When you live alone in apartment, for days, weeks, months, and restricted to go anywhere. There are two possibilities of your future: getting twisted, or getting wiser.

If you are a solitaire person, you are more likely to be the second one. You start to appreciate all little things around you: your two roses and their fragrance, your time, and even your animals.

Well, it is not "your" animal, of course. But it is under your protection as they live in your sphere and your space. Like animal kingdom, and you are the ruler. Khalifatullah fil-ardh.

When you were a kid, You were taught to love and preserve life. Any kind of life. Animal, flowers, plants. Maybe its your sisters who put that doctrine in your mind through their attitude and behavior.

I mean, when you saw them crying for a dying cat, you realized that it's a very sad situation. When they made a proper burial for the dragonfly mistakenly hit by your badminton racket, you knew that it"s not only butterfly.

Its a life, just like people's life.

And then your mind wandered through fable and story books telling how alive they could be. You read about a bear cub who was separated from its mom and going for adventure to find her back.

Or a dove, who had through a long adventure to find his mate. You saw life, experience, inspiration, pain from their point of view. It made you feel them.

Thus, it broke your heart to see your sisters' flowers were destroyed by ignorant boys. And they preserved it again, just to get stomped upon the next day.

And again. And again..

Until you were big enough to confront and stop them just to get a peculiar look from them: "It's just plants, you weirdo!'.

On the opposite, it made you remember a scene where your mom called you as she stood by the window, during the rain.

"Look! Look at the rain and the flowers! It's so beautiful!" she shouted.

And then you came and stood by her side, watching the rain on the leaves and the December Flower, feeling so warm in the cold rainy season.

There's no way you will forget that few-minute scene in your life.

***

Now, back to your animal kingdom. You realized that you had two cockroaches living in your toilet. You didn't like them, but you didn't want to spray them. They are living things, too.

Well beside them, you also had one small gecko, hiding behind the refrigerator and made the chuckle sound sometimes.

The cockroaches sometimes came into the living room. And you despised such act.

But you decided to talk to them, as you believe that when you talk in the right frequency, they might listen--or, Allah translated it to them, made them listen. And it works sometimes.

You did not notice that they are a couple of course. I mean they don't have genital big enough allowing you to spot their gender.

And then you realized that they are couple in a bitter situation.

It was a night. You were awaken and decided to get some drinks. You didn't turn the main lamp as you were too lazy for that.

And as you step on the floor, you realized that it's not only the floor you were stepping on.

Splat!

The slimy liquid was on the palm of your feet as you noticed the cockroaches lying there, helplessly.  You gained consciousness faster and then you went to the bathroom to wash your feet ASAP.

Later you took the dead cockroach to the bathroom on the hole to the sewer. "The water would carry it away tomorrow," you thought.

And then you went back to sleep after a glass of milk.

But, Da! In the morning you found the dead body was taken from the hole to the dry part at the corner of the bathroom.

And whats amazing was that you found the other cockroach stayed next to it, as if waiting for it to wake up. It ran away as you were stepping into the bathroom.

You were left wondering.. So the other cockroach moved the dead body of its "partner" from the hole to the dry part, and waited for it.

For what??? Why??

Until now, you couldn't find the reason with the scientific modern approach. But somehow you heart already found the answer in the non-scientific approach: it is love.

They are couple, who need each other. The disappearance of the other, made it lost half of its self, or its life. Made it mourn, even if its only a cockroach.

Forgive me, Lord. T_T

Now.. you live with one cockroach, one small gecko, and a bunch of ants. And since then, every time you see the cockroach, you greet and pay it a respect.

Due to this.. Under the social norm, you are officially called: weirdo. The analysis might go further into this conclusion: due to the lockdown.

Sepasang suami-istri tergopoh-gopoh memasuki sebuah rumah di gang Multi Raya, Rawa Mangun. Begitu memasuki mulut pintu, cerocosan mereka menyerbu, “Kak, ni adeknya si Bambang ditangkep, dibawa ke Cipayung.”

Sang ibu bersandar di teralis kaca, mengabaikan kursi malas di tengah ruangan. Tubuh tambunnya menutup sinar mentari dari teralis kaca. “Tolong, kakak-kakak di sini membantu adek,” pinta sang ibu.

Belum sempat Dede menjawab, ibu lain datang. Dasternya compang-camping, dengan balita menggelayut di ketiaknya terbalut selendang lusuh. “Saya sudah dari sono… Ongkos saya dah habis. Kasihan si Azis, sendirian,” ujar tamu tersebut.

Balita di gendongannya berontak, sang ibu goyah. Ia pun duduk berselonjor di mulut pintu, merebahkan sang balita di antara kedua betisnya. Tangannya terangkat menutup kelopak mata.

Sang ibu bertubuh tambun kembali merepet, “katanya mau dipulangin besok Selasa, habis lebaran. Ya kasihan lah, sendirian di sana..” Di sampingnya, sang suami diam. Rokok menyala di sela kedua jarinya yang tak henti bergetar.

“Sekarang peraturannya emang ganti, Bu. Harus bawa rapor dari sekolah. Tapi si adek kan enggak sekolah,” jawab Dede.

Sang ibu tambun mulai gentar. Matanya berkaca-kaca.

“Ibu harus ke sana sama Bapaknya...” Dede mengalihkan pembicaraan, mengarah pada ibu yang berselonjor.

“Susah, Mas. Bapaknya kan nggak sayang ama anak-anak” sang ibu tambun menatap wanita yang berselonjor itu. Yang ditatap hanya tertunduk.

“Kapan ke sana lagi?” Dede bertanya lagi.

“Tau nih. Ongkos dah abis,” jawabnya lemah.

Seperempat jam kemudian, mereka bubar setelah Dede berjanji mengontak Kak Iwang dan menemui petugas di Cipayung.

Di Cipayung, terdapat sebuah rumah rehabilitasi anak-anak jalanan. Di tempat itulah petugas Kamtib men-drop anak-anak jalanan yang digaruk. Di sana, mereka disuluh, dibina, dan dibekali sedikit kemampuan kerja agar tidak kembali ke jalanan.

Ketika pertama didirikan pada 1997, KAKI hanyalah yayasan yang bermodal sebuah rumah kontrakan di Multi Raya. Kini, KAKI menjadi yayasan sosial yang membina anak-anak jalanan di kawasan Rawa Mangun.

Erwan, seorang mahasiswa Universitas Negeri Jakarta (UNJ) merintis pendirian yayasan tersebut. Saat itu ia dan kawan-kawan kuliahnya, aktif dalam program kampus bertajuk “Pendidikan Luar Sekolah (PLS)”.

Untuk biaya operasional, dana revolusi dari kantong pribadi sering keluar. Dede kini meneruskan kemudi yayasan tersebut semenjak Erwan lulus kuliah.

Di rumah kontrakan itulah aktivis KAKI menampung anak-anak jalanan dan memberi pelajaran sekolah. Pada 1999, Yayasan Mitra Mandiri bersedia menjadi funding tetap, disusul yayasan Save The Children Amerika (didanai USAID) dua tahun kemudian.

Tak tanggung-tanggung, yayasan asal amrik tersebut memberikan pendanaan secara tahunan. Dana yang dikucurkan mencapai sembilan digit rupiah. “Rata-rata Rp180 juta per tahun,” kata Muhammad Ramdani (24 tahun), sang bendahara.

Meski demikian, mereka harus mengajukan perpanjangan funding tiap tahunnya, tiap Juni-Juli. Dan selama ini, mereka beruntung karena KAKI menjadi salah satu dari 16 LSM yang didanai USAID sejak 1997.

Namun, kesulitan operasional KAKI bukan persoalan dana. Mereka sempat kesulitan mencari rumah singgah karena stigma buruk yang melekat pada anak jalanan dan rumah singgah. KAKI terhitung telah pindah lokasi rumah singgah enam kali.

Di markas terakhir itu, Dede kembali beroperasi membebaskan anak-anak jalanan sesuai permintaan orang tua. Karena itu, pandangan miring dari para petugas Kamtib menerpa mereka dan KAKI.

“Sering, kami dituding sebagai broker orang tua anak jalanan untuk membebaskan anak-anak yang ketangkep. Padahal tugas kami sebenarnya membina anak jalanan, bukannya agen yang mbebasin mereka kalo ketangkep. Susah-susah kita bebasin, abis tu mereka dieksploitasi lagi!” ujar Dede dengan nada tinggi.

“Coba deh elo liat di by pass sini kalo malem… “ logat Betawi yang sedari tadi ditutupi bahasa baku, kini mencuat, “… tu anak-anak disuruh ke jalanan nggendong adeknya, terus ngemis. Abis itu uangnya, yang nadah ya ibu-ibu tadi.”

Ia tersengal. Matanya menatap lurus ke layar komputer di ruang kerja KAKI yang hanya berukuran 3 X 4. “Buat mereka, anak-anak itu aset!”

Selama ini, berbekal surat keterangan dari KAKI, Dede menerobos pusat rehabilitasi Kamtib dan menjelaskan bahwa anak-anak itu adalah binaan mereka. Terkadang, Dede meminta Iwang (seorang guru kejar paket A dan B di sebuah sekolah di Jakarta Timur) yang juga aktivis lembaga misionaris Kristen, membuatkan rapor palsu.

Ironisnya, berulang kali anak-anak jalanan itu diselamatkan, berulangkali pula orang tua mereka menjerumuskan mereka kembali ke jalanan. “Gue sih maunya ngasih pelajaran ama ibu-ibu itu!” tegas Dede.

“Jadi permasalahannya memang kompleks. Kita menghadapinya sebagai mata rantai. Gimana biar si anak itu nggak meniru orng tuanya, besok kalo udah punya anak. Biar cara berpikir mereka berubah, bahwa mengeksploitasi anak, adalah perbuatan salah,” lanjutnya.

Dede tahu betul memalsu rapor merupakan tindakan yang sangat tidak etis. Tapi Dede tak punya pilihan lain. Anak-anak jalanan itu sering menjadi proyek para petugas Kamtib. Jika tak punya rapor, orang tua mereka harus membayar sejumlah uang pada petugas. Istilahnya menebus, besarnya berkisar Rp100 ribu per anak.

Lusa, Dede akan kembali ke Cipayung, mencari tahu prosedur pembebasan anak-anak jalanan yang belum punya rapor itu. Kalaupun harus memalsu rapor, ia siap menjalaninya demi Azis (9 tahun) dan Ayu (12 tahun) yang meringkuk di balik jeruji, karena nasib yang tak pernah mereka pilih.

Bagi Dede, sulit memilih salah satu persimpangan itu atau meninggalkan keduanya..

***

I wrote this article about five years ago, when I was a freelancer journalist. I found it just couple days ago, and now wondering whether KAKI still exist.

