If giving does not hurt, then anyone could do it

The veiled blue sky I saw from inside an office was not as glittering as I thought it would be. When I went out for lunch, the scorching heat stung me and the humid air swept my face. I wish I were inside the airconned office.

Am I living in a delusional life, with its delusional ideals, and delusional possibilities?

Two days ago I shed a tear or two at my client’s place, in the cubicle right next to them, divided by a divider as high as a sitting person. I quickly wiped them away.

I was chatting with my family, and I vented out my anger there. But I wasn’t angry. I was sad, deeply. It’s just that it seems that it is better for me to sound angry. Many things are possible over the www. Sounding angry when you are not is just one of the easier ones.

I have thought about it again, and again. I weigh my balances and found myself lacking, big. I hate my current position. I hate myself more for complaining about it to my mother. It is not that I did not want to do what I am expected to do, but I find myself struggling to do so, and find myself empty.

On my walk home, I was contemplating how I hate myself for all the complaints I have uttered, and my inability to stop it. I thought, if only I had more, I could give more. It is not that I did not want to give, but I have so few to give, and it hurts me to give the small things that I have.

Then it hits me, “If giving does not hurt, then anyone could do it.”

If giving is easy, then anyone could do it. And what difference does it make? What acknowledgment would God give? If giving is easy, then we would not find worthiness in our acts. If giving does not hurt, then we should not call it giving.

Giving hurts. It hurts for me. It hurts because I wanted to give more, but I could not, and I did not believe that I could give as much as I wanted to, or at least should to.

“Remember the two fish and fives loaves of bread,” my mom said.

I remember. But, like my brother said, remembering and understanding it are different from actually doing.

If saving the world is easy, then what does Christ’s sacrifice mean? It hurts. It hurts to give. That is why it is worthy.

Lord, I can’t pray and my heart does not give me the utterances. I hope the Holy Spirit groans for me for my lips could not find the words and my brain could not find the reasoning.

“God loves a cheerful giver.” (2 Corinthians 9:7)

I am crying. God must have hated me for this.

Singapore,
Saturday, 12 December 2009, 12:43AM
-me-

Veiled Blue Sky

Do you know, this is how my life feels like.

I am sitting in client’s office in faraway Changi Loyang (okay, “faraway” in Singapore’s term. It’s only half an hour from the city).

I looked out of the window. It’s a bright blue sky with cotton-white clouds. The sun shines so brightly. The trees are gleaming in green.

Or so I imagined. The window is curtained. Only mild light pierced through, and I can only see shadows of the glittering sky.

The veiled blue sky.

Like me.

Singapore,
Friday, 11 December 2009, 11:14AM
-me-

Mo pulang!

Aku mau pulang! Aku mau pulang! Aku mau pulaaaannggg!!!

Tapi nggak tau mau pulang kemana…

For some time I’ve wondered where my home is L.

 

“If home’s where my heart is, then Lord I’m out of place.
Lord, won’t you give me strength to make it through somehow.
I’ve never been more homesick than now.”

 

Singapore,
Wednesday, 18 November 2009, 7PM
-me-
at work, burdened

The Empty Vessel

All my life I have wondered what my life is for. At times I had thought that I am meant for something great, that I could change the world, that I would change people. But I could not even change myself. I am at one of those low points which I have encountered all my life every now and then. I am at my low point at work, I have little life outside, I complained a lot, and I just think that I am not going anywhere—I just can’t see the path.

I know—for a long time I had known—that worldly greatness is not what one should look for. Every can be great in God’s eyes. A lowly street-sweeper and a garbage collecter can be as great as the US President or Gandhi, in the eyes of God. God gave us our roles in this world—good and planned by our Infinite and Wise Maker—and we just have to do our works faithfully. As the Bible says, he that does things faithfully in little things will be given responsibility over the greater things.

I know all that. But what does knowledge do? CS Lewis in his book, Mere Christianity, that knowledge comes and seeps into our hearts. The Reformed theology says that we have faith first before we understand.

But what does knowledge do?

In my heart, I am envious. I am envious of those who know where they are going. I am envious of those who have things their way that could lead them to a lot of places. I am envious of those who can hold on to the Infinite in their trust. I am envious of those who have consistency in their lives, and passion, and love.

