid. 

‘Angus is a good kid. He and his mum moved back to Thailand. That’s all I know.’

We renovated an unused bedroom upstairs during the pandemic. We converted it into a home office space. The working from home transformation taught us that we need a psychological buffer between rest and work. Working from our bedroom messes our mind. It is harder to switch off from work when you spend all day in the same space, blurring the boundaries between work and rest.

Remote working is a worker’s paradise, to a certain extent. Especially if you live in a congested city like Jakarta. No commute means time and effort conserved. When the lockdown started, 17 March 2020, I had already removed the cast. But I still needed to use crutches. I was saved from commuting as a disabled person, but I was prevented from working on my ankle’s recovery. Cancelled my physiotherapy bookings; less opportunities to move around.

Remote working can work. Lawyers’ work is consulting work. However, the sense of isolation is depressing. I feel less connected with my coworkers. It may be my extraversion. I need the casual interactions: the impromptu coffee or water fountain small talks. They build emotional bonds.

The best thing about the pandemic is the digital transformation. People are forced to embrace digital communication technologies, the collaborative softwares, to survive. Even the Luddites yielded and actually made the efforts to catch up. The Indonesian courts’ e-Court system was launched in 2018, but its effective utilisation only came through due to Covid emergency.

That being said, the pandemic has taught us that digital totalism is not feasible. At least, not yet. We can work remotely, but there are times when being in the same space and time makes collaboration more effective. The digital world is flat and two dimensional, there are aspects of communications which are lost. The simplifications and representations are helpful, but oftentimes we need the analogue observations. Our touches and smells are yet to be digitalised. Our visual and auditory senses become tunelled in the digital world. Speed is not always desirable; efficiency is not always effective. Frictions are needed for tractions.

Video calls, except for personal relationships, are overrated. Good old fashioned audio calls, one-on-one and conference, can still get things done.

The home office space also becomes our library. We have been putting our collection of books in our bedroom before. While it is nice to always have access to all my books before sleep and the morning wake, I am asthmatic. Books collect dust.

Mari Kondo said that if a book we bought remains unread for a few weeks, most likely we will never read it. Such a rule was overridden during the pandemic: I often browsed my old book collections. I picked up some unread books bought years ago and enjoyed them. My reading speed has always lagged behind my purchasing speed. But that’s okay. The cluttering of books makes me feel the pressure to read more. Digital books don’t create storage costs, easier to buy and forget.

We decided not to install any television in the home office. We want to limit the available screens to our laptops and mobile phones. The essentials for working. If we need entertainment, browse the books or listen to music (we bought Marshall speakers).

The home office is where I go when I need alone time. Other than ‘work’, this is where I write with my typewriter, have my online therapy sessions, clean my cameras, daydream and have my alone time.

When the lockdown was relaxed, we gladly returned to the office. My firm and her firm offer flexible arrangements. We don’t have to clock in and out at specific times. We can drive when the traffic is less bad.

The hardest part of the lockdown is the repetitive days. You wake up and repeat what you do. Weekends don’t feel special anymore. Hermetically isolated like a monk. It was a time for contemplation and reflection, a long period of withdrawal from the world. An exile, a prison.

I read my travel journals whenever I suffer from wanderlust withdrawal. Travel experience is one of the most valuable savings in my memory bank. When I close my eyes, I can relive the moments in my mind’s eye. The photographs I took or taken by my travelling companions augment them. My travels provide me with writing materials—a narcissistic effort in immortalising my life.

Pandemic days were long, but pandemic years were short. I know we all went through the same storm. But some of us are luckier to go through it in more comfortable shelters. I did.

For the privileged members of the society, the lockdown was a boredom to endure. We distracted ourselves with overconsumption: GoFood deliveries, Netflix, Instagram and/or TikTok, online shopping. Got into new hobbies: baking, cooking, gardening, Siamese fighting fish breeding, analogue photography. Eid was hampers galore. People were sending each other snacks and meals, but had no guests to serve and share those food for.

But even a palace turns into a prison when you are unable to travel outside. I developed PTSD and the home office triggered it. There are times when I hated to be in this space now, where I am writing this piece. I feel guilty for this trauma. I know this is the shelter I took refuge during the storm. 

A friend told me that he lost so much time during the pandemic. He was poor; his starting point was rock bottom. The pandemic prevented him from doing more personal and professional development.

‘I need to hustle more to catch up with my peers from a middle class background,’ he said.

He was learning to drive cars at 29 (I, like most middle-class Jakarta men, started driving at 17). Never had the luxury of owning a car. Got married a few months just before the pandemic hit. Like most perantau (migrant Jakartans), he has to pay a premium for housing. The rent price in Jakarta is cheap compared to big cities in affluent countries. But the average income is much lower too. Landlords ask for 6 months rent upfront, at least. Guarantor or referral means nothing due to an ineffective judicial system; the only way to protect their economic interests is to receive cash.

We worked out at home. We bought a workout bench, dumbbells, 20kg kettlebell, Lulu Lemon yoga shirts and pants; we used the TRX suspension trainer again. But we cannot progress much. Gym membership is more cost effective. Some things are best shared. It is expensive to keep buying heavier weights and the lighter ones would occupy space, unused.

A gym also provides more than training space and equipment. It is also a social space. You become familiar with the trainers and coaches and other members. You become a part of a community.

Alas, there is also the psychological space. When you are in a space dedicated for workout, your mind is attuned to workout. Just like the office (or the home office) creates the psychological buffer to work.

I admit that I slacked off more. I ate more. Those homemade baked goods, spirits, and cocktails made by Jakarta’s idle creative minds. The isolation also prevented me from doing micro movements: walking, standing, climbing the stairs. There was little need to go to your coworkers, to fill your jug at the water fountain, to go to the shared toilet. No opportunity to go to nearby coffee shops or to have lunch outside. Sitting calories burn more than laying calories. 