Jarum jam menunjukkan pukul 08.30 ketika Arif menghubungiku. Beberapa kali hp-ku berdering, aku hanya mendengar samar. Aku sedang menyelesaikan masakanku.

Kejutan. Ibunya masuk Karyadi lagi dan sedang butuh darah golongan O. Aku bersedia menjadi donor. Sekalian kuhubungi Udin agar ada tambahan stok donor.

Setengah jam yang berlalu beberapa saat kemudian sangat kusesalkan. Aku tak tahu bahwa setengah jam yang kuhabiskan untuk menunggu terkirimnya SMS-ku pada Udin adalah detik-detik yang sangat berharga bagi Ibu Arif. Arif sampai mengirim SMS lagi, memintaku untuk bersegera saat itu juga.

Tanpa menunggu Udin atau sarapan, aku langsung berangkat. Celaka 13, sesampaiku di Karyadi pintu untuk pengunjung masih tertutup. Aku harus memutar di Unit Rawat Jalan. Masih juga kusia-siakan barang 10 menit yang sangat sangat berharga untuk menunggu –bahkan minta Arif menjemputku.

Akhirnya aku nekad mencari ruangan tempat Ibu Arif dirawat. Tak terlalu sulit sebenarnya jika aku mau nekad. Tapi aku betul-betul manusia tanpa usaha yang syaraf motoriknya baru bereaksi secara impulsif pada detik-detik terakhir. Aku sampai kesasar segala di bangsal sebelah.

Sedikit lebih dekat lagi dengan gedung tempat Ibu Arif dirawat, semuanya sudah terlambat. SMS Arif datang. Memberitahukan bahwa ibunya sudah merdeka. Aku takut mengartikan kata “merdeka” itu sebagai kematian. Sampai akhirnya aku tetap harus membaca kalimat itu, “Such a beautiful death.”

Aku seperti mati rasa. Aku tak sempat kaget. Tak sempat sedih. Yang kutahu hanya kuyu. Lalu layu.

Tak karuan rasa hatiku begitu aku telah sebetul-betulnya sadar bahwa Ibu Arif telah tiada. Aku terlambat! Hanya karena aku menunggu SMS-ku pada Udin terkirim. 45 menit yang begitu berarti itu kulewati sekadar untuk membaca Kompas hari ini.

Lalu menunggu Arif menjemputku di Unit Rawat Jalan tanpa aku berinisiatif untuk selekasnya mencari ruangan tempat ibunya dirawat.

(Apakah kisahnya tetap akan sama andaikata SMS-ku pada Udin sampai tepat waktu? Atau mungkin aku langsung ke Karyadi seorang diri? Atau aku langsung menerabas masuk agar aku bisa memberikan darahku dalam 45 menit yang sangat berharga itu? Wiwik menghampiriku. Kesedihanku memuncak lagi. Aku berurai air mata lagi.)

Aku berhasil juga menemukan ruangan itu. Arif duduk dengan kepala tertunduk. Dia sibuk menghubungi sana sini untuk mengabarkan ikhwal kematian ibunya. Aku tak bisa menahan tangisku.

Arif menyalamiku. Aku langsung terduduk kuyu. Terlambat! Ibunya sudah meninggal. Aku bahkan sudah tak lagi mendapati ibunya terbaring di bangsal. Perawat sudah mengurus jenazahnya di ruang sebelah.

Sempat terlintas dalam benakku ber-bag-bag darah yang pernah kudonorkan yang kutak tahu: sia-sia kah? Berhasil menyelamatkan nyawa orang lainkah? Kalaupun iya, apakah ia menjadi sangat berguna pada kondisi yang betul-betul urgen seperti ini?

Juga waktuku. Berapa jam yang pernah kulalui–sekali lagi-sia-sia? Sementara 45 menit yang sangat berharga telah berlalu begitu saja.

(Ada suara sirine di luar sana–entah mobil jenazah, entah ambulan. Kemarin di dalam mobil serupa, ada tubuh ibu Arif yang terbujur kaku.)

Arif menenangkanku. Melihatku menangis, dia jadi ingin menangis lagi. Dia sedang menerima telpon, entah dari siapa. Kusangka dari Basfin. Arif menyebut-nyebutku yang menangis segala. Sesekali dia mengelus kepalaku dan menepuk-nepuk pundakku.

Siapa menenangkan siapa? Kenapa Arif yang kehilangan ibunya, tapi aku yang histeris? Hmmm, aku histeris karena egois–karena aku begitu menyesal datang terlambat hingga ibunya tak lagi tertolong. Beberapa saat kemudian aku baru tahu kalau itu telpon dari Gilang.

Tak lama, Mbak Mei menyusul. Suasana duka masih cukup intens hingga beberapa saat kemudian. Aku, Mbak Mei, dan tiga orang lainnya segera mengabari siapa saja yang bisa dihubungi. Udin masih juga tak bisa kuhubungi.

Setelah mendengar cerita dari Arif, akhirnya aku baru tenang. Dokter sendiri menyatakan sejak hari sebelumnya bahwa ibunya alamat tak tertolong. Entah sudah berapa kantong darah ditransfusikan. Tetapi pendarahan tak bisa dihentikan. Seperti kantong bocor, diisi dari satu sisi tapi bocor di lain sisi.

Arif membawa sebuah biji sawo. Ibunya memungut sawo itu sebelum diopname lalu memasukkannya ke dalam tas. Sampai sawo itu busuk, dia tak sempat memakannya. Arif menerjemahkannya sebagai keinginan yang tak kesampaian: tak sempat menyaksikan kakaknya membangun rumah; tak sempat menyaksikan kakaknya yang lain melahirkan; tak sempat menyaksikannya wisuda; bahkan sekadar makan sawo yang dipungutnya pun tak kesampaian.

----

Aku pamit pada Arif untuk menjemput Udin di Hayamwuruk. Kami mungkin akan turut melawat ke Jepara.

Udin begitu tenang mendengar kabar kematian ibu Arif. Dalam hati aku merutuk: kenapa dia tidak merasa bersalah sedikitpun? Padahal aku kesal bukan main gara-gara hp-nya tak bisa kuhubungi. Baru setibaku di sana, 5 SMS-ku untuk Udin terkirim. Sialan! Aku benci berurusan dengan teknologi yang tak beres!

Hingga pukul 11.00 tak ada jawaban dari Otong, Tirta, dan kawan-kawan lain, aku dan Udin memutuskan segera pergi ke Karyadi. Kami masih harus berurusan dengan helm pula. Terkutuklah siapapun yang mencuri helm-ku. Mengingatnya, ada kalanya aku tak ikhlas bahwa siapapun yang mengambil helmku adalah orang yang memang lebih membutuhkan helm itu.

Kami berpapasan dengan rombongan jenazah ibu Arif di persimpangan menuju bangsal tempat ibu Arif dirawat. Arif tampak tenang sekali. I know him, I suppose. Dalam hati mungkin dia menahan diri sekuat mungkin untuk tak menunjukkan kesedihannya. Dia bercanda dengan beberapa kawan HMI-nya, menggoda beberapa suster dan anak-anak Kedokteran. Arif, Arif ,...

Jenazah ibu Arif dimandikan. Aku tak tahu apa yang dipikirkan Arif memandangi tubuh ibunya yang telanjang, tampak begitu pucat. Sosok yang pernah mengandungnya, melahirkannya, mengasuhnya, membesarkannya (seperti ibuku). Darah masih mengalir dari rahimnya. Kasihan sekali..

Jenazah dibawa pulang ke Jepara untuk disholatkan, seperti wasiat mendiang. Ibu Arif ingin pamit pada tetangganya di Lebuawu. Namun dia ingin dimakamkan di Kendal, rumah orang tuanya. Aku dan Udin turut.

Tapi kami kecele setiba di Jepara karena ternyata jenazah langsung dibawa ke Kendal tanpa menunggu hingga sore. Aku dan Udin kecapekan setiba di Hayamwuruk. Malam tadi, jam 9 aku sudah tidur.

Kematian ibu Arif begitu membekas dalam ingatanku. Pun pada akhirnya aku tetap bisa menerima dengan rasional bahwa tanpa pertolonganku sekalipun ibunya tetap akan meninggal, tapi aku lebih merasai betapa berharganya waktu pada saat-saat yang betul-betul dibutuhkan.

---

Akhirnya, aku bersetuju dengan Mbak Mei. Kematian ibu Arif mengingatkanku untuk menjaga ibuku dengan lebih baik.


Hayamwuruk, 24 Juli 2005
10.05

*************************

Kisah ini ditulis seorang kawan pada hari ketika ibu meninggal. Terima kasih, Leny..

Hari beranjak siang di kampus Universitas Negeri Jakarta (UNJ). Tiga orang duduk menopang kaki di atas bangku panjang di muka gedung G. Salah seorang di antaranya adalah Eki.

Kini, ia duduk bersama kami di warung tenda. Ujung jarinya mengetuk gelas berisi coffemix hangat miliknya.

“O iya…!”

Matanya berbinar, seolah berhasil memecahkan teka-teki besar.

“Yang kemaren ditangkep di Bali waktu aksi, tu si Gendhon! Bakar gambar SBY [Presiden Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono].”

Sehari sebelumnya, ketika berpapasan di muka kantor Didaktika (majalah mahasiswa UNJ). Eki menyinggung penangkapan itu, namun ia lupa nama sang tertangkap.

“Terakhir aku ke Jogja waktu temen-temen Arena (majalah mahasiswa Universitas Muhammadiyah Yogyakarta) diserang FPI (Front Pembela Islam). Mereka sempet ke Jakarta dan saat itu udah setting aksi di sini.”

Ia menghisap rokoknya, batang rokok kedua.

“Ya aku bilang ke mereka, ‘kalau temen-temen mau, lima orang aja udah cukup buat aksi. Pasti, nanti jadi isu nasional. Tapi temen-temen harus mikir efek dominonya. Di Jakarta sih FPI nggak mungkin nyerang persma. Mereka belum berani masuk kampus. Tapi di daerah? Di Solo? Jogja?’”

Nokia biru gelap di depannya bergetar. Sedetik kemudian, sebuah dialog lewat HP terjadi, membentuk pagar virtual antar kami dengannya.

Eki adalah mahasiswa UNJ angkatan ’98. Ketika gerakan mahasiswa ‘98 pecah, ia berada di antara kerumunan massa yang menyerbu DPR. Selepas peristiwa itu, ia bergabung dengan Forkot dan membentuk Famred (Forum Mahasiswa untuk Rakyat dan Demokrasi). Saya mengenalnya dua tahun lalu ketika ia menjadi Pemimpin Redaksi Didaktika.

“Kamu pernah ketemu Pengki? Di mana dia sekarang?”

Saya menggeleng. Beberapa nama aktivis pers mahasiswa kembali terlontar dari mulutnya, mulai dari Iwan Foresmayo (Forum Pers Mahasiswa Yogya), Jeffri PPMI (Paguyuban Pers Mahasiswa Indonesia), Rozi SPA (Student Press Association), lengkap dengan komentar dan kisah masa lalunya dengan mereka.