I am an empty vessel, and I am closed.

 

Singapore
Sunday, 15 November 2009, 3PM
-me-

Dreams

[an Aceh-inspired]
I wanted to be a lot of things when I was young.

I wanted to be a teacher, and I saw all the rascals that were my classmates and changed my mind. I wanted to be a pianist and found myself kept repeating grade one. I wanted to be a missionary, and even being praised by my aunt for that, and realized that I did not like going to church. I wanted to be an inventor—thanks to Doraemon and the Magic Teapot—but I was no scientist. I wanted to be a doctor like Albert Schweitzer, but I found that I did not like the idea of examining corpses. I wanted to be a mafia boss but felt that I could not be that cruel.

It seems that I was not that adventurous even as a child, unlike my brother who once aspired to be a lion. That, I think, would require some serious genetic mutation.

On the second last day of the hygiene camp at SD Keub, the village school we went as part of the community service project to Meulaboh, Aceh, at the end of July 2009, we told the kids to draw their aspiration. The kids in my group were shy and took a long time even to draw a line on that white paper. I kept asking them, “What do you want to be? What is your dream?” and encouraging them just to draw anything.

When I asked one of the girls in my group, she shyly answered, “I want to be an office lady.” Her answer kind of stunned me. My occupation, I guess, falls under that category of an office lady. And boy, I would not think the life I lead is dreamable. My impulse was to say, “Are you freaking serious?” Which of course I did not. I instead said, “Go on then, draw it!” with a big smile on my face.

She started doodling. Her pencil outlined the shape of woman in suit (okay, it was more like a ballooned stick wo-man with triangular shape skirt and square shirt). I wondered, perhaps a woman in dark suit and high heels looks glamorous—sharp, fierce, and trampling the world under her towering and painful heels. I always say that the life of a woman is a balancing act—balancing on high heels and that work-life balance. But life as a professional working in a CBD is not as glam as those movies would like you to think. Then again, Singapore CBD is no Wall Street (and thank goodness for that, or we’d be crushing down real bad too =p).

As I averted my eyes to see what the other kids were drawing, I realized something: they all drew the same thing. All the boys drew soccer player and a football field, and all the girls drew school teacher with a black board—a little something of a stick man and a rectangle. I looked at the drawing of the little girl who said she wanted to be an office lady. That triangular shape skirt and square shirt that I had mistakenly thought as an office suit turned out to be a school teacher uniform.

Indeed, when I told her to draw her aspiration—the office lady—her face changed somewhat; I did not know why. It turned out that she only knew how to draw a school teacher and a blackboard, as did all the other girls. And the boys only knew how to draw soccer player and a football field. Soon enough I had in front of me copies of the same thing: soccer player and football field, and school teacher and blackboard.

“What do you want to be?” I asked them again. “Do you want to be a cop? An office lady? A singer?” No, they all wanted to be a soccer player and school teacher. I gave up. I just saw them drawing. I too drew. I couldn’t draw that well, except for doe-eyed manga characters. So I drew an abstract, in hope of inspiring the kids to doodle something—anything—else. I failed miserably, of course, just like my Picasso-wannabe-abstract.

During that drawing session, I asked one of the older girls about the occupations of their parents, since we were on that topic. She just smiled shyly [That's all they did—smiled shyly. I guess I am not that good with children].

I asked her, “Is his father a farmer?” referring to one of the boys in the group.

The girl just smiled shyly, and said, “Soccer player.”

I was stunned, again. “Soccer player? Something like soccer coach, you mean?” I asked her.

She just smiled.

“What’s the occupation of his mother then? School teacher?” I tested.

She did not answer. Perhaps because we were in a school.

Her answer reminded me of one of our sessions on tooth-brushing. We were to teach them on proper tooth-brushing. After a demonstration by the presenters, each group leaders were then to assist the children on practicing the tooth-brushing, of course with imaginary toothbrushes.

My first question before we started on the rehearsal was: “Do you brush your teeth when you wake up in the morning?” I received the same reaction, shy smiles. After a few efforts of getting some conversation going, I realized that I probably had not asked the right question. “Do you have a toothbrush?” I finally asked.