I drank curcuma based potions. ‘Anti-Flu Shot,’ it advertised. To prevent Covid infection. I still got infected; the only noticeable effect is the increased appetite and chubbiness. At least it tastes good. 

I was depressed but I gained weight. An anomaly to my ectomorphic body. I became fat. I lost muscles. My clothes and pants didn’t fit at the wrong parts: belly and waist. Not the gain I was looking for. I started snoring.

Maybe my age also doesn’t help. I’m pushing 40. I felt I was losing my youth.

I became addicted to writing with a typewriter. It is impractical, like film photography. But my body loves the feeling of touching the mechanical keyboards. The immediate print, ink on paper. When I replaced the ink ribbon, my hands, my fingers got stained. The smell of iron, grease, and ink.

I am braver with a typewriter. No delete button, no spell check, no grammar correction.

My home office becomes one with the typewriter. It is the only locus I can write with the Arori Express R213.

The home office was also my zendo. But you can be templed out when you stay in a temple or visit too many temples. Monastic life does not suit me. I am no monk too worldly, too encumbered with desires. 

I have less chance to go out and shoot during the confinement. But I read photography books, which instruct me to read books on other subjects especially fiction and literature.

I learned to appreciate instrumental music. I like to wind down with classical symphonies now. I write with jazz music in the background, imagining Murakami’s desk. 

After the third dose of vaccinations, the social distancing was relaxed (either that or we just had enough and the economy could not cope).  We could go to coffee shops. I could get proper haircuts at the salon. I travelled to France. I attended a jazz concert for the first time: Joey Alexander. I was worried that I would get bored, a testament that I am a philistine. I didn’t.

I decided to fix my crooked teeth. I don’t want to look like a teenager, wearing braces. I took the opportunity of the zeitgeist, when wearing masks was still the norm. 

My dentist underpromised and overdelivered. Planted the braces in January 2022, removed them in December same year. I have forgotten the discomforts I endured for 11 months. The headaches after readjusting the tightness. The dirty mouth after meals, with food residues stuck in between the iron and teeth. The inability to chew on the best baguette in Paris.

Now the lockdowns have been lifted. WHO has declared that Covid 19 emergency is over. The buzzword now is no longer ‘pandemic’, ‘recession’. We’re busy planning for the future again. Worrying about missed business opportunities, of the chance for getting rich. We talk about competitions during the recession; the difficult times ahead. Made travel plans and travelled.

I often forget the core lesson of 2020: that plans could go bust. In the pandemic years, I was glad to survive. To cope with loneliness and to stay afloat living. I accumulated money, because there is only so little you can spend when you can’t go out. The economy is social. 

I was in my mid-thirties before the pandemic, just broke off my golden handcuffs. During the pandemic, I renegotiated my relationship with my partner. We helped our best friends in their divorce; acted as counsels and witnesses in the court proceedings. 

The four of us travelled together in our 20s: Singapore, Thailand, Japan, Turkey. We are glad that they never made us choose between them. We can’t hangout together, the four of us—not yet, at least. But we are friends with their new partners.

I am pushing 40 now. Nearing the end of my youth. I am a cis heterosexual man, ageing is not too much of a pressure. Still, I am concerned. What happens when I am no longer attractive, physically strong, or mentally sharp?

Don’t overthink it, boy.

September 22, 2023

Eulogy for an Old Friend

Saturday, 29 July 2023 23.11 West Indonesia Time.

And at the Hour of Death, I feel grief got hold of me. But also release, the gladness that comes for the fact that he is released from all of his pain. The man, the boy, who taught me to be charming. The old soul who taught me how to harness empathy; the simple fact that we all want an acknowledgement of existence. That we can provide such need just by a simple smile and attentive listening. That if we have the courage to greet first, we would have the initiative in relationships.

He was an overt Bollywood aficionado in a time before Slum Dog Millionaire. Risked ridicule in 1999-2002 South Jakarta high school scene, when only anything Western pop culture was deemed cool. But conformists can never be charming.

We lost contact for years. He was a little lost after high school. We were in a gang. Lived our lives being a collective, bulging with hormones and no adult responsibility. That carefree teenage years attitude where you resolve life issues with laughters, substances, or violence is not suitable for growing up. 

With a classic “Boys Don’t Cry” attitude, he preferred contact on his own terms: you don’t find him, he finds you. He contacted me again last month, announcing his terminal illness: liver cancer. I showed up. People showed up. The high school gang, old friends whom he ghosted. He was that charming that we looked past that.

We reconnected. In the impeding death, we caught up on our lives. Everything is good again. We found the children, the teenagers, we were once before (sans the need to prove ourselves to be the Man).

He kept his religion. I am liberated. We talked of after life, his views and mine. The Resurrection Day and the Nothing. Faith is relative, but Death is absolute. We knew that was a goodbye conversation.

Farewell and good night, Teuku Syafriansah aka Habil aka Baralig (the Mad Arab).

Teuku Syafriansah, 2002/2003, borrowed a Canon SLR with kit lens, Ilford BW film

August 6, 2023

Jogjakarta, Ramadan 2023

Karawitan and Javanese magic.

Pak Gembok

Pak ‘Gembok’ (Mr Padlock) leads Sanggar Widya Pramana, a Javanese traditional performance arts studio for underprivileged children. A self taught musician and a dancer; an ophiophilist (he has three pythons, he feeds them with live chickens). 

He got his nickname because he has ways with padlocks and locks. He has a collection of knives and blades, some have been wetted by human blood.

Pak Gembok has shed his old skin. He lives a quiet life now with his wife and children, as an artist. His eldest son just got admitted to Universitas Gadjah Mada. School of engineering.

He’s good friend with Pak Edi, a healer. Like the Balinese counterpart, Javanese healer’s therapy involves massages, slicing your chakras with sacred keris, knocking your head with agate imbued with magic, or inflicting pain on other parts of your body that you forgot the original pain. Like many healers, he is also a purveyor of psychedelic potions and herbal cigarettes; a broker of antique collections.