“Joni (seorang aktivis pers mahasiswa di Jakarta, bukan nama sebenarnya, Red.) tuh, ‘buron’ dia!”

“Anak-anak (aktivis Forkot, Red.) dah tahu kalo dia spionase pemerintah. Cuman kita nggak bisa mbuktiin secara hukum. Ya gara-gara dia juga, tragedi Tri Sakti terjadi. Anak-anak dah pingin mbunuh dia.”

Pada masa pergerakan era ‘98 hingga 2000, spionase di kalangan mahasiswa memang banyak terjadi. Eki dan kawan-kawannya di FPMJ pernah menangkap salah satu dari mereka.

“Cewek, pake jilbab. Kita pindahin dia ke ruang teater sini. Jam dua malem tuh pake motor. Ngakunya sih Islam, tapi pas jilbabnya kita buka, eh pake kalung salib! Udah kan, anak-anak mau moles dia. Dah mau disetrum! Tapi gue bilang ‘…kalo lo kaya gitu, apa bedanya dengan militer? Katanya kita anti-kekerasan?’ Sejak itu gue ma temen-temen UNJ keluar.”

Bibirnya tertarik, membentuk sebuah senyum simpul. Nyinyir.

“…padahal yang ngelahirin FPMJ ya anak-anak UNJ,” lanjutnya.

***

Sekarang, saya tidak tahu apakah Eki lulus atau DO (drop out/ dipecat dari status mahasiswa). Yang jelas, masa kejayaannya sebagai mahasiswa telah habis. Namun, sisa idealisme masih nyampir di sikapnya. Ketika ditawari jabatan oleh seorang mantan aktivis FPMJ yang sempat jadi caleg Golkar, Eki menolak tegas.

“…Elo salah ngajak orang,” katanya saat itu. Senyum nyinyir khas itu tak akan pernah bisa saya lupakan.***

Matahari tertutup mendung. Angin bertiup sangat kencang hingga tangkai dan dedaunan akasia di tepi lapangan sepak bola saling bergesek dan berdesir. Jakarta lagi ramah hari itu.

“GOOL…!”

Salah seorang anak di lapangan melonjak gembira. Tubuhnya melenting-lenting. Tapi ia segera tersadar. Tak ada yang istimewa. Permainan telah usai, mereka hanya saling berebut dan menendang bola ke satu gawang yang dijaga tiga orang.

Sudah sepuluh menit saya duduk di tepi lapangan. Bukan karena permainan bola itu, melainkan karena Igo. Bocah gundul ini saya dapati mengais plastik di tepian gang Daksinapati Barat (Rawa Mangun). Saya menyangka bocah itu pengais sampah cum pengemis amatiran yang belum pandai membuat orang iba. Sebagai pengemis, kaos dan celana kuningnya terlampau bersih.

“Mau permen?”

Ia tersenyum lebar, dan menggeleng.

“Minum?”

“Nggak.”

“Es?”

Mendengar kata ‘es’, matanya menyala, ia segera bangkit dan menarik tangan saya ke warung seberang jalan, “Iya, Om! Es, Om! Es, Om! Asiiiik!”

“Di sini!,” tangan mungilnya menunjuk ice box di muka warung, lalu mengambil fruit tang. Sebelum Saya sempat menarik dompet, bocah itu telah merogoh uang seribuan dari kantong celananya dan menamparkannya ke atas ice box. Tapp..! Saya bengong. Siapa menraktir siapa?

Kami kembali ke tepi lapangan.

“Umurmu berapa?”

“Lima taon.”

Refleks, saya menarik kertas catatan dari tas. Umur lima tahun, kelayapan mengais sampah di Jakarta. Apa yang dipikirkan orang tuanya?

Belum sempat saya menulis, Igo berteriak girang, “Om! Nggambar kodok, Om!” Kedua tangannya bertepuk, “Ama mobil ya? Dua,” jari kelingking, jari manis, dan jari telunjuk Igo terangkat.

“Dua apa tiga?”

“Pokoknya segini,” tiga jari kecil itu kembali mengacung. Kini kami membelakangi lapangan, menghadap jalan Daksinapati yang sepi. Dua tiga mobil lewat. Igo menunjuk salah satunya sebagai model gambar.

Igo mengamati garis yang saya buat. Tubuh kecilnya menempel erat di pinggang saya, “kok mobilnya moncongnya gitu?”

“Iyeee,…” belum sempat saya membela diri, Igo kembali protes.

“Kok nggak ada jalannya?”

Celoteh-celoteh berawalan ‘kok’ menerpa tiap goresan yang saya buat.

“Ya udah, sekarang kamu yang nggambar!”

“Nggak bisaaaa!” suara Igo meninggi.

“Nggambar kodok?”

“Nggak bisaaaa!”

“Bisanya nggambar apa?”

“Aku bisa nggambar ayam!” ia merebut pen dan kertas catatan dari tangan saya. Tangannya pun menari.

“…dah jadi. Ni kakinya.”

Gambar itu tak jelas. Mirip lukisan abstrak dengan garis-garis tak beraturan. Tampak bahwa fungsi koordinasi otak pelukisnya belum sempurna.

“Om! Cewek, Om!” tangan Igo terayun ke arah seorang wanita berdandan molek yang berjalan dari kanan jalan.

“Suit-suit…!! Cewek!” Igo menyanyikan nada sebuah lagu dangdut untuk menggoda cewek itu. Sang cewek tak peduli. Melihat itu, kuli bangunan yang sedari tadi bekerja dan menatap tajam ke arah kami, menyeringai. Penjual toko pun tersenyum.

Anak itu sangat lucu, dan berkeliaran bebas. Sekilas, saya berpikir, bagaimana bila yang di posisi saya saat itu adalah penculik. Anak selucu Igo, jelas berharga tinggi. Dan menculik anak yang juga sangat polos ini, pasti jauh lebih mudah daripada menangkap kucing liar.

“Rumahmu di mana?”

“Di sono!” tangan Igo mengayun ke arah bangunan yang sedang digarap para kuli.

Seorang tua, tukang sampah, menghentikan gerobak sampahnya dekat kami. Bau amis menyeruak.

“Itu embahku! Mbah..!!” panggil Igo.

Itu adalah kali kedua Igo memanggil tukang sampah berbeda sebagai embahnya. Malu-malu, sang orang tua membalas dengan lambaian. Kulitnya hitam legam, pelipisnya mukanya menonjol dan berkilat.

“Kamu punya Abang?”

“Banyak! Itu Abang-abangku semua.” Igo menunjuk para kuli bangunan.

“Ke tempatmu yo?”

“Ayo…ayo..ayo…!” tangan kiri Igo menarik kantong semen kosong yang tadi digunakannya untuk mengais sampah. Tangan kanannya menarik pergelangan saya. Kami memasuki bangunan yang tengah digarap, melewati para kuli yang akrab menyapa Igo. Di belakang proyek bangunan itu, tersembunyi empat kamar kontrakan.

Ibu Igo, Ida, tengah tiduran sambil mengisi TTS. Melihat saya, ia heran dan mulai bertanya. Tapi itu tak lama. Ia kembali asyik menggeluti TTS di depannya.

“Igo tu, emang sering maen sendirian. Nggak ada temennya sih,” komentar sang ibu. Matanya masih lekat menatap buku TTS di tangannya. Tak ada nada kekhawatiran di sana.

Di situ, saya sadar. Igo bukanlah pengemis. Sementara ayah Igo (seorang mandor bangunan) bekerja dan ibunya asyik mengisi TTS, Igo membantu “sang embah”, bermain sekaligus mengumpulkan sampah di jalanan.

Ketika keluar rumah dan melewati para kuli bangunan itu, mereka menyapa. Saya merasa, jika Igo memiliki “saudara” dan “embah” sebanyak itu, yang mengawasi dari kejauhan, maka ia pun akan berkeliaran bebas, tanpa khawatir akan penculik. Karena ia tahu, ia akan aman di kota yang sangat rawan ini.

***

My report, not for any media, but to follow my own heart, as a free journalist.. I'll do it more often. :D

In the canteen of Badan Pengawas Pasar Modal dan Lembaga Keuangan (Bapepam-LK), we grouped, several stock exchange journalists.

We had our meal and chat. We told peculiar stories about all ministers in this nation (I won't tell you which minister cause it will invite me another sue..hehe..).

We laughed to the death for the stories, until I mechanically played this song from my handphone,

Arise ye workers from your slumbers
Arise ye criminals of want
For reason in revolt now thunders
and at last ends the age of cant.
Now away with all your superstitions
Servile masses arise, arise!
We'll change henceforth the old conditions
And spurn the dust to win the prize.

Then come comrades rally
And the last fight let us face
The Internationale
Unites the human race.

And the crowd stopped!!!

Hans, a Kontan reporter asked, "What song is it?"

"Internationale" I said.

"Sounds familiar," Luhut replied. He is a Investor Daily reporter. "It's the international song for communist."

Another four journalist looked at me, half panic.

"Yes, it is." I said. "Something bad from this lyric?"

"Don't you know that communist ignore God, reject them." Firman, an Antara journalist replied.

"Wowowow.. if that so, then why don't you guys terrified of Capitalist? Some of them are atheist too!" I replied.

"Or.. do you think all capitalist accept God and obey them? Where is God in a capitalist who exploits his labor with a very small salary, that almost make them impossible to pray for exhausted? Both capitalist and communist are secular thinking. Not all communist are atheist, neither all capitalist are theist."

Wulan, a Republika journalist, added my answer. "Do you guys remember when we were children and always been obligated to watch and make a resume about G/30 S movie? It's not a horror movie, but always make us terrified everytime we heard 'communist' word. We were brainwashed since we were a kid!"

"Yup. And you guys still acted as that stupid children after this big political changing in the country. Helloo.. you guys are journalist," I replied.

"You sounds like communist, now.." Hans said.

"For Suharto and some nowadays ruler, perharps I am. Although my reason for not voting in national election is the inability of nowadays politician enforcing Islamic principle,"

Well, it's clearly not easy to erase the brainwashing effect of General Soeharto, the theist who responsible for brutal murder of 700 Tanjung Priok's Moslem, and more than a million PKI's voter--suspected voter of PKI.

And they responded my statement, as a ghost of a nation's speaking! :) I really wonder where is the terrifying part from internationale lyric.. here is the rest,

We peasants, artisans and others,
Enrolled amongst the sons of toil
Let's claim the earth henceforth for brothers
Drive the indolent from the soil.
On our flesh for too long has fed the raven
We've too long been the vultures prey.
But now farewell to spirit craven
The dawn brings in a brighter day.

