Ocehan Minggu malem sebelum besok kerja lagi

Sudah setahun di Montreal. Cepat sekali waktu berlalu ya? Tahun 2008 berlalu sangat cepat, seperti kereta tanpa rem. Kemana perginya Jumat-Jumat malam dimana gua main kartu semalem suntuk sama roommates gua sambil makan nachos? Kemana perginya akhir pekan-akhir pekan di musim panas dimana gua gak ada capek-capeknya ngiter kota naik sepeda? Kemana perginya sore-sore dimana gua bela-belain naik bis satu jam buat ketemu si doi? Hehehe... (walapun kalau dipikir-dipikir lagi, ga produktif banget sih?)

Ingin rasanya supaya ingatan gua tentang akhir tahun 2007 dan 2008, masa-masa awal gua kenalan dengan kota ini, dibekuin supaya tidak kadaluwarsa. It was the time of my life where I found myself saying, "Life is beautiful."

Ini musim dingin gua yang kedua disini. Sudah mulai ngerti gimana caranya supaya jari-jari kaki nggak kena frostbite. Sudah ketemu restoran Thai yang pad thai-nya seenak bikinan Benjarong (lebih enak malah?). Dan yang paling penting, sudah punya orang yang bisa diandalin kalau gua ketemu susah.

Gua teringat suatu malam di stasiun metro Peel, kalau nggak salah November 2007. Sambil menunggu kereta datang, tiba-tiba tercetus ide untuk menghabiskan dua tahun mendatang di kota yang berbeda-beda. Tiga bulan di sini, tiga bulan lagi di sana. Gitu terus, sampai dua tahun. Membayangkan gimana serunya gaya hidup kaya gitu, gua excited banget. Sampai deg-degan sendiri. Sesampai di rumah, gua langsung menyalakan komputer dan menulis email ke kakak gua tentang rencana itu.

Fast forward satu tahun, apa yang terjadi? Gua masih disini. Dan gua nggak punya rencana untuk pindah ke kota lain, seenggaknya dalam dua tahun mendatang. Gua udah ketemu 'rumah' gua dan masih senang-senangnya mengutak-ngatik rumah itu, menanam bunga di tamannya dan mengecat dinding di dalamnya.

Tahun ini gua banyak rencana. Memang, belum tentu semuanya tercapai. Tapi yang pasti, gua excited dan deg-degan. And it's a good feeling.

Indonesia's response to Israel's attack into Gaza

I wrote the following essay during the first few days of Israel's attack into Gaza, which started in the last week of December. It is an opinion piece that I subsequently sent to The Jakarta Post. It did not get published and the opinion editor explained to me that it was because "we demand clear attribution to our articles". Which means that I better get myself some sort of political science degree if I want to have my opinion on this kind of subject published. Oh well. If you decide to read it, though, keep it mind that it was based on the early reports of the attack.

A handful of Indonesian online readers have made comments responding to the news that our government has pledged to send some US$1 million worth of humanitarian aid to the Palestinian victims of Israel’s latest bombings in Gaza. Interestingly, most of the comments clearly indicate which side they are on: neither the Palestinians, nor the Israelis. Rather than commenting on the number of civilian casualties or the right and wrong of the invasion, nearly all of these readers expressed disbelief and annoyance that the government is so ready to dispense such an amount to people above their own. Given the pitiful state of our own economy, it is no doubt a sentiment shared by many others in the country.