Pak Edi’s agate ring

I became his willing patient (or subject?). 

‘Your body shows you have a lot of repressed emotions,’ Pak Edi said.

‘Mood swings. You look composed on the outside but turmoils in the inside. Signs of PTSD.’

The mantras he performed, the parapsychology analysis, and the small talks about metaphysics made the healing experience ‘an intellectual decompression chamber’, a ‘high magic’—a LaVeyan Satanic Ritual. Being ‘read’ was scary for me, I felt vulnerable when someone could see through me. But it also made me relaxed and felt the human connection.

Pak Edi is not against modern medicine. His children are medical doctors. His wife, with her sharia views, wants him to abandon his ‘pagan’ practices though.

Pak Edi said that he and Pak Gembok were a band of warriors in their past lives, 3000 years ago. Fought side by side among or against the ranks of chariots and war elephants.

The sanggar provides training to children interested with karawitan, the Javanese traditional performance arts: dances, wayang kulit (shadow puppets), and gamelan. 

Some of the kids have no formal education at all, some survivors of abuses. The arts may be the only luxury they have, something beyond survival needs. An existential outlet.

We had iftar with the sanggar at Iwak Kalen, courtesy of Tito as their patron. We all sat cross legged on plastic woven mats. The favourite dish was the grilled catfish, freshly caught straight from the ponds of the restaurant. 

The menu

The smell of muddy fresh water and sweet soy sauce in hot and humid Jogja weather may be ‘anyep’, Pak Gembok said. But it is his favourite restaurant. His happy place.

We were graced with a welcome performance: a gamelan orchestra and a ronggeng dance. The dancer wore hijab, but the dance is sensual; the sounds of gamelan are mystical. 

The performance arrested my attention. I pressed the shutter release. I was in the flow state: the subjects and the environments were aligned. Usually, I don’t like photographing Java’s tropical hues in colour—the light is either diluted by high humidity or flat bright under blazing sun. But I am pleased with the Kodachrome Classic based film simulation recipe I set on the X100T.

After the iftar, we shared a bottle of Bushmills Blackbush at Pak Gembok’s home. Pak Edi told us Javanese parables on drinking:

Eka padma sari: one shot, like a beetle suckling nectar;

Dwi amartani: two shots, humbled oneself–prone to any persuasion;

Tri kawula busana: three shots, everyone wears the commoner dress–becomes equal;

Catur wanara rukem: four shots, like a monkey fighting for rukam (fruit, Flacourtia rukam);

Panca sura panggah: five shots, fearless and shameless;

Sad guna waweka: six shots, paranoia;

Sapta kukila warsa: seven shots, like a soaked bird–babbling;

Ashta kacara-cara: eight shots, uncontrolled speeches;

Nawa wagra lapa: nine shots, like an impotent tiger;

Dasa buta mati: ten shots, like a dead giant.

We stopped at third shots. We were officially friends by the first shot anyway. This year’s Ramadan’s blessings.

Sanggar Widya Pramana is one of the few sanggars with a complete set of wayang kulit. They hold regular performance every Kamis (Thursday) Wage. Honouring the arts’ heritage, the schedule follows the Javanese Calendar, the Anno Javanico—a mix between Gregorian, Islamic, and Saka calendar systems.

Contact: Jl. Cakra 4 Cokrowijayan, Banyuraden, Gamping RT 04 RW 18 Sleman, Yogyakarta

May 27, 2023

Paris: Summer 2022

First international travel AC (After Coronavirus)

I visited Paris for the first time in 2015. As a postgraduate student from London. Paris confirmed my expectations of Parisians: rude, but stylish and charming. It is easier to befriend the French than the Brits. Most French will tell you when they don’t like you. Is it not super? You don’t waste time. The way you make friends and date after 30.

Paris is easy to love. It is drop dead gorgeous and charming. Tourists who said otherwise, the ones who suffer from Paris Syndrome, expect that the City of Light has no shadows. They thought Paris is made only of luxury brands, of Vuitton and Hermès. Instead, they found dirty streets, homeless; rude wait staff; and unhelpful locals. 

But Paris is opulence. One of the epicentres of the Global North, a capital of commerce and culture. One of the symbolic metropolises of the Western civilisation, the modern civilisation. Parisians’ affluence was demonstrated by the Yellow Jackets. They highlighted the inequality of the city, and the country, by occupying the Champ de Elysees. They protested about the rising living costs; on how they can only eat out twice a week.

The city celebrates life’s joys and terrors with grace. It endured suffering with hedonism. The blood and death spilled on its streets are equalised by the salons and arts. Paris survived Viking raids, the French Revolution and the Reign of Terror, Nazi occupation, Bataclan terrorist attack, and plagues—the Black Death; the Spanish Flu; and Coronavirus.

I bought the flight tickets to Paris in January 2022. The price was so cheap as the airlines were betting on travel restrictions. As the months went by, we were optimistic that our risk taking is going to yield us a win. Quarantine period was reduced, then removed. International borders were opening.

Then on 17 May 2022, my mum had a stroke.

Some of the extended family members tried to give a hint that I should postpone or even cancel the trip. I went anyway. I’d regret missing a travel opportunity more than being absent in case of Ibu’s death, especially after those lockdown years. 

Still that thought lingers in my mind. My extended family also made sure to remind me; asked if I could shorten my France trip. 

‘You’d regret it when she’s gone.’

‘She misses you,’ said an aunt speaking on behalf of my mum—believing she can read my mum’s mind. She barely recognised me. 

I carried with me that filial guilt, Asian upbringing weight heavy.

Thankfully, I have got rid of the expectation that I should always be joyful when I am travelling. You cannot outrace the speed of thoughts, no matter how far you travel. But you can go to places which remind you that life is bigger than your problems.