No saviour from on high delivers
No trust we have in prince or peer
Our own right hand the chains must shiver
Chains of hatred, greed and fear.
Ere the thieves will out with their booty
And to all give a happier lot.
Each at his forge must do his duty
And strike the iron while its hot.

Here are some crew of Bisnis Indonesia. Well,... I'd say the people in the very center of the newspaper. They are in compartment one where 70% of the readers, according to the latest survey, run for the news.

This desk provides hottest corporate actions and issues in financial and stock exchange activities. But I won't make any promotion or salutation for their works. On the opposite, hehe... I will tell how "magical" they are.

***
OK, let's start..from the left.

His name is Abraham, our editor in stock exchange desk. His writer code is ABR Perharps, he's the only boss in the world that unable to mad at his boys, and never complained about them.

We revealed his magic when in an afternoon he came to us with his new passport on his hand and gloomly said, "Oh God... I looked like a terrorist.. look at this picture! I have sideburns on my jaw."

We checked, and yes, he has sideburns there, which actually impossible for--as a good Catholic--he never let them grow even a milimeters. We bursted in more terrible laughter when he said, “guys, do u think I really have that terrorist look?"

The other magic he has is when he suddely silence and writing on his desktop, not in his working hour. Hours later, we usually find beautiful argument and thinking passage filling our mailbox, about the right of being atheist, democracy, and philosophy.

Well, perharps he really is terrorist, with philosopher brain.. : )

***
The next ghostly shape beside Abraham is Herry or HTR, an editor assistance. His magic is to disappeare in a picture. Look.. you can prove it. He has magic too in making Bank Indonesia's (BI) office rocks for his news about that central bank's internal budget.

He is gilang's senior in Balairung, and somehow know my story with her. hehe... damn it, he got my card!

***
Next to him is Munir, a reporter with "operation code" MMH. He has several cars for personal renting business, but like to ask for a ride on our motorcycle.

He has magic too. Everytime he sits behind me on my bike, then my motobike felt different as if I’m reading Harley Davidson. I don't exactly know what happened for I'm in front of him. But according to some mystical message I get, it's related to SIZE factor. XD

***
Behind Munir is Fahmi. He’s my senior. His magic is in teaching. He’s my teacher, he can explain something clearer than we expect to. I would never be like this without his guidance.

And as the law of Karma, contradictorily he has bad magic too. Somehow he has lots of “evil” pictures and movies, thousands of them, fulfilling our mailbox like flood, and make us unable to avoid watching them.

If you need some, I’ll send you. He’s always updated. The Iranian actress, that made photograph as Paris Hilton and Paris Latsis did? He has, I tell u.

His only weakness is when he is with Munir. He can suddenly dissappear, like in this picture. Once again, it’s SIZE factor.

***
Then Aditya, editor assistance with operation code ADN. We have folklore about his magic some years ago. It is said that several minutes after he finished his job and went out to the elevator, three time small earthquake about 1 richter scale occured in the office.

When I asked Munir about that, he said, “It’s Adit’s magic to summons his girlfriend. He stepped heavily on earth three times, and his girl appeared.”

Amazing? Yes it was, until I finally found out that his girl, which is now Adit’s wife, actually worked on the 6th floor, right below our office. We are on the 7th floor. The three steps are a kind of sign says, “honey... come and go home together..” :p

***
In the middle of the table is Nugi, with operation code ASA. He has magic related to his voice. He can sermon us and make us listening to him as if listening to a wise gentleman on the phone.

I was dazed too, once, when he was Pantau’s crew and told me that Pantau took me as one of their chosen people to join Kursus Jurnalisme Sastrawi (narrative journalism training) VII. On the phone, I replied, “Yes sir... I will sir, yessery.. etc...” Poor me. ;O

But it only works on the phone. Yes, it does.

***
Sitting on the corner is Bambang, with M04 code. He’s apprentice, a friend of Gilang. He’s..rrrr... let’s see.. well... he’s just an apprentice so he has no magic, yet. Hahah...

***
Next to Bambang is Wisnu, the shining star of Bisnis Indonesia. His magic is to create issue. Some news that “doesn’t exist” suddenly exist on the public. He often know first above other journalist in Indonesia.

The other magic is he can help someone not even when he’s around. An editor named Neneng once got an exclusively short cut to banking service of a foreigner bank, just by mentioning the spell, “I am a friend of Wisnu Wijaya in Bisnis Indonesia.”

What a magic.. hehe..

***
Right beside Wisnu is.. Arif, me. My code is AGS. And what is my magic? I’ll tell you later..

***
Next to me is Erna, the ESU. She montlhy shares 10% of her earning for the church, out of her share to the poor and unlucky. Dear, God! Isn’t that a magic?

She’s one of the richest girl in the world, I’d say.

***
And then, there is Ayu or RNI. Her biggest magic is that she can stand to sit and do daily jobs, right beside me, without falling in love with me, eventough she’s jomblo. Hahah...

I owe her a big bowl of ice cream. I’d love to take her out and have that ice cream but only in one condition; she wears a gown or evening dress. Till now, she can’t do that for too shy to be a real woman. Hehehe... It’s not my fault, right?

***
How about Puji, the reporter with nickname PUL? Well... I think her magic is able to appear in the office all the way from her home located near Tanjung Priok. every day, by bus.

That’s crazy... for I know how far it is. I always feel like from hell everytime I attend some corporate press conference or public expose in Ancol, by motorbike. It makes me feels like finding “the nemo” everytime I arrive to the office from there. ;p

***
Berli or BES... I haven’t found her magic, yet.. But she can neutralize our magic by putting her slimmy smiley face. That’s suck,.. but what can I say, we’re just normal males.

We are now being terrorized by her illness. She got h***** from Singapore, after attending a press conference. I hope she’s fine, soon. So we can tease each other like we used to do.

***
And Hanna, a contracted journalist coded 08. She has magic now, in her womb. Yes, she’s pregnant. Sometimes I think she’s just too cute to be a mom. She always think that she is pretty, which I hardly agree. The fact is, she’s a damn pretty-lovely-nice-girl. Hahah..

We always share our magic. I’m happy to be one of her best friend since we used to runaway to malls and buy some chocolates, cakes, ice cream. : )

***
And the man who took the picture, it’s Bayu, the editor in insurance and banking desk. His code is YBW. His magic is lost now. His wife passed away a years ago, weeks before my mom’s death.

But I never show my shympathize to him since I know exactly how it feels like. I mourned when he mourned a year ago. He know I can understand his feeling without I have to express it. He loves his wife so much that her picture is in his computer’ wallpaper. She’s in his stories everytime he talked to us personally.

***
And my magic? Well.. I have many. It is them. Yes, they are my magic. When I’m alone, sad, and happy, they’re always there to console me, in a way that they don’t realize. It’s not everything, but it’s enough for me.

p.s. In the very morning after that sea food party, Wisnu and Adhitya have rashes on their face , and Fahmi has his stomach ache. The rest is safe, especially me for I has allergetic to shrimp and avoid it very well that night, and took crab and lobster instead. yummy!

Gee... isn't it beautiful view (bon paysage--in french)? The spotlight of the city... the silhoutte of the buliding, and the vanilla-combined-with-dark-almost-starry sky.

Guess what, everybody... it's the view from Bisnis Indonesia office. I used to smoke and watch this from the smoking room, minutes after deadline.. when I'm alone or together with my seniors, while feeling sad, or happy.

Usually it's just an afternoon, not as beautiful as that day that make Kang Dedi, our photographer willing to took the picture for us.

I bet you people agree on how beautiful it is. But let me tell you, this beautiful view has a very big-dark-secret that makes... all the prisoner of azkaban tremble.. (hehe... the Harry Potter's part suddenly came in. Just writing it).

And this make my friend and I, in one side, and you reader at the other side, have a significantly different scale of depth meaning about the beauty of the view.

Let me tell you.. the dark big secret is laid in the dark part of the pic, the below one. They are cemetery. Yes... it's a spooky cemetery where a girl was raped an murdered years ago. If you see the cemetery and know the story, perhaps you will eager to get rid of the view. Hehe.. But since you don't see it, then the beautiful image you capture is bald as it served in the pic. No darkside.

But for my friend and I who everyday see the graveyard, the beauty of this view felt special and deeper. Because it appears, contradictorily, in the middle of the graveyard, like a flower bloom in the dark mud.

I think it is like us, when facing the world. Some choose to take the bald picture of it, accepting the beautiful part and (intentionally) not-knowing the bad one.

Some other choose to accept both of it. So when the beauty appears in the middle of the gloom situation, it felt more special and meaningful, and deeper.

This is life is. What make life meaningful and beautiful is; it's dynamic between positive and negative part. Without the dark part, you will never know how to thank the good part. On the opposite, without knowing the good part, you will never motivated to leave the bad part.

Have you tried to stop awhile and watch the high trees' tips of leaves, waved by the wind? And realize how beautiul the world we are in? If you have, then good for you... cause you have find how to feel the rhyme of life, not only passing it and regretting it when you die.

Happy new year, everybody... let's make a better chapter of life...

Human has desires. They don't live for being an angel nor a demon. Islamic teaching said, human is a creature created not from fire (satanic essence) nor from light (angelic essence).

The essence of human is dust. Therefore, we can find our most essence on our feet. Many time we remember our being, then we should remember this dust. In Islam, dust means two things. First, it's a dirty thing. On the other hand, dust is a pure and purifying thing for tayammum (cleansing ritual before praying where dust is used rather than water in emergency situation).

Now the question is, "If human created not as an angel, do we have a right to play nearly-God? I mean... always perfect.. and acting as if we have no desire? Why people likes to playing God while God give them an authority to be human, to be potentially sinfull and blissfull at the same moment?"

If God want us to act perfectly good, I think we should have been created as angel insted. But God want us to be ourselves, to pray and obey him as human with our dusty heart. This dusty heart (not lightful one as angel's) can be clean and can be dirty at the same time.

We have our own obligation to protect this heart. We can not put this responsibility to other or to have other person pay for our sin. Therefore, God said (in holy Qur'an) that prophet (men) have a higher grade to Him compared to angel's grade.

It's simply because we "fight" in order to obey him. While angel? They have no sin, so there is no fighting for obeying Him. While demon, they need no fighting too for it's their favor to be fight against God's rule. That's how demon pray to God (for me, demons are praying).

***

I remembered a long time ago in Hawe. Iis, my very good friend, said, "Kak Arif, I know you are a kind of platonic lover. If you have a girl, then you will love plainly calm, as if whispering, without wanting the same feedback from you couple."

Hehe.. I didn't argue. But for sure, I was flattered.

This girl used to predict my psychology, my attitude. I think she was curioused of what I really am, since I was the head of two famous college organization and put my image so good as a "nothing's wrong" guy, in running my organization.

That was Iis' second prediction. First, she predicted me as melancholist, long before Gilang "punish" me with the same prediction. Responding Iis' 2nd prediction, I just smiled and didn't argue for it sounded so good. I agreed to her and really wished that I'm a platonic lover, not the aristotalian one.