What the readers did not make a comment on, however, is how self-righteously our government is in condemning the attack.So far, while speaking at press conferences about the topic, the government ministers have not made any reference to the reason why this bombing took place at the first place. They are either unaware or ignore the facts that the Hamas group had been launching rockets to Israel, blindly and daily, before Israel finally decided to initiate the bombings. Also, while the government laments the civilian casualties that the bombings have claimed, they are also – or choose to be - ignorant to the fact that Hamas members disguise themselves as civilians and operate within the civilian population. How is a bomber pilot, flying hundreds of feet above ground, able to differentiate a Hamas from a non-Hamas if they are all wearing civilian clothing? The only thing they keep their eyes open for then, it seems, is the fact that the victims are Muslims – people like us - and the perpetrators are Jews – people who, by indoctrination, we do not like.Some say that Israel overdoes it on the scale of the retaliation because while Hamas rockets flew daily into Israel's civilian territory, they have killed far fewer than the 320 victims that Israel's bombs have claimed so far. And by definition, they are right. Israel is indeed overdoing it. After all, retaliation is defined as: return of like for like. But beyond that, let's stop and put ourselves in the Israelis’ shoes. They may not have got hit by Hamas rockets, but does living under the threat that they might this day or the next make it any better? In any case, we are talking about retaliation on a national defence level which in Israel’s case, there is the extra weight of defending its right to exist. A dictionary definition of retaliation has no relevance.

We can perhaps liken this situation to the ultimate US retaliation against Japan: the atomic bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki that ended World War II. The history is clear cut: Japan brought the US rudely into the theatre of war by bombing Pearl Harbour, an act which cost 2400 lives. In the end, the US decided to end Japan's aggression by bombing their two cities and in doing so, claiming 220,000 lives. It was definitely not a return of the like for like, but as 'beneficiaries' of these atrocities, have we, as a nation, cried foul condemning that particular US action? After all, though the method of their retaliation will always remain in an ethical debate, the desired result – Japan’s surrender – was in our interest, as was the case for other countries under the Japanese occupation. We rejoiced over the deaths and sufferings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki's civilians because effectively, thanks to their destroyed lives, we were finally able to claim our independence and build our own lives.

And so, in responding to Israel's action over Hamas, our government must always keep itself in perspective. It must try to prevent its personal feelings from seeing the facts, and the fact is that this is just another border conflict, whose participants could easily be Baltic, European, Asian or Middle Eastern countries. Taking sides with anyone just because they – victim, perpetrator or both – share our religion will only further damage Indonesia’s credibility. Even if we ideologically ‘belong’ to that part of the world that denies Israel’s existence, let’s face the facts. Israel is strong both militarily and financially. It is also an ally of the most powerful nation in the world. Whether we like it or not, Israel is here to stay.

And finally, while an act of charity is indeed a wonderful thing, let’s not overdo it – after all, millions of our own desperately poor people could benefit from a tiny bite of that US$1 million pie.