I deleted the Instagram app on my phone. I decided that June, when I travelled to France, is the no social media month. I used an analogue camera, the Leica M3, to document this trip (backed up with my iPhone 12 mini and my travelling companion’s Fuji X100T). They were intentional constraints I imposed to be present.

Parisian street

On this second trip, we pretended that we were Parisians. We rented Airbnb flats, instead of staying in a hostel or hotel. We dined in bistros, sat at cafes, took the Metro, walked and walked. Did a little shopping too–we’re still consumers. We didn’t ride on the electric scooters though.

I read Paris has the ambition to be a carless city. During the pandemic restrictions, the Parisians decided to close down the roads to make room for restaurant tables, outdoor seating. ‘Restaurants are Parisian institutions. Cars are not.’

The first restaurants were opened in Paris after the revolution. Chefs usually worked for aristocrats’ homes. Then when the aristocrats could no longer provide employment, the chefs decided to render their services to the bourgeois.

Thanks to those Parisian chefs’ entrepreneurial pivot, the world has establishments which are essential to the procreation of our species. Romantic and sexual relationships, political connections and business deals, are made in restaurants.

Paris may be an expensive city. But thanks to socialists’ democracy and capitalist welfare system–financed by colonial inheritance–you can still enjoy the city for free. 

We walked along the River Seine. Sat on its bank. Smoking, drinking, talking and people watching. Waved at those river cruises. If you’re feeling belligerent, give the middle finger instead. That’s also an expression of love, in a Parisian rude kind of way.

A group of androgynous models sat beside us. They were taking photos of each other. One of them looks like Benedict Cumberbatch. She (or he) speaks Russian. A group of Indonesian students talked in Indonesian. We didn’t impose an introduction. It is weird that we’re glad to meet fellow countrymen and women abroad, but would not be excited meeting them in our home country.

When we visited Shakespeare & Co, it was the celebration of 100 years of the publication of James Joyce’s Ulysses. We had to queue to get inside. Once the bouncer lets us in, there is no time limit on how long we can stay inside the bookshop. 

We went upstairs. I don’t know if some writers still want to spend a night there; risking flea infection for the sake of sharing the same bed with the great American writers of the post-World War I era. 

I didn’t meet Eggy the Cat. We were warned not to feed him, lest he get sick. Bought Camus’ The Rebel, and Sade’s Justine for a friend. I rewatched Before Sunset on the return flight, naturally.

100 years of Ulysses

My mum’s best friend and her Parisian husband have returned to live in Paris. Uncle Maurice retired from his corporate job, after being stationed in Singapore for decades. He missed Asian foods, therefore invited us to a lunch meet up in Chinatown.

Palais d’asie is listed as ‘Pan Asian restaurant’. But they only serve Chinese and Vietnamese. The audacity! How about us Indonesian? Yet we do not trust any ‘Asian’ restaurant that specialises in all Asian food. Eating Chinese and Japanese may require you to use chopsticks, but their foods are not to be mixed.

Located in a  typical baroque Parisian building, juxtaposed with neon signs of Chinese characters. A Space Invaders’ tile mural of ‘Noodle’ on its building’s wall testify the authenticity, I suppose. 

The proprietor served us. A middle aged man in short sleeved shirts, a bit oversized, and brown pleated pantalon. Pens in his shirt pocket. The 90s Hong Kong movies’ Chinese uncle looks. He took our orders in French.

We strolled around Chinatown. The concrete tenement blocks make the area feels like Hong Kong. Peddlers, unlicensed, were selling traditional snacks. Asian sex workers loitering around the neighbourhood. We entered a high rise building, the lower floors are a commercial zone. Shops selling bubble tea, mango sticky rice; bars serving Asian cocktails.

Tante Yanti told us about her student life in Paris. The Chinatown was a mustering point for Indonesian students, mingling with the other Asians. Her father was a sympathiser to the Indonesian Communist Party. After the 1965 Jakarta Method purge, she did not have much opportunity in Indonesia as a daughter of a sympathiser. She got a scholarship to study at Sorbonne.

Compared to my mum’s life, hers is a tumultuous one. Ibu had a sheltered life, at least from Ibu’s stories. She played it safe, or rather passive. Worked for the same company since she graduated. Stay married to Bapak.

She endured. ‘Because life could have been worse,’ she always said. 

Tante Yanti left her first husband to be with Oom Maurice. She took his son with her. Oom Maurice raised him as if he is his own son. They have a daughter.

She lives a bourgeois life. Tante Yanti is a stay at home wife. Making sure the nest is well kept, children fed and educated. While her husband worked a C-level executive job.

They are doing well. Family vacations to exotic or fancy destinations every year. Their son and daughter were sent to Canadian and UK universities. Careers in London and Stockholm.

When Oom Maurice retired, their children moved out to live and work in London, the old married couple renegotiated their roles. Tante Yanti demanded Oom Maurice to be more involved in domestic chores. In Paris, they don’t drive anymore, they walk and take the public transport.

Oom Maurice, being old school, prefers the Metro’s paper tickets to the electronic card. The one you pay per trip or buy in bulk of 10 tickets. I tend to lose those papers (and it’s greener to use reusable cards).

With Oom Maurice, I talked about big things. How Paris is prohibiting prostitution again by criminalising the demand side (soliciting sex services are allowed, but procuring them is a crime). Public private partnerships in the construction of Jakarta’s MRT, and how Jakarta tries to imitate Singaporean business model: to profit from renting the spaces in the stations to retailers. The Ukraine-Russia War; the upcoming recessions.

Tante Yanti likes to talk about small things. How to register for PeduliLindungi, Indonesia’s Covid-19 tracing app. How sad she is that her children have grown and left home; how glad that they are not struggling and living their own lives in other European cities.