"You should love someone without any intention. Just give her your love, but expect no feedback," she said in the phone. It's not Iis, but a new friend, a girl I met sometimes ago.

I called her that night to have different opinion from different stand point. I was feeling so surged... so distressed.

"If she wasn't expressive enough to respond your love, then be patient. But never stop giving your love. Even drops of water can break a rock. Please, hold on," she added.

That night, that platonic love concept ringed to my brain again. Yes, I should do that. I once agreed to Iis' judgement. But why is it now felt so hard....? Is it because I'm now in it, not as an outsider nor as a love essaist, nor a love theorist.

"If you think I should have a platonic love to human, then you are wrong. I do need an appreciaton as a reason for me to keep giving my love to my partner. Otherwise, someday I would feel that I have no reason no more to do that, giving up, and then thinking to find another partner who deserves my love better, who knows how to appreciate me."

I sighed.

"Platonic love, supposed to be practized in the context of loving our God. If we do that concept to our mortal relationship, then it is similar to playing God. We act as if we don't need a response. That's not healthy, but a self-torchering and slow suicide," I said.

"I don't need money nor an instant sex for paying my love. I just need an appreciation, something she didn't have that night. If this happens many times, then I would have to find other partner. I'm just human."

She sighed.

Singapore indeed, is a clean and well-regulated city. The people is quite friendly but some are bitter. I met the chinese… the anglo.. they are very friendly. And who’s the bitter one? Well u can easily guess it. It’s the Malayan.

“Excuse me, could you show me the money changer around here?” I asked a boy, a very malayan one. I’d say he looked so Indonesian.

“The what changer?” he grinned to the girl beside him. The girl, with a cup of ice cream burst in laughter. Her voice echoing in that busy plaza. But everybody ignore her.

“The money changer,” I said.

“Oohh.. you mean the mmonneyy changer,” he corrected my spell and laugh. “Dunno. I’m here to shop,” he said.

What??? After laughing at my Indonesian accent, he.. just ignore me and said that he is just shopping—and so doesn’t have to help a stranger? Well.. if I wasn’t remembering my position as a stranger-on-the-job, then I would pull out my shirt and asked him to come out and play.

He is as big as me, generally,.. eventhough.. hehe… I’m thinner than him. But I was a karate when Iwas a high school student, so I guessed I can compete with him. No problemo.. wahaha…

But that’s just an example, there are many other who was so nice to me. In my three days experince there, the nice person is chinese. They helped me showing direction, accompany me walking three blocks to the subway, and even.. giving me some money!!!!

Yes, I was a beggar there for being “too rich”. It was in a busway… I have no little money, so I offered my money (S$10) to the driver. But he refused for didn’t have the change. He asked me to exchange it to a lady in the bus.

But, I was quite lucky for the women didn’t have any change, so she gave me her coins, if I’m not mistaken it was 10 cents. She’s so kind, the driver explained the route, he didn’t judge me from my colour.

And when I was visiting china town, I met a man who took me to a subway. He was about to go to work. He was so nice, talked many things as many as his question about me and my country.

“I was in Puncak, Bandung. It was five years ago,” he said.

He told me that he is in charge for the security system in Singapore’s power plant. It means, he has to guard it since power plant is like tha heart of a country. Without energy, the country will be in a chaos.

“Such a big responsible you have. Don’t you think you will be late for taking me to the subway,” I said.

“No, I won’t. It’s just couple blocks away,” he said.

And in the subway, once again, another Chinese helped me to take the ticket. They were lovely couple, and nice. Islam teaching truly said, "Allah judge men from the Taqwa, not from the race."

Then, why should this nation couldn't grow as Singapore in pluralism?

And then media briefing ran. There was only one speaker named Ashok Vaswani. He talked much about the citibank growth and expansion in the pacific asia.

I felt like being lectured for a subject I don’t interested at all. But the lecture went unstopable. Yeah… they paid for the “student’s” accommodation, what can I say? But what made everything worse was that there were no news in his speech. I mean.. He talked too global that has nothing to do with Indonesian reader.

Beside, they talked no number. It is like you are listening to a man who share his idea, but you don’t know him and his problem.

And I wasn’t the only one who think that way. Another journalist getting annoyed, but we were still listening the host. There were sixteen journalist there. And when the question and answer session began, then the excitement situation started.

Each journalist asked topic that connected to the citibank operation in their own country. I meant, each of us being “selfish”. What made us in common was that we asked something that actually not directly connected to Viswanath’s speech. And that’s funny..

And what I learnt more from those senior journalist (I’m the youngest journalist there, and the less-experienced one), is that they were so aggressive to ask in a smart way. They looked like having a dialogue with Viswanath. I mean.. they could drag him to give information in a smooth way and not interrogating.

Yes.. they’ re so aggressive that gave me no chance to ask in the forum. Half of other journalist decided to keep their question, as I did. When the forum ended, then I got close to Viswanath and did the job.

Well, It’s not my first time to interview someone in english, so it didn’t really matter anyway. I thought I have given my best shot in giving the questions. Mostly they were leading question such ask asking about the decreasing of citibank’s card credit business in Indonesia caused by the inflation, the expansion plan to require local bank… as Rabobank has done, or the single presence policy (the single ownership of foreign bank).

But the problem was the answer… he could avoid my answer so good that made me think he was graduated from a university that taught how to avoid journalist’s question. And if he was, I bet he got cumlaude rating. Hehe..

And so I reported only one news. I planned to write an article too, but hehe… I couldn’t resist the desire to cruise on the city… so I quickly wrote the news, sent it via wireless fidelity (wifi) from my girls’s notebook (for mine is damaged from water splash), closed the lid, and went out from the hotel.

By the way, I knew that Singapore is a jungle of wifi. When I opened the wi-fi connection, there were about eleven wi-fi that I could connect to, and they were open acces. Would you believe it???

Singapore here I comes…


(While writing this, suddenly I feel so.. lonely and blue. I sit right on the bench, when she was beside me, held my hand, and run for almost missing the plane. It was about three months ago. But now, it’s 09.00 o’clock already.. I have to catch my plane for Denpasar, so I don’t have to miss the plane too. I bring this lonely feeling.. all the way.. all day.. as usual. Damn!)

Some says, life is a mater of choice. But they never say how to choose the right one in an urgent situation.

Here I am now... standing wet, half naked, with the belt of my pijama loosened. I got 10 minutes left, and they’re still in front of me, lying on the bed of Ritz Carlton hotel, waiting, and ready to be used.

Hhh...

Well, I have to choose now...

I have to chose... rrr... between wearing Batik or wearing a shirt completed with the tie. Hehe...

And I found that it’s not easy. Firstly, I’m an Indonesian man in Singapore. If I choose wearing the batik, then I'll looked so Indonesian, in oldies style, showing that I'm from a country where corruption is still the major problem. And if I choose the shirt, then I will performed as a mature-western-journalist, the way Bob Woodward dressed, they won't notice that I'm from Indonesia.

Mmm... let’s see... (5 minutes left..)

I turned my eyes to the window. Singapore is a calm city. It’s very tidy, clean, and modern. Goenawan Muhammad, a honorable senior journalist of Tempo magazine, once wrote that living in Singapore is like living in an emergency unit, where everything is well-arranged and controlled, that we can hardly see the dynamic of humanity.

I remember Indonesia, the government, and my mercedees limo driver who picked me from the airport, named Ross. He started the conversation with explaining many thing about Singapore, and ended it by mocking Indonesia.

“In Singapore, you will never see a beggar here... and every spot of the city is green... In Indonesia, all the street is dirty ya... Government are corrupt...”

I just smiled and replied, “It seems like you know my country better than me, Ross..”

Then I remembered Citigroup of Singapore who raised million of dollar result from speculating on Economic Crisis hit Indonesia in 1997. So, here are the money ends... that put million of Indonesian poor. I remembered too about Singaporean traders who smuggled stuff to Indonesia, or speculator on Indonesia stock market.

Phuuhhh... suddenly, I don’t like this city, and I wish I don’t have to live here. But I curse my country too. The government, the short-minded people, the politician..

(3 minutes left)

Okay, I’m Indonesian. I’m now abroad, eventhough I seldom wearing batik in my home, but here, in this foreigner country, I proudly put the batik on my body. Beside, I already prepared it to be weared here.. it will means more when I’m wearing it in Singapore than wearing it in Indonesia.

And so I took it. Hmm... I looked good! The purple batik, chosen by my girl, suits my body so fine. I stepped ot the room to the lift... passing a room number 1623 from where I heard “strange noises” the night before.

While walking to the room where the media briefing held, I passed several coridors. There are Indonesian batik put on the wall, in a golden frame.. somehow I proud wearing batik. I’m Indonesian journalist, not western.

“Hello, you are Arif from Indonesia, right? Nice to see you..” a malayan girl yelled at me from registration desk.

“Yes, I am,”

Her name is Asharina Selvarajah, Assistant Vice President - Corporate Affairs Global Consumer Bank of Citigroup. She knew I'm Indonesian from my batik. I stepped closer to her and hold her hand.

Before writing my name on the registration list, I looked around... and find other male journalist wearing shirt, tidy tie, but they’re brown.

Yes, Asharina, I’m Indonesian. I'm trying to do my job as a good journalist do, but not to shy showing my cultural heritage identity. And again, there is another batik on the wall of the room... damn, it's good to be Indonesian!

Sidang CGI (Consultative Group on Indonesia) kembali digelar untuk yang ke-15 kali. Kali ini, karena digelar dua pekan pasca gempa yang merenggut lebih dari 6.000 jiwa di Yogyakarta dan Jawa Tengah, pemerintah mengusung semangat solidaritas kemanusiaan ke dalam acara itu. Kondisi itu sama seperti tahun lalu ketika CGI bersidang pasca Aceh dihajar tsunami dan gempa melantakkan Nias.

Meski sebelumnya pemerintah sempat mewacanakan pengajuan utang baru untuk mendanai rehabilitasi Jogja, namun dalam sidang tersebut Wapres mencoba mendorong negara anggota CGI mengucurkan hibah untuk membantu pembangunan di kawasan bencana.

Karena itu, sebelum makan siang dimulai dan empat menit tepat sebelum sambutan Wakil Presiden Jusuf Kalla, layar di muka ruangan menyala menampilkan slide berdurasi sekitar 15 menit. Di situ digambarkan suasana pasca musibah gempa, jeritan para korban, puing-puing bangunan, anak-anak menangis, dan para pengungsi di bawah tenda. Lengkap dengan data, pesan, dan harapan, tentunya.

“They need your help...” demikian salah satu pesan muncul, membuat mata seorang pemuda Barat salah satu staff delegasi berkaca-kaca—sementara dua orang Indonesia yang duduk dua meter dari layar saling bercanda dan tertawa-tawa.