One of them shook her head, then, as if realizing that she had done something wrong, nodded instead, and stopped. As repeatedly happened before, I struggled to get them to communicate with me, several times to the point of my frustration. Another question of tooth-brush ownership was answered by a nod. I did not buy that.

One of the mothers in the village we went to once commented, rather sarcastically I would say, when we told them that to prevent lice they needed to wash their hair with shampoo routinely. She said, “It is not enough to tell us to shampoo our hair. Give us the shampoo!” We had come wanting to teach the children about tooth-brushing, and had overlooked that they might not have the required tools. This led us to source out for toothbrush for each of the school children the next day.

What I noticed from the incident in the tooth-brushing session and the drawing session led me to wonder if the kids had been trying to give me the answers they think I would like to hear. No, more than that. They were trying to give the correct answers. Boys would be soccer players, girls would be teachers, and they did brush their teeth every morning.

This reminds me of the typical drawings of most elementary school children during my time: two triangular mountains with a straight river running from the middle of them, oh, and additional rice fields and possibly a house. Skies will always be blue, clouds white, roses red, leaves green. Our school system has done an excellent job in painting the world as what they thought it should be. Then a wonder where our dreams have gone to.

At the end of the hygiene camp in Meulaboh, each group took a group picture. We stood in front of the school building, facing the east. We tried to smile, but our faces were frowning from the direct sunlight, glorifying on our eyes. Afterwards, all of us took a big group picture, in front of the school building, but this time on the side facing south, where “Philips” brand decorated the top of the building.

The school building was built by Philips after the Tsunami. One of the team members commented on this, “Isn’t it an irony, that this school building for the Acehnese kids was built by a Dutch company?” After all those years of fighting the Dutch, I thought that would be an irony. But I guess the greater irony was the Nanggroe Aceh Darussalam.

Philips did a great job in building the school, though. Some of us commented that the school building was even nicer than our own elementary schools. Well, how many schools have individual toilets in each of their classrooms? Add a motorbiking school kid to that (“I don’t even have a motorbike!” one of us exclaimed). Yet the water in the school toilets was terrible. It was dirty and the only thing I would use it for was to flush the toilet (which I think was cleaner that the water itself). Add to that the children who wore the same clothes for a few days in a row, Headmaster who stole snacks from his own students, and their little lies.

What, then, is right and appropriate and noble?

We printed the pictures we took in front of the school building and sent them to the school children. We thought it would be a nice gift. One of my friends wrote a nice letter to each of his group’s children. In his letters, he told them to dream and study hard and get a scholarship to Singapore, like he himself once did, and gave them his email address. I wonder if they would ever send him an email, though.

The drawings the children drew were given to the teachers, and we asked them to paste the drawings on the classroom wall, to inspire them. That is, if they really want to be soccer players and school teachers. Yet I can’t quite imagine how the walls would look like with almost identical pictures.

I could not help but felt that something was lost there, though I’m not quite sure what.

Perhaps it’s the same feeling I had when I woke up and found myself being the office lady.
Singapore,
Monday, 9 November 2009, 11:40PM
-me-

Respect to Our Dead Hero

I’m not supposed to write this anymore, not when this is 1:20AM and I’m dead tiring from typing entries all day. But I feel compelled to write this last one.

I have another favorite Indonesian movie: Naga Bonar Jadi Dua (or Naga Bonar Becomes Two). I have watched this months ago (and this has been released like a couple of years ago?), but I am suddenly reminded of it again now.

This is a movie sequel to the Naga Bonar movie (or series?). Naga Bonar Jadi Dua is a story of Naga Bonar, a famous bandit-turned-hero, and his child (thus the second Naga Bonar). The child had grown up and gone to Jakarta, the capital city, to manage his business. The father stayed in Medan (or somewhere in Sumatra) at his plantation.

One day, the child invited the father to go to Jakarta. He had the intention to persuade the father to sell the plantation to build a resort. The father initially rejected on the basis that that was where his mother, wife, and best friend were buried, but he finally succumbed. However, upon finding out that the developer of the resort is Japanese, he got angry and refused. Another round of persuasion and (I can’t remember exactly how the plot went) the father again agreed, but this time the son was the one who refused the Japanese developer. I think in the end he built the area himself. The story itself is threaded with love story between the son and his consultant, and the story of the nationalistic adventure the father had around Jakarta.