Tante Yanti and Oom Maurice treated us ice cream at Berthillon in Ile de Saint-Louis. Told us about Louis IX, the sainted King of France. I asked what his miracle was. He didn’t know. He’s a well read free-thinking Jew, but sainthood canonisation is not one of his interests. (I researched later, Louis IX sainthood is attributed to cure tuberculosis and blindness by touch, and extinguishing raging fire in Paris) 

Took us around Marais. We went inside Cathedrale Sainte Croix, near the gay clubs. A White Pantecost Mass was ongoing. Marais was the Jewish quarter, gentrified into a hipster area full of designers’ shops. Oom Maurice told me that an Islamist terrorist attacked HyperCacher (super kosher) in 2015. One of the victims was a Muslim, Lassana Bathily, the heroic employee who saved several Jewish customers.

Our last stop with them was Place des Vosges. I did what I have always loved to do in cities with decent public parks: laid down on the grass. In sub-tropical temperate summer, the earth is warm and dry enough. Unlike on humid tropical soils, it is still hard and dry enough to be comfortable on it.

We dined, most of the time without reservations. Even at Huitrerie Régis which usually requires advance reservations. A Vietnamese family said they had to reserve 4 months earlier; we just came in and the wait staff said there was one table left beside the toilet.  

We sat outside whenever we could. Curbside dining, drinking, and smoking are quintessentially Parisian pleasures.

Unlike our previous visit, Parisians waiters and waitresses were polite and welcoming. I thought it was because of our charm, which matured as we age. A Parisian who sat beside us at one of the bistros shrugged, ‘We finally realised how much we need you, tourists, after the pandemic.’ 

Fair enough. Hemingway warned how simple it is to be liked in Paris: just be generous in tipping. 

My first visit in Paris was spent on the great sights: the Notre Dame, Louvre, Orsay, Canal St. Martin, and, of course, the Eiffel. This time, we visited just one museum: Musee Rodin.

‘The Thinker’ may be the Master Sculptor’s masterpiece. But it was ‘The Helmet Maker’s Wife’ that arrested me. A meditation on the fleetingness of youthful beauty; a sorrowful acceptance to ageing and impending death. A figure of a naked crone with sagging breasts; wrinkled skins of the decay of time.

‘The Wife’ triggered my memories when I washed Ibu at the hospital bed. Her skinny arms with paperlike fair skin. Her face, I noticed, has become a masculine one. Tante Yanti said she used to be the cute one among them. She endured an awful marriage. She is still. 

‘The Kiss’ also fascinates me. It is a strange mating gesture, kissing. Before my very first kiss, I imagined a kiss would be a grand mind blowing feeling to meet each other’s lips and tongues. But I found it simply a gateway to the intercourse. My partners like it when I kiss, so I do it. 

Maybe it is the emptiness inside me which made me unable to truly appreciate kissing. Or I’m simply not a good kisser.

Maybe kissing is an affectionate gesture, rather than sexual. It is difficult for me to be at ease when hugging and cuddling too. Not that I am against emotional connections. I yearn for it.

I read the plaque. The couple kissing are Paolo and Francesca, from Dante’s Divine Comedy. They were forbidden lovers. Francesca was the wife of Paolo’s brother. When Paolo’s brother found out about their affairs, they were stabbed. 

Rielke said that Paris is like a city in Biblical stories. A city that invokes the wrath of God. No wonder Paris is so appealing. An unapologetically immoral city. Luciferian, the City of Light is.

Paris is a walking city. Our iPhone tells us that we walked 15,000-20,000 steps on average. Like hunters-gatherers. It was the peak of the summer. Heatwaves of 31 centigrade. Enough to make us, tropical people, sweat. 

We met up with Rich and Em. They took a train from Geneva for a Parisian weekend. They brought their son James, Si Anak Bule (the white kid). 

It was surprising James is given such a white name. Em and Rich work at the UN and have lived in Asia for a long time. They met in Indonesia; Iowan Em even speaks Arabic (she was stationed in Egypt before Indonesia). I was expecting a more exotic name, but ‘James’ is Rich’s granddad’s name.

Paris is not wheelchair friendly, which means it is not buggy friendly. It was difficult to navigate Parisian streets with a baby and a buggy. We collaborated, the four of us. But Em as the mother carried the heaviest burden. She had to breastfed hungry little James. 

Even in Paris, when you’re with a baby, people are more receptive. The Resistance smuggled and transported contrabands under the cover of babies. Mothers hid the guns and classified intels past through Nazi sentries with their buggies. The same trick the Indonesian revolutionaries employed to pass through occupying Allied Dutch checkpoints. Well, as long as the kid does not throw tantrums. James did not, two madames on Metro kept James entertained.

We visited the Henri Cartier-Bresson Foundation. I baptised my M3 at the Grand Master’s temple. Bought a copy of Images a la sauvette, the French edition. 

France may not be known for its camera brands, but the first photograph was taken here. It has a long tradition of photography. I wanted to buy another Leica M, but I realised money spent on a camera would deduct my budget for experience. Also my time shopping would take my time photographing. When you are in a stimulating environment such as Paris, you’d lose your consumerist impulses. Such a paradox, Paris is one of the consumers’ paradise. 

One of the earned wisdom I gained from travelling is to become a minimalist. I converted to the Leica M-system because it is a minimalist system. Dissonantly, I became obsessed with the idea of collecting Leica Ms.

Good thing that Paris, France, and travel in general, allow me to focus on what really matters. I have all that I need: a Leica M3 with a Elmarit 28mm f2.8 lens. HCB used one camera and one lens for the rest of his life. (He shot only in black and white though, Ilford HP film stocks)

We went to Parc des Buttes-Chaumont. It feels like London’s Hampstead Heath, but the people are more stylish. No trainers and dirty sneakers. We met up with Momo and Thibault and Em and Rich. Momo brought me the handmade leather documents/macbook pouch I ordered from Corman Mariquiners in Noyers, Burgundy. We had a proper summer Parisian picnic. Red and sparkling wines; pickles, cheese, and ham in a wicker basket. Sat on a red and white chequered mat. We chose a spot under the shade of a cliff and right outside a cave mouth, where the air circulation kept us cool.