Wapres melugaskan keinginan hibah tersebut dalam sambutannya ketika mengharapkan bantuan negara-negara donor membantu pemerintah merehabilitasi kawasan poranda itu.

“Kami mengharapkan kontribusi dan dukungan Anda atas nama kemanusiaan untuk membantu Yogyakarta dan Jawa Tengah,” pintanya di podium.

Dan tak berapa lama setelah itu, suara protes demonstrasi terdengar dari luar menjawab sambutan Wapres, “bubarkan CGI sekarang juga! Ini harus jadi forum CGI terakhir...!”

Mereka adalah massa yang menamakan diri Aliansi Rakyat Melawan CGI. Sebagaimana dalam tradisi sidang CGI, masyarakat anti utang selalu datang mewarnai perhelatan besar ini. Bagi mereka, pemerintah harus mencari alternatif lain menutup kekurangan pembangunan di luar utang.

“Utang tidak pernah gratis. Selalu ada intervensi kebijakan ekonomi di balik itu,” teriak salah satu orator demonstrasi.

Namun di pihak lain, perwakilan pemerintah di dalam sidang bersama para delegasi anggota CGI tenang-tenang saja. Sebagian hanya melongokkan kepala melihat arak-arakan massa di di jalan Sudirman, sambil tersenyum.

“Biasa, Bu. Forkot [Forum Kota]!”tutur seorang petugas pengaman yang dibalas cengiran petugas lainnya.

Para demonstran akhirnya tertahan di bibir gerbang BI. Mereka hanya bisa berorasi dengan pengamanan belasan petugas. Protes dan tuntutan mereka berakhir di hall-hall megah BI sebagai gaung hampa karena Wapres dan Menkeu asyik menikmati makan siang dengan para delegasi CGI.

Seperti biasa, aksi itu pun bubar, sementara pemerintah memutuskan mengambil utang baru. Kali ini, beban utang itu—tak tanggung-tanggung—meningkat sepertiga (US$0,9 miliar) dari utang tahun lalu, yakni dari US$2,8 miliar (2005) menjadi US$3,7 miliar.

Tampaknya, tim ekonomi Boediono menilai tak ada alternatif lain menutup defisit anggaran selain utang, sehingga "memaksa" mereka tetap menerima beban dari CGI tersebut.

Sementara, hibah yang diharapkan datang dari negara-negara donor ternyata jumlahnya tak berubah, yakni US$1,7 miliar. Padahal beberapa hari pasca gempa Yogyakarta, LSM anti utang internasional Jubilee USA Network menggelar aksi meminta negara donor memberi moratorium bagi Indonesia.

Kali ini, tradisi forum CGI terulang untuk kelima belas kalinya dengan utang baru dikucurkan membebani keuangan negara. Pengucuran kembali utang CGI ke-15 itu makin memupuskan harapan bahwa tradisi menjeratkan diri pada utang asing akan terputus.

Tak jelas siapa pihak yang menang di sini. Meski barangkali tak ada pemenang, tapi yang jelas korban itu--menurut saya--tetap ada, yakni masa depan anak-anak saya dan anak-anak sahabat dan tetangga dekat saya... kelak mereka akan hidup di negara yang kering subsidi karena terhisap untuk membayar bunga utang...

Saat negara lain bisa memberi subsidi lebih untuk industrinya, industri negeri ini tertatih-tatih karena pemerintah tak punya keringanan fiskal. Dampak yang paling nyata, anak-anak saya dan anak sahabat saya kelak akan kesulitan mencari kerja... dan hidup di tengah masyarakat yang tak henti-hentinya dibelit persoalan kemanusiaan dunia ketiga; pencurian, perampokan, konflik massa, hingga pembunuhan.***


n.b. Semula, kupikir inilah tulisan yang harus kubikin untuk liputan kali itu. Karena ternyata bukan demikian adanya, maka berakhirlah dia di blog ini, menjadi serpihan renungan untukku, dan bangsaku. Sengaja dia kutulis dengan bahasa bangsaku, semoga mudah terpahami.

Pagi itu tanggal 16 Mei, para pejabat baru Badan Pengawas Pasar Modal (Bapepam-LK) saling berjabat tangan. Spekulasi yang beredar sepekan sebelumnya mengenai struktur perombakan telah usai. Secara resmi, jabatan di pundak mereka dan pekerjaan menunggu di depan.

Sementara, wartawan yang sejam menunggu di luar ruang pelantikan akhirnya berkesempatan menyelinap ke dalam. Sebagian turut menjabat akrab para pejabat baru, sebagian kecil langsung menuju tempat makanan, dan lainnya berusaha mepet para pejabat untuk meminta pernyataan.

Publik tentunya ingin mengetahui arah kebijakan para pejabat yang akan membawahi sektor keuangan dan bursa tersebut. Pernyataan dan gambaran sikap mereka jelas ditunggu-tunggu.

Tak heran, wartawan dari berbagai media berharap mendapatkan pernyataan mereka mengenai kebijakan ke depan. Namun, kondisi yang ada bertepuk sebelah tangan. Para pejabat tersebut justru enggan memberi pernyataan tiap kali wartawan menemui mereka dan mengajukan pertanyaan.

Dan uniknya, mereka semua meminta waktu seminggu untuk mempelajari semua permasalahan yang akan mereka hadapi.

“Wah, mohon maaf saya harus mempelajari semuanya terlebih dahulu. Sekarang belum bisa memberikan pernyataan, mungkin seminggu lagi, ya?,” demikian ucap Mulabasa Hutabarat ketika ditemui Bisnis usai pelantikan.

Mulabasa kini menduduki jabatan Kepala Biro Dana Pensiun Bapepam-LK. Sebelumnya, dia adalah Pjs Direktur Dana Pensiun menggantikan Indomen Saragih yang memasuki usia pensiun.

Sebagai mantan Pjs Direktur Dana Pensiun, jawaban “belajar dulu [mengenai dana pensiun]” tersebut terdengar cukup aneh. Namun demikianlah adanya, bagi Mulabasa, dunia dana pensiun mungkin terlihat sangat pelik sehingga dia harus mempelajarinya lebih mendalam setelah ‘magang’ sebagai Pjs Direktur Dana Pensiun.

Usai pelantikan, Mulabasa lebih memilih bergabung dengan beberapa pejabat lain yang merokok di salah satu sudut ruang makan, mengacuhkan para wartawan yang tersebar di tengah ruangan.

Sikap serupa dipilih beberapa pejabat lain di lingkungan eks-DJLK (Ditjen Lembaga Keuangan). Kepala Biro Perbankan, Pembiayaan, dan Penjaminan (P3) Ngalim Sawega yang sebelumnya telah menduduki posisi Pjs Direktur Jasa Pembiayaan dan Perbankan pun memilih ‘puasa’ ketika ditemui Bisnis usai pelantikan.

“Untuk sekarang belum ada yang bisa didialog-kan. Mungkin lain kali saja ya?” ucapnya sambil memasuki mobil.

Satu pejabat lainnya yakni Isa Rachmatarwatta yang menduduki jabatan Kepala Biro Perasuransian secara jujur mengakui pihaknya masih mempelajari dunia perasuransian terlebih dahulu.

“Saya harus banyak belajar dulu, terutama pada Pak Firdaus ini,” ujarnya sembari tersenyum menepuk Firdaus Djaelani (mantan Direktur Asuransi) yang berdiri di sebelahnya.

Melihat kenyataan itu, tak sedikit wartawan yang menyimpulkan para pejabat itu ‘janjian’ untuk tak membuka mulut hingga sepekan kemudian. Lalu, selama sepekan itu, apa saja yang mereka lakukan? Jawabannya tak lain rajin belajar.

Berdasarkan pengamatan Bisnis di pekan pertama usai pelantikan, Isa lebih banyak ‘mengurung diri’ di ruang rapat kantornya bersama para staf. Intensitas rapat di biro perasuransian pun meningkat rata-rata sehari sekali dari intensitas semula yang hanya dua-tiga kali seminggu.

“Bapak lagi rapat. Sepekan ini beliau selalu mengadakan rapat di ruang sebelah. Para staf ikut semua, kata beliau banyak yang harus dipelajari,” ujar salah seorang bawahan Isa yang tak bersedia disebutkan namanya.

Tak tanggung-tanggung, tutur dia, Isa bahkan memberi ultimatum kepada sekretarisnya untuk tak menerima para tamu—kebanyakan dari kalangan asuransi—yang hendak sowan.

“Ya, kecuali kalau lagi dipanggil Ibu Menteri, baru beliau langsung meninggalkan rapat,” terangnya.

Tanda-tanda mengisolasi diri dari pers sudah disampaikan Isa ketika Bisnis menemuinya beberapa hari sebelum pelantikan. Secara lugas dia meminta waktu seminggu untuk mempelajari dunia perasuransian sebelum memberikan pernyataan atau komentar seputar arah kebijakan yang akan dia bawa ke depan.

“Maklum, saya sebelumnya bukan di bidang asuransi. Kalau bicara sekarang terlalu gegabah,” tutur Isa saat itu, merendah.

Hal tersebut memang bisa dimaklumi. Maklum, sebelum menjadi Kabiro Perasuransian Isa mengemban tugas sebagai Ketua Unit Pelaksana Penjaminan Pemerintah (UP3). Lembaga ini bertugas mengurus premi, tapi bukan premi asuransi melainkan premi penjaminan pemerintah terhadap perbankan—tugas yang kini diambil Lembaga Penjamin Simpanan (LPS).

Kondisi agak berbeda tampak dari kantor Mulabasa dan Ngalim yang lebih dulu ‘magang’ di jabatan baru mereka itu sebagai Pjs.

Dalam sepekan pertama, mereka lebih banyak menghadiri program di luar mulai dipanggil Menkeu, RUPS sebuah perusahaan, hingga rapat di luar. Ibarat mesin, usai di-starter mereka langsung tancap gas.

Meski demikian, satu kesamaan yang terlihat ketiga pejabat eks-DJLK itu adalah mereka mengikuti sikap Sri Mulyani Indrawati yang ‘membisu’ di pekan-pekan pertama usai dilantik menjadi Menkeu.

Sikap diam ketiga pejabat tersebut menyampaikan pesan jelas bahwa mereka tengah menyiapkan sebuah rencana besar. Hal ini sejalan dengan prioritas Lapangan Banteng yang tengah getol menggenjot perkembangan lembaga keuangan non bank di luar perbankan seperti asuransi, dana pensiun, dan multifinance.

N.B. Dulu tulisan ini kubuat untuk edisi ringan hari Sabtu. Eh, ternyata gak diminta ama redaktur. Means, tulisan lain udah masuk. Ya udah aku bikin stok, sampai akhirnya basi, dan tersampir di sini.