Anyhow, you can google the more accurate summary of the movie.

I am compelled to write this because I am reminded of my most favorite scene in the movie. Naga Bonar went to Sudirman Street, the vein of the CBD area of Jakarta. There stood the statue of Sudirman, the most recognized general–the youngest to be a general they say (although my grandpa said the only reason Sudirman became a general was because during his time, he was the only one that had not become a general during the Dutch or Japanese rule). The Sudirman statue itself was built only a few years ago, at the cost of 6.5 million Rupiah (equivalent to about US$700,000)–a whopping amount I must say.

 

Naga Bonar Saluting the Sudirman Statue

The Sudirman statue was built in a saluting form. Naga Bonar went there to salute him. In fact, he went to all the national hero statues to pay respect. As he stood there, in the middle of the busy Sudirman Street, he noticed something peculiar. The Sudirman statue is forever saluting the cars approaching it that were fast rolling on the street of Sudirman. Naga Bonar thought of this as an insult. No hero should salute to the commoners all his life! So he climbed up the statue and pleaded that his general put down his arm–he should salute no more.

Of course the statue remains as it was–if not the police would probably arrest the Producer of the movie. And it was just a movie after all. But that scene touched me. What a way of looking at common things we see in life. I had never thought of that statue as an eternal salutation by the great general to the ignorant people of Jakarta that zoomed by it everyday. What an insult.

 

Singapore,
Tuesday, 3 November 2009, 2PM
-me-

 

Women of Aceh

[This is the first writing I made on the trip to Meulaboh, Aceh, last July, as part of the community service by ndi, the social arm of ppis. The trip took place from 23 July to 2 August 2009 on a sanitation campaign effort. Regarding the sanitation campaign itself, I would say that not as much as I would have hoped was done, but a lot of other things I had taken from this place. To think that the first writing would be on its women, I guess that tells a lot about my feminism ]

 

“There is a sociology anomaly here. You could probably take this as part of your new research,” a team member of our community service project to Meulaboh, Aceh, commented to the sociology graduate student in our team.

Some of us were distributing the family hygiene kits to the villagers in one of the Meulaboh villages. What was thought to be a simple affair turned out to be rather complicated. We had the list of the residents of the village, and thought that all that needed to be done was distributing the hygiene kits to these residents. We were quite wrong. There were people who were listed there but did not stay there anymore, who, upon hearing of the kit distribution, came to the village to lay claim. The villagers who were residing in the village protested, saying that these people who were not residents should not have claims on the kits, regardless of the fact that there were enough kits for all. So arguments broke out, and I was told that a fistfight almost ensued. It was rather pitiful, I thought, that they should argue over this. There are goods enough for everyone yet some would prevent others to lay claim on them if, in their opinion, these people did not have the right.

Of the people engulfed in the heated arguments, it was the ladies, or “ibu-ibu” (literally means, mothers or madams) as we referred to them, that argued the hardest and fought the bitterest. “The ibu-ibu were fierce!” our team member exclaimed. “They were fiercer than the guys. This is an anomaly!”

Everyone chuckled hearing his comment. However, I really didn’t think that it was an anomaly.

In the elementary school we went to for our hygiene camp, the third to fifth grade children were divided into groups, with approximately equal number of girls and boys in each group. In the last day of the camp, the groups were supposed to give a performance with a theme of hygiene, which was what they learned over the course of five days we were there. My group was to perform a skit. The rehearsals were a pain as the boys were roughing with each other. It took the girls to order things around and get things done, literally. Girl power rules! Apparently, what I had thought as a solitary occurrence extended up to adulthood.

The story of girl power I first heard from our bus driver, Jeki. “Jeki?” I asked, when he told me his name. “Was it supposed to be Jackie? Like Jackie Chan?” Indonesians, it seems, misspell a lot of foreign names, purposefully or not.

“No,” he said, “It’s Jeki. J-E-K-I.” He further explained, “We Acehnese named the children using Arabic or from the Quran.”

“What does it mean then?” I asked.