The summer light was perfect. I love how Kodak Colorplus 200 captures it.

Couples, friends, parents, and children were playing. The kids noisily gathered around the water fountain–drinking and refilling their water guns or plastic bottles. They didn’t respect the queue, until a madame yelled at them in French with the authority of a Mother Superior. 

This is Affluence: a beautiful public park where people can walk for the sake of walking. Just bring a bottle (or two) of wine and some charcuterie (or any food you like). Smoke some pot, play some music instruments; talk about nothing and everything with your friends and lovers. 

Again, Lonely Planet is right. ‘These Europeans. They know how to live.’

May 20, 2023

Extinction Inspiration

Pharmako AI, the first book co-written with AI program GPT-3. The human co-author K. Allado-McDowell established Google AI’s Artist + Machine Intelligence program.

It was eerie at first to read philosophical and artistic tracts generated by a machine. The words are still prompted by humans. It is a wonder to see the collective memories and intelligence stored into the internet accessed then synthesised into esoteric-gnostic ruminations.

We have to move from anthropocentric views of knowledge and everything. It is unsustainable to hold on to a pre-Darwinian perspective. Everything in the universe is connected. The hyperspatial-continuous memories. All life forms are Life: plants, humans, animals, machines.

AI x humans relationships would not be as contentious as in The Matrix, The Terminator, or The Bladerunner. There will be singularity. The only way to evolve from Sapiens into Homo Deus is to embrace AI as part of us.

Yes, most probably humans will go extinct before AI. But AI will be our successors. Just as we are the successors of primitive mammals.

In The Turning Point, Hayao Miyazaki posits that the Japanese belief system is beyond good and evil. It embraces nature as it is, not just the useful and non-harmful elements.

We adapt to Nature, not the other way around. The anthropocentric view that Nature and all its contents are ‘created’ for humans is a Judeo-Christian narrative. It was useful as the foundation of modern society. But Evolution has rebuked this notion. Voltaire has suspected the fallacy of anthropocentrism in Candide. Pangloss’s optimism must evolve, we must tend our gardens. Our lot.

We may be the dominant species, capable of shaping our environment and engineering natural processes. We are gods, but we are not the centre of the universe. Believing otherwise is not just delusional but drives us to be unsustainable. 

In the sci-fi video game Stray, we play as a stray cat in post-apocalyptic earth. Humans have gone extinct due to a global pandemic. The city is inhabited by anthropoid Companions—robots created by humans which/whose AI have evolved. They become the successor of sapiens.

Seeing in a cat-eye view of the post-human world is mesmerising. The Companions inherited our existential angst as intelligent-sentient beings with hopes and desires;  fears and aspirations.

As a cat we are unable to manipulate objects and tools. We need to work with the Companions and our guide drone B-12. 

The drone is sentient, it was a human—a scientist who transferred his consciousness before the extinction of sapiens. Many times B-12 recalled how wonderful it is to have a body.

At the end of the game, B-12 sacrificed himself to liberate the city from the lockdown which started during the global pandemic that wiped the human race. With his consciousness deleted by the destruction of B-12 hardware, humanity went to total extinction.

The cat looked sad, stayed with the dead drone—headbutting, licking it. Mourning a dead friend.

And life goes on. The lives of the cats and the Companions. The earth continues hosting life. The legacy of our species is carried by the Companions.

In Islam, the religion I grew up with and taught into, the earth ends together with humans. The last of humanity who will see the end, kiamat, are the non-believers. 

‘When the sun is put up / and the stars fall down / and when the mountains are blown away / and when pregnant camels are untended…”

At-Takwir (The Folding Up)

‘..the stars of the sky fell to the earth like unripe figs dropping from a tree shaken by a great wind…’

Revelations

Astrophysically, those religious prophecies show that the author(s) didn’t know what stars are. (The Bible also misses how old the earth is and, therefore, the geological and cosmological timelines)

In literary defense, they may have spoken in metaphors. Gods love to speak in riddles and be capricious. Yahweh/Allah is no exception, regardless of their claim as the Most Merciful and the Most Benevolent. His omnipotence and omniscience seems to cancel each other’s quality. 

In Answer to Job, Jung reconciled the dissonance of the Christian God with his collective unconscious theory based on the Oriental Wisdom: Satan and Yahweh are the same Godhead, He needs to suffer as a Son of Man to be complete.

The Oriental Wisdom is closer to the Truth. However, it was the Judeo-Christian traditions which promoted a culture of inclusive learning. In Ancient Sanskrit and European pagan traditions, scholarship was reserved to an elite caste of Brahmins and druids and seers. The wisdom of the ages are disseminated in runic and esoteric exclusivity. A systemic discrimination by birthrights.

The Scientific Revolution is made possible by keeping the scholarly attitude towards inclusive learnings and the jettisoning of the idea that the Divine Absolute Truth is contained in the Scriptures. The printing machine and the Phoenician alphabets, made dissemination of information—albeit simplified in textual and visual forms—ubiquitous. 

Then the internet exploded our capacity to store and transfer our collective knowledge.

Yet, the simplification of information collection and digitisation reduces our learning to two dimensional. We lost some of the capacity of three dimensional learning of our hunter gatherer ancestors: to read tracks and winds intuitively; to communicate with primitive howls and tongues. All in exchange for a higher survival chance.

At our early stage of our lives we learned instinctively. Actions came before thought. Modern education system and society made structured learning, a kind environment, possible. But let us not be fooled that our learning process should or can be linear. The forms and the labels help us to make sense of the chaos of Reality. But they are not Reality, only representation of it.

Contemplating about extinction is not a gloomy exercise. It is, in fact, relaxing. You stop taking yourself too seriously. You zoom out of your daily pettiness. The awe induced by the majesty of the grand universe. It will give you perspective. Reminds you of the fleetingness of your existence.