Kini, keperawanan dua birokrasi pejabat baru itu telah berhasil kubobol. Aku berhasil membuat rubrik dialog sebelum media lain di Indonesia melakukannya. I'm the first in Indonesia!!! Yes!

Satu pejabat lagi, Ngalim Sawega, belum bisa kuwawancarai. Dia sepertinya masih dendam karena aku berhasil 'mencuri' data pembekuan multifinance dan modal ventura sebelum secara resmi dipublikasikan.

Yah... semoga ungkapan time heals the pain kelak benar-benar terbukti, biar aku bisa mewawancarai dia dengan tetap mendapat bocoran data miliknya. Hehe...

What is the best part of being journalist? Well, you are paid to write, to learn new things, to be friendly to everyone so you can easily get connected to the source of the news, and not to lie!

And the worst part? It is when you commited to take short cut with your identity for your own personal interest. Here are the examples...

***

“Stop, and show me your driving license,” a police stopped me that day.

“Well, I’m sorry Sir. But.. err... you see, Sir, I’m a journalist. I’m on my duty now, so I hope you understand that...”

“A driving license, I said,”

I took my wallet and could only show him a car driving license. “Well, I don’t have my motorcycle driving license with me now for it was stolen with my pocket several days ago,” I lied for I never have a motorcylce driving license, beside car driving license.

“So you don’t have the motorcycle driving license, huh? I have to arrest your STNK then, and you have to go to the court,”

“Oh, come in, Sir,” I was getting panic for it’s my senior motorcycle and he had warned me to be careful not to be caught by traffic police operation. “Well, I hope there is another way.. I mean.. how much should I pay to get rid of this. I’m in a rush now, on a duty,”

“I don’t care who you are or what you do. Pay your money there in the court. The law has to be enforced,” he said, stressfully.

The word “law” suddenly sounded so suck that day! I looked around and found that another "victim" of that operation turned on their motorcycle’s engine and could go away after paying several money to the officer.

“But why can’t I have a street court?” I asked him.

“Well, it’s simply because you are a journalist,” he said as if nothing’s wrong.

And I realize that being journalist—for some fool like me—makes it impossible to bribe an officer.

***

“I need.. to check in... I have... 15 minutes left... to catch my plane...” I said breathlessly to the officer.

“Well,... do we still got a seat?” she screamed to another officer.

“No, we don’t!”

“I’m sorry, Sir. You are late. So you have to take the next plane,” She smiled so sweet and friendly. But that smile didn’t worked to console nor relieve me.

“What? But... you know the traffic is so jam, my job is... arggh.. listen, I’m a journalist!” Her eyes widened when I said the word ‘journalist.’ “My job spare me limited time to get here! Can I have a compensation for I think it will be bad for this airline if a journalist get mad?”

“Well, I don’t know. Ask that lady,” she responded and pointed the girl who answered her before.

And so I took my journalist ID, showed to the lady who is serving another passenger, a girl, who came to late too.

“Excuse me... I have a plane to catch.. Is it impossible for me to take the seat I have reserved and paid?”

“No, Sir. I’m sorry,”

“Where will you go?” the passenger, a girl beside me in a red veiled asked.

“Jogja. And you?”

“Mataram. They said there is no more seat,” she clutched a ticket in her right hand. “You missed your plane too?”

“Yes I am.”

And then the officer, the lady took me to get in to the office. She said she will check again the seat for me. I thought there is still a hope (I’m a journalist, and they will try to give me the best service, right?) The girl talked to another officer for couple minutes.

But I was totally wrong! Another officer came to me and said, “Sorry, Sir, you really have to take another plane.”

“What time the next plane will board?” I asked.

“12.00”

“What!!! It means 18 hours later?”

“Yes, or you can refund your ticket but we will charged you 25% off the ticket’s tarrif and another cut for an administrafion fee Rp55.000,”

“Well,... wait a second, I have to make a phone call,”

And then I came out and dialled her. There, I could see the veiled girl paying several money and run to the boarding pass with an officer beside him.

I was shocked! Angrily, I get to the lady.

“How much should I pay you to get my seat?”

“What? But Sir, you are a journalist! Beside, your plane is boarding few seconds ago,”

I felt the sky was stumbled. If I only knew the damn "rule" and concealed my journalist identity, then I would be in my plane 15 minutes ago.

“Honey, I’m sorry.. just because I’m late, and I’m a fool-honest-journalist, I can’t get my plane to Jogja now,...” I said to her from my phone.

***

The night later.. I thought a lot about what happened. I felt so mad and beginning to think "what a fucking nation I have." But then I took a deep breath and learned to accept it. Perharps, I really have no chance to commit a crime. Hehe...

And the most important thing is that I have no right to be angry to this airlines and "kill" it in my writing. I remember my mentor's words in literary journalism course a year ago, "A news is not a sword.. it's not created to kill people in our news. Not even if we hate the people,"

His eyes was glittering upon me. His skin is as dark as the night. Looking at him, suddenly a story about raped and murdered girl in that cemetery years ago came to my mind. But I had destined my goal that night, I had to find it.

And so I asked him, who was finishing a meal packed inside a plastic sack.

“Oh, that crowdy new funeral, it’s over there. Look, the one with flowers upon,” he said so kindly. His smile drown all my prejudice.

He took me to the edge of the paved ground. I stepped down to the grassy field, cultivated with several tombs, leaving him. If he meant to harm me, than it would be the best chance. And suddenly he cried, “Who was the name of this guy?”

I stopped and looked at him. “It’s Pramoedya Ananta Toer, just Pram.”

“Pram,” he replied slowly and back to the corner, where I first found him hiding from the cold of the night.

***

Actually, it’s easy to find the cemetery for it’s located on the bright spot, next to the street. He is alone now, in the dark night, under the dark sky. I kneeled down and touched the soil. I kissed my hand and found the smell of the fragrant soil.

After minutes made some prayer for him, I stood and tried remembering his picture of life I kept in my head, right in front of his cemetery.

“Hello, old man. You might not recognize me. Yeah, you were old when we first met. But look at me now, I’m here to kneel down on you,”
...

“Yes, you deserve it. For you raise me, teache me the value of life, the dignity of being Indonesian, your painful life, and at the same time showed me how to face it as a hero,”
...

“By the way, I learned your spirit from an old communist that was once imprisoned with you. He told me how you dragged in by military man, with bleeding ear, head, and face.. knowing that all the man was sobbing, you crawled, standed on your trembling bloody foot and cried ‘Bangun hai orang-orang muda! Siapa bilang berjuang demi kebenaran itu mudah?! Bangkit dan jangan gentar,’ and then the people prisoned there stopped sobbing and realized that it was Pramoedya Ananta Toer who said it. By the way, this man wept when he told me this story,”
...

“And then I found you and interviewed you. You talked a lot about Indonesian youth and literature. ‘Kalau penulis muda bangsa ini cuma bisa bikin novel tentang tempik, payudara, dan penis, mau jadi apa negeri ini?’ I know you cited Jenar Mahesa Ayu. You know what? I don’t like her works either. SCREW PENIS-VAGINA LITERARY SPECIALIST WRITER!!!”

***

“Jangan pura-pura goblok di hadapan saya! Yang harus memperbaiki negeri ini adalah kalian, para pemuda,” you shout in the middle of the interview.

"Satu-satunya harapan saya adalah memiliki kembali rumah di Rawa Mangun yang direbut tentara. Rumah itu kecil, tapi itu hak saya, ada banyak kenangan di sana,"

You looked at me very closely, “Saya tak berharap pada kekuatan politik apapun, mereka tak akan peduli pada saya. Kalian orang-orang muda inilah yang seharusnya memperjuangkan ketidakadilan yang menimpa saya dan mereka,”

I saw a fire in your eyes that day. It stroke my head, flowing through my blood. I found my position to face this country. I’m with you, Sir. But I just could do none. All I can do was making promise to fight for the principle that you believe is true.

You might be old, Pram, but your fire never dies... cause I will keep it.

And therefore I’m not wondering why you like making fire, burning garbages and old clothes before the death pick you up. I was once enjoyed it too when I was in high school and finding that life is not black and white.

In that situation, it is nice to be alone and watch the flame turning a material into dust. By watching it, we could feel a process of material disappearing. What will happen when our material's gone? Will we fly to the sky as the smoke? or will we be left as wracked bones?

It is like the story of a girl who sold matches in the stormy winter night. Everytime she lighted the match, she found warmth that reminded her passed away mom, therefore she lighted all the matches until the last one. And so she died in the cold winter night.

You had that fire, Pram. You found your dream from the fire, for you lost that fire from nowadays Indonesian youths, from Indonesian politicians, and from Indonesian journalists. You found the fire in the garbage you burn.

While making the fire alone, perharps you were remembering the fighting you have done, and whispered, “When will it ends, where will I go, I’m tired to have this fire alone...”

It was 21.00 when I felt my eyes’ watery. But I’m not crying, People! The body inside the crypt has run an inspiring life, shows me a precious spirit, amazing fight, and beautiful death. He doesn’t deserve to be sob for.

Good bye Pram, I have this fire with me, now, always,... I promise you I will keep it untill I find my time to make fire, burning garbage like you do.

And so I walked away from the cemetery, and hoping that she’s really understand all the consequence of what I said to her in the phone, half days before in Bandung.

Two weeks ago, I visited Pantau . I met Kang Agus, Mbak Eva, Imam, and Mas Andreas. Within our discussion, we talked about Kraton Jogja which describes many simbols and cult in the Kraton’s tradition.

Suddenly, Mas Andreas said to me, “Come on,... even Indonesian moslem still put Mohammed’s figure as a cult. Isn’t right, Rif?”

I hadn’t given comment yet for Kang Agus slightly changed the topic. He seemed to prefer discussing another topic beside that.

But now, I’m going to comment Mas Andreas’ question to me, as a moslem and a journalist in one integrated body and soul.

Firstly, I believed Muhammad won’t be angry just to see his figure is wildy described in Jyllands-Posten. The only reason is that, he got much worse than that by Quraish. He was thrown with shit, cursed as crazy, witch, etc.

In the first phase of Islam teaching, Muhammad and his follower had to hide from the physical and psychological terror by polytheistic Quraish. The Quraish used to torturing anyone who was found learning Islam by burying them alive, or leaving them dehydrated in the hot sand, or broke their legs and arms for fun.

Even Muhammad was once struck by a rock that made him loosing several of his teeth.

When Muhammad’s follower ask him to ask God for doom upon polytheistic Quraish, Muhammad refused, and said, “If I destroy them, then why God send me as the last prophet to deliver the meaning of peace and bless to this world? They just don’t know what they do,” he said.

Hadist—the second book of law in Islam, contains Muhammad’s speech and act—said that Muhammad was with Gabriel (Allah’s angel) who were preparing to throw Mountain Jabbal Annur to polytheistic Quraish’s settlement.