A day-off

Today is that kind of day. First, you wake up late. Then you spill your cereal on the kitchen floor. And you find out that you've run out of paper towel. So you quickly clean it up and take a shower. You have a lot of errands today, the first being going to the bank, naturally. You get there - yay there is no line - but then the bank teller tells you that the service you're after does not exist. With a dejected facial expression, you limp away from the counter towards the exit. Then you remember that while there, you also have to change your address. You turn around and see that, out of nowhere, there are now at least five people in the line. After a 10-minute lull that seems like 40 minutes, it's your turn. The bank now knowing where you really live, you happily walk out of the bank towards your next destination: a bank that offers the first service you're after. Logically, you pick the most popular bank. There, a bank teller greets you and asks how you are, but in a tone that suggests that he doesn't care about his job, nor about you. He then proceeds with telling you that you need to go to another part of the branch to request that service. You go there and voila, there is no one. A little note on the glass window asks you to go to the receptionist, strangely situated further inside the room. You explain what you need and then you are sent back to the window to wait for someone to be dispatched there. You twiddle your index finger on the counter top. Just because. Then a face appears behind the window. It's the same person that greets you beforehand. He tells you that the other person is not available. That's okay. What matter is that finally, someone will take care of you. Or not. The most popular bank , you are told, does not offer that service either. Try the bank next door, he says. This time with a genuine smile. You feel a little better. It's true that happiness is contagious, isn't it? Walking to the bank next door, you start putting together the introduction of a letter of feedback to your bank. Which quickly gets shelved, because finally, finally you find a bank that can give you what you need. The teller seems to be on another planet, though. It is not after two torn cheques later that you have what you need neatly tucked in your bag. Perhaps she is having the same kind of day as you. After a brief feeling of relief, you realize that your errands are far from over. You have only just ticked off the first item on your list. Next, you need to get yourself two passport photos. Tired of walking around, you go straight to the information desk. You want to know where the instant photo booth is. You see two men at the desk. One is serving a customer on a wheelchair. One of those that tells you that the user has far more troubles than just not being able to walk. You stand in front of the other staff that is not occupied. His attention is on the wheelchaired customer. Finally, he realizes that you are there. You say hi. Not saying anything first but smiling, he points to the writing on his t-shirt. You don't get it. And after awhile he gets that you don't get it. "Promotions," you hear him say. Your question is not about promotions, so you take your place behind the wheelchair. Another introduction to a letter of feedback pops into your head. Then you spot it. The photo both is on the ground floor, next to the ice cream shop. You take the stairs down quickly, congratulating yourself on your sharp eyesight. As you get nearer, you notice that the booth looks unusually artsy. Is this how they make photo booths these days? Yes, it turns out, if the photo you are after is your own caricature version. You nearly kick the otherwise innocent photo booth. Nearby, thankfully, is an information board. Good, there is another photo booth in the building. Even better, it's close to the post office, your final destination. Finally, everything falls into place. You go inside the booth, take off your bulky jacket and comb your hair. You skim through the instructions quickly. You don't really understand, but then you think, what's not to understand about instant photo booths? So you insert two $2 coins into the slot. Next you press the green button, while keeping your eyes fixed on the instructions, to really make sure that you are doing it right. The next thing you know, a flash light floods the room, catching your face in the process. Shit. Is that it? you think. Before you know it, the machine has gone to work to fulfil its advertised 3-minute promise. You frantically look for some sort of cancel button. There is none. You curse yourself rudely, hoping that your facial expression that appears on the photo is still within the acceptable range of what the Canadian Consulate General allows. "The face must be square to the camera with a neutral expression, neither frowning nor smiling, with the mouth closed." The result comes very close, but you decide to throw it away. Though not mentioned in the rule, you are certain that a confused expression with upward looking nostrils featuring in the photo will do more harm than good to your application. By this time, you are totally, unapologetically upset with your day. But you go on. You have no choice. You ask at the pharmacy if they do passport photos. They don't, but there is a shop in the building next door that does. So you go there. Yes, the place does do passport photos. In fact, it's the only thing that it does. No grey areas there. You pay the $14 fee and sulkily sit yourself on the stool. Click. It's done. The guy shows you the result. You look like a lettuce. But you don't care. You just want to go home. One last thing to do. The post office. You put the documents in the envelope and watch the guy seal it, stick a registered post label on it, and you sigh a big relief. Finally it's over. You start walking out of the post office. For what can be classified as a miracle though, something tells you to stop and check again. Has everything indeed been put in the envelope? You quickly realize that the answer is no. You frantically go back to the counter. The guy hands you back the envelope. You put the forgotten item in, all the while thinking what else might you be forgetting. You double and triple check everything. Satisfied, you walk out of the post office and out of the building. You head home. Hungry, tired and cold. It has started to snow again. A lot. Back at home, you sit down and drink a glass of water. You smile and say to yourself, "I made it." Then a jolt. You realize you have forgotten to buy an onion.

Hello 2009!

New year, new home. Moving in with the boyfriend. Third move within a one-year period (fourth if moving to a new country is included in the count). Cramming in two grown-ups' worth of necessities and junks into a studio apartment. A crazy, seemingly impossible feat that has manifested into a rather weirdly cosy establishment, with the sofa placed diagonally almost in the middle of the room, its right end nearly touching the bed.

This living arrangement means neither of us has our own personal space. Practical implications: I'll have to live with the football game commentaries coming from the TV and he'll have to live with my obsession to keep everything clutter free and crumbs free.

It's Saturday morning, the first of 2009. I'm happily typing away at the dining table and he's happily reading his weekend newspaper on the couch. The TV is off (happily). In its place: incomprehensible old French music, and the quietly humming sounds of my laptop and the refrigerator. It's definitely not what I had imagined a year ago, but I like it and with a little luck, maybe I won't have to move again in six months.