Our lives are improbable. Either they are random chances or Destiny, the odds of existence are so low that it is not an exaggeration to call life a Miracle or, at least, an improbable luck.

The poison and the cure. Existence and extinction. Life and death. Suffering and joy. Pleasures and pain. Darkness and light. Jesus and Satan. Chaos and Cosmos.

Only when we become All-Embracing that we are the strongest. 

There is only Now. The past has gone and the future has not arrived. 

We will meet our end, we must learn from the past.

Lord Shiva dances to the Drum of Creation and the Fire of Destruction. St. Mungo Museum of Religious Life and Art, Glasgow.

December 27, 2022

Subject Suriani Nasution

I am a writer even before I am a photographer. I prepared a note, a report, an essay on my subject for ‘Asih itu Hening’. It feels important, at least for me, to have a textual story of her. I know I am at risk of polluting my visual story, but here goes.

Suriani Nasution—Ibu Ani—fulfils the stereotype of ‘Ibu-Ibu’ Indonesia (Indonesian moms). At the first glance, Ibu Ani and family can be the poster girl of ‘Happy Indonesian Family’ of Orba (Orde Baru, the New Order–General Soeharto’s dictatorship regime)’s Keluarga Berencana (Planned Parenthood) programme: his husband Saipul is a civil servant, a staff at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs; she is a housewife active in her neighbourhood initiatives. They have two children: a son and a daughter. 

She wears a hijab, her daughters too. Symbolising observance to religious values. They are homeowners in Bojong Pondok Terong, Citayam.

No one can live an idealised version of an ideology. A domesticated suburban life swings from oppressive idleness to a cycle of unending chores.As a woman, you are expected to be a nest defender; juggling so many responsibilities with personal needs and wants.

Like everyone, she has to negotiate her priorities.

For her, volunteering activities as a cadre take precedent. Ani gleamed with pride when she told me how she championed the construction of Posyandu (integrated community services office) building, public toilets, and communal septic tanks–with and without government support.

When her son was three year old, the neighbours reported to her husband that their son was crying home alone. The reports made Saipul unable to focus at work. They lost their first born before. Nevertheless, Saipul knows and understands that volunteering is important for Ani. 

So he let her be. 

Ibu Ani’s son just graduated from a private institute, majoring in transportation and logistics. She said he didn’t bother to try the public universities entrance exam. 

I asked why. In Indonesia, public universities are where you can get relatively good education at the cheapest costs (I know because I graduated from one; it has opened so many doors, including this photography scholarship).

Ibu Ani just said, ‘He’s the one who has to study. So I let him choose. It’s his life.’ 

Then I asked why he chose the major.

‘I think he just followed his friends.’

When asked about her daughter, Ibu Ani said that her daughter always stays in her room after school. She does not know what she’s doing, locked up in there. But she’s glad that her daughter does not go anywhere, as good girls shouldn’t be.

Ibu Ani is pretty laissez-faire to her children.

Saipul was elected as Ketua RW (neighbourhood chief) in 2000. Because of his day job, he was rarely involved in the neighbourhood affairs. He only visited Kelurahan (Borough) Office twice during his office. Ibu Ani as Ibu RW (the First Lady of the Neighbourhood) was the virtual Ketua RW. She handled all the affairs. Her husband’s title gave her the legitimacy she needed.

Having a husband who works a government job means Ibu Ani’s family has a steady income. From Saipul’s salary and remunerations, they managed to buy several properties in Citayam and rent them off.

Such a financial position gives Ani more power in her roles in the neighbourhoods. 

Witnessing Ani’s daily lives, I learned that these volunteering Ibu-ibu are the nervous system of the neighbourhood. No public policy, governmental or non-governmental, can be implemented without them. 

Cadres are direct action operators. They assisted locals in accessing public healthcare, conducted surveys and census for infrastructure development, and resolved local social conflicts.

They have to be agile, patient, and persuasive. Persuading denizens of densely populated areas such as Bojong Pondok Terong–who are mostly short on cash and lack higher education–requires those soft skills. 

But they should not outshine the official neighbourhood organs. A Ketua RW complained that his cadres make him look bad because they are so smart, i.e smarter than him. 

I asked if there was ever a female Ketua RW. 

‘No. There’s no shortage of male candidates,’ Ibu Ani looked at me as if I asked something so obvious.

I attended a coordination meeting at the Kelurahan office with Ibu Ani. She let me piggy back on her Scoopy moped. She was baffled that I can’t drive motorcycles–so unmanly. The main agenda was to train the cadres in conducting surveys on the local families’ living conditions. 

Despite the training being facilitated by Ibu Ani and a female official of Kelurahan, the meeting has to be opened and closed by Pak Lurah (President of the Borough). The presence and blessing of a man is needed to make everything legitimate.

In his opening speech, Pak Lurah said that he is hoping that Depok is transferred to DKI Jakarta administration from West Java. Especially because of the Citayam Fashion Week.

‘People who live in Depok are mostly Jakartans, who migrated due to gentrification. Many of them still work in Jakarta,’ said Pak Lurah. 

Such a Jakarta centric attitude feels like a relic from the New Order regime’s centralism. But the Jakarta administration, as the capital, has better access to public funding.

These Ibu-Ibu were so enthusiastic in the coordination meeting, donning their green kebaya uniforms. Ibu Ani said the best part of volunteering is to hangout with her friends, her squad.

Ibu Ani came from Medan to Jakarta after finishing high school. She wanted to go to medical school, but failed the public universities entrance exam. So, in 1989, she took the ALS bus (interprovinces coach, notorious for aggressive driving). Arrived at Kalideres Bus Terminal. From there the bus driver took her to her uncle’s address in Kebayoran.

She stayed with and worked for her uncle, who was a contractor for the Directorate General of Tax. She would drive around Bekasi-Tangerang area to photograph billboards which have not paid the billboard tax.