“Well my parents said it means ‘pria sejati’ in Arabic,” he laughed, a little embarrassed. ‘Pria sejati’ would probably mean macho man, but I’m not sure that’s the proper translation, or perhaps ‘ideal man’?

Jeki told me quite a story about Aceh, its struggle prior to Tsunami, its struggle post-Tsunami. He went to Java for several years, to avoid all the conflicts in Aceh. The conflict brewed between GAM (the Free Aceh Movement) and the Indonesia military, ABRI, for years. Apparently, average citizens, like Jeki here, just had to make their way through the conflicts. Either way it seemed wrong. Say, if they passed the GAM post first then the ABRI post, the ABRI would ask them, “If you’re not with GAM, how did you pass that GAM post safely?” If they came from the opposite direction, then the GAM would ask them the exact same question. “We have to be smooth,” Jeki said. Interpersonal skills must have indeed developed among the survivors. Survivors, indeed. Jeki told me of the time he was hiding underneath car when there were shootings between ABRI and GAM. Thank goodness no stray bullets came his way.

He also told me of Sabang, or a tourist spot nearby there—I’m not sure. He said before the Tsunami, it was a popular tourist spot. I think even after it would still be. Who wouldn’t want to take a picture at Point Zero of Indonesia? Even a famous national song mentioned its name, “From Sabang to Merauke.” There, he said, a lot of ‘bule’ (Caucasian) had their vacations. It was one of the places where the Syariah did not seem to be having its grip. People would sunbathe on the beach and things would be freer. When I could not comprehend how a tourist could vacation in any place in Aceh back in the days of GAM, Jeki insisted, “It was like Bali there.”

One of the things that impressed me most was his story about ‘Inung Bale’. I can’t remember what Inung Bale means, but this is a group of women who fought under GAM for the independence of Aceh. Often these women were widows of those who died at the hands of ABRI in their fights for Aceh independence. Bitter and grieved over the deaths of their husbands, they took up arms to fight in place of their men. Fierce women, I would say.

Indeed, of all the national heroes recognized by the government of Indonesia, the most well-known were from Aceh, namely Cut Nyak Dien and Cut Nyak Meutia. Aceh is also probably the only province that has more than one female national hero recognized (apart from Java, I guess. Java always takes too much, no?). And these national heroes were not heroes like RA Kartini or Dewi Sartika who were recognized for their contributions to the advancement of women position in society particularly through education—their fights were as important as any other fights, but frankly, taking up arms like the guys did is quite something, no? One of my favorite stories about Cut Nyak Dien that I heard was how she told Teuku Umar, her second husband, that she would only marry him if he would allow her to fight the Dutch. He did.

Was it an anomaly then that the ‘ibu-ibu’ in the village were so fierce when we distributed the hygiene kits? I would say, hardly. The Acehnese women seem to have had such fighting spirit in their blood since ancient times.

 

Singapore
Monday, 2 November 2009, 9PM
-me-

The Past One Year

Let’s see, there have been a lot of things happening since the past year—things of great consequence and impact to the world—that I have not written here. I thought about the writings of the great people in the world, and they write about great ideas that could change the world and the great events of the world. I look at my writings. I remember my old diary, consisting of whiny writing. My older diary, consisting of trivial happenings around my daily life. My old blog, consisting of mostly rants. And now this blog.

The past year has seen a lot of things. A global economic meltdown—the collapse of Lehman Brothers (whose name I only heard when it collapsed =p), Merrill Lynch bowed down to safety from Bank of America, lay-offs everywhere, and a gloom over the stock market. A friend of mine said he lost about S$10,000 in the stock market. Phew. Some of my friends were finding difficulties getting jobs. My friend told me of the story of her friend, who was part of the audit team to Lehman Singapore. It was midday when they were told that they did not need to continue the audit—Lehman was over.

But I was okay. Nothing much happened to me. Unlike the Indonesia’s May 1998 riot which I could feel a little more of what was happening around me, this global economic meltdown did not have much impact to me. I’ve gotten a job. Of course I experienced pay-cut, non-promotion (which led me to feel unappreciated after all these late nights), and what-nots, but it was a light pinch.