So, according to me, nowadays Muhammad’s follower has to follow him in reacting Jyllands-Posten. They don’t know what they do, therefore we don’t have to act by doing something that against Muhammad’s taught.

I think moslem should find out, why they describe our holy book deliverer that way. We should blame ourselves too, for being fail in practicing Islam teaching. Blame ourselves for not being able to spread peace and rahmat for the sake of The Earth!

And as a journalist, I think it is not right to publish a caricature based on wild opinion. The differences between mass media and diary, is that media has a responsibility for what they deliver, while diaries writer don’t have to.

It is no longer the problem of freedom only, but also responsibility. The information contained in their media must be a fact, and reponsible one.

While the caricature in Jyllands Posten, well... most of them are based on wild, dirty irresponsible opinion.

That caricature is saying “I’m free to paint your prophet.” And moslem heart’s responding, “Your freedom is breaking my faith, then I’m free to respond your freedom as my faith,”

Imagine that it is the strict moslem as Usamah bin Ladin who said it. Thousand of desperated moslem as Usamah.

In this plural world, we should fight for freedom, and preserve it not to take other’s freedom.


I remember a slide of movie starred by Antonio Banderas, Once upon A Time in Mexico (2003). He was asked by his lover (Salma Hayek), “what do you want most in life,”

“Freedom,” he said.

And the girl responded, “it's so simple,”

“No, it is not,” he replied, smiling.

Yes, dear Banderas, freedom is not a simple thing to fight for, and to control from suppressing other’s.

It was 11 p.m, and the weather was cold. Car’s light struck my eyes many times, while the windy rain struck my face. But we both kept rolling on our motorcycle, my friend Ucok, the security boy in my office, and I.

“See what I tell u? we should turn left on the latest counterpart we passed, but I'm not sure whether...” he mumbled.

The wind brought his dragon-like breathe to my nose. It was Anker. He took two gulps of it tonight, while waiting for the tyre of the motorcyles being repaired. He was brave that night to join a group of drunk Batak people in a bamboo hut accros the street, somewhere in rural-urban area of Bogor.

When he joined their group and singing Batak song in chorus, suddenly I remember a flock of wolf which cries out to the moon. There was desperate tune and hidden homesick beneath their smelly breathe.

“Don’t you think we lost? I said I don’t know the route to Puncak. I believe my step-father is cursing me now for taking u to Puncak. Will u pay me a girl, Bro? Puncak has many sexy bitch with a big boop and ass. When we...”

Ucok kept talking like a detuned radio.

But I didn’t respond him. All I wanted was kept moving to Cipanas, and got there as soon as possible.

We spent two hour already on the road. My body was tired and my head was spin, not because of his talk, or the disgusting road. It was the cancellation of Kang Agus’ participation to this holiday did annoy me.

Nevertheless, I had made a promise to Mas Andreas and Imam to come and join Pantau’s holiday. I had to keep it, or at least died while trying to realize my words. Any words I made.

And yes, it made me mad when Kang Agus shrink my dignity with his—in my opinion—blind attack (he, then, put this word to me, turning the situation) for contravening the deadline of Kraton Jogja translation’s editing process.

I detest most to this kind of act. And I didn’t give a damn shit, whoever did it! Someone who wanted everybody to follow and obey him, while he didn’t make the rule, the sign, unless a one-side-judge, got to have a lesson. They have to feel how bad is it to be treated that way!

And I’m darn good to do this, and succeeded.

Nevertheless, if Kang Agus was there, I just want him to tell me why he treated me that way. I hate to be treated this way, hurted, and needed to understand why, in order to forgive him.

And he didn’t presence in this activity. I hated it.

Around 2 o’clock in the morning, we arrived to Cipanas. It was cold calm place. We had jokes, dinner, taking pictures, breakfast, etc. in the villa.

But what I enjoyed most was not that. It was when Ucok and I raced to finish the burnt jagung, in a warung somewhere in the midlle of that midnight trip to Puncak. He won the race, and then we talked about our dreams, what we missed in life, and silently watched the Jakarta’s lamps miles away from that mountainous region.

At that moment, I remembered everything I had in life. Some are gone, but many other comes. But I shall not stop, cause a long trip out there is waiting to take. There’s no way back, just like the trip I was taking that night.

“Shall we go now, Bro?” Ucok asked when we’re about to leave the place.

“Yup!”

“And will you pay me for a bitch? Please...” he started to beg like a child asking for a doll.

“Damn U,” I said.

He laughed, and get to the motorcycle.

The next morning we arrived to Jakarta. In my boarding room I remembered the advise of my beautiful friend, responding my dispute against Kang Agus. What she wrote felt so right, so true, and so shady.

Therefore, when I collapsed on my bed of my exhaustion, I sent a message to Kang Agus, appologizing for having a “war” against him, for not behaving to him, and for being unprofessional.

All I knew at the very moment was that the translation project must be done. And I could imagine how painful it is to read and edit the writing of the man I hate. I didn’t want him to feel that kind of feeling so bad, that made the job ruined.

The job is much more important than our disagreement. We could “battle” another day, but the job couldn’t.

I realize that I was wrong to Kang Agus, and already appologize for that. But, however, I’m not appologizing for my argument. I do still keep my opinion and my attitude, which is against his view.

I’m keeping it as my truth since he couldn’t replace it with a better one, yet.

“Darahnya mana?” tanya dokter.
Bibirku kelu, “kosong,”
“Ada yang mau donor?”
“Ya, temen-temen sudah saya minta ke sini?”

Bola mata Ibu bergerak, seperti bayi yang baru terlahir dan heran mendapati dunia di sekelilingnya. Para suster bergerak panik menekan infus dengan kedua tangan mereka, suster di sebelahku berkonsentrasi penuh dengan steteskopnya. Aku tepat di sampingnya, terabaikan..

Kakakku yang pertama belum juga datang.

Nafasnya tersengal. Aku masih memegang erat tangan kirinya. Tangan itu pucat. Terbayang ucapannya padaku, “Bu’e ikhlasna yo, Le?”

Aku terus tersenyum. “Aku ikhlas, Ibu.” batinku “Tapi bertahanlah! Tunjukkan pada dunia keparat ini bahwa kau adalah wanita kuat seperti yang kami lihat di tiap detik hidup kami!”

Aku masih berusaha tersenyum. Tapi kini terasa getir. Mataku pun makin terasa berat. Aku tidak kuat lagi...

Lalu kakak pertamaku datang. Ia merangkul kaki ibu, terisak di atasnya.

Seketika teringat semua detil hidupku bersamanya. Hidup yang penuh dengan perjuangan. Canda tawa kami semua mengada di atas keihlasannya, kesendiriannya, dan ketabahannya, yang ia pendam sendiri dalam diam dan do’a.

Mata kananku melelehkan air mata. Tapi mata kiriku masih bisa kutahan.

Beberapa menit kemudian, nafas itu melemah. Mata itu pun berhenti mengerjap. Dokter yang sedari tadi turut menitikan air mata menempelkan tangannya ke leher ibu.

Ia menggeleng pelan, menatap kami.

...


(Kepergian ibuku membawa semuanya; masa lalu, kampung halaman, rumah kecil yang hangat, tetangga yang menyenangkan, udara penuh azan, dan masa depanku. Kini, aku tidak menginginkan apapun di dunia ini. Aku hanya ingin segera menjemput Ibuku, setelah menunjukkan pada dunia keparat ini bahwa aku adalah bintang jatuh, yang dibesarkan oleh setangkai lilin putih.)

hari 1
aku menerjemahkan. i enjoy it! (sehari kemudian dimuat).


hari 2
aku ditugasi meliput sebuah press release. selesai liputan, sampai kantor jam 3, lalu nulis. gaya yang kupakai features. setelah selesai, dan kuserahkan pada redaktur, hmm... dibabat habis! aku jadi merasa seperti anak magang Hayamwuruk yang tulisannya lagi dibabat Basfin enam tahun yang lalu. (tapi masih dimuat, meski aku sendiri malu mengakuinya sebagai tulisanku)

lalu Mbak Elsa menaruhku di pos pendidikan.
what? pikirku (ini seperti menyuruh orang mencari kayu bakar, ketika orang-orang membutuhkan minyak tanah untuk memasak.)

tapi aku bersikap sebagai pemula yang baik. aku terima.


hari 3
aku liputan di UI. setelah kebingungan, akhirnya kuputuskan mengangkat berita tentang sebuah perusahaan pencari laba milik UI. (dimuat pada hari selanjutnya....fyuhhh...)


hari 4
ke UI lagi. coba peruntungan.

yup, ketemu wartawan Suara Pembaruan yang juga ngepos di UI. kita janji ketemuan di depan Istana Merdeka meliput aksi penolakan Perpres 36/ 2005.

ternyata mereka korban penggusuran. ada ibu-ibu dan anak-anak bersama mereka.

selepas dua jam, aparat membubarkan massa. empat orang ditangkap. para ibu itu bersholawat dan menangis. anak kecil itu juga. ayahnya adalah salah satu yang ditangkap aparat.

aku menepi dari kerumunan, menuju taman. di sana duduk sebentar, mataku terasa berat. tak ada orang melihat, aman. aku menangis.

lima menit kemudian, aku kembali meliput, kurangkum dan kuberitakan kepedihan mereka dalam tulisan features-ku. hasilnya? TIDAK DIMUAT.

sejak itu aku sadar. aku hanyalah kuli tinta, untuk mereka yang sepakat dengan perpres 36/ 2005.

“lihat tuh, penjual sio may itu. intel dia,” kata bian, wartawan Persda.
hmmm.....


hari 5
aku mendapat tugas ke mabes polri. abis jum’atan, aku segera bergabung dengan wartawan lain, mencegat Da’i Bahtiar. shit! i’m the only reporter with no recorder. (i’m not fully loaded!)

lalu aku menulis tentang tersangka Jemaah Islamiyah yang diindikasikan ditangkap aparat dengan kekerasan. tapi hanya ada satu narasumber yang bisa kutemui. menemui para korban di sel, tidak diperbolehkan. apa lacur? tulisan harus ada. hehe..

senior yang mendampingiku (atau tepatnya kudampingi) kebingungan, “kita nulis berita apa nih, Rif?”

aku nyengir, tapi di kantor tetap nulis, dengan keyakinan penuh itu tidak akan dimuat.

dan aku bener.


hari 6
libur. aku nemeni omku maen ke rumah temennya. di sana aku hanya berpikir, betapa menyenangkan hidup tanpa ikatan seperti ini, bisa menulis tanpa pesanan, selain pada kesadaran dan tanggung jawab kemanusiaan.

ada sesuatu yang terhimpit dalam dadaku, tidak akan kubiarkan hilang.

eh...aku juga sadar ternyata aku kurang lihai menulis hard news dalam ritme kerja yang cepat seperti ini. hehe.. maklum dari persma, yang terbitannya berkala!

tapi aku akan bertahan. ahh....