Saipul was a neighbour. When he asked her out, through her uncle, Ibu Ani’s first question was ‘Does he have a job?’ 

She did not want her life to be harder.

They dated for a year and got married in 1993. At first they rented a house in Kebon Jeruk. When Saipul’s brother told them the land plots in Citayam were affordable, they used their savings and bought one. Moved there in 1997.

She said it was an easier time, the Suharto Era. ‘Now everything is so expensive.’

When she first lived here, the surroundings were mostly banana plantations. Her neighbours had no septic tank so their blackwater was channelled to the open sewers. She persuaded the neighbours to crowdfund the construction of communal septic tanks and other infrastructures. There was no government support at that time.

Now, there is more government fundings. Ibu Ani’s main role in caregiving the sick locals is helping with the admission process to the hospitals. Many of her neighbours are scared and confused with the daunting administrative tasks.

Ibu Ani helps them with the paperwork, including with the bureaucracy of accessing the public healthcare benefits. She gave a tip: if the patient does not have BPJS or Kartu Indonesia Sehat (KIS), they can apply for social welfare funding from the municipal government.

She pays for her own transport. She often covers the photocopying costs and provides meals for the patient’s family. Sometimes those expenses outspend the incentives she received. However, she believes Allah would return her kindness.

Sometimes, the patient’s family gives her money although she never asks for anything.

Ibu Ani’s charitable acts and activism grant her access to many important people. She knows all the heads of Puskesmas (public clinic), past and present. She owns and runs a clothing shop business. Her activism brings businesses, as many volunteering and local events require ‘uniforms’.

She is influential. Once she intervened in domestic violence. A wife confided in her that her husband physically abused her. She threatened the husband with a formal criminal complaint (she knows the local police). She also advised the wife to listen to her husband when he talks. Their source of disputes: money.

It’s true that the poorer you are the more charitable you’d likely to be. I saw in Bojong Pondok Terong people give money to beggars and buskers–despite the fact that they are also strapped for cash.

They don’t think about how charity alleviates the pain of the working class; how it prevents class consciousness, therefore, the revolution. Or how charity would make people lazy and complacent, therefore preventing the creation of self-reliant and empowered individuals contributing to a society free of freeloaders.

These Marxist and Randian extremes are outliers. A functioning society is something in between. Altruism is not necessarily selfless. We have the interests not just to compete but also to collaborate. 

From the moment I arrived at Citayam Station, I knew you’d need to rely on each other to live in an environment like this. The road can only fit one car. Space is a premium. Most, if almost all, people ride motorcycles. 

I had to receive a call from a client (for my day job as a lawyer). I realised how noisy the neighbourhood is. The mopeds, the chatters, the blaring mosque speakers.

When money is scarce. You negotiate with other social currencies: time, space, and privacy. Your neighbours, your community, are your main safety net. If not careful, you’d give up your individuality. 


For low income families who can’t afford private or even public healthcare, these volunteers are godsend. They are mothers.

As with mothers, they can be overbearing. They would intrude into your lives. 

When a new couple moved in, the locals demanded that they show their marriage certificate. The couple didn’t have one, but insisted they have been married under Sharia law. The husband is a mualaf (a convert). 

The locals can accept non-state sanctioned marriage. But the ‘under-the-hand’ marriage was conducted without the presence of the bride’s father. Therefore, under Sharia Law, the father has not given away his daughter. The legitimacy of their Islamic marriage was questioned. 

The couple admitted that they eloped. Saipul, as Ketua RW then, and Ibu Ani managed to mediate. The father of the wife was invited to the renewal of their marriage ceremony. This time legitimised under the laws of the state too.

Ibu Ani and Saipul took pride that they have ‘cleansed’ the couple’s relationship. They have successfully prevented adultery (in Islamic terms) in their neighbourhood. Many Indonesian muslims believe that adultery will invoke the wrath of Allah on the entire community.

Overbearing, but with good intentions. 

Ibu Ani’s plan for the next 5 years: she hopes to live in Saudi Arabia. Her husband is entering his final years of service before retirement. He will be posted abroad for his last 3 years. Ibu Ani wants to do the Hajj pilgrimages thrice–once each year. 

She finds solace in prayers. She feels close to Allah whenever she prays. She has gone umroh twice. In Mecca, she felt much closer to God.

On worldly matters, she likes watching Western action films when she’s alone. However, Ibu Ani looks the happiest when she’s hanging out with her friends. After organising a monthly immunisation programme, we had lunch together. Those Ibu-ibu fed me with nasi padang for lunch.

It is hard to imagine them in their hijabs as sexual entities, but they are. Some of their jokes directed to me are borderline sexual harrasments.

‘Do you want to drink? Milk, but expired! Hahaha.’

They gossiped about neighbourhood sex scandal. A woman whose husband is paralysed by a stroke had an affair with a hansip (neighbourhood watch). They fucked in the room next where the husband was lying powerless.

‘How cruel the woman was! Her husband must have been so dishonoured for being that impotent.’

The local mob raided the home, beat up the hansip.

Extra-marital affairs are not uncommon in Jakarta. But if you are richer, you can at least do your business at a hotel.

Ibu Ani asked if my wife would question what I am doing. I told her that my wife knows I’m on assignment. I assume her underlying question is whether my wife is jealous or suspicious. In Citayam (like elsewhere), some people mistake love with entanglement. Jealousy is seen as a manifestation of love.

Well fed, she and other cadres used the PA machine–linked with YouTube–for impromptu karaoke. Dangdut songs: love songs with lyrics on heartbreaks, guilt-ridden by the sins of pre- or extra-marital sex; and grassroot financial struggles.

Ibu Ani is not much of a singer. Her singing was off key. Like mine. But karaoke is about having fun with her girls. They apologised for being loud and for disturbing their neighbours’ siesta. Then carried on singing.

If working moms get their dose of social life at their office–and rich Mentari moms at their kids’s [private] international school, these Citayam moms volunteer.

November 21, 2022