My family is poor as usual. My brother still insisted, and managed, to go to US for exchange, which costs—in our family’s standard—a fortune, but hey, we always sacrificed a lot for education. Me getting a job has helped a lot, though. My baby brother should thank me! (Why suddenly I sound like an Indonesian maid sacrificing the world to go to Singapore to earn S$400 a month for her family =,=).

My baby cousins are growing up normally. Haha. What to expect huh. Little less adorable, little more cute.

I got a couple of good friends who are my colleagues, finally. I thought I wouldn’t really have friends here in this firm. Thanks to my 5-month secondment to Tax Human Capital (despite, I think, partly resulting in my non-promotion in this darn firm), I got to know one of my closest friends in EY.

My parents getting a small apartment. Phew.

A little rows with my brothers over their future.

Aceh trip. Toba trip.

The scandalous affair of my beloved org.

See. Intending to write about world affairs and great ideas, I ended up writing about me and my surrounding. In the end, we are all selfish beings, huh. What cares the world of what I write? Here I am, let me start writing piece by piece things that were of importance to me, and not the world.

So here goes…
Singapore,
Monday, 2 November 2009, 2PM
-me-

Writing Again

Okay, thanks to Microsoft 2007 newly installed to my EY laptop (okay, maybe I should cross out the “my”—but hey, I’m using this as my own laptop too), I could write a blog entry easily! Let’s see, the last time I wrote this kind of junk was 8 July 09, about Indonesian presidential election, and even that I just copy-paste the note from other things. There are a lot of things I want to write—my job, the Aceh trip, the Medan trip, life in general. I guess I always reason that I did not have the time. But I do. These past few months have been my slackest days since last year, but yet the most unproductive. And now I am about to enter the audit peak period again. *sigh* I guess I’m just a lazy bum, as always. No, not exactly a lazy bum, more of a procrastinator. When time is easy, I slack off. When times are hard, I’m pressurized to perform.

Ohhh, I’ve started writing the story that I’ve been threading since 2005! I think I have no less than 10 drafts on this, out of which only half survived today. I could not continue my drafts because I hated them. They sound too mushy-mushy, going nowhere, shallow. But in my head the characters have been born, grew up, lived up their lives and faced life’s turmoil, and died. Yes, they have died, and not an ink jotted (or rather a word typed). You know what, two days ago, I just wrote down about 10 pages about them! Yay! Okay, my drafts have been longer, but those 10 pages I just wrote felt so good. I felt that this could actually be a story. Let’s see if I could continue it today.

So the story is about two girls, living lives worlds apart, who meet and change each other’s lives. Typical huh. Hahaha. So I’m building the history of one of the girls. Let’s see where this will go. My experience on writing (which is very limited, mind you), characters would have their own voices and direct their own lives. Okay, I’m exaggerating. It’s just that my minds would change as I write and my sub-consciousness would sometimes take over. Oh, and I’m writing this in Indonesian, and I would have to check online dictionary and my housemate’s vocabularies on some Indo words. O gosh, my English is not getting better and my Indo is deteriorating.

Another thing, this thing of using pseudonym on this blog that rarely got any attention now feels stupid. Plus, I’ve been putting up my facebook notes here, dumb me. Thanks to wordpress’ password function, I guess I could just password-protect the more personal entries. Soooo… I’ve decided to take off all these pseudonyms from all of my entries. I’ll just be me. Wohoooo!! Who cares, right I’ll just try to be anonymous haha.

 

Singapore,
Monday, 2 November 2009
-me-

2009 Indonesia Presidential Election in Singapore

A mother of a friend once told of the day it was confirmed that Indonesians could now vote for their president directly. Her Singaporean friend approached her and told her how lucky she—and all other Indonesians—was, perhaps with envy in his tone.

We are indeed lucky.

Today Indonesia saw another direct presidential election.

Much heated debates have occurred between me and my friends about who to vote for, much confusion, changing of decision, persuasion. Perhaps to many, who to vote for has never been quite a question. Of late I have thought of election as a religion—no matter what we hear, we often had made unshakeable decision, perhaps without enough information, and often mocking the little things in those we do not desire. Perhaps as I had thus far chosen my religion, I had likewise casted my vote.

Yet it does not matter who wins. It’s not like there’s any Hitler among the candidates.

I volunteered in the presidential election held in the Indonesian Embassy in Singapore. The remuneration is not that bad, I must say.

Being a volunteer was an eye-opening experience. As I stood in front of the registration queues, I saw people from different walks of life came to take part in this election. Some were older than my own grandpa, some were first-time voters. Some could not even walk and had to be wheel-chaired. Some excitedly ran when the Embassy’s gates were opened. Some queued for hours in the morning so as to vote before they went to their offices. Some came during lunchtime and endured the noon heat. Some came despite the heavy rains. Some came in the midst of their business trips or holidays in Singapore. Some came with nothing but their desire to vote (unfortunately, we still require at least a passport, KTP, or other ID card). Some came in business suits, some in their uniforms, and some others in T-Shirts and jeans. Some did not even look like ordinary Indonesians, or speak the language well, but came with eagerness to take part in this democratic process.

I wondered, why did they come? It was such a hassle to come and vote. “Isn’t it good,” my fellow gate keeper commented, “they came to vote despite all the troubles?” I nodded, with gladness. A part of me still couldn’t believe that there were these many Indonesians who took extra efforts—and more!—just to cast their votes, while I know of some able-bodied friends who did not even bother to lift a finger just to vote through post from the comfort of their homes.

At times the queues would be extremely long, and my, traffic control is not easy. I suffered through three rains, scorching heat, and the loss of lots of saliva from screaming Beyonce’s famous “To the left! To the left! Everything you own in the box to the left! I mean, those with the letters from the Embassy, to the left!”

Many voters would complain. Why is the queue so long? Why are we waiting for so long? We brought the letter from Indonesia, why should we be considered as those without letters? Some would cut queue. Some would pretend not to understand what we had explained.

But we would patiently explain. I quite enjoyed the experience. Ouw, and I just found a new talent: screaming! I’m quite good at it.

What I could not stand the most though is those who, pissed off with whatever, would just leave, saying, “It is not our loss if we do not vote.” Eiy, Sir, it is no one’s loss if you did not vote—it’s just you, being childish. It’s you who had forsaken your right. It is you who would have no right whatsoever to complain at whatever’s happening in the government if you did not even bother to care a little about the election.

Some would leave without voting seeing the long queue. Hey, Mister, you only dropped sweat and suffered a little aching legs, and you left? Our forefathers dropped BLOOD and LOST their legs for our independence! Others among us lost their lives a decade ago so that we now could enjoy democracy! And you left? Yes, please leave.

Then again, all these people are still better than those who did not even bother to care. At least they came. Ah, I guess that’s the essence of democracy: people choose as they see fit. May soon arrive the day we achieve the maturity and sense of responsibility that should accompany this freedom so as to make democracy powerful.

Seeing the crowd today was heart-warming. Seeing the volunteers was encouraging. And you’d think there’s hope. Despite the fact that those who voted probably made up less than a quarter of the eligible Indonesian voters in Singapore. You’d think there’s a brighter future. Despite the fact that the seemingly would-be losers have started souring over the results.

One thing for sure, eleven years after the historic birth of democracy, Indonesia has come a long way.

Who wins does not matter, really. If all who vied for presidency truly loves this nation, then it does not matter who wins, as those who lose would undoubtedly give their utmost supports to the winner. But who knows the hearts of men? Their motives are shrouded in flowery words and they do not even know the darkness of their own souls.

A quick look at the uncompleted counts from the different posts in Singapore showed clearly that the incumbent is leading way ahead of the other two candidates—taking well above half of the votes. I did not have to wait till the counts were over to know who would win. Indonesians in Singapore have clearly made their choice. And if the quick count is representative of the official count, we would soon see a new Vice President.

Today reminds me of the day five years ago when the ex-PM of Malaysia mocked “this certain country” for its wild party of democracy and its ridiculous number of parties participating in the election. Eat that, Mr ex-PM. We have overcome and we will continue to improve.

Yes, Mr Winner. Please DO NOT continue. Improve it.

Singapore,
Wednesday, 8 July 2008, 10:44PM
-me-
On the day of the first round of Indonesia presidential election
And likely will not write on